CHAPTER XV
DR. READE
I cannot recall anything about the play. I only know that we hadexcellent seats and a good view of the house, and that mother seemedto enjoy everything. As to Mr. Randolph, I doubt if he did enjoy thatplay. He was too much a man of the world to show any of his emotions,but I saw by a certain pallor round his mouth, and a rather draggedlook about his eyes, that he was suffering, and I could not imaginewhy. I had always in my own mind made up a sort of story about JimRandolph. He was one of the fortunate people of the earth; the goodthings of the world had fallen abundantly to his share. He was nice tolook at and pleasant to talk to, and of course he had plenty of money.He could do what he pleased with his life. I had never associated himwith sorrow or trial of any sort, and to see that look now in his eyesand round the corners of his somewhat sensitive and yetbeautifully-cut mouth, gave me a new sensation with regard to him. Theinterest I felt in him immediately became accelerated tenfold. I foundmyself thinking of him instead of the play. I found myself anxious towatch his face. I even found, when once our eyes met (his grave anddark, mine, I daresay, bold enough and determined enough), that myheart beat fast, and the colour flew into my face; then, strange tosay, the colour came into his face, dying his swarthy cheek just for amoment, but leaving it the next paler than ever. He came a littlenearer to me, however, and bending forward so that mother should nothear, said in a semi-whisper--
"You have thought about what I said this morning?"
"I have thought it over a good deal," I replied.
"You think it can be managed?"
"Dr. Anderson, mother's family physician, would do what you require,Mr. Randolph."
"That is a good idea," he said. "Anderson can arrange a consultation.I will see him to-morrow, and suggest it."
I did not say any more, for just then mother turned and said somethingto Mr. Randolph, and Mr. Randolph bent forward and talked to mother inthat worshipping son-like way with which he generally addressed her.If mother had ever been blessed with a son, he could not have beenmore attentive nor sweeter than Jim Randolph was, and I found myselfliking him more than ever, just because he was so good to mother, andmy heart ached at the prospect of his enforced and long absence. Somuch did this thought worry me, that I could not help saying to himas we were leaving the theatre--
"I am very sorry that you are going."
"Is that true?" he said. His face lit up, his eyes sparkled; all thetired expression left his eyes and mouth.
"Are you saying what you mean?" he asked.
"I am most truly sorry. You have become indispensable to mother; shewill miss you sorely."
"And you--will you miss me?"
I tried to say "For mother's sake I will," but I did not utter thewords. Mr. Randolph gave me a quick glance.
"I have not told your mother yet that I am going," he said.
"I wondered if you had," I replied. "I thought of telling her myselfto-day."
"Do not say anything until nearer the time," was his somewhat guardedresponse. "Ah! here comes the carriage."
"So you did order the carriage after all," I said, seeing that thesame neat brougham which he had used on the last occasion stopped theway.
"You never forbade me to see you both home in the carriage," he saidwith a laugh. "Now then, Mrs. Wickham."
Mother had been standing a little back out of the crowd. He went toher, gave her his arm, and she stepped into the carriage, just as ifit belonged to her. Mother had always that way with Mr. Randolph'spossessions, and sometimes her manner towards him almost annoyed me.What could it mean. Did she know something about him which I had neverheard of nor guessed?
The next day about noon Mr. Randolph entered Jane's sitting-room,where I often spent the mornings.
"I have just come from Anderson's," he said. "He will make anappointment with Dr. Reade to see your mother to-morrow."
"But on what plea?" I asked. "Mother is somewhat nervous. I am sure itwould not be at all good for her to think that her indisposition wasso great that two doctors must see her."
"Anderson will arrange that," replied Mr. Randolph. "He has told yourmother once or twice lately that he thinks her very weak, and wouldlike her to try a new system of diet. Now Reade is a great specialistfor diseases of the digestion. Both doctors will guard against anypossible shock to your mother."
"Well," I said somewhat petulantly, "I cannot imagine why you arenervous about her. She is quite as well as she ever was."
He looked at me as if he meant to say something more, and I feltcertain that he strangled a sigh which never came to the surface. Thenext moment he left the room, I looked round me in a state ofbewilderment.
In Jane's room was a bookcase, and the bookcase contained aheterogeneous mass of books of all sorts. Amongst others was a medicaldirectory. I took it up now, and scarcely knowing why I did so, turnedto the name of Reade. Dr. Reade's name was entered in the followingway:--
"Reade, Henry, M.D., F.R.C.P., consulting physician to the BromptonHospital for Consumption, London, and to the Royal Hospital forDiseases of the Chest, Ventnor."
I read these qualifications over slowly, and put the book back in itsplace. There was nothing whatever said of Dr. Reade's qualificationsfor treating that vast field of indigestion to which so many suffererswere victims. I resolved to say something to Jane.
"What is it?" said Jane, as she came into the room. "What is frettingyou now?"
"Oh, nothing," I answered. "Dr. Reade must be a very cleverphysician."
"First-class, of course. I am so pleased your mother is going to seehim."
"But I thought mother was suffering very much from weakness and wantof appetite."
"So she is, poor dear, and I am inventing quite a new sort of soup,which is partly digested beforehand, that I think she will fancy."
"But I have been looking up Dr. Reade's name. He seems to be a greatdoctor for consumption and other diseases of the chest. There is noallusion to his extraordinary powers of treating people forindigestion."
"Well, my dear, consumptives suffer more than most folks fromindigestion. Now, don't you worry your head; never meet troubleshalf-way. I am extremely pleased that your mother is to see Dr.Reade."
On the following morning mother herself told me that Dr. Reade wascoming.
"It is most unnecessary," she said, "and I told Dr. Anderson so. I wasonly telling him yesterday that I thought his own visits need not bequite so frequent. He is such a dear, kind man, that I do not like tohurt his feelings; but really, Westenra, he charges me so little thatit quite goes to my heart. And now we have not our old income, thisvery expensive consulting physician is not required. I told Dr.Anderson so, but he has made up his mind. He says there is no use inworking in the dark, and that he believes I should be much stronger ifI ate more."
Dr. Reade called in the course of the morning, and Dr. Anderson camewith him. They stayed in mother's room for some little time, and thenthey both went out, and Jane Mullins had an interview with them first,and then she sent for me.
"Dr. Anderson wants to speak to you, Westenra," she said. She rushedpast me as she spoke, and I could not catch sight of her face, so Iwent into her little sitting-room, where both the doctors werewaiting for me, and closed the door behind me. I was not at allanxious. I quite believed that mother's ailment was simply want ofappetite and weakness, and I had never heard of any one dying justfrom those causes.
"Let me introduce you to Dr. Reade," said Dr. Anderson.
I looked then towards the great consulting physician. He was standingwith his back to the light--he was a little man, younger looking thanDr. Anderson. His hair was only beginning to turn grey, and wasfalling away a trifle from his temples, and he was very upright, andvery thin, and had keen eyes, the keenest eyes I had ever looked at,small, grey and bright, and those eyes seemed to look through you, asthough they were forcing a gimlet into the very secrets of your soul.His face was so peculiar, so intellectual, so sharp and keen, and hisglance so vivid, that I
became absorbed in looking at it, and forgotfor the moment Dr. Anderson. Then I glanced round and found that hehad vanished, and I was alone with Dr. Reade.
"Won't you sit down, Miss Wickham?" he said kindly.
I seated myself, and then seeing that his eyes were still on me, myheart began to beat a little more quickly, and I began to feeluncomfortable and anxious, and then I knew that I must brace myselfup to listen to something which would be hard to bear.
"I was called in to-day," said Dr. Reade, "to see your mother. I haveexamined her carefully--Dr. Anderson thinks that it may be best foryou Miss Wickham--you seem to be a very brave sort of girl--to knowthe truth."
"Yes, I should like to know the truth," I answered.
I found these words coming out of my lips slowly, and I found I haddifficulty in saying them, and my eyes seemed not to see quite soclearly as usual; and Dr. Reade's keen face seemed to vanish as ifbehind a mist, but then the mist cleared off, and I remembered that Iwas father's daughter and that it behoved me to act gallantly ifoccasion should require, so I got up and went towards the littledoctor, and said in a quiet voice--
"You need not mind breaking it to me; I see by your face that you havebad news, but I assure you I am not going to cry nor be hysterical.Please tell me the truth quickly."
"I knew you were a brave girl," he said with admiration, "and I havebad news, your mother's case is----"
"What?" I asked.
"A matter of time," he replied gravely; "she may live for a few monthsor a year--a year is the outside limit."
"A few months or a year," I said. I repeated the words vaguely; andthen I turned my eyes towards the window and looked past it and outinto the Square. I saw a carriage drawn by a spirited pair of bays, itpassed within sight of the window, and I noticed a girl seated byherself in the carriage. She had on a fashionable hat, and her hairwas arranged in a very pretty way, and she had laughing eyes. I wasattracted by her appearance, and I even said to myself in an uncertainsort of fashion, "I believe I could copy that hat," but then I turnedaway from the window and faced the doctor.
"You are very brave," he repeated; "I did not think any girl would bequite so brave."
"My father was a brave man," I said then; "he won his Victoria Cross."
"Ah," replied Dr. Reade, "women often do just as brave actions. Theirbattles are silent, but none the less magnificent for that."
"I always meant to get the Victoria Cross if I could," was my reply.
"Well," he answered cheerfully, "I know now how to deal with things; Iam very glad that you are that sort. You know that Jim Randolph is afriend of mine."
It was on the tip of my tongue to say, Who is Jim Randolph? why shouldhe be a friend of everybody worth knowing? but I did not ask thequestion. I put it aside and said gravely--
"The person I want to talk about is mother. In the first place, whatis the matter with her?"
"A very acute form of heart disease. The aortic valve is affected. Shemay not, and probably will not, suffer much; but at any moment, MissWickham, at any moment, any shock may"--he raised his handemphatically.
"You mean that any shock may kill her?"
"That is what I mean."
"Then she ought to be kept without anxiety?"
"That is precisely what I intend."
"And if this is done how long will her most precious life beprolonged?"
"As I have just said, a year is about the limit."
"One year," I answered. "Does she know?"
"No, she has not the slightest idea, nor do I want her to be told. Sheis ready--would to God we were all as ready--why distress herunnecessarily? She would be anxious about you if she thought she wasleaving you. It must be your province to give her no anxiety, to guardher. That is an excellent woman, Miss Mullins, she will assist you inevery way. I am truly sorry that Jim Randolph has to leave England.However, there is not the slightest doubt that he will hurry home, andwhen he does come back, will be time sufficient to let your motherknow the truth."
I did not answer. Dr. Reade looked at his watch.
"I must be off," he said. "I can only spare one more moment. I havemade certain suggestions to my old friend Anderson, and he willpropose certain arrangements which may add to your mother's comfort. Ido not want her to go up and down stairs much, but at the same timeshe must be entertained and kept cheerful. Be assured of one thing,that in no case will she suffer. Now, I have told you all. If youshould be perplexed or in any difficulty come to me at once. Come tome as your friend, and remember I am a very special friend of JimRandolph's. Now, good-bye."
He left the room.
I sat after he had gone for a moment without stirring; I was notsuffering exactly. We do not suffer most when the heavy blows fall, itis afterwards that the terrible agony of pain comes on. Of course Ibelieved Dr. Reade--who could doubt him who looked into his face? Iguessed him to be what he was, one of the strongest, most faithful,bravest men who ever lived--a man whose whole life was given up to thealleviation of the suffering of others. He was always warding offdeath, or doing all that man could do to ward it off, and in many manycases death was afraid of him, and retired from his prey, vanquishedby that knowledge, that genius, that sympathy, that love for humanity,which overflowed the little doctor's personality.
Just then a hand touched me, and I turned and saw Jim Randolph.
"You know?" he said.
I nodded. Mr. Randolph looked at me very gravely.
"My suspicions have been confirmed," he said; "I always guessed thatyour mother's state of health was most precarious. I can scarcelyexplain to you the intense pain I feel in leaving her now. A girl likeyou ought to have some man at hand to help her, but I must go, thereis no help for it. It is a terrible trial to me. I know, Miss Wickham,that you will guard your mother from all sorrows and anxieties, and socheer her passage from this world to the next. Her death may comesuddenly or gradually, there is just a possibility that she may knowwhen she is dying, and at such a time, to know also that you areunprovided for, will give her great and terrible anxiety." Here helooked at me as if he were anxious to say more, but he restrainedhimself. "I cannot remove her anxiety, I must trust for the very best,and you must wait and--and _trust me_. I will come back as soon asever I can."
"But why do you go away?" I asked, "you have been kind--more thankind--to her. O Mr. Randolph! do you think I have made a mistake, agreat mistake, in coming here?"
"No," he said emphatically, "do not let that thought ever worry you,you have done a singularly brave thing, you can little guess whatI--but there, I said I would not speak, not yet." He shut his lips,and I noticed that drawn look round his eyes and mouth.
"I must go and return as fast as I can," he said abruptly. "I setmyself a task, and I must carry it through to the bitter end. Onlyunexpected calamity drives me from England just now."
"You are keeping a secret from me," I said.
"I am," he replied.
"Won't you tell me--is it fair to keep me in the dark?"
"It is perfectly fair."
"Does Jane know?"
"Certainly."
"And she won't tell?"
"No, she won't tell."
"Does mother know?"
"Yes, and no. She knows something but not all, by no means all."
"It puzzles me more than I can describe," I continued. "Why do youlive in a place like this, why are you so interested in mother and inme? Then, too, you are a special friend of the Duchess of Wilmot's,who is also one of our oldest friends. You do not belong to the set ofpeople who live in boarding-houses. I wish, I do wish, you would beopen. It is unfair on me to keep me in the dark."
"I will tell you when I return," he said, and his face was very white."Trust me until I return."