The Healing Season

by Ruth Axtell Morren

  “Lord, as we Thy Name profess, may our hearts Thy love confess And in all our praise of Thee, may our lips and lives agree…”

  As the hymn rang out across the cobbled streets, Ian’s mind wandered as he thought again about the evening among the city’s elite. All day he’d been remembering Eleanor’s dazzling appearance and how nimbly she’d hooked the financier’s interest in the plight of the children.

  When everyone around him began to pray, Ian bowed his head and tried to concentrate on the reason he was there. He prayed for souls to be saved that night.

  A special preacher was expected from a western county that evening. Ian had been particularly interested in hearing him preach. It was said he had a healing ministry. Ian looked out across the sea of faces, many smudged and unwashed. Already the preacher’s fame had spread. People had brought many who were clearlyill. Mothers held young children. Older people sat huddled in chairs. Some even lay on litters.

  As the fiery words began to ring out through the area, people stood transfixed.

  “‘For the word of God is quick, and powerful, piercing even to the dividing asunder of soul and spirit, and of the joints and marrow, and is a discerner of the thoughts and intents of the heart.

  “‘Neither is there any creature that is not manifest in His sight. But all things are naked and opened unto the eyes of Him with whom we have to do.’”

  The pastor scanned the crowd. “How many of you here would care to have your thoughts and intents visible to all to see?”

  His words rent the air, and Ian felt the convicting power of truth invade the recesses of his heart. He knew his thoughts had been dwelling too much on Eleanor Neville in a way that was not proper. He must rid himself of this obsession he was developing.

  The pastor’s arm waved in the night sky, encompassing them all. “And if any man sin, we have an advocate with the Father, Jesus Christ the righteous…”

  From the conviction of sin, the preacher turned to the hope found in the gospel message.

  “If by one man sin entered the world, and death by sin,” he said, quoting the Scriptures, “therefore, it is clear that disease—the precursor of death—entered the world by sin. Therefore, its ultimate cure must be found in the redemption of Christ.”

  He explained how disease that has gone beyond the ability of the body to fight it, beyond the knowledge of medicine to heal it, and beyond even the ability of the afflicted to pray for, only the sovereign power of God could reverse. This required confession and repentance. It required the atoning work of the cross.

  “Only by the substitutionary work of the cross can the curse be removed,” he exhorted them.

  As Ian listened, he forgot everything else for the moment, caught by the notion of healing in the atonement. The preacher described the examples of atonement in the Old Testament, from the Passover lamb to the slaying of the bullock, the mercy seat of the tabernacle sprinkled with its blood on the Day of Atonement preceding the blessings of the year of jubilee.

  “The Israelites were healed when they looked up at the brazen serpent, a type of the Atonement, which removed the curse of the plague…”

  Ian marked his Bible with the passages the pastor gave. He noted the seven redemptive names of God, paying particular note to Jehovah-Rapha, “I am the Lord that healeth thee.”

  “The Lord is our physician!” the preacher exclaimed. “Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden!” As he marched back and forth in front of them, his words urging them to reach out in faith and believe, the murmurs of the crowd grew. Ian could feel a momentum growing. He compared it to the day of the riot. Here, it was the sound of hope and expectation instead of rage and frustration.

  As the sermon ended, the preacher called forward the sick. He called the elders of the church to come and “lay hands on the sick and anoint them with oil.” Ian followed the others from the mission, adding his prayers to the others, but feeling more an observer than a man of faith praying for the sick.

  Suddenly one woman gave a shriek.

  “It’s gone! It’s gone! The lump I had on the side of my neck—it’s gone!” The crowd went wild, everyone shrieking, those around the woman clamoring to see.

  The preacher, after talking with the woman and her neighbors, who testified that she indeed had suffered from a growth at the side of her neck, turned to the crowd. “We must praise God for this miracle. Come, lift your voices in worship.”

  One of the members of the mission began singing a joyous song, and soon all joined in.

  Ian pushed his way through the singing mass of people, eager to see for himself the woman who’d claimed to be healed. He’d heard of such healings in the early days of the revival that had swept the British Isles in his father’s day.

  When he reached her, he examined her neck, but it looked and felt perfectly normal.

  “Suddenly I felt a heat all up and down the side of it,” she told him, putting her hand to her neck, “and the next thing I know, I feel it like this, and I notice it’s flat.” She began to cry afresh.

  “God be praised,” he murmured, his heart aching with doubt. Why did he find it so hard to accept this miracle? He had certainly witnessed miraculous recoveries after surgery on the battlefield, but he’d never witnessed an instantaneous one as this purportedly had been.

  It was probably because he’d never seen the woman prior to this evening and could therefore not be fully certain of her previous condition. He felt like doubting Thomas and thought of the gentle rebuke Jesus had given his disciple. Blessed are they which have not seen, and yet have believed.

  Althea approached him at the end of the meeting. “Wasn’t it glorious?” she asked, her eyes shining.

  He nodded.

  “How many were healed?” she asked. “I counted ten.”

  “Yes, I examined ten. Unfortunately, I was only familiar with one case previously, so it’s difficult to ascertain which are genuine miracles.”

  Althea frowned. “What do you mean? Do you doubt that the Lord was healing tonight?”

  “We’ve never seen such a—” He stopped, at a loss to describe the sight he’d seen tonight. “A manifestation. I’ve seen plenty of charlatanry, on the other hand.”

  “I see. I can understand your hesitancy. It’s not the kind of preaching we hear of much. I must confess, however, to having diligently studied God’s Word concerning healing before tonight, and I could find no fault with Parson Riley’s preaching.”

  He nodded. “That is reassuring,” he said, trusting her judgment on religious matters. He helped her collect the hymnals and unused tracts. “I have not ever really delved into it.”

  She looked at him. “That surprises me. I would think having been raised as you have been with your father and then entering into the medical profession, you would have turned to God’s Word to guide you in the healing arts.”

  “Oh, I have prayed for His guidance and wisdom whenever I treat anyone. I also pray for His mercy to heal. It’s not that I haven’t seen His mercy at work—I have, many times. It’s that I have seen death steal away a person’s life more often.”

  “It must have been hard on the battlefield,” she said softly.

  “It was. Seeing young men cut down in their prime. Men devise newer and ever crueler ways to hack at each other, and we surgeons are left to try to piece them together as they cry out in agony.” He placed the remaining hymnals in the carriage.

  “And yet, since I’ve returned, it is sometimes even harder to watch the people around me. We’re a city at peace, the greatest in the world according to many, with ever more poverty and illness, much of which could be conquered through decent nutrition and living conditions. I’m convinced half the deaths could be eradicated by these simple means.

  “Look at the mission,” he went on. “Your rate of success is twice that of the hospital, and I’m sure it is due to wholesome conditions.”

  Althea nodded, sympathy in her eyes. “You haven’t made much headway at the hospi
tal?”

  “No, they mainly laugh and criticize me behind my back with names like ‘spick-and-span’ Russell or ‘old housewife.’”

  Althea laughed. “How horrid of them. I wish you could just come and be our doctor full-time.”

  He nodded. “Maybe I will someday.”

  “Unfortunately, we can’t pay you much, if at all.”

  “And I need my salary to support my other work.”

  “Yes, and how we do appreciate all you give us both in time and materials.”

  They parted company, Althea encouraging him to read the Scriptures on healing.

  Ian nodded absently, doubting he’d find the time. He had enough trouble stretching the hours in the day to reach all the sick who needed attention.

  Tonight’s preaching, if not convincing him fully of a preacher’s ability to heal the sick, had certainly convicted him of harboring sinful thoughts in his heart. He renewed his determination not to let his thoughts turn to one silvery-eyed actress who beguiled him every time they met.

  “We will begin by examining the upper portion of the forearm.” Ian pointed to the extremity in question on the skeleton hanging on a stand beside him in the lecture theater. “The ulna. It is a long bone, its shape prismatic, and it lies parallel with the bone beside it, the radius.”

  Ian addressed the group of pupils who attended his weekly anatomy lecture. The hall was the same as the operating theater, which doubled as lecture hall on the days it wasn’t used for surgery.

  “The ulna is the larger and longer of the two bones composing the forearm. It is located on the inner side.” He lifted the elbow of the skeleton slightly. “You can observe it is quite thick and strong at its upper extremity. This is the portion to which much of the articulation of the elbow joint is due—”

  As he was moving the forearm back and forth to demonstrate, he was interrupted by the sound of whispers and rustles from the top end of the standings, where the students were crowded together. He looked up in irritation. His students knew better than to be late to a lecture.

  He stared in disbelief.

  Making her way between the packed students was Mrs. Neville, dressed in a bright red cloak and white skirt—colors that stood out all the more against the sober bottle-greens, navy-blues, and black of the men’s jackets and pantaloons.

  His surprise deepened when he saw who was squeezing in right behind her. That man—he struggled a moment and then remembered him from the society event Henry had dragged him to. Dillon…Doherty…no…Digsby was the man’s name.

  What were they doing here?

  He gathered his scattered thoughts and turned back to the skeleton. He cleared his throat. “Uh, to proceed, the ulna is thickest at the top and then decreases downward toward the wrist.”

  The rustlings above continued, and he had to focus on his next words. The woman had the temerity to come marching into a medical lecture hall! Whoever heard of a woman attending an anatomy lecture at St. Thomas’s? And an actress at that! After he’d vowed to put her out of his thoughts—his life—once and for all.

  “The wrist end is quite small in comparison to the upper extremity.”

  At least she hadn’t come unattended. That would have been too much.

  He pointed to the skeleton’s forearm. “Here at the top are two curved processes, the olecranon and the coronoid process, and two concave, articular cavities, the greater and lesser sigmoid cavities.” He paused, hearing the muffled whispers circulating through the lecture hall.

  This would not do! He’d lost his students’ attention. He turned around, searching for what he knew was the distraction. She wasn’t hard to find. All eyes were turned to her. There she was, in the middle of the standings, her red outfit like a beacon, bestowing that charming smile to all the men around her.

  Her attention fell on him. He ignored her smile and turned away.

  He squared his shoulders. “First, to the olecranon process. It is a projection at the upper, rear side of the ulna. It is curved at the top to fit into the depression of the coronoid rossa of the humerus during flexion of the forearm.” He demonstrated with his own arm.

  He stopped speaking as he observed a student beside Mrs. Neville whispering to her in an animated fashion.

  “Mr. Morton, I suggest you turn your attention back to Octavius if you hope to master the intricacies of the forearm before next week.”

  The young man jerked around with a guilty look. “Yes, Mr. Russell.”

  Ian walked to his lectern and glanced at his notes, searching for his place. As he resumed his discourse, he was aware of Mrs. Neville watching him attentively. Each time his glance skimmed past her, there she was, her chin propped in her hand, following his every move.

  He felt he was speaking a language he himself didn’t understand. The terms came forth, but only because of years of memory—greater sigmoid cavity…lesser sigmoid cavity…shaft…anterior border…posterior border…interosseous border—but he himself didn’t know what he was saying.

  Finally, it was over. Ian took out his handkerchief and mopped his forehead.

  Clattering footsteps reverberated throughout the theater as most of the students rushed to other lectures, but a few came down to the platform to ask a question or to examine the skeleton more closely.

  Although he wasn’t looking directly at her, he knew Mrs. Neville was surrounded by young men. He heard her infectious laughter floating down to him from above.

  He knew the exact moment she began to descend the steps leading down to the platform.

  Against his will, he raised his eyes and watched her.

  She walked slowly, and he marveled at her presence, even now, away from the theater. Was every locale a stage for her? Mr. Digsby puffed behind her.

  A subtle, flowery fragrance reached his nostrils as she came to stand before him. “Good morning, Mr. Russell.”

  Why was it every time he came so near her, she managed to take his breath away? Her skin was flawless as an eggshell’s, the cheeks with the barest tint of pink, her irises quicksilver.

  “What are you doing here?” he finally managed.

  Her brow furrowed. “Mr. Russell, do you mean to frighten me with that tone of voice and that ferocious scowl? I might remind you I am not one of these green boys who must cower at the sound of your stern reprimand.”

  Not awaiting his answer, she turned to Digsby. “My dear sir, isn’t Mr. Russell simply brilliant?” As the man nodded, she held up her arm. “To think I have so many bones in this one small portion of my arm.” She walked over to the skeleton.

  “So, this is Octavius. How do you do, Octavius?” she asked with a curtsy. “Wherever did you come up with him?”

  “He was a patient at Guy’s across the street.”

  She turned to Ian and shivered. “How gruesome.”

  “Cadaver stealing?” Digsby asked. “I’ve read that’s a problem among you medical men.”

  “It has been a problem, but it’s being alleviated somewhat as we are permitted more and more the dissection of patients who expire and leave no instructions for the disposal of their—er—corpses. There are no family members to claim the bodies, and they would end up in a pauper’s grave.” He approached the skeleton, his confidence returning as Mrs. Neville’s attention was fixed on it.

  “That’s how I obtained Octavius here. Octavius Skinner was a patient of mine several years ago, an ‘incurable’ whom Guy’s took in. He had no family. In gratitude, when he knew he was going to die, he told me I could have his body to dissect.” He shrugged. “After using it, I was left with the skeleton.”

  Mrs. Neville listened. He now recognized the expression in her eyes that indicated she was spellbound.

  “It sounds more fantastic than one of my melodramas, Mr. Digsby.” She turned to Ian. “I invited Mr. Digsby to come along with me today. I thought he might like to see you at work. Perhaps you could give him a tour, show him the dispensary?”

  He weighed her suggestion, remembering Henry�
��s advice. The banker had made time to come to him; the least he could do was spare a few moments and show him the area.

  “Certainly. Allow me to lock Octavius away in his closet.” He turned to Digsby. “Authentic skeletons are still at a premium, and I wouldn’t want to lose this one. If you will excuse me, I shall be right with you.”

  He nodded and, turning to the hanging skeleton, he tipped him on his side and rolled him toward the cupboard door at the end of the theater.

  When he returned to them, he said, “I shall give you a short tour of one of the wards, and then we can proceed on foot, or if you have your carriage…” he inquired of Mrs. Neville.

  “Mr. Digsby has brought his carriage. We shall be more comfortable in that,” she replied.

  “Very well. Shall we go?”

  Eleanor walked with Digsby as they followed Mr. Russell out of the lecture theater and into the female ward. They strolled the length of it, Ian stopping from time to time to talk with a patient or explain her condition. She observed his gentle manner with the patients and marveled that by no hint did he indicate the least aversion to the person’s ailment or condition.

  They descended to the ground floor and crossed one of the large courtyards within the hospital compound.

  “This block of the hospital dates from about a hundred years ago, although St. Thomas’s has been here since medieval times.” He motioned toward the east. “There are six more wings down that way. It is quite extensive. But since it’s a chilly day, I suggest we go to your carriage and I’ll take you to the dispensary.”

  He led them from the courtyard through the main arched entrance onto Borough High Street. “It is only a few blocks from here to my dispensary.”

  “Why is a dispensary necessary, with the hospital so close by?” Digsby asked.

  “The hospital doesn’t admit every patient, and not all can afford to be admitted. Many don’t require an overnight stay. There is also the question of mortality rates. We find a higher mortality rate among patients admitted to a hospital than those taken care of in their own homes. This is probably due in some degree to the proximity of sick patients to one another.”