by Ellen Wood
“Well, sit down while you talk, Parkins,” he said in a kind tone. “I can understand that you have been very much shocked by it Are any of Lady Oswald’s relatives here?”
“There’s that nephew of hers, sir, the parson; the poor gentleman that she’d send a little money to sometimes. He heard of it accidental, he says, and came off at once with his brother. They got here this morning. Very nice people, both of them, sir, but they seem poor. They think no doubt that my lady’s money is left to them, as I daresay it is. She—”
“I wish to ask you a question or two about the death, Parkins,” he interrupted in a pointed manner. None could check undue topics with more dignity than he. “When was it discovered that Lady Oswald was seriously injured?”
“Not until the Sunday, sir. When Mr. Cray came home with her here on the return from Hildon, he wanted to examine into her state, but she was very obstinate, and persisted in saying she’d not be touched that night; that she wasn’t hurt I fancy Dr. Davenal thought it was wrong of Mr. Cray not to have insisted upon it — but Mr. Cray himself did not think there was any grave injury: he told me so then. The next morning I thought they’d both be here, Dr. Davenal and Mr. Cray; but Mr. Cray came alone, the doctor it appeared had been sent for to Thorndyke—”
“To Thorndyke?” involuntarily interrupted Oswald.
“Yes, sir, somebody was ill there. However, he, the doctor, was back and up here in the afternoon. He had seen Mr. Cray, and he came to examine into her state for himself: for it had been discovered then that she was worse injured than they thought At first my lady said she’d not submit to the operation, which Mr. Cray had already told her must take place; but Dr. Davenal talked to her, and she consented, and they fixed half-past five in the afternoon. Have you heard how she died, sir?” broke off Parkins abruptly.
“I have heard since I got here this evening that she died from the effects of chloroform.”
“And so she did, sir. And it’s a thing that I shall never understand to my dying day.”
Parkins spoke the last words with a vehemence that superseded the sobs. Mr. Oswald Cray thought he did not understand it either; but he did not say so.
“In what way don’t you understand it?” he asked quietly.
“How it was they came to give her the chloroform. I am quite certain, sir, that up to the very moment that the operation was ready to be begun, there was no thought of chloroform. It was not as much as mentioned, and if any chloroform had been in the room amidst the preparations, I must have seen it.”
“Were you present during the operation?”
“I was to have been present, sir; but at the last moment I fainted dead off, and had to be taken from the room. We knew no more, any of us, till it was all over. Then we were called to by the gentlemen, and told what was the matter: that my lady was sinking under the influence of the chloroform they had administered, and could not be rallied from it And, a few minutes after, she died.” Oswald Cray remained for some moments silent “Was it Dr. Davenal who administered it?” he resumed.
“No doubt it was, sir; they were together. It was Dr. Davenal who performed the operation. My lady said nobody should do it but Mr. Cray, and it was settled that it should be done by him; but I suppose they thought at last it would be better to entrust it to the doctor. Any way, it was he who performed it.”
“What did Dr. Davenal — did Dr. Davenal say anything about the chloroform afterwards, or why they had used it?”
“He didn’t say much, sir. He said what had been done was done for the best: but he seemed dreadfully cut up. And so did Mr. Cray. The strangest thing to me is, why they used chloroform, when I saw no signs of their attempting to use it.”
“But they must have had it with them?”
“Well, of course they must, sir. It was not produced, though, while I was there. They said my lady grew agitated — it was Mr. Cray said that — that my falling down helped to agitate her; but it will take a great deal to make me believe there was any need for them to use chloroform. It has cost a good lady her life; I know that. She had her little tempers and her fidgety ways, poor dear lady, but she was one of the best of mistresses. It’s just as if they had done it to kill her.”
Did the words grate on the ear of Oswald Cray? — as though they bore all too significant a meaning. Not yet; not quite yet This testimony of the maid’s had confirmed beyond doubt that Dr. Davenal had been the chief and acting surgeon: how then reconcile that fact with the opinion expressed to him not many hours before the death? He could not tell; he could not think; he could not account for it by any reasoning of any sort, subtle or simple. He was as one in a mazy dream, seeing nothing distinctly.
When he quitted the house, he turned again and bent his steps to the Abbey. Possibly he deemed Mark could solve his difficulties. Mark was not in, however, when he got there, only Caroline.
Mrs. Cray was in the large drawing-room. She and the tea-table, at which she sat waiting for Mark, looked quite lost in its space. The thought struck Oswald as he entered. It had been the home of his early childhood, the scene of occasional visits since that period, but Oswald always thought that room larger and larger every time he entered it. It was at its window that he, a baby in arms, had been held by the side of his mother, when the grand people from Thorndyke in their carriage and four, her father and mother, would drive past and cast up their faces of stone. He had been too young to know anything then, but afterwards, when he could begin to understand, these stories of the passing by of Sir Oswald Oswald were impressed upon him by his nurse. They remained amidst his most vivid recollections. But that he knew it was impossible to have been so — for his mother had died when he was too young, and there was no more standing there after her death to watch for Sir Oswald — be could have affirmed now that he remembered those times in all their full detail: the steady pace of the fine horses, the bedizened carriage — in those days it was the fashion to have carriages bedizened — the servants in their claret liveries, the impassive faces of Sir Oswald and his lady. The fact was, it had all been described so often and minutely to the young child Oswald, that it remained on his memory as a thing seen, not heard.
Mrs. Cray, gay in attire, wearied in countenance, was quite alone. She wore a low evening dress of blue silk, with lace and fringes and trimmings; and blue ribbons in her hair. Rather more dress than is necessary for a quiet evening at home; but she was young and pretty and a bride, and — very fond of finery in any shape. Her weary face lighted up with smiles as she saw Oswald and rose to greet him: very, very pretty did she look then.
“I am so glad to see you! I had grown tired, waiting for Mark. He went out the moment he had swallowed his dinner — before he had swallowed it, I think — and he is not in yet. Shall I tell you a secret, Oswald?”
“Yes, if you please.”
“I am quite disappointed. I shan’t at all like being a doctor’s wife.”
Her dark blue eyes were dancing with smiles as she spoke. Oswald smiled too — at the joke.
“It is true, Mr. Oswald Cray. I don’t speak against my own dear Mark: I’d not part with him: but I do wish he was not a doctor. You don’t know how little I see of him. He is in just at meals, and not always to them.”
Oswald smiled still. “You had lived in a doctor’s house, Mrs. Cray, and knew the routine of it.”
“My uncle’s house was not like this. Who can compare the great Dr. Davenal at the top of the tree, waiting at home for his patients to come to him, to poor Mark Cray at the bottom, just beginning to climb it? It’s not the same thing, Mr. Oswald Cray. Mark has to be out, here and there and everywhere. At the Infirmary, dancing attendance on interminable rows of beds one hour; in some obscure corner of the town another, setting somebody’s leg, or watching a case of fever. Mark says it won’t go on quite as bad as it has begun. This has been an unusually busy week with him, owing to the doctor’s absence. He left home on Sunday night, and was not back until Wednesday. A great portion of Sunday also the doctor p
assed at Thorndyke.”
“His patient must have been very ill to keep him away from Sunday until Wednesday,” remarked Oswald.
“To tell you the truth,” said Caroline, dropping her voice in a manner that sounded rather mysterious, “ we don’t think he was with a patient. We can’t quite make out why he went or where he went. He came here in the middle of the night and rang up Mark. It was the night subsequent to Lady Oswald’s death — oh, Oswald! was not her death a shocking thing?”
“Very,” was the answer, gravely spoken. “ When Mark came home that Sunday evening and told me Lady Oswald was dead, I cannot describe to you how I felt. At first I could not believe it; and then I went — I went into hysterics. It was very foolish of course, for hysterics do no good, but I could not help it. You have come down to attend the funeral tomorrow, I suppose?”
“Yes.”
“Well — I was telling you about my uncle. He came here in the middle of the night and rang up Mark, who went down to him. When Mark came up-stairs again, he said Dr. Davenal was going away on some private errand which he had made a sort of secret of to Mark. I fancy Mark was only half-awake and did not hear him clearly; all he understood was, that the doctor was going somewhere by train unexpectedly; and Mark was to let it be assumed in the town that he was visiting a patient at a distance. Mark declared that he believed the doctor was only absenting himself to avoid attending the coroner’s inquest.”
“Why should Mark think that? — Why should Dr. Davenal wish to avoid attending it?” reiterated Oswald, strangely interested, he scarcely knew why.
“I cannot tell you. I fancy the admission slipped from Mark inadvertently, for he would not say a syllable more. The next day, Monday, I saw Sara. I asked her point-blank where my uncle had gone, remarking that there seemed to be some little mystery connected with it, and she turned as white as the grave and whispered to me not to talk so, to hold my tongue for the love of Heaven. You’ll take some tea, won’t you, Oswald? I shall be so glad of an excuse for making it.”
Oswald, almost mechanically, said he would take some, and she rang the bell for the urn. He began to think all this strange and more strange; to ask himself what it tended to. Dr. Davenal had gone away to avoid the inquest? — and his daughter when spoken to upon the subject had turned as white as the grave? What did it mean?
“Do you know the particulars of Lady Oswald’s death?” he inquired as he stirred his tea.
“Yes. Don’t you! She died from chloroform. They deemed it necessary to give it her, and she never rallied from it.”
“Who gave it to her? Which of them?”
“Which of them?” repeated Caroline, lifting her eyes, thinking no doubt the question a superfluous one. “They were both present; they would act in concert one with the other. If you mean to cast blame on them, Oswald, I should say you must cast it conjointly. But they acted for the best.”
“I do not cast blame on them,” he answered. “I don’t understand the affair sufficiently yet to cast blame anywhere. It is a riddle to me.”
“What is a riddle?”
“How Dr. — how they came to use chloroform at all.”
“Why, it is in almost universal use now!” exclaimed Mrs. Cray, surprised at the remark. “There is no riddle in that.”
Oswald did not press it. In his opinion there was a riddle; one he began to think would not be easy of solution. He finished his tea in silence. By and by Mrs. Cray resumed.
“Mark seems not to like to talk of it. I asked him a great many questions, as was natural, but he put me off, saying I should be falling into hysterics again. I told him that was nonsense, now the shock was over; but he would not talk of it, seemed quite to wince when I pressed it. It was not a pleasant subject for him, he said. And of course it is not: and still less so for my uncle, whose authority sways Mark. However good their intentions were, it did kill her.”
“Will Mark be long, do you suppose?” inquired Oswald, breaking another long pause.
“As if I could tell, Oswald! I have been expecting him every minute this hour past. When I grumble at Mark for staying out so, he tells me I must blame his patients. Nay, but you are not going yet?” she added, as he rose. “Mark is sure to be in soon.”
“I cannot well stay longer now,” he answered. “I shall see Mark in the morning. I suppose he attends the funeral?”
“Of course he will. They will both attend it I wish you would not hurry away!”
He repeated his apology, and Caroline rang the bell. In point of fact he wanted to call on Dr. Davenal.
Scarcely had the servant closed the door on Mr. Oswald Cray than he met his brother. Mark was coming along at a quick pace.
“Oswald, is it you? Have you been to the Abbey?”
“I have been taking tea with your wife, and waiting for you. She is nearly out of patience. Mark!” he continued, passing his arm within his brother’s and leading him a few steps away while he talked, “what a shocking thing this is about Lady Oswald!”
“Ay, it is that So unexpected. Won’t you come in?”
“Not again to-night. I want to know, Mark, how it was that chloroform was given to her?”
“If we had not deemed it for the best, we should not have given it,” was Mark’s answer.
“But — surely Dr. Davenal did not deem it would be for the best?”
Mark turned and looked at him: a quick, sharp glance. “What do you know about it?” he asked.
“I? I know nothing about it: I want to know,” replied Oswald, thinking the remark strange. “I wish you would give me the full particulars, Mark. I cannot understand — I have a reason for not being able to understand — why chloroform should have been given to Lady Oswald—”
“We use chloroform very much now,” interrupted Mark.
“Why it should have been given to Lady Oswald,” went on Oswald, with pointed emphasis.
“It was given to her as it is given to others — to deaden pain.”
“Who performed the operation?”
“The doctor.”
There was a pause. When Oswald Cray broke it his voice was low, his manner hesitating. “Mark, will you pardon me if I ask you a peculiar question? — Do you believe from your very heart that when Dr. Davenal administered that chloroform to Lady Oswald he did think it would be for the best?”
Hesitating as Oswald’s manner had been, Mark’s was worse. He grew on a sudden flashed and embarrassed.
“Won’t you answer me, Mark?”
“I — yes — of course we thought it would be for the best.”
“I asked, did he think it?”
Mark plunged into an untruth. Somewhat afraid of Oswald at the best of times, conscious that he was of a far higher standard in moral and intellectual excellence than himself, he desired to stand well with him, to enjoy his good opinion; and perhaps there was not a single man in Hallingham to whom Mark would not have preferred his unhappy mistake in all its wilfulness to become known than to his brother. They were also playing at cross-purposes: Oswald was seeking to learn how far Dr. Davenal had been to blame. Mark believed it was his own share of blame that was sought to be arrived at “Yes, he thought it Dr. Davenal would not use chloroform, or anything else, unless he believed it would be beneficial,” rapidly went on Mark. “I never knew a man more successful in his treatment in a general way than he.” But for all the apparent readiness of the words, they bore a certain evasion to Oswald’s ears.
“Tell me the truth, Mark; tell it me frankly,” he rejoined. “Is there not some — some secret — I don’t know what else to call it — connected with this business? Something wrong about it?”
For a moment Mark Cray had to deliberate. He was driven at bay by the straightforward questions of his brother. And his brother saw the hesitation.
“Oswald, it is of no use to press me upon this matter. You will readily conceive how sore a one it is to myself and to Dr. Davenal. Had it been some poor rubbishing patient who had died through it, that poor stoke
r at the Infirmary for instance, it would not have been of so much account: but” —
“Be silent, Mark!” burst from Oswald with a flash of anger. “I will not listen to such doctrine. The lives of the poor are every whit as valuable as are the lives of the rich. You did not learn that from Dr. Davenal.”
“What I meant was, that there’d not be half the public fuss,” said Mark, looking little, and doing his best to explain away the impression given by his words. “I’m sure there has been enough fuss in the town since her death was known, but I have not heard of one single person in it casting blame on us. Why should you seek to cast it? Errors in judgment are committed now and then in medical practice, just as they are in everything else, and there’s no help for it; they happen to the very best of us. If we could see the end of a thing at the beginning it would be different: but we can’t. Could its effects on Lady Oswald have been anticipated, we’d have seen chloroform in the sea before it should have been given her. It was done for the best.”
“You think, then, that Dr. Davenal believed the giving it her would be for the best?” persisted Oswald, after listening patiently to the excited answer.
Again came the perceptible hesitation in the manner of Mark; again the flush of embarrassment rose to his cheek. Oswald noted it.
“I am quite sure that all the doctor ever did for Lady Oswald he did for the best,” and Mark Cray plucked up courage and spirit as he said it: “that night as well as other nights which had gone before it. I cannot think what you are driving at, Oswald.”