Читать книгу The Dark House - Warwick Deeping - Страница 7

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Life might be very real to John Richmond, but as he climbed the Pier Hill on those first mornings, no clear vision of the future was vouchsafed him, nor did he foresee that this little sea-coast town was to be for him a Prometheus’s rock. Southfleet was famous for its sunsets, which turned the sky red, and dyed the estuary the colour of wine. It was famous for its bracing air from the north-east, the ozone from its foreshore, its Victorian correctness in morals and politics, save perhaps in high summer when the East End of London descended upon it and ate cockles and shrimps, and drank much beer, and fought and made love, and sometimes got itself drowned in the sea. Richmond had gathered certain data as to his position, but being rather full of himself and his future he had accepted these restrictions with some vagueness, and no fore-consciousness of inward revolt.

He was expected to go to church, when professional duties permitted, on Sundays.

He must not permit himself to smoke in public.

He must not be seen in a public-house.

He should not be seen out of doors without a top-hat.

His language must be decorous.

No married woman patient could make love to him or be made love to by him.

All such adventures were unprofessional and forbidden.

The playing of cards or of billiards was not advisable.

Shooting, and cricket were permitted. Also, croquet, if it happened to come his way.

He was expected to be a Conservative in politics, and a member of the Established Church.

It would demean him to receive any hospitality from tradespeople.

It would not be good form to sit on a seat in Caroline Gardens.

Discretion advised that he should not be seen walking alone with any young woman.

Between Prospect House and the white front of Miss Lovell’s Library and Toy and Fancy Shop a passage led to the surgery of Drs. Davidson and Burgoyne. It was attached to Prospect House, and the dispensary window looked out upon a narrow, walled garden where Mrs. Davidson delighted to grow geraniums and lobelia, white daisies and calceolaria. A weeping ash occupied the centre of the lawn, and here, in sunny weather, the young ladies and their mother would bring their needlework and books, and sew and read sedately. The windows of the surgery and waiting-room gave upon the passage, so that the garden’s privacy was not disturbed. Mr. Charles Byng, known to the Southfleet fishermen and watermen as “Dr. Byng,” was in charge of the dispensary, a thin, round-shouldered, mordant little man with a pale face that looked too small for its huge, drooping, sandy moustache. There were days when “Dr. Byng” seemed to be all moustache, and a strange deep voice that grumbled at you from under it. He lived among the firm’s books and bottles, in a savour of tinctures and infusions. He had very nimble hands that ran over things like white mice, wrapping up bottles and deftly adding dabs of sealing-wax, or mixing ointments or rolling pills. He kept a row of stock-bottles on the dresser, labelled One, Two and Three. The habitually and penuriously sick who strolled in for sympathy were dosed by Mr. Byng from these bottles. No. 1 contained a brisk purgative, and was his favourite remedy when certain people pitied themselves too much and too often.

Southfleet possessed only one other medical practitioner, Dr. Sylvester Soames, a sleepy, grey-bearded, elderly gentleman who, as a competitor, had never stimulated Drs. Davidson and Burgoyne. Nor had Dr. Davidson needed any such stimulus. In that corner of the country no man was more respected and beloved. Quiet in manner, skilful, conscientious, kind, he was the ideal of what a general practitioner should be. Funny, brusque little Charlie Byng would have slaved for him until Domesday. Also, Mr. Byng was troubled. A man whom he knew and loved was passing, and into his place was stepping this unknown quantity, this youth, this stranger. Charles Byng was peculiarly proud of “The Practice.” He always spoke of it in capital letters, and during those days of Richmond’s initiation the younger man was a little puzzled by the way the dispenser’s small grey-green eyes watched him. Almost, they were unfriendly eyes, puckish and shrewd above the roll of that huge moustache. But Mr. Byng knew many things that Richmond did not know. Mr. Byng asked the dark future questions. When Dr. Davidson departed who was to confront the sick world’s shocks and surprises? Whose confident and clever hands were to unravel the tangles of other men’s mistakes? Who was to save a woman when she was in dire danger, and her child was refusing to be born? Dr. Burgoyne? No. “Dr. Soft Soap?” Hardly. Besides, that would have been an insult to “The Practice.” This young man from London? Charles Byng was troubled, though why he should have vexed his soul about a show in which he was an unqualified supernumerary is one of those mysterious manifestations that confound the cynical and the mercenary-minded.

Dr. Davidson had a dry humour of his own.

“Better drive round with me this morning, Richmond, and spy out the land.”

So, Howell, the bewhiskered ex-artilleryman in his blue coat with its silver buttons and his top-hat, was relegated to the dog-cart’s back seat, and Dr. Davidson took the reins. Kitty, his favourite mare, was between the shafts, and went spanking up Southfleet High Street for the road to Willowell. Southfleet, that Georgian and Regency improvisation, had become the mother town to nearly a dozen villages, Willowell, Richford, Danesfleet, Kingsfleet, Wickering, Hayleigh, Ashersdune, Canutesdune, Eastness. The great grey tower of Willowell soared up over the fields above a cushion of red roofs. All this was fat farming country, wheat, barley, oats, beans, with great elms lining the hedgerows. Flat it might be, but it had a beauty and a richness of its own, and it smelt of the fruits of the earth. A late field of beans was still in flower as they rattled into Willowell, and the scent drifted across the road. Dr. Davidson sniffed it.

“Always makes me feel young, Richmond, that smell.”

Kitty trotted them through the village, and down the hill on the Richford road, and as though knowing the road as well as her master, she swung right through the gates of Willowell Priory. The Neaths lived here, cultured pleasant people of good family. Sir Hector Neath had helped to govern India, and now pottered about this corner of England, growing roses and prize strawberries, and dabbling in water-colours. The Neaths were Dr. Davidson’s most eminent patients. When the dog-cart pulled up outside the porch of the rambling grey building, old Neath himself came out, a white-haired, handsome, Roman-nosed old gentleman with a high colour and jocund eyes.

“Ha, Davidson, that mare of yours will run away with you some day.”

Dr. Davidson smiled.

“Spirit, sir, but no temper. May I introduce my new assistant to you? Dr. Richmond. He may join Burgoyne.”

Richmond raised his hat to Sir Hector, smiled and was silent, and Sir Hector’s quick eyes observed and liked him.

“Glad to meet you, Dr. Richmond. I think you have come to a good place. By the way, Davidson, Hart my second gardener has a poisoned thumb. Perhaps Dr. Richmond will have a look at it while you are seeing her ladyship?”

The two doctors left the dog-cart, and Richmond reached for the surgical bag that lived under the seat.

“Where shall I find Hart, sir?”

“Oh, round there by the glass-houses, Richmond, I think.”

“Thank you, sir,” and Richmond went off in search of his case.

Sir Hector took Davidson by the arm. They were on affectionate terms, these two.

“I like that young man. Goes straight to the job, and remembers a name.”

“He has come to us with a very good reputation.”

“Nous, Davidson, nous. We are all rather interested in the man who is to——”

“Yes, I understand.”

“Between ourselves, we have not too great a faith in a certain person.”

“I’m sorry.”

“So are we, at the thought of losing you. Ursula is a little sensitive on the subject of physicians. She so hates being bluffed and talked to like the village child. Well, well, we will postpone the problem.”

Dr. Davidson went up the wide oak stairs to visit a very charming lady who in face and hair was so very like that tragic queen Marie Antoinette, and Sir Hector wandered out and round to the potting-sheds and glass-houses to see whether Dr. Richmond had discovered Hart and his sore thumb. Richmond had. Already, he was unwinding an improvised and dirty bandage from the aforesaid thumb, while Hart, a little, loquacious, hairy-faced man, babbled to him.

“Got a thorn in it, I did, Doctor. And she be jumpin’ so at night I can’t sleep nowhow. And she be that swollen.”

Richmond, intent upon the job in hand, had uncovered the injured member, without realizing Sir Hector’s presence. The thumb was red and swollen, and Hart winced and made a clucking noise when Richmond felt the swelling.

“Tcha, Doctor, she be that tender. Don’t ’ee press too ’ard.”

“You’ve got a whitlow. Matter in it. Afraid I shall have to give you a nick, Hart.”

“What be that, sir?”

“Just a little prick with a knife. You’ll be in pain till it’s done, and ever so much easier afterwards. Besides, that thumb’s dangerous.”

Hart looked up, and seeing his master, grinned, and Richmond, turning his head, discovered Sir Hector behind him.

“Oh, it’s you, sir.”

“Better go back to your cottage, Hart, with the doctor, and stay off work for to-day. I’ll leave it to you, Dr. Richmond. Can you manage at the cottage?”

“Quite well, sir, thank you.”

“Good. It’s no distance; only just beyond the old tithe-barn.”

So, Richmond went off to play upon Hart the old trick of knifing a whitlow, and most successfully so, though Hart did take God’s name in vain, and stamp a bit. “Gawd, sir, you did catch me afore I thought you was doin’ anythin’.” “That’s the joke, Hart. Now, you’ll be much easier. Hold your hand over the basin.” Hart’s wife had provided a kettle of hot water, and Richmond washed and dressed the thumb, and repacked his bag, and took a stroll through the fruit garden. It was a very old garden surrounded by immense stone walls with ancient espaliers nailed to them. Also, it had box hedges that were emitting a sweet pungent scent, and nut-trees and roses, which, trained in a succession of arches, gave the effect of a green and flowery tunnel. It was a sweet place, and remaining somewhat monastic, and as Richmond emerged from the further doorway in the great grey wall he saw the priory fish-pond or stew all brown and green and glassy under the shelter of old trees.

He found Sir Hector and Dr. Davidson waiting by the dog-cart, chatting together.

“I hope I haven’t kept you waiting, sir?”

The older man looked at him kindly. Sir Hector had been saying to Dr. Davidson that Richmond was both a man and had manners.

“No, Richmond. How is Hart?”

“I lanced him. He will be much easier soon. I should like to look at him to-morrow.”

“I’ll send him in,” said Sir Hector, “the service cart is going in to Southfleet at nine.”

The two doctors re-entered the dog-cart, and drove on to Richford, a large, old, red village lying upon a little river amid towering elms. Dr. Davidson was feeling pleased with the morning and with the way Richmond was shaping. There was no shrewder judge of character and capacity than Sir Hector Neath, and Sir Hector had liked the new assistant, which was helpful.

Three patients needed visiting in Richford, and Richmond was taken in and introduced. He was easy in a sick-room, quiet, self-composed, ready to smile. Davidson asked him to examine one of the cases; it was an abdominal case, problematical and with obscure tenderness, and as Dr. Davidson watched both the woman’s face and Richmond’s hands, he, who was so wise in the physician’s technique, realized that this young man had both skill and understanding. He was gentle, deliberate, thorough. In three minutes he had won the woman’s confidence. The very way he looked at her was sufficient.

“Appendix, sir, don’t you think?”

They were descending the stairs, and Dr. Davidson smiled dryly to himself. Burgoyne had examined this case, and had asserted that the good lady was suffering from nothing but flatus.

“Yes, I agree, Richmond. She will need careful watching.”

Kitty took them on towards Eastness, and Dr. Davidson confessed that in winter the drive to Eastness or to Wickering could be an ordeal that he dreaded. A bitter north-east wind would meet you, and cut your face like an ice whip. You needed a muffler and a high collar that turned up to your nose. But had not Dr. Davidson a brougham? He had. But Dr. Davidson did not confess in Howell the groom’s hearing that he was sensitive about exposing another man to hardships that he did not himself face. Besides, the dog-cart was more speedy than the brougham.

They were passing Burnt Farm when Dr. Davidson made a pertinent remark to the younger man.

“I see, Richmond, that you have learnt not to hurt people.”

“Yes. But sometimes one can’t help it, sir.”

“I agree. May an old man give you a hint? Though you may not need it.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Always try and relieve pain. That’s the first thing a patient asks of you. He or she won’t forgive you if you don’t. Opium is a blessed boon.”

“I’ll remember that, sir.”

Pier House, with its white bow front, rather like a stout and placid matron in a white frock, gave Richmond from its windows a view of the great estuary from The Nore to the Isle of Oats. The old wooden pier, straddling half a mile of mud when the tide was out, blinked black and white against the water. Every sort of sailing-boat lay at anchor, and at the old town jetty tubby black brigs or schooners unloaded coal, timber, lime and coke, and took off bricks, potatoes, grain. Along the shingle-bank below the sea-wall the local watermen kept their boats in summer. All this life was visible to Richmond as he stood or sat at his bow-window. Behind the house, an earth cliff rose steeply, capped with hollies and the stunted steeple and wind-vane of St. Jude’s church. Richmond had no complaint to make about the house or his landlady. She fed him well and without fuss. A local bell-hanger had fitted an additional bell which jangled not too loudly at night just outside John Richmond’s bedroom door. Mrs. Kemp had not exactly welcomed that bell, fearing it might disturb the occupants of the drawing-room floor, but since Dr. Richmond seemed to be a very likeable and well behaved young man who might remain with her for years, she tolerated the night-bell.

Asked by her neighbours what manner of man the new doctor was, she adopted a judicial pose, hands crossed over her white tummy.

“A most worthy young man.”

Whether Richmond would have accepted that adjective was quite another matter. He might have laughed and confessed to carrying a fair dose of original sin, but those were days when original sin was something to be deposited discreetly in the dust-bin.

Meanwhile, “Dr. Byng” was still challenging the dark future. Dr. Richmond appeared to have a way with the club-patients, and the old chronics, but so had Dr. Burgoyne. Charlie Byng was demanding a difference, a very great difference. The man who was to take Dr. Davidson’s place had yet to be tried out and tested.

Now, “Dr. Byng” was capable of tackling minor injuries on his own, for at that time a factotum and dispenser was not debarred from rendering first-aid. Charlie Byng could extract a fish-hook, or dress a cut finger, or even set a simple fracture, but he had the sense to recognize a responsibility that was beyond him. Dr. Davidson happened to be away, inspecting a house at Hastings, to which place he thought of retiring, when that very bloody mess was rushed in from the timber-yard up the High Street. The man had come into conflict with the steam-driven circular saw, and his right arm seemed to be hanging by shreds.

It was about two o’clock in the afternoon, and Charlie Byng, having taken one look at the case, sent two of the man’s mates running for Dr. Burgoyne and Richmond. He got the man on to the couch in the surgery, whipped a tourniquet out of a drawer, and applied it to the brachial artery just under the arm-pit. The man’s shirt-sleeve had been ripped to pieces, and Byng cut away the bloody shreds, and packed a clean towel under the limb. He turned on the gas-heater for water, brought out the case of surgical knives, prepared dressings, and mixed up a solution of carbolic acid.

Dr. Burgoyne was the first to arrive. His florid face lost some of its colour when he looked at that mutilated arm. In the Davidson-Burgoyne practice, Dr. Davidson had acted as surgeon. Dr. Burgoyne took off his coat, and with much deliberation turned up his shirt-sleeves.

“Dr. Richmond been warned? Shall want help. I suppose he can give an anæsthetic.”

“Dr. Richmond has been sent for,” said Charles laconically.

The man on the couch turned a blanched and frightened face to Burgoyne.

“You’re not goin’ to take my arm off, Doctor?”

Dr. Burgoyne’s blue eyes seemed to bulge.

“Afraid that’s inevitable, Jackson.”

“Don’t do it, Doctor. What’ll I be with one arm? Give me a chance.”

“We have to do our best for you, Jackson. I’m sorry, my man, but——”

“I won’t ’ave it off, sir. Can’t you——?”

Burgoyne puffed out his cheeks.

“Now, don’t argue. I know it’s rough luck, but that arm hasn’t a chance. Make up your mind to it, Jackson.”

“I won’t ’ave it took off, Doctor.”

Richmond had come into the surgery, and was standing in the doorway, listening to the argument. Dr. Burgoyne’s red neck seemed to bulge angrily above his collar. He was preparing to soak his hands in a basin of carbolic.

“Do you mind if I look, sir?”

Burgoyne turned on him.

“Ha, Richmond! Yes, you can look. I shall want you to give chloroform.”

Richmond bent over the man.

“Don’t let ’em take it off, sir.”

“Lie still a moment, there’s a good chap.”

Richmond was deliberate and cool. Very gently and carefully he examined the arm. His face was very grave. Charlie Byng, waiting in a corner, watched the scene.

Richmond turned to Burgoyne.

“Do you mind if I have a word with you, sir.”

The elder man’s blue eyes stared.

“Do you think it necessary?”

“I do, sir. I’d greatly appreciate it.”

Now, for a mere pup to suggest to a mastiff like Teddy Burgoyne that he was barking up the wrong tree, was no easy matter. Richmond expected to be told to mind his own business, and not to insult his seniors by assuming himself to be wiser than they were, but this other man’s anguish had moved Richmond very deeply, and he felt that personal pique had to be countered. The two doctors had gone together into the little consulting-room attached to the surgery where private patients were seen, and Richmond assumed an air of deference, for, after all, discretion suggested that he should consider a future partner’s feelings.

“Do you think the man has a chance, sir?”

“With my experience, Richmond, I should say, none at all.”

“You have had so much more experience than I have had, sir, but I have seen an arm like that in hospital, and Sir Humphrey Jolland managed to save it. I don’t think anybody else could have saved it, but I know how he did it.”

“And was the fellow’s arm any use?”

“The result was quite good, sir.”

Richmond was expecting that flamboyant face to explode upon him, but nothing of the kind happened. Dr. Burgoyne stood with his bare arms akimbo, gazing impressively at an old photograph above Richmond’s head as though deciding with dignity upon the fate of nations. And suddenly he smiled upon Richmond, as from a great height, condescendingly, graciously.

“You would like me to permit you to make the experiment and take the risk, Richmond?”

“I should be very grateful to you, sir. I know all this must seem very impertinent.”

“Not at all, my dear fellow, not at all. Well, shall we give Jackson his chance?”

They returned to the surgery where Charlie Byng was administering comfort, and Dr. Burgoyne, standing by the couch, and laying a paternal and Olympian hand on the man’s shoulder, confessed that he had been so moved by his appeal, that he and Dr. Richmond were going to attempt the saving of the arm. The poor, blanched face lit up.

“God bless you, sir.”

Burgoyne beamed upon him, and then turned that beaming glance upon Richmond.

“You shall take the case, my dear fellow. You see, Jackson, Dr. Richmond knows a new trick or two. We are going to try on you what Sir Humphrey Jolland, the eminent surgeon, might have suggested. Go ahead, my dear fellow. As a matter of fact, Lady Feygate expects me at half-past two.”

So Dr. Burgoyne turned down his sleeves, and put on his coat, and washed his nice pink hands of the case, and did not even stay to watch Richmond cleanse and draw together the torn tissues, and carefully ease the tourniquet to discover whether the vessels had plugged themselves. And all the while he was thinking that Dr. Burgoyne had behaved with great magnanimity, but Charlie Byng who was passing him dressings and bandages, thought otherwise.

Dr. Burgoyne had funked the case. If he had been at all offended, his secret relief at Richmond’s intervention had overborn any feeling of pique. Charlie Byng was silent, nibbling at his big moustache, and watching Richmond’s hands at work. He was satisfied. This young man had knowledge, skill and courage. He was not a decorative and flowery bluffer like Burgoyne.