Chapter Seven.
A Fresh Patient

“I always feel like a fly,” the doctor muttered – “a fly alighted upon a spider’s web. The widow wants a husband. I wish some one would snap her up.”

“Ah! doctor – at last,” said a pleasant voice, which sounded as if it had passed through swan’s-down, while a strong odour of violets helped the illusion.

“Yes, at last, Mrs Berens,” said the doctor, taking the extended, soft, white hand of the pleasant, plump lady of eight-and-thirty or forty, whose whole aspect was suggestive of a very pretty, delicate-skinned baby grown large. “Why, how well you look.”

“Oh, doctor!”

“Indeed you do. Why, from your note I was afraid that you were seriously ill.”

“And I have been, doctor. In such a low, nervous state. At one time I felt as if I should sink. But” – with a sigh – “I am better now.”

The lady waved her kerchief towards a chair, and seated herself upon an ottoman, where, in obedience to the suggestion, she once more laid her hand in the doctor’s firm white palm, wherein Jonadab Moredock’s gnarled, yellow, horny paw had so lately lain: and as the strong fingers closed over the delicate white flesh, and a couple glided to the soft round wrist, the patient sighed.

“Oh, doctor, I do feel so safe when you are here. It would be too hard to die so young.”

The doctor looked up quickly. “Now that’s wicked,” said the lady reproachfully, “because I said ‘so young.’ Well, I’m not quite forty, and that is young. Is my pulse very rapid?”

“No, no. A little accelerated, perhaps. You seem to have been fretting.”

“Yes, that’s it, doctor. I have,” said the lady.

“What a fool I am!” he said to himself, as he released the hand. Then aloud: “I see, I see. Little mental anxiety. You want tone, Mrs Berens.”

“Yes, doctor, I do,” she sighed.

“Now what should you say if I prescribed a complete change?”

“A complete change, doctor?” said the lady, whose pulse was now certainly accelerated.

“Yes. That will be better than any of my drugs. A pleasant little two months’ trip to Baden or Homburg, where you can take the waters and enjoy the fresh air.”

“Oh, doctor, I could not go alone.”

“Humph! No. It would be dull. Well, take a companion. Why not one of the parson’s sisters? Mary Salis – or, no,” he added, quickly, as he recalled certain family troubles that had been rumoured. “Why not Leo Salis?”

“Oh, no, doctor,” said the lady, with a decisive shake of the head. “I don’t think Miss Leo Salis and I would get on together long.”

“The other, then,” said the doctor.

“No, no. Prescribe some medicine for me.”

“But you don’t want medicine.”

“Indeed, doctor, but I do. I’ll take anything you like to prescribe.”

“But – ”

“Now, doctor, I am low and nervous, and you must humour me a little. I could not bear to be sent away. I should feel as if I had gone over there to die.”

“When I guarantee that you would come back strong and well?”

“No, doctor, no. You must not send me away. Deal gently with me, and let me stop in my own nest. Ah, if you only knew my sufferings.”

Dr Horace North felt as if he fully knew, and was content to stand off at a distance, for though everything was extremely ladylike and refined, and there was a touch of delicacy mingled with her words, he could not help interpreting the meaning of the widow’s sighs and the satisfied look of pleasure which came over her countenance when he was at hand to feel her pulse.

“I do know your sufferings,” he said gravely, “and you may rely upon me to bring any little skill I can command to bear upon your complaint. Think again over the idea of change.”

“Oh, no, doctor,” said the lady quickly. “I could not go.”

“Ah, well, I will not press you,” he said, rising. “I’ll try and prescribe something that will give you tone.”

“You are not going, doctor,” said the lady, in alarm. “Why, you have only this moment come.”

“Patients to see, my dear madam.”

“No, it is not that. I worry you with my complaints. I am very, very tiresome, I own.”

“Nonsense, nonsense,” said the doctor; “but really I must hurry away.”

“Without seeing my drawings, and the books I have had down from town! Ah! I am sure I bore you with my murmuring. A sick woman is a burden to her friends.”

“If some one would only fetch me away in a hurry, I’d bless him,” thought the doctor.

“There are times, doctor, when a few words of sympathy would make me bear my lot more easily, and – ”

“Wheels, by George!” exclaimed the doctor.

“If you only knew – ”

“There’s something bolted.”

“The dead vacancy in my poor heart.”

“A regular smash if they don’t look out. Woa, Tom! Steady, my lad!” cried the doctor, opening the French window and stepping out on to the lawn.

“Doctor, for pity’s sake,” sobbed Mrs Berens, in anguished tones.

The patient’s voice was so pitiful that the doctor could not resist the appeal, and though called as it were on both sides, he stepped rapidly back into the little drawing-room in time to catch the fainting widow in his arms.

Unfortunately for poor Mrs Berens, who had for long felt touched by the young doctor, a lady in distress, mental or bodily, or both, was always a patient to Dr North, and he only retained her in his arms just long enough to lower her down in a corner of a soft couch, before rushing out of the window and through the gate, where his tied-up horse was snorting and kicking.

The poor brute had cause, for the rapid running of wheels and beat of hoofs were produced by Hartley Salis’s phaeton and the new mare, which came down the road at a frantic gallop, with Mary clinging to the side of the vehicle, pale with dread, and Leo, apparently quite retaining her nerve, seated perfectly upright in her place, but unable to control the mare, one rein having given way at the buckle hole, and a pull at the other being so much madness.

They had come along for quite a mile at a headlong pace, till nearing Mrs Berens’ house, Leo caught sight of the doctor’s cob, which pricked up its ears and began to rear and plunge.

To have kept on as they were meant a collision, and there was nothing left now for the driver to do but draw gently upon the sound rein.

The pull given was vain, and a sharp one followed, just in time to make the half-bred mare swerve and avoid the doctor’s cob; but the consequence was that the fore wheel of the phaeton caught a post on the other side of the road. There was a crashing sound, a wild scream, and the cause of the accident went off at a more furious pace than ever, with the shafts dangling and flying about her legs.

“Hurt? No, not much,” cried the doctor, half lifting Leo from the grass at the side of the road; and hurrying to where Mary lay staring wildly, entangled among the fragments of the chaise.

“My poor child!” he cried. “Oh, this is bad work. Try and – Here! Miss Leo – Mrs Berens. Water – brandy – for Heaven’s sake, quick!”

Chapter Eight.
“How I do Hate That Girl!”

“Oh! my poor darling!”

It was Mrs Berens who spoke; the accident, and its consequent call upon her for aid, having in an instant swept away all thought of self, and shown her at once in her best colours, full of true womanly sympathy.

Leo stood leaning against the hedge, dazed and perfectly helpless, while Mrs Berens came running out to help; but only to rush in again and return with a decanter and water.

“Is she – is she – ”

“Hush!” whispered the doctor sternly; “try and pour a few more drops between her lips, and keep on bathing her forehead till I get her out.”

Mrs Berens was down upon her knees on one side of Mary Salis, with her hands and delicate dress bedabbled with blood; but she did not heed the dust or hideous stains as she passed her left arm beneath the poor girl’s neck, and held her with her cut and bruised face resting upon her bosom, while the doctor tore hard at the crooked woodwork and iron which held the sufferer pinned down.

“Leo Salis,” said the doctor impatiently, “if you’re not hurt, don’t stand dreaming there, but run off to the village for help.”

Leo stared at him wildly for a moment or two, and then walked hastily away, holding her left wrist in her right hand, as if she were in pain.

“Hah! That’s better,” cried the doctor, as he set one foot against a portion of the iron-work, and pulled with all his might, his effort being followed by a loud cracking noise, and the iron bent. “Now, Mrs Berens, I think we can lift her out.”

“Yes; let me help,” cried the widow energetically, and seeming quite transformed as she assisted in bearing the inanimate girl into the drawing-room.

“Quick, Mary, pillows,” she cried; and her round-eyed, helpless maid ran upstairs, to return with the pillows, by whose aid Mary Salis was placed in a comfortable position.

Without its being suggested. Mrs Berens herself fetched basin, sponge, and towels, with which the blood and dust were removed, the widow colouring once highly as the doctor awarded her a word of praise.

“Cut in the temple. Hair will cover it,” said the doctor, as he rapidly dressed the insensible girl’s injuries. “Nasty contusion there on the cheek – slight abrasion.”

“Will it disfigure her, doctor?” said Mrs Berens anxiously.

“Oh! no – soon disappear.”

“What a comfort,” sighed the widow, who evidently believed that a young lady’s face was her fortune. “Is she much hurt, doctor?”

“No; I am in hopes that she is only suffering from the concussion. That bleeding has been good for her. She is coming round.”

“Poor darling!” cried Mrs Berens, tenderly kissing Mary’s hand.

“You’re an uncommonly good, useful woman, Mrs Berens,” said the doctor bluntly. “I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“Oh, doctor!” she cried.

“Spoilt your dress and lace too. But, never mind, it will bring her round. Ah! that’s better; she’s coming to.”

“Is she?”

The doctor pointed to the quivering lips, as the next minute there was a weary sigh, and Mary Salis opened her eyes to gaze wildly round, and then made an effort as if to rise, but she only raised her head and let it fall back with a moan.

“Are you in pain?” said the doctor, as he took her hand.

She looked at him wildly, and a faint colour came into her cheek as she whispered hoarsely:

“Yes. Send – for a doctor.”

“He is here, my poor dove,” cried Mrs Berens. “Don’t you know him – Dr North?”

“Yes; but send – for some one – a doctor.”

“A little wandering,” whispered North, bending over Mary, who tried to shrink from him. “Now,” he said gently, “try and tell me where you feel pain. I must see to it at once.”

“No, no. Don’t touch me – a doctor – send for a doctor,” answered Mary.

“But Mr North is a doctor, my poor dear,” cried Mrs Berens.

“Send – for a doctor,” whispered Mary again; and then she uttered a faint cry of indignation and dread commingled as, thinking of nothing but the case before him, the doctor began to make the necessary preliminary examination, to stop short at the end of a minute, and lay his hand upon the patient’s forehead, aghast at the discovery he felt that he had made.

“Don’t resent this,” he said kindly. “Believe me, it is necessary, and I will not give you more pain than I can help.”

“Mrs Berens,” sobbed the poor girl, “your hand.”

“My darling!” cried the widow, taking the extended hand, to hold it pressed against her lips.

“Now, Miss Salis,” said the doctor, “I want you to move yourself gently – a little more straight upon the couch.”

She looked at him strangely.

“Now, please,” he said. “It will be an easier position.”

But still she did not move.

“Did you try?” he said rather hoarsely.

“Yes – I tried,” she said faintly; and then the flush deepened in her face again, as the doctor bent over the couch, and changed the position in which she lay.

“Did I hurt you?” he said.

“No. Did you move me?” she faltered; and Mrs Berens looked at him inquiringly.

“Just a trifle,” he said gravely. “Ah! here’s Salis.”

There was a quick step outside, and the curate rushed in, followed more slowly by Leo, who looked ghastly.

“Mary, my dear child,” he cried, throwing himself upon his knees beside his sister, “are you much hurt?”

“I think not, Hartley, dear,” she replied, with a smile. “My head is not so giddy now.”

“Oh! what a madman I was to let you go,” he cried.

“Hush, dear! It was an accident,” said the poor girl tenderly. “I shall soon be better. You are hurting Leo. She suffers more than I.”

“That cursed mare, North. She looked vicious. How was it, Leo?”

“She pulled, and one of the reins broke,” said Leo hoarsely. “There would have been an accident with any horse.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” said Mary faintly; “and I am very sorry, Hartley. The chaise – the expense. Thank dear Mrs Berens, and now let me try and walk home.”

“No, no, my dear,” said Mrs Berens, “you must not think of going. Stay here, and be nursed. I’ll try so hard to make you well.”

“I know you would,” said Mary gently; “but I shall be better at home. Leo, dear, help me up. No, no, Hartley; I did not want to send you away. I’m better now.”

She made an effort to rise, as the doctor looked on with eager eyes awaiting the result, at which his lips tightened, and he glanced at Mrs Berens.

For Mary Salis moved her hands and arms, and slightly raised her head, but let it fall again, and looked from one to the other wildly, as if her perplexity were greater than she could bear.

Hartley Salis caught his friend by the wrist, and then yielded himself, and followed the doctor as he moved from the room.

“North, old fellow,” he said, in an eager whisper, “what does that mean? Is she much hurt?”

“Try and bear it like a man, Salis. It may not be so bad as I fear, but I cannot hide from you the truth.”

“The truth! Good heavens, man, speak out!”

“Hush! She is too weak from the shock to bear it now. Let her learn it by degrees, only thinking at present that she is nerveless and stunned.”

“But you don’t mean – Oh, North!” cried the curate, in agony.

“Salis, old friend, it would be cruel to keep back the truth,” said the doctor, taking his hand. “It may not be so bad, but I fear there is some terrible injury to the spine.”

“Good heavens!” cried Salis wildly; “that means paralysis and death.”

“Let’s hope not, old friend.”

“Hope!” cried the curate wildly. “How has that poor girl sinned that she should suffer this?”

At that moment the truth had come home to Mary Salis that her injury was terrible in extent, and she lay there gazing wildly at her handsome sister, but seeing beyond her in the long, weary vista of her own life a helpless cripple, dragging her way slowly onward towards the end.

Then there was a low, piteous sigh, and Mrs Berens came quickly to the door.

“Doctor,” she whispered, “come back. Fainted!”

North hurried back into the room, to find Mary Salis lying back, white as if cut in marble, while her sister stood gazing at her in silence, making no movement to be of help.

“How I do hate that girl!” he muttered, as he went down on one knee by the couch.