THE GIFT OF 
 
 MAY TREAT MORRISON 
 
 IN MEMORY OF 
 
 ALEXANDER F MORRISON
 
 THE DOCTOR'S 
 RECREATION SERIES 
 
 CHARLES WELLS MOULTON 
 
 General Editor 
 
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 ^he DOCTOR'S 
 RED LAMP 
 
 fcwrki 
 
 A BOOK OF SHORT 
 STORIES CONCERN- 
 ING THE DOCTOR'S 
 DAILY LIFE. 
 
 SELECTED BY 
 
 Cbarles Mella ^oulton. 
 
 1904 
 
 THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING CO. 
 Chicago akron, o. new York
 
 Copyright, 1904, 
 
 BY 
 
 THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY 
 
 THE 
 WERNER COUPANV
 
 fan 
 
 TABLE OF CONTENTS. 
 
 The Surgeon's Miracle, - - - Joseph KirUand. 
 
 The Doctors of Hoyland, - - - Conan Doyle. 
 
 Doctor Santos : A Character Sketch, - - 
 
 Gustave Morales. 
 
 The Curing of Kate Negley, - Lucy S. Furman. 
 
 A Doctor's Story, E.M.Davy. 
 
 John Bartine's Watch: The Doctor's Story, 
 
 _ Ambrose Bierce. 
 
 Two Wills, Anonymous. 
 
 A Doctor of the Old School (A General 
 
 Practitioner), - - - - Ian Maclaren. 
 
 The Various Tempers of Grandmother Gregg, 
 
 Butli McEnery Stuart. 
 
 Dr. Barrere, Margaret Oliphant. 
 
 A Will and a Way, - - Margaret Sutton Briscoe.
 
 TABLE OF CONTENTS. 
 Dk. Armstrong, D. L. B. S. 
 
 Dr. Wygram's Son, G. M. McCrie. 
 
 On the India Frontier, - Henry Seton Merriman. 
 
 Doctor Greenfield, - - - Lady Mahel Howard. 
 
 Dr. Gladman: A Sketch of Colonial Life, 
 
 Gentleman's Magazine. 
 
 Dr. Wrightson's Enemy, - - Hon. Elenor Eden. 
 
 The Coming of the Ship, - Maud Wilder Goodwin. 
 
 Dr. Pennington's Country Practice, Butler Monroe. 
 
 The Doctor : An Old Virginia Fox-Hunter, 
 
 A. G. Bradley. 
 
 The Doctor's Front Yard, - - - B. E. Sessions. 
 
 A Gentle Manla.c, - George Edgar Montgomery.
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Village Doctor* Frontispiece 
 
 From the Painting by H. Krettschmer. 
 
 A Spoonful Every Hour * 88 
 
 From the Painting by Ph. Fleischer. 
 
 Vaccinating the Baby* 174 
 
 From the Painting by Ed. Hamman. 
 
 A Violent Fall 256 
 
 From the Painting by Adolf Echtler. 
 * Original by the courtesy of William Wood & Co., New York.
 
 PREFACE 
 
 TN PREPARING this book of short stories concerning 
 1 the doctor's daily life, the editor has availed him- 
 self of the counsel of his staff of editorial associates, 
 and he trusts that this volume will prove equally ac- 
 ceptable as the other works in The Doctor's Recrea- 
 tion Series. 
 
 The stories themselves are offered without critical 
 comment. Many of them are old favorites. Many of 
 them are by well-known and standard authors. All 
 relate some episode in the doctor's life in a manner 
 both striking and original. We believe this is the 
 first volume of its kind ever offered to the public. 
 
 For the courtesy of copyright privileges extended 
 we return thanks to S. S. McClure Co., The Century 
 Co., Harper & Brothers, J. B. Lippincott Co., Little, 
 Brown & Co., Macmillan & Co., John Brisben Walker, 
 Joseph Kirkland, Dr. Conan Doyle, Lucy S: Furman, 
 Ambrose Bierce, Rev. John Watson, Ruth McEnery 
 Stuart, Margaret Sutton Briscoe, Henry Seton Merriman, 
 and Maud Wilder Goodwin. 
 
 C. W. M. 
 Buffalo, March 18, I904.
 
 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 I. 
 
 THE SURGEON'S MIRACLE. 
 
 OOE Abe Dodge." 
 
 That's what they called him, though he 
 wasn't any poorer than other folks— not so 
 poor as some. How could he be poor, work as he did 
 and steady as he was ? Worth a whole grist of such 
 bait as his brother, Ephe Dodge, and yet they never 
 called Ephe poor — whatever worse name they might 
 call him. When Ephe was off at a show in the vil- 
 lage, Abe was following the plough, driving a straight 
 furrow, though you wouldn't have thought it to see 
 the way his nose pointed. In winter, when Ephe was 
 taking the girls to singing school or spelling bee or 
 some other foolishness— out till after nine o'clock at 
 night, like as not— Abe was hanging over the fire, 
 holding a book so the light would shine, first on one 
 page and then on the other, and he turning his head 
 as he turned the book, and reading first with one eye 
 and then with the other. 
 
 There, the murder's out! Abe couldn't read with 
 both eyes at once. If Abe looked straight ahead he 
 couldn't see the furrow— nor anythin' else, for that 
 matter. His best friend couldn't say but what Abe 
 Dodge was the cross-eyedest cuss that ever was. Why, 
 if you wanted to see Abe, you'd stand in front of 
 him ; but if you wanted Abe to see you, you 'd got to 
 stand behind him, or pretty near it. Homely ? Well, 
 if you mean downright "humbly," that's what he 
 was. When one eye was in use the other was out of 
 sight, all except the white of it. Humblv ain't no 
 
 (7)
 
 8 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 ri^Bie for it: The g-u'ls used to say he had to wake up 
 m .the Dight to rest his face, it was so humbly. In 
 '•school yoti'd ought to have seen him look down at his 
 copybook. He had to cant his head clear over and 
 cock up his chin till it pointed out of the winder and 
 down the road. You'd really ought to have seen him, 
 you'd have died. Head of the class, too, right along; 
 just as near to the head as Ephe was to the foot ; and 
 that's sayin' a good deal. But to see him at his desk! 
 He looked for all the world like a week-old chicken, 
 peekin' at a tumble-bug! And him a grown man, 
 too, for he stayed to school winters so long as there 
 was anything more the teacher could teach him. You 
 see, there wasn't anything to draw him away; no girl 
 wouldn't look at him— lucky, too, seein' the way he 
 looked. 
 
 Well, one term there was a new teacher come— 
 regular high-up girl, down from Chicago. As bad 
 luck would have it, Abe wasn't at school the first 
 week— hadn't got through his fall work. So she got 
 to know all the scholars, and they was awful tickled 
 with her— everybody always was that knowed her. 
 The first day she come in and saw Abe at his desk, 
 she thought he was squintin' for fun, and she upped 
 and laughed right out. Some of the scholars laughed 
 too, at first ; but most of 'em, to do 'em justice, was a 
 leetle took back; young as they was, and cruel by 
 nature. (Young folks is most usually always cruel— 
 don't seem to know no better.) 
 
 Well, right in the middle of the hush, Abe gathered 
 up his books and upped and walked outdoors, lookin' 
 right ahead of him, and consequently seeing the 
 handsome young teacher unbeknown to her. 
 
 She was the worst cut up you ever did see ; but what 
 could she do or say ? Go and tell him she thought he 
 was makin' up a face for fun? The girls do say that 
 come noon-spell, when she found out about it, she 
 cried— just fairly cried. Then she tried to be awful 
 nice to Abe's ornery brother Ephe, and Ephe he was
 
 H 
 
 THE SURGEON'S MIRACLE. 9 
 
 tickled most to death; but that didn't do Abe any 
 good— Ephe was jest ornery enough to take care that 
 Abe shouldn't get any comfort out of it. They do 
 say she sent messages to Abe, and Ephe never deliv- 
 ered them, or else twisted 'em so as to make things 
 worse and worse. Mebbe so. mebbe not— Ephe was 
 ornery enough for it. 
 
 'Course the school-ma'am she was boardin' round, 
 and pretty soon it come time to go to ol' man Dodge's, 
 and she went; but no Abe could she ever see. He 
 kept away, and as to meals, he never set by, but took 
 a bite off by himself when he could get a chance. 
 ('Course his mother favored him, being he was so 
 cussed unlucky.) Then when the folks was all to 
 bed, he'd come in and poke up the fire and peek into 
 his book, but first one side and then the other, same 
 as ever. 
 
 Now what does school-ma'am do but come down one 
 night when she thought he was a-bed and asleep, and 
 catch him unawares. Abe knowed it was her, quick 
 as he heard the rustle of her dress, but there wasn't 
 no help for it, so he just turned his head away and 
 covered his cross-eyes with his hands, and she pitched 
 in. What she said I don't know, but Abe he never 
 said a word; only told her he didn't blame her, not a 
 mite; he knew she couldn't help it— no more than he 
 could. Then she asked him to come back to school, 
 and he answered to please excuse him. After a bit 
 she asked him if he wouldn't come to oblige her, and 
 he said he calculated he was obligin' her more by 
 stayin* away. 
 
 Well, come to that she didn't know what to say or 
 do, so, woman-like, she upped and cried ; and then she 
 said he hurt her feelings. And the upshot of it was 
 he said he'd come, and they shook hands on it. 
 
 Well, Abe kept his word and took up schoolin' as 
 if nothing had happened; and such schoolin' as there 
 was that winter! I don't believe any regular academy 
 had more learnin' and teachin' that winter than what
 
 10 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 that district school did. Seemed as if all the scholars 
 had turned over a new leaf. Even wild, ornery, no- 
 account Ephe Dodge couldn't help but get ahead 
 some— but then he was crazy to get the school-ma'am; 
 and she never paid no attention to him, just went with 
 Abe. Abe was teachin' her mathematics, seeing that 
 was the one thing where he knowed more than she did 
 —outside of farmin'. Folks used to say that if Ephe 
 had Abe's head, or Abe had Ephe's face, the school- 
 ma'am would have half of the Dodge farm whenever 
 ol' man Dodge got through with it; but neither of 
 them did have what the other had, and so there it was, 
 you see. 
 
 Well, you've heard of Squire Caton, of course; 
 Judge Caton, they call him since he got to be Judge 
 of the Supreme Court— and Chief Justice at that. 
 "Well, he had a farm down there not far from Fox 
 River, and when he was there he was just a plain 
 farmer like the rest of us, though up in Chicago he 
 was a high-up lawyer, leader of the bar. Now it so 
 happened that a young doctor named Brainard— 
 Daniel Brainard— had just come to Chicago and was 
 startin' in, and Squire Caton was help in' him, gave 
 him desk-room in his office and made him known to 
 the folks— Kinzies, and Butterfields, and Ogdens, and 
 Hamiltons, and Arnolds, and all of those folks— 
 about all there was in Chicago in those days. Brain- 
 ard had been to Paris— Paris, France, not Paris, Illi- 
 nois, you understand— and knew all the doctorin' 
 there was to know then. Well, come spring. Squire 
 Caton had Doc Brainard down to visit him, and they 
 shot ducks and geese and prairie chickens and some 
 wild turkeys and deer, too— game was just swarmin' 
 at that time. All the while Caton was doin' what law 
 business there was to do; and Brainard thought he 
 ought to be doin' some doctorin' to keep his hand in, 
 so he asked Caton if there wasn't any cases he could 
 take up— surgery cases especially he hankered after, 
 seein' he had more carving tools than you could shake
 
 THE SURGEON'S MIRACLE. 11 
 
 a Btick at. He asked him particularly if there wasn't 
 anybody he could treat for ' ' strabismus. ' ' The squire 
 hadn 't heard of anybody dying of that complaint ; but 
 when the doctor explained that strabismus was 
 French for cross-eyes, he naturally thought of poor 
 Abe Dodge, and the young doctor was right up on his 
 ear. He smelled the battle afar off ; and 'most before 
 you could say Jack Robinson the squire and the doc- 
 tor were on horseback and down to the Dodge farm, 
 tool-chest and all. 
 
 Weir, it so happened that nobody was at home but 
 Abe and Ephe, and it didn't take but few words 
 before Abe was ready to set right down, then and 
 there, and let anybody do anything he was a mind to 
 with his misf ortunate eyes. No, he wouldn 't wait till 
 the old folks come home; he didn't want to ask no 
 advice; he wasn't afraid of pain, nor of what any- 
 body could do to his eyes— couldn't be made any 
 worse than they were, whatever you did to 'em. Take 
 'em out and boil 'em and put 'em back if you had a 
 mind to, only go to work. He knew he was of age and 
 he guessed he was master of his own eyes— such as 
 they were. 
 
 Well, there wasn't nothing else to do but go ahead. 
 The doctor opened up his killing tools and tried to 
 keep Abe from seeing them; but Abe he just come 
 right over and peeked at 'em, handled 'em, and called 
 'em ** splendid "—and so they were, barrin' havin* 
 them used on your own flesh and blood and bones. 
 
 Then they got some cloths and a basin, and one 
 thing an' another, and set Abe right down in a chair. 
 (No such thing as chloroform in those days, you'll 
 remember.) And Squire Caton was to hold an instru- 
 ment that spread the eyelid wide open, while Ephe 
 was to hold Abe's head steady. First touch of the 
 lancet, and first spirt of blood, and what do you 
 think t That ornery Ephe wilted, and fell flat on the 
 floor behind the chair! 
 
 ** Squire," said Brainard, "step around and hold his 
 head.'*
 
 12 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 "1 can hold my own head," says Abe, as steady as 
 you please. But Squire Caton, he straddled over 
 Ephe and held his head between his arms, and the two 
 handles of the eye-spreader with his hands. 
 
 It was all over in half a minute, and then Abe he 
 leaned forward, and shook the blood off his eye-lashes, 
 and looked straight out of that eye for the first time 
 since he was born. And the first words he said were : 
 
 ' ' Thank the Lord ! She 's mine ! ' ' 
 
 About that time Ephe he crawled out-doors, sick as 
 a dog; and Abe spoke up, says he : 
 
 "Now for the other eye, doctor." 
 
 **0h," says the doctor, **we'd better take another 
 day for that." 
 
 "All right," says Abe; "if your hands are tired of 
 euttin', you can make another job of it. My face 
 ain't tired of bein' cut, I can tell you." 
 
 "Well, if you're game, I am." 
 
 So, if you'll believe me, they just set to work and 
 operated on the other eye, Abe holding his own head, 
 as he said he would, and the squire holding the 
 spreader. And when it was all done, the doctor was 
 for putting a bandage on to keep things quiet till the 
 wounds all healed up, but Abe just begged for ona 
 eight of himself, and he stood up and walked over to 
 the clock and looked in the glass, and says he : 
 
 "So that's the way I look, is it? Shouldn't have 
 Jcnown my own face— never saw it before. How long 
 must I keep the bandage on, doctor?" 
 
 "Oh, if the eyes ain't very sore when you wake up 
 in the morning, you can take it off, if you'll be care- 
 ful." 
 
 "Wake up! Do you s'pose I can sleep when such 
 a blessing has fallen on me? I'll lay still, but if I 
 forget it, or you, for one minute this night, I '11 be so 
 ashamed of myself that it'll wake me right up !" 
 
 Then the doctor bound up his eyes and the poor 
 boy said "Thank God!" two or three times, and they 
 could see the tears running down his cheeks from
 
 THE SURGEON'S MIRACLE. 13 
 
 under the cloth. Lord! It was just as pitiful as a 
 broken-winged bird! 
 
 How about the girl? Well; it was all right for 
 Abe— and all wrong for Ephe— all wrong for Ephe! 
 But that's all past and gone— past and gone. Folks 
 come for miles and miles to see cross-eyed Abe with 
 his eyes as straight as a loon's leg. Doctor Brainard 
 was a great man forever after in those parts. Every- 
 where else, too, by what I heard. 
 
 "When the doctor and the squire come to go, Abe 
 spoke up, blind-folded as he was, and says he : 
 
 "Doc, how much do you charge a feller for savin' 
 his life— making a man out of a poor wreck— doin' 
 what he never thought could be done but by dyin* 
 and goin' to kingdom come?" 
 
 **0h," says Doe Brainard, says he, "that ain't 
 what we look at as pay practice. You didn't call me 
 in ; I come of myself, as though it was what we call a 
 clinic. If all goes well, and if you happen to have a 
 barrel of apples to spare, you just send them up to 
 Squire Caton's house in Chicago, and I'll call over 
 and help eat 'em." 
 
 What did Abe say to that? Why, sir, he never 
 6aid a word; but they do say the tears started out 
 again, out from under the bandage and down his 
 cheeks. But then Abe he had a five-year-old pet mare 
 he'd raised from a colt— pretty as a picture, kind as 
 a kitten, and fast as split lightning; and next time 
 Doc come down Abe he just slipped out to the barn 
 and brought the mare round and hitched her to the 
 gate-post, and when Doc come to be going, says Abe : 
 "Don't forget your nag, doctor; she's hitched at 
 the gate." 
 
 Well, sir, even then Abe had the hardest kind of a 
 time to get Doc Brainard to take that mare ; and when 
 he did ride off, leadin' her, it wasn't half an hour be- 
 fore back she came, lickety-split. Doe said she broke 
 away from him and put for home, but I always sus- 
 pected he didn't have no use for a hoss he couldn't
 
 14 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 sell or hire out, and couldn 't afford to keep in the vil- 
 lage—that was what Chicago was then. But come 
 along towards fall Abe he took her right up to town, 
 and then the doctor's practice had growed so much 
 that he was pretty glad to have her; and Abe was 
 glad to have him have her, seeing all that had come 
 to him through havin' eyes like other folks— that's the 
 school-ma'am, I mean. 
 
 How did the school-ma'am take it? Well, it was 
 this way. After the cuttin' Abe didn't show up for 
 a few days, till the inflammation got down and he'd 
 had some practice handlin' his eyes, so to speak. He 
 just kept himself to himself, enjoying himself. He'd 
 go around doin' the chores, singin' so you could hear 
 him a mile. He was always great on singin', Abe 
 was, though ashamed to go to singin '-school with the 
 rest. Then, when the poor boy began to feel like 
 other folks, he went right over to where school-ma'am 
 happened to be boardin' round, and walked right up 
 to her and took her by both hands, and looked her 
 straight in the face, and said : 
 
 "Do you know me?" 
 
 Well, she kind of smiled and blushed, and then the 
 corners of her mouth pulled down, and she pulled one 
 hand away, and— if you believe me— that was the 
 third time that girl cried that season, to my certain 
 knowledge— and all for nothin' either time! 
 
 What did she say? Why, she just said she'd have 
 to begin all over again to get acquainted with Abe. 
 But Ephe's nose was out of joint, and Ephe knowed 
 it as well as anybody, Ephe did. It was Abe's eyes 
 to Ephe's nose. 
 
 Married ? Oh, yes, of course ; and lived on the farm 
 as long as the old folks lived, and afterwards, too; 
 Ephe staying right along, like the fool he always had 
 been. That feller never did have as much sense as a 
 last year's bird's nest. 
 
 Alive yet ? Abe ? Well, no. Might have been if it 
 hadn 't been for Shiloh. When the war broke out Abe
 
 THE SURGEON'S MIRACLE. 15 
 
 thought he'd ought to go, old as he was, so he went 
 into the Sixth. Maybe you've seen a book written 
 about the captain of Company K of the Sixth. It 
 was Company K he went into— him and Ephe. And 
 he was killed at Shiloh— just as it always seems to 
 happen. He got killed, and his worthless brother 
 come home. Folks thought Ephe would have liked to 
 marry the widow, but, Lord! she never had no such 
 an idea ! Such bait as he was compared to his brother. 
 She never chirked up, to speak of, and now she's dead 
 too, and Ephe he just toddles round, taking care of 
 the children— kind of a he dry-nurse; that's about all 
 he ever was good for, anyhow. 
 
 My name? Oh, my name's Ephraim— Ephe they 
 call me, for short; Ephe Dodge. Abe was my brother. 
 
 Joseph Kirkland.
 
 II. 
 
 THE DOCTOR'S OF HOYLAND. 
 
 PI R. JAMES RIPLEY was always looked upon 
 ■^ I as an exceedingly lucky dog by all of the 
 ^^1 profession who knew him. His father had 
 preceded him in a practice in the village of Hoyland, 
 in the north of Hampshire, and all was ready for him 
 on the very first day that the law allowed him to put 
 his name at the foot of a prescription. In a few 
 years the old gentleman retired and settled on the 
 South Coast, leaving his son in undisputed possession 
 of the whole countryside. Save for Dr. Horton, near 
 Basingstoke, the young surgeon had a clear run of 
 six miles in every direction, and took his fifteen 
 hundred pounds a year ; though, as is usual in country 
 practice, the stable swallowed up most of what the 
 consulting-room earned. 
 
 Dr. James Ripley was two and thirty years of age, 
 reserved, learned, unmarried, with set, rather stern, 
 features, and a thinning of the dark hair upon the 
 top of his head, which was worth quite a hundred a 
 year to him. He was particularly happy m his man- 
 agement of ladies. He had caught the tone of bland 
 eternness and decisive suavity which dominates with- 
 out offending. Ladies, however, were not equally 
 happy in their management of him. Professionally, 
 he was always at their service. Socially, he was a 
 drop of quicksilver. In vain the country mammas 
 spread out their simple lures in front of him. Dances 
 and picnics were not to his taste, and he preferred 
 during his scanty leisure to shut himself up in his 
 study, and to bury himself in Virchow's Archives 
 and the professional journals. 
 
 (16)
 
 THE DOCTORS OF HOYLAND. 17 
 
 Study was a passion with him, and he would have 
 none of the rust which often gathers round a country 
 practitioner. It was his ambition to keep his knowl- 
 edge as fresh and bright as at the moment when he 
 had stepped out of the examination hall. He prided 
 himself on being able, at a moment's notice, to rattle 
 off the seven ramifications of some obscure artery, or 
 to give the exact percentage of any physiological 
 compound. After a long day's work he would sit up 
 half the night performing iridectomies and extrac- 
 tions upon the sheep's eyes sent in by the village 
 butcher, to the horror of his house-keeper, who had 
 to remove the debris next morning. His love for his 
 work was the one fanaticism which found a place in 
 his dry, precise nature. 
 
 It was the more to his credit that he should keep 
 tip to date in his knowledge, since he had no competi- 
 tion to force him to exertion. In the seven years dur- 
 ing which he had practised in Hoyland, three rivals 
 had pitted themselves against him ; two in the village 
 itself, and one in the neighboring hamlet of Lower 
 Hoyland. Of these, one had sickened and wasted, 
 ■being, as it was said, himself the only patient whom 
 he had treated during his eighteen months of ruraliz- 
 ing. A second had bought a fourth share of a Basing- 
 stoke practice, and had departed honorably; while a 
 third had vanished one September night, leaving a 
 gutted house and an unpaid drug bill behind him. 
 Since then the district had become a monopoly, and 
 no one had dared to measure himself against the 
 established fame of the Hoyland doctor. 
 
 It was, then, with a feeling of some surprise and 
 considerable curiosity that, on driving through Lower 
 Hoyland one morning, he perceived that the new 
 house at the end of the village was occupied, and that 
 a virgin brass plate glistened upon the swingiag gate 
 which faced the highroad. He pulled up his fifty- 
 guinea chestnut mare, and took a good look at it. 
 "Verrinder Smith, M. D.," was printed across it 
 
 2-8
 
 18 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 very neat, small lettering. The last man had had 
 letters half a foot long, with a lamp like a fire sta- 
 tion. Dr. James Ripley noted the difference, and 
 deduced from it that the newcomer might possibly 
 prove a more formidable opponent. He w^as convinced 
 of it that evening when he came to consult the cur- 
 rent medical directory. By it he learned that Dr. 
 Verrinder Smith was the holder of superb degrees, 
 that he had studied with distinction at Edinburgh, 
 Paris, Berlin and Vienna; and, finally, that he had 
 been awarded a gold medal and the Lee Hopkins 
 scholarship for original research in recognition of an 
 exhaustive inquiry into the functions of the anterior 
 spinal nerve roots. Dr. Ripley passed his fingers 
 through his thin hair in bewilderment as he read his 
 rival's record. What on earth could so brilliant a 
 man mean by putting up his plate in a little Hamp- 
 shire hamlet? 
 
 But Dr. Ripley furnished himself with an explana- 
 tion to the riddle. No doubt Dr. Verrinder Smith 
 had simply come down there in order to pursue some 
 scientific research in peace and quiet. The plate was 
 up as an address rather than as an invitation to 
 patients. Of course, that must be the true explana- 
 tion. In that case the presence of this brilliant neigh- 
 bor would be a splendid thing for his own studies. 
 He had often longed for some kindred mind, some 
 steel on which he might strike his flint. Chance had 
 brought it to him, and he rejoiced exceedingly. 
 
 And this joy it was which led him to take a step 
 which was quite at variance with his usual habits. It 
 is the custom for a newcomer among medical men to 
 call first upon the older, and the etiquette upon the 
 subject is strict. Dr. Ripley was pedantically exact 
 on such points, and yet he deliberately drove over 
 next day and called upon Dr. Verrinder Smith. Such 
 a waiving of ceremony was, he felt, a gracious act 
 upon his part, and a fit prelude to the intimate rela- 
 tions which he hoped to establish v/ith his neighbor.
 
 THE DOCTORS OF HOYLAND. 19 
 
 The house was neat and well appointed, and Dr. 
 Ripley was shown by a smart maid into a dapper lit- 
 tle consulting-room. As he passed in he noticed two 
 or three parasols and a lady's sunbonnet hanging in 
 the hall. It was a pity that his colleague should be a 
 married man. It would put them upon a different 
 footing, and interfere with those long evenings of 
 high scientific talk which he had pictured to him- 
 self. On the other hand, there was much in the con- 
 sulting-room to please him. Elaborate instruments, 
 seen more often in hospitals than in the houses of pri- 
 vate practitioners, were scattered about. A sphyg- 
 mograph stood upon the table, and a gasometer-like 
 engine, which was new to Dr. Ripley, in the corner. 
 A book-ease full of ponderous volumes in French and 
 German, paper-covered for the most part, and vary- 
 ing in tint from the shell to the yolk of a duck's 
 eg^, caught his wondering eyes, and he was deeply 
 absorbed in their titles when the door opened sud' 
 denly behind him. Turning round he found himself 
 facing a little woman, whose plain, palish face was 
 remarkable only for a pair of shrewd, humorous eyes 
 of a blue which had two shades too much green in it. 
 She held a pince-nez in her left hand and the doctor's 
 card in her right. 
 
 **How do you do, Dr. Ripley?" said she. 
 
 **How do you do, madam?" returned the visitor. 
 "Your husband is perhaps out?" 
 
 **I ara not married," said she, simply. 
 
 "Oh, I beg your pardon! I meant the doctor— Dr. 
 Verrinder Smith." 
 
 *'I am Dr. Verrinder Smith." 
 
 Dr. Ripley was so surprised that he dropped his 
 hat and forgot to pick it up again. 
 
 ''"What!" he gasped, ''the Lee Hopkins prize man! 
 You!" He had never seen a woman doctor before, 
 and his whole conservative soul rose up in revolt at 
 the idea. He could not recall any Biblical injunction 
 that the man should remain ever the doctor and the
 
 20 • THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 woman the nurse, and yet he felt as if a blasphemy 
 had been committed. His face betrayed his feelings 
 only too clearly. 
 
 '*I am sorry to disappoint you," said the lady, 
 dryly. 
 
 "You certainly have surprised me," he answered, 
 picking up his hat. 
 
 **You are not among our champions, then?" 
 
 "I cannot say that the movement has my 
 approval. ' ' 
 
 '♦And why?" 
 
 "I should much prefer not to discuss it." 
 
 * * But I am sure you will answer a lady 's question. ' ' 
 
 '♦Ladies are in danger of losing their privileges 
 when they usurp the place of the other sex. They can- 
 not claim both." 
 
 "Why should a woman not earn her bread by her 
 brains?" 
 
 Dr. Ripley felt irritated by the quiet manner in 
 which the lady cross-questioned him. 
 
 **I should much prefer not to be led into a discus- 
 eion, Miss Smith." 
 
 "Dr. Smith," she interrupted. 
 
 "Well, Dr. Smith! But if you insist upon an 
 answer, I must say that I do not think medicine a 
 suitable profession for women, and that I have a per- 
 sonal objection to masculine ladies." It was an 
 exceedingly rude speech, and he was ashamed of it 
 the instant after he had made it. The lady, however, 
 Bimply raised her eye-brows and smiled. 
 
 "It seems to me that you are begging the question," 
 said she. "Of course, if it makes women masculine, 
 that would be a considerable deterioration, ' ' 
 
 It was a neat little counter, and Dr. Ripley, like a 
 picked fencer, bowed his acknowledgment. "I must 
 go," said he. 
 
 "I am sorry that we can not come to some more 
 friendly conclusions, since we are to be neighbors," 
 she remarked.
 
 THE DOCTORS OF HOYLAND. 21 
 
 He bowed again, and took a step toward tlie door. 
 
 "It was a singular coincidence," she continued, 
 "that at the instant that you called I was reading 
 your paper on 'Locomotor Ataxia' in the 'Lancet.' " 
 
 "Indeed," said he dryly. 
 
 "I thought it was a very able monograph." 
 
 "Tou are very good." 
 
 "But the views which you attribute to Professor 
 Pitres of Bordeaux have been repudiated by him." 
 
 "I have his pamphlet of 1890," said Dr. Ripley, 
 angrily. 
 
 "Here is his pamphlet of 1891." She picked it 
 from among a litter of periodicals. "If you have time 
 to glance your eye down this passage—" 
 
 Dr. Ripley took it from her and shot rapidly 
 through the paragraph which she indicated. There 
 was no denying that it completely knocked the bot- 
 tom out of his own article. He threw it down, and 
 with another frigid bow he made for the door. As 
 he took the reins from the groom, he glanced round 
 and saw that the lady was standing at her window, 
 end it seemed to him that she was laughing heartily. 
 
 All day the memory of this interview haunted him. 
 He felt that he had come very badly out of it. She 
 had shown herself to be his superior on his own pet 
 subject. She had been courteous while he had been 
 rude, self-possessed when he had been angry. And 
 then, above all, there was her presence, her monstrous 
 intrusion, to rankle in his mind. A woman doctor had 
 been an abstract thing before, repugnant, but distant. 
 Now she was there in actual practice, with a brass 
 plate up just like his own, competing for the same 
 patients. Not that he feared the competition, but he 
 objected to this lowering of his ideal of womanhood. 
 She could not be more than thirty, and had a bright, 
 mobile face too. He thought of her humorous eyes, 
 and of her strong, well-turned chin. It revolted him 
 the more to recall the details of her education. A 
 man, of course, could come through such an ordeal
 
 22 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 with all his purity, but it was nothing short of 
 shameless in a woman. 
 
 But it was not long before he learned that even her 
 competition was a thing to be feared. The novelty of 
 her presence had brought a few curious invalids into 
 her consulting-rooms, and, once there, they had been 
 so impressed by the firmness of her manner, and by 
 the singular new-fashioned instruments with which 
 she tapped and peered and sounded, that it formed 
 the core of their conversation for weeks afterward. 
 And soon there were tangible proofs of her powers 
 upon the countryside. Farmer Eyton, whose callous 
 ulcer had been quietly spreading over his shin for 
 years back, under a gentle regime of zinc ointment, 
 was painted round with blistering fluid, and found, 
 after three blasphemous nights, that his sore was 
 stimulated into healing. Mrs. Crowder, who had 
 always regarded the birthmark upon her second 
 daughter, Eliza, as a sign of the indignation of the 
 Creator at a third helping of a raspberry tart which 
 she had partaken of during a critical period, learned 
 that, with the help of two galvanic needles, the mis- 
 chief was not irreparable. In a month Dr. Verrinder 
 Smith was known, and in two she was famous. 
 
 Occasionally Dr. Ripley met her as he drove upon 
 his rounds. She had started a high dogcart, taking 
 the reins herself, with a little tiger behind. "When 
 they met he invariably raised his hat with punctilious 
 politeness, but the grim severity of his face showed 
 how formal was the courtesy. In fact, his dislike was 
 rapidly deepening into absolute detestation. "The 
 unsexed woman" was the description of her which he 
 permitted himself to give to those of his patients who 
 still remained stanch. But, indeed, they were a 
 rapidly decreasing body, and every day his pride was 
 galled by the news of some fresh defection. The lady 
 had somehow impressed the country folk with an 
 almost superstitious belief in her power, and from 
 far and near they flocked to her consulting-room.
 
 THE DOCTORS OF HOYLAND. 23 
 
 But what galled him most of all was when she did 
 something which he had pronounced to be imprac- 
 ticable. For all his knowledge, he lacked nerve as an 
 operator, and usually sent his worst cases up to Lon- 
 don. The lady, however, had no weakness of the 
 sort, and took everything that came in her way. It 
 was agony to him to hear that she was about to 
 straighten little Alec Turner's club foot, and right at 
 the fringe of the rumor came a note from his mother, 
 the rector's wife, asking him if he would be so good 
 as to act as chloroformist. It would be inhumanity to 
 refuse, as there was no other who could take the place, 
 but it was gall and wormwood to his sensitive nature. 
 Yet, in spite of his vexation, he could not but admire 
 the dexterity with which the thing was done. She 
 handled the little wax-like foot so gently, and held 
 the tiny tenotomy knife as an artist holds his pencil. 
 One straight incision, one snick of a tendon, and it 
 was all over without a stain on the white towel which 
 lay beneath. He had never seen anything more mas- 
 terly, and he had the honesty to say so, though her 
 skill increased his dislike of her. The operation 
 spread her fame still farther at his expense, and self- 
 preservation was added to his other grounds for 
 detesting her. 
 
 And this very detestation it was which brought 
 matters to a curious climax. One winter's night, just 
 as he was rising from his lonely dinner, a groom came 
 riding down from Squire Faircastle 's, the richest man 
 in the district, to say that his daughter had scalded 
 her hand, and that medical help was needed on the 
 instant. 
 
 The coachman had ridden for the lady doctor, for it 
 mattered nothing to the squire who came, as long as it 
 were speedily. Dr. Ripley rushed from his surgery 
 with the determination that she should not effect an 
 entrance into this stronghold of his if hard driving on 
 his part could prevent it. He did not even wait to 
 light his lamps, but sprang into his gig and flew off
 
 24 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 as fast as hoofs could rattle. He lived rather nearer 
 to the Squire's than she did, and was convinced that 
 he could get there well before her. 
 
 And so he would but for that whimsical element of 
 chance, which will forever muddle up the affairs of 
 this world and dumfound the prophets. Whether it 
 came from the want of his lights, or from his mind 
 ibeing full of the thoughts of his rival, he allowed 
 ,too little by half a foot in taking the sharp turn upon 
 the Basingstoke road. The empty trap and the 
 [frightened horse clattered away into the darkness, 
 while the Squire 's groom crawled out of the ditch into 
 which he had been shot. He struck a match, looked 
 down at his groaning companion, and then, after the 
 fashion of rough, strong men when they see what they 
 have not seen before, he was very sick. 
 
 The Doctor raised himself a little on his elbow in 
 the glint of the match. He caught a glimpse of some- 
 thing white and sharp bristling through his trouser- 
 leg, half way down the shin. 
 
 ** Compound!" he groaned. "A three months* 
 Job," and fainted. 
 
 When he came to himself the groom was gone, for 
 lie had scudded off to the Squire's house for help, but 
 a small page was holding a gig-lamp in front of his 
 injured leg, and a woman, with an open case of pol- 
 ished instruments gleaming in the yellow light, was 
 deftly slitting up his trouser with a crooked pair of 
 scissors. 
 
 "It's all right, Doctor," said she, soothingly. "I 
 am so sorry about it. You can have Dr. Horton 
 to-morrow, but I am sure you will allow me to help 
 you to-night. I could hardly believe my eyes when I 
 saw you by the roadside. ' * 
 
 **The groom has gone for help," groaned the suf- 
 ferer. 
 
 ''When it comes we can move you into the gig, A 
 little more light, John ! So ! Ah, dear, dear, we shall 
 have laceration unless we reduce this before we move
 
 THE DOCTORS OF HOYLAND. 25 
 
 you. Allow me to give you a whiff of chloroform, and 
 I have no doubt that I can secure it sufficiently to—" 
 
 Dr. Ripley never heard the end of that sentence. 
 He tried to raise a hand and to murmur something in 
 protest, but a sweet smell was in his nostrils, and a 
 sense of rich peace and lethargy stole over his jangled 
 nerves. Down he sank, through clear, cool water, 
 ever down and down into the green shadows beneath, 
 gently, without effort, while the pleasant chiming of 
 a great belfry rose and fell in his ears. Then he rose 
 again, up and up, and ever up, with a terrible tight- 
 ness about his temples, until at last he shot out of 
 those green shadows and was out in the light once 
 more. Two bright shining golden spots gleamed 
 before his dazed eyes. He blinked and blinked before 
 lie could give a name to them. They were only the 
 two brass balls at the end posts of his bed, and he was 
 lying in his own little room, with a head like a can- 
 non-ball, and a leg like an iron bar. Turning his 
 eyes, he saw the calm face of Dr. Verrinder Smith 
 looking down at him. 
 
 *' Ah, at last !'* said she. **I kept you under all the 
 way home, for I knew how painful the jolting would 
 be. It is in good position now, with a strong side 
 splint. I have ordered a morphia draught for you. 
 Shall I tell your groom to ride for Dr. Horton in the 
 morning ? ' ' 
 
 **I should prefer that you should continue the 
 case," said Dr. Ripley feebly, and then, with a half- 
 hysterical laugh, "You have all the rest of the parish 
 as patients, you know, so you may as well make the 
 thing complete by having me also." It was not a 
 very gracious speech, but it was a look of pity and not 
 of anger which shone in her eyes as she turned away 
 from his bedside. 
 
 Dr. Ripley had a brother "William, who was assistant 
 surgeon at a London hospital, and who was down in 
 Hampshire within a few hours of his hearing of the 
 accident. He raised his brows when he heard the 
 details.
 
 26 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 ''What! You are pestered with one of those!" he 
 cried. 
 
 "I don't know what I should have done without 
 her." 
 
 **I've no doubt she's an excellent nurse." 
 
 * * She knows her work as well as you or I. " 
 ''Speak for yourself, James," said the London man 
 
 with a sniff. *'But apart from that, you know that 
 the principle of the thing is all wrong. ' ' 
 
 "You think there is nothing to be said on the other 
 side?" 
 
 **Good heavens! do youV" 
 
 "Well, I don't know. It struck me during the night 
 that we may have been a little narrow in our views. ' ' 
 
 "Nonsense, James. It's all very fine for women to 
 win prizes in the lecture-room, but you know as well 
 as I do that they are no use in an emergency. Now I 
 warrant that this woman was all nerves when she was 
 setting your leg. That reminds me that I had better 
 just take a look at it and see that it is all right. ' * 
 
 "I would rather that you did not undo it," said the 
 patient; "I have her assurance that it is all right." 
 
 Brother William was deeply shocked. 
 
 * * Of course, if a woman 's assurance is of more value 
 than the opinion of the assistant surgeon of a London 
 hospital, there is nothing more to be said," he re- 
 marked. 
 
 "I should prefer that you did not touch it," said 
 the patient firmly, and Dr. William went back to Lon- 
 don that evening in a huff. The lady, who had heard 
 of his coming, was much surprised on learning of his 
 departure. 
 
 "We had a difference upon a point of professional 
 etiquette," said Dr. James, and it was all the explana- 
 tion he would vouchsafe. 
 
 For two long months Dr. Ripley was brought in con- 
 tact with his rival every day, and he learned many 
 things which he had not known before. She was a 
 charming companion, as well as a most assiduous doc-
 
 THE DOCTORS OF HOYLAND. 27 
 
 tor. Her short presence during the long weary day 
 was like a flower in a sand waste. What interested 
 him was precisely what interested her, and she could 
 meet him at every point upon equal terms. And yet 
 under all her learning and her firmness ran a sweet, 
 womanly nature, peeping out in her talk, shining in 
 her greenish eyes, showing itself in a thousand subtle 
 ways which the dullest of men could read. And he, 
 though a bit of a prig and a pedant, was by no means 
 dull, and had honesty enough to confess when he was 
 in the wrong. 
 
 **I don't know how to apologize to you," he said in 
 his shamefaced fashion one day, when he had pro- 
 gressed so far as to be able to sit in an armchair with 
 his leg upon another one; "I feel that I have been 
 quite in the wrong." 
 
 ** Why, then?" 
 
 * * Over this woman question. I used to think that a 
 woman must inevitably lose something of her charm if 
 she took up such studies. ' ' 
 
 "Oh, you don't think they are necessarily unsexed, 
 then?" she cried, with a mischievous smile. 
 
 ** Please don't recall my idiotic expression." 
 
 "I feel so pleased that I should have helped in 
 changing your views. I think that it is the most sin- 
 cere compliment that I have ever had paid me." 
 
 **At any rate, it is the truth," said he, and was 
 happy all night at the remembrance of the flush of 
 pleasure which made her pale face look quite comely 
 for the instant. 
 
 For, indeed, he was already far past the stage when 
 he would acknowledge her as the equal of any other 
 woman. Already he could not disguise from himself 
 that she had become the one woman. Her dainty skill, 
 her gentle touch, her sweet presence, the community of 
 their tastes, had all united to hopelessly upset his pre- 
 vious opinions. It was a dark day for him now when 
 his convalescence allowed him to miss a visit, and 
 darker still that other one which he saw approaching
 
 28 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 when all occasion for her visits would be at an end. 
 It came around at last, however, and he felt that his 
 whole life's fortune would hang upon the issue of that 
 final interview. He was a direct man by nature, so he 
 laid his hand upon hers as it felt for his pulse, and he 
 asked her if she would be his wife. 
 
 ^'What, and unite the practices?" said she. 
 
 He started in pain and anger. "Surely you do not 
 attribute any such base motive to me," he cried. "I 
 love you as unselfishly as ever a woman was loved. ' ' 
 
 "No, I was wrong. It was a foolish speech," said 
 she, moving her chair a little back, and tapping her 
 stethoscope upon her knee. "Forget that I ever said 
 it. I am so sorry to cause you any disappointment, 
 and I appreciate most highly the honor which you do 
 me, but what you ask is quite impossible." 
 
 With another woman he might have urged the point, 
 but his instincts told him that it was quite useless with 
 this one. Her tone of voice was conclusive. He said 
 nothing, but leaned back in his chair a stricken man. 
 
 "I am so sorry," she said again. "If I had known 
 what was passing in j^our mind I should have told you 
 earlier that I intend to devote my life entirely to 
 science. There are many women with a capacity for 
 marriage, but few with a taste for biology. I will re- 
 main true to my own line then. I came down here 
 while waiting for an opening in the Paris Physiologi- 
 cal Laboratory. I have just heard that there is a 
 vacancy for me there, and so you will be troubled no 
 more by my intrusion upon your practice. I have 
 done you an injustice, as you did me one. I thought 
 you narrow and pedantic, with no good quality. I 
 have learned during your illness to appreciate you 
 better, and the recollection of our friendship will al- 
 ways be a very pleasant one to me." 
 
 And so it came about that in a very few weeks there 
 was only one doctor in Hoyland. But folks noticed 
 that the one had aged many years in a few months, 
 that a weary sadness lurked always in the depths of 
 his blue eyes, and that he was less concerned than ever 
 with the eligible young ladies whom chance, or their 
 careful country mammas, placed in his way. 
 
 Sir a. Conan Doyle.
 
 III. 
 
 DOCTOR SANTOS : A CHARACTER 
 SKETCH. 
 
 VERY one in Madrid knew Doctor Santos. He 
 was a little bit of a man, with his beard and 
 hair clamoring for the use of the scissors, and 
 his clothes for benzine and a more fashionable cut. 
 Nevertheless, he had a universal reputation for great 
 wisdom, and his popularity in the district of Cham- 
 beri, the principal scene of his work, was beyond 
 everything. 
 
 Possibly the peculiarities of the doctor did more 
 than his true merit to attract the attention of the peo- 
 ple. Perhaps some presentiment made every one con- 
 eider him physically of not much account, but mentally 
 a diamond of the purest water. It was well known 
 that in the exercise of his profession he was a true 
 ministering angel, and without any pretence of being 
 a specialist or a philanthropist. People said that he 
 was half crazy over the subject of disease, and fol- 
 lowed the development of a fever with the same in- 
 terest that others listened to or read a dramatic work, 
 but with this exception, that it was not always neces- 
 sary to be a mere spectator, that by discreetly inter- 
 vening sometimes, he prepared cheerful and unex- 
 pected comedy, where otherwise there would have been 
 the deepest tragedy. 
 
 This might have been merely scientific curiosity— we 
 will not discuss that point— but thanks to this Keen 
 interest, if a patient were very ill, and that happened 
 frequently, he would remain to watch by the bedside, 
 and again,— and this happened yet more frequently, 
 
 (29)
 
 30 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 for Doctor Santos devoted himself almost ex- 
 clusively to poor people— there would not be money 
 enough to buy supper for the family or broth or medi- 
 cine for the sick one ; then our doctor would pull out 
 his purse and send for whatever was necessary. His 
 patients never lacked for what was needed to restore 
 them to health. 
 
 The doctor's greatest pleasure, as he always de- 
 clared, was to cure sick children. It seemed impossi- 
 ble that a man who had no family and who, according 
 to all accounts, had never married, and who had been 
 adopted himself by a barber who took him from an 
 orphan asylum, should be able to feel such absolute 
 tenderness of heart towards little ones. 
 
 A woman, whose son the doctor had restored to 
 health, aptly expressed the sentiments of every one: 
 "It seems as if Doctor Santos had been a mother 
 himself." 
 
 "We will take it for granted that his life and good 
 deeds are well known, for many a scientific work can 
 testify to the merits of Doctor Santos ; so we will not 
 stop to give a detailed resume or minute account of 
 the arduous labor of many years spent in true per- 
 formance of his profession. 
 
 I am now going to speak of an event in his life 
 which, if it were not absolutely true, would seem to 
 many people to be altogether improbable. 
 
 Doctor Santos always said that the elixir of long 
 life was a very easy and simple thing to obtain, that 
 it was not necessary to knock one's head against the 
 wall in order that the electric spark of an idea should 
 spring out of the brain, and that even the most stupid 
 could give a solution of the problem to those who dis- 
 cussed it learnedly, but that not even this elixir nor 
 any other could be applied in every case, that it was 
 just as difficult to unite a head to the body from which 
 it had been severed as to repair the ravages of some ill- 
 nesses. In eighty eases out of a hundred, however, he 
 was sure that the elixir would give good results.
 
 DOCTOR SANTOS: A CHARACTER SKETCH. 3l 
 
 The strangest thing was that these were not merely 
 affirmations, but positive proofs, for in his practice he 
 had tried the remedy and, not only eighty to a hun- 
 dred, but in even greater proportion, had produced 
 good results. He never could be made to specify the 
 remedy, and he put an end to all questions on the sub- 
 ject, by saying : 
 
 "Nothing, nothing, it is like, it is like Columbus's 
 e^g, why prove it?" 
 
 It was long after twelve o'clock one night, when 
 Doctor Santos entered a miserable garret in the Salle 
 de Fuencarral. The door was partly open. A mid- 
 dle-aged man was stretched out on a rude cot. The 
 rest of the furniture consisted of some broken, rush- 
 bottomed chairs, and a pine table by the bedside. 
 The sick man had no relatives in Madrid ; he had ar- 
 rived from Cataluila a little more than a month before 
 and had fallen ill with pneumonia. He refused, abso- 
 lutely, to go to the hospital, so a charitable neighbor, 
 who had attended to his simple wants for some time, 
 called in Doctor Santos. The disease had already 
 made inroads upon the man's constitution. Although 
 the pneumonia was helped, the doctor could not cure 
 the quick consumption which followed and which 
 would soon end the man's life. 
 
 When the sick man saw the doctor enter, an expres- 
 sion of joy passed over his features, as if now black 
 death had no terror for him ; for, in the last sad mo- 
 ments, a warm hand would clasp his and a loving heart 
 would be moved to sympathy. The doctor took the 
 sick man's hand. 
 
 * * How are you, Jaime ? " he asked. 
 
 " I am dying, I feel sure of it, but I wish to ask one 
 more favor of you who have already done so many for 
 me. Tell me how much longer I have to live. I know 
 there is nothing that will help me, and I am almost 
 glad that it is so, for I have suffered so much in my 
 life. At least, I shall cease to suffer. It is true, is it 
 not, that over there there is no more pain, all is quiet, 
 dark, cold?"
 
 32 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 Accustomed as Doctor Santos was to such scenes, he 
 could scarcely keep back the tears— much to his own 
 disgust, when he looked at the poor fellow— and he 
 growled to himself: "A weeping doctor is a fool." 
 But he answered the dying man very gently : 
 
 ' ' What can I do for you, Jaime ? To whom shall I 
 write ? Let me know just what you wish to be done 
 and I promise you to do it as far as I am able, and 
 before it slips my memory. I don't want to frighten 
 you, but every one takes things differently. Judging 
 from the state you are in, I am not the one just now to 
 do you the most good, and we must soon send for one 
 who can give you the only true consolation. After all, 
 although this life means a great deal to us, we ought 
 to be glad rather than sorry at the thought of leaving 
 it, because we are all sure that God is good and will 
 pardon us, and that he loves us. For this reason we 
 call him Father, for if he is not better than the best 
 on earth, what other conception can we have of him? 
 
 "Now, I will go myself to call a priest whom I know, 
 and in the meantime, I will see if a neighbor will stay 
 with you. ' ' 
 
 "Oh, don't go, I beg of you. I must talk to you." 
 
 The doctor dared not say no, but he knew that the 
 hour of death was swiftly approaching. A moment 
 later he left the room, saying:— 
 
 "I'll return directly." 
 
 He sent a neighbor for the priest, then returned as 
 he had promised, and sat down by the head of the bed. 
 
 Jaime asked the doctor to do him the favor to put 
 his hand under the mattress and take out a packet 
 which he would find there. After the doctor had 
 pulled out the packet, Jaime began to speak:— 
 
 "Doctor, I ask you not to open this packet until 
 after I am dead, and after that, with the help of your 
 own conscience, you will decide what you think had 
 best be done. I want you, if any personal advantage 
 can come to you from it, to use it all for yourself. I 
 have no affection for any one else, nor am I in debt to
 
 DOCTOR SANTOS: A CHARACTER SKETCH. 33 
 
 any one. If this were not my last hour on earth I 
 should say that my soul held nothing but hatred for 
 the evil received from those I most cherished. 
 
 The sick man seemed fatigued and the doctor told 
 him to rest a few moments, but now the man began to 
 make those motions of the hands, so characteristic of 
 those about to die, and to plait and unplait the bed 
 clothing. He did not seem to know exactly what he 
 was saying and his eyes wandered restlessly about the 
 room :— 
 
 **She deceived me. How much I loved her! Her 
 beautiful black eyes ! How pretty she was ! And he 
 my best friend ! It was infamous, shameful ! I saw 
 them! the truth is proof enough! Ah, how much 
 blood flowed from the wound !— he did not mind dying 
 because he knew she loved him. And I envied him 
 after he was dead! Ah, how hard the punishment! 
 How dark the cell, how heavy the shackles! It is 
 shameful ! I am an assassin ! Every one has left me ! 
 How blue the sky is ! How fresh and green the fields ! 
 I can't get out with these horrible irons on my 
 wrists!" 
 
 The priest came in time to adminster the extreme 
 unction. Jaime died shortly after and the doctor re- 
 turned home ^vith the packet under his arm. Once 
 in his study, before going to bed, he decided to open 
 the bundle which Jaime had give him with so much 
 mystery. It was an easy task. He untied the paper 
 and out fell what seemed to be a magazine. There 
 were hundreds of leaves, but each leaf was a banknote 
 of four thousand reals. 
 
 Daylight glimmered through the curtains. Doctor 
 Santos had not closed his eyes. He was the owner, the 
 rightful owner of more than four thousand pesetas 
 (one hundred thousand dollars) and the donation was 
 absolutely legitimate. Jaime's mind, as no one knew 
 better than he, was perfectly clear at the time he made 
 the gift. What should he do with all that money! 
 He would be happy, all his friends would be happy, in
 
 34 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 fact, everyone would be happy ! What a library, what 
 a laboratory, he would have ! 
 
 Hours passed, but the doctor tossed and turned 
 restlessly on his bed, unable to sleep for a moment. 
 The clock struck seven. He could not stay in bed any 
 longer; he arose, made his accustomed hasty toilet, 
 drank his coffee and started off on his usual round of 
 visits. He began with the very sick patients, but at 
 ten o'clock he said to himself, he would get a friend 
 to accompany him to the bank that he might deposit 
 the money. He had never kept any money in a bank. 
 The little box in his office had always held all he could 
 spare, and he did not know exactly what legal forms 
 were necessary in order to have it placed so that he 
 could draw out certain sums when he wished. 
 
 His first patient lived several miles away, so he car- 
 ried the precious package with him in order not to 
 lose time in going and coming. He stopped at the 
 patient's house. The sick man was a cabinet maker 
 who had been trying to work with an injured hand, 
 consequently, blood poisoning had set in and the symp- 
 toms were such that amputation seemed necessary. 
 The poor man, strong as an oak, cried like a child. 
 
 * * The maintenance of my wife and family lies in the 
 skill of my five fingers," he said, "and now you are 
 going to cut them off. ' ' 
 
 But Doctor Santos, more of an optimist than ever 
 that day, brought the bright light of hope into the sad 
 hearts of the afflicted family. They might rely upon 
 him for support and help as long as they needed it. 
 
 He then went to see a talented journalist who had 
 not prospered since he began to have ideas and tastes 
 of his own instead of praising those of other people. 
 The journalist had lost his place because he had pub- 
 lished, without first consulting the director, an article 
 in which he said that what Marruecos most needed was 
 some powerful nation to civilize it, that our position 
 in the matter was like that of the gardener's dog, keep- 
 ing others from doing what we could not do ourselves ;
 
 DOCTOR SANTOS: A CHARACTER SKETCH. 35 
 
 that it would be better to be annexed to a rich country 
 than a poor one, to have a cultivated country instead 
 of a semi-savage one ; and a hundred other barbarities 
 besides. 
 
 As one might well imagine, the journalist had trou- 
 ble with his head, he was worn out by fatigue and had 
 the beginning of softening of the brain. Doctor San- 
 tos had ordered rest, a quiet, regular life, early hours, 
 and horse-back riding. 
 
 The journalist sent out to a store for a pasteboard 
 horse, and when the doctor called to see him, the sick 
 man said :— 
 
 "This is the only horse I can afford." 
 
 Of course, he plainly showed his insanity by this 
 act, but Doctor Santos did not look upon it in that 
 light. He begged the man's pardon for having ad- 
 vised him to buy what he could not afford. 
 
 A little later, he visited a widow with three children. 
 She was young and pretty; her husband had been a 
 sculptor of some talent. He was not rich, but he had 
 earned enough to support his family decently. He 
 died and for the first year the wife managed to live 
 fairly well, by dint of great economy. The second 
 year, the widow sold her husband 's art treasures ; the 
 third year, she lived on the gifts of relatives and 
 friends, which gave out before the fourth year, and 
 the family went from the second floor to the garret, 
 from wholesome food to scanty scraps, from warm 
 clothing to rags. Last of all came sickness. 
 
 Doctor Santos felt inspired: "If this little woman 
 goes to the bad, whose fault will it be? Her sewing 
 brings in so little !" Pulling out a banknote, he handed 
 it to the widow, telling her to live where she could 
 have fresh air and sunlight, to buy nourishing food 
 and look after the little ones. 
 
 The doctor left that poverty-stricken place, his plain 
 face so radiant with happiness that it seemed almost 
 beautiful. He thought to himself, as he went along, 
 that if Jaime had used some of this money for himself
 
 36 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 and had lived properly, lie would not have died of con- 
 sumption. "That devilish avarice!" he muttered. 
 "A millionaire living and dying like a beggar in order 
 not to spend his money. What is the good of money 
 if it is not to spend?" 
 
 Suddenly two ideas flashed into his head, "Sup- 
 pose this is stolen money! What if the bills are 
 false?" 
 
 He stopped. The package fell from his hand. 
 
 "Sir, you have dropped something," said a poor 
 woman who was passing. The doctor picked up the 
 bundle and, turning around, went home. 
 
 "Stolen or false," he muttered grimly, "There is 
 no other solution." 
 
 The words and the ideas sounded in his ears, they 
 hurt him, as if some one had struck him on the head 
 with a hammer. 
 
 He reached his home, told his old servant that he 
 would see no one, then changed his mind, sent the 
 woman off on an errand, and shut himself up in his 
 oflfice. 
 
 The doctor had in his house two banknotes of a 
 thousand pesetas (two hundred and fifty dollars) each. 
 
 "We will begin with the hypothesis that I can prove 
 them false, ' ' he said. He took out his own banknotes 
 and laid them on the table; took another out of the 
 package and placed it between the first two. 
 
 "They must have been stolen," he said, "for all 
 three are alike, the same block, the same print," 
 
 He turned them over, they were exactly alike. Well, 
 there was nothing to be done but to advertise and 
 await the rightful owner, and he would have to -word 
 the advertisement so that every Spaniard in the coun- 
 try should not appear to claim the money. 
 
 He took a magnifying glass and began to make 
 methodical observations. First, the paper, its quality, 
 its transparency; then the engravings; the letters, let- 
 ter by letter, the signatures. But even with the help 
 of the glass, which magnified the size six or eight 
 times, he could detect no difference between the bills.
 
 DOCTOR SANTOS: A CHARACTER SKETCH. 37 
 
 ' ' From whom could Jaime have stolen them ? Had 
 blood been shed on account of those bits of paper? 
 Had Jaime robbed the government or a bank ? ' ' 
 
 The doctor thought and thought. He studied, with 
 the aid of a glass, every detail, even the smallest. 
 
 "Is it possible," he exclaimed, **that each one can 
 be so perfect? They have been stolen, undoubtedly 
 stolen," he said, at the end of a quarter of an hour of 
 close observation. Ten times, already, he had com- 
 pared the numeration, but he turned again to look 
 at it. 
 
 "They all look alike," he said again, but when he 
 took away the crystal he doubted the certainty of his 
 own vision. He brought out a delicate compass and 
 measured the numbers of his old bills. He placed the 
 compass on the new, there was absolutely no differ- 
 ence. 
 
 He was not satisfied with the length alone, but he 
 even measured the width of the lines. 
 
 **They have been stolen," he repeated mechanically. 
 Then, as if answering himself, he spoke slowly:— 
 
 "Where could he have stolen them! No, they are 
 counterfeit, false, false. Ah, thou Cantalan rogue, 
 who art in the infernal regions, I hope that thou art 
 making false notes with thy skin of Barrabas !" 
 
 "I have learned the secret," thought the doctor. 
 ** There is no doubt of it." 
 
 He still looked exclusively at the numbers, the false 
 ones looked larger, they really were not, but as 
 the lines were more delicate, it made the ciphers look 
 larger. 
 
 * ' Those poor people are now in prison, ' * said Doctor 
 Santos sorrowfully. "They have denounced me and 
 the police will shortly come to arrest me, and no one 
 will believe they were ever given to me ! " 
 
 He raised the stove cover. "No, that won't do. The 
 embers and ashes will remain. They can smell the 
 cmoke and burnt paper." 
 The doctor had a dove-cot : a dove just then lighted
 
 38 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 on tlie window sill. A bright idea came to him. He 
 took two tin boxes— such as are used for cut tobacco — 
 and stuffed them botji full with bank notes, climbed 
 up to the dove-cot and looked through the garret win- 
 dow. No one could see him. He raised some tiles and 
 hid the boxes, then covered them up, leaving all as it 
 was before. Breathing heavily, his heart thumping fur- 
 iously, he descended the staircase which led to the sec- 
 ond floor and dropping into a chair, opened a huge 
 volume which he held before his face, while he tried 
 to recover his usual composure. 
 
 If he had been surprised and arrested, the inspector 
 would have noticed that the book was upside down, 
 the two old bills, with the magnifying glass and com- 
 pass, were still on the table, and that the lappels and 
 sleeves of his coat were covered with earth and white- 
 wash. 
 
 After several hours had passed, the old servant had 
 returned, and as no one else had appeared, the doctor 
 began to think that perhaps the bills had not yet been 
 changed and, by virtue of such a supposition, he hur- 
 ried to the widow's house with the pious intention of 
 substituting one of his old bank notes in place of the 
 supposed false one. The bill had been changed; the 
 widow and her children were having a little party in 
 honor of their great good luck. They were not alone, 
 as they generally were^ but had asked several of their 
 friends to share their joy. They were so profuse in 
 their expressions of gratitude that the good old doctor 
 did not know what to say nor how to explain his sud- 
 den return. 
 
 "Now be sure you take a room where you can have 
 sunlight and give the children a dose of castor oil, ' ' he 
 said as he hurried away. 
 
 Doctor Santos did not recover his usual composure 
 for a long time. He seemed taciturn although he con- 
 tinued in his accustomed mode of living. After a 
 while, however, he became more like himself. 
 
 The cabinet maker, for whom the doctor had ob-
 
 DOCTOR SANTOS: A CHARACTER SKETCH. 39 
 
 tained a lucrative position, wished to make a public 
 manifestation of his gratitude, but the doctor forbade 
 him to even mention that he had received help. Never- 
 theless, it was murmured continually, that Doctor 
 Santos, on account of his relations with persons of high 
 rank, had given many a one a modest pension, while 
 he had restored others to health by giving to them the 
 money to procure a change of climate and a much 
 needed rest. 
 
 Notwithstanding his friends of high rank, the doctor 
 still lived in his modest apartment and had moreover, 
 dismissed his only servant. He now took his meals at 
 a neighboring tavern. He still kept the dove-cot, and 
 he had bought an expensive therapeutical apparatus 
 and costly instruments. He had a laboratory and a 
 fine medical library. 
 
 He earned enough and he had innumerable friends 
 who gave him money to help cases of true necessity, 
 owing to his fame of discerning where help was really 
 needed. Happily society is not so completely decayed 
 that it does not produce, with frequent spontaneity, 
 the flower of Christian charity. 
 
 When Doctor Santos changed his habits of livi^ig, 
 hig character also changed. Formerly, he had been 
 cheerful and lively, fond of an occasional visit to the 
 theatre, and especially fond of a good table. But 
 when he might have had all this he became gloomy 
 and moody, and reduced his personal expenses, in 
 spite of his large earnings, to an extent almost miserly. 
 
 The years rolled by, the doctor's hair was snowy 
 white, and he scarcely spoke. As he was no longer 
 young and paid so little attention to his own comfort, 
 his health began to fail. The cold was intense that 
 winter and Doctor Santos, in spite of himself, had to 
 keep his bed many a da„ 
 
 His medical confreres visited him, and one, in par- 
 ticular, earnestly urged him to go to a warm climate. 
 
 "Must I go away, leave my work and occupations 
 to die, not of sickness, but of ennui?" "But," ar-
 
 40 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 gued his friend, "no one likes better than you to send 
 people off for a change of air during the winter. ' ' 
 
 The doctor did not reply, but he remained in Ma- 
 drid, passing sleepless nights and coughing ceaselessly. 
 
 His friends, the only family he possessed, took 
 turns, for a long time in caring for him, but, as the 
 days lengthened into weeks, the weeks into months 
 and each one gradually began to find that his own 
 cares absorbed his time, it was agreed upon that the 
 best thing to do was to have a sister of charity come 
 and nurse the doctor. 
 
 Henceforth, his friends' visits grew less frequent, 
 and there were days at a time when his door bell did 
 not ring once. 
 
 Sor Luz, as the sister of charity was called, proved 
 to be a perfect substitute for all his other attendants. 
 Although the doctor had never cared for women's 
 society, he found Sor Luz such a charming companion 
 that he refused to receive other people, if it were pos- 
 sible. 
 
 Her white head-dress and the undulations of her 
 soft gown, seemed to him like the motions of a dove's 
 wings. 
 
 Doctor Santos followed her with an affectionate and 
 grateful glance, thus repaying the tender and solici- 
 tous care which only maternal and Christian love 
 could give with such absolute abnegation and perse- 
 verance. 
 
 About the last of November, that harvest time of 
 death, when a few golden leaves still clung to the trees, 
 when the mountain tops were covered with silver and 
 the cold, northerly wind penetrated the crevices of 
 doors and windows, Doctor Santos began to grow 
 worse. 
 
 He declared in his will, dated years before, that he 
 had no property and that whatever was found in the 
 house belonged, by right, to the poor. That he wished 
 to have a humble funeral and be buried in the public 
 cemetery.
 
 DOCTOR SANTOS: A CHARACTER SKETCH. 41 
 
 In looking over his papers and effects, a tin box was 
 found containing forty banknotes of one thousand 
 pesetas each. 
 
 His friends declared that he had died of avarice. 
 Sor Luz said that she had never known any one who 
 had passed away with more tranquil, resigned Chris- 
 tian spirit than Doctor Santos. 
 
 Nevertheless, she often spoke of some phrases of 
 the doctor's which were utterly incomprehensible to 
 her and for which she could not account. 
 
 "When there was yet time," he said, "I had the 
 means to cure myself. It would have been so easy, 
 that if it had been any one else I should have done 
 80. I did not do it because I wished to preserve my 
 own self-respect and to have some merit when God 
 called me to a better life." 
 
 —From the Spanish of Gustavo Morales, hy 
 Jean Raymond Bidwell.
 
 IV. 
 THE CURING OF KATE NEGLEY. 
 
 TOLD you once," said Mrs. Melissa AUgood, 
 "about the time Kate Negley took that leading 
 on the lodge line, and locked the doctor out of 
 the house one night when he was meeting with the 
 Masons, and hollered at him scornful-like, when he 
 come home, to 'get in with his lodge-key;' and how 
 the doctor smashed up her fine front door with an ax. 
 Well, all the Station thought that might be the end 
 of Kate's foolishness, and that maybe she would take 
 her religion and sanctification comfortable after that, 
 same as other folks. And everybody was glad Dr. 
 Negley broke that door in, because it ain't good for 
 Kate Negley or any other human to have their own 
 way all the time. 
 
 "So Kate went along quiet and peaceable after that 
 for two or three months, and never had no new lead- 
 ings to tell about in meeting, and never did a thing 
 to show she had heartfelt religion except to wear her 
 hair straight down her back, according to Paul, And 
 ma she said to me one day she believed Kate had come 
 to the end of her line, and was going to act like sen- 
 sible folks the rest of her days. But I told ma not 
 to waste her breath in vain babblings ; that I bet Kate 
 Negley was just setting on a new nest, and for ma 
 to wait for the hatching. 
 
 "I hadn't hardly spoke the words before it come. 
 The very next Sunday, when Brother Cheatham got 
 through preaching and called for experiences and tes- 
 timonies, Kate she rose and said she was mightily 
 moved to rebuke a faithless and perverse generation, 
 puffed up in its fleshly mmd, loving unrighteousness, 
 
 (4.2)
 
 THE CURING OF KATE NEGLEY. 43 
 
 and abominable in wickedness. She said she had been 
 wandering in the way of destruction like the rest, and 
 putting her faith in lies, till the last few weeks, when 
 light begun to dawn on her, and she commenced to 
 search the Scriptures more. She said she was fully 
 persuaded now, halleluiah! and wanted all them that 
 desired to be wholly sanctified to enter the strait 
 and narrow path with her. She said the gospel she 
 had to preach to them that morning was the gospel 
 of healing by prayer and faith, and not by medicines 
 or doctors ; that though she had lain among the pots, 
 like the rest of them, yet now was her soul like the 
 wings of a dove, and forever risen above all such 
 works of the devil as ipecac and quinine and calomel ; 
 that only in the Great Physician did she place her 
 trust; that as for earthly doctors, she could only say 
 to them, in the words of Job : * Ye are forgers of lies, 
 ye are all physicians of no value. ' She said yea, ver- 
 ily, all they was good for was to 'beguile unstable 
 souls, and bewitch the people with sorceries;' and not 
 only that, but, like Jeremiah says, 'They help for- 
 ward the affliction.' She said she never meant to say 
 anything against doctors as men, but as doctors they 
 was vessels of wrath, corrupters of souls, firebrands 
 of the devil, and the liveliest stumble-stones in the 
 path of righteousness. She said for them benighted 
 folks that put their faith in physic to listen to Jere- 
 miah's point-blank words, 'Thou hast no healing medi- 
 cines,' and again, 'In vain shalt thou use many medi- 
 cines ; for thou shalt not be healed. ' She said from lid 
 to lid of the Bible there wasn't a single case of any- 
 body being cured of anything by either doctors or 
 medicine ; and that ought to be enough for the earnest 
 Christian, without looking any farther. But, she said, 
 knowing their hard-heartedness, she had studied every 
 verse of the Scriptures before she got up to speak. 
 
 * ' She said when the disciples was sent out, they was 
 told to preach the gospel, heal the sick, cleanse the 
 lepers, and east out devils ; and they did it. She said
 
 44 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 she'd like to know how many that called themselves 
 disciples nowadays so bigotty, and claimed the in- 
 dwelling of holiness, ever even tried to do any of them 
 things, except talk, let alone do them. She said it was 
 because they were so poor-spirited they didn't have 
 faith to lay hold of the promise, though there it was 
 in plain words : 'Ask, and ye shall receive ; ' 'Accord- 
 ing to your faith be it unto you;' 'For I will restore 
 health to thee, saith the Lord;' 'I kill, and I make 
 alive; I wound, and I heal.' She said, bless the Lord, 
 her spiritual eyes was open now, and the only medi- 
 cines she would ever take was prayer and faith. She 
 said James's prescription was good enough for her: 
 'Pray one for another, that ye may be healed. The 
 effectual fervent prayer of the righteous availeth 
 much;' and that she wanted every soul in the Station 
 to get to the same point. But, she said, until they 
 did, she wanted it known that there was one righteous 
 soul in Sodom, that was going to start out on the war- 
 path against the devil and all his doctors. She said 
 she was going to lay hold of the promise of James: 
 *Is any sick among you? let him call for the elders 
 of the church ; and let them pray over him, anointing 
 him with oil; and the prayer of faith shall save the 
 sick, and the Lord shall raise him up.' She said she 
 wanted it published abroad that anybody that took 
 sick was welcome to her services and prayers, without 
 money and without price. She said for all her hear- 
 ers to put on the breastplate of faith and the armor 
 of righteousness, and enter in at the strait and nar- 
 row path that opened into her front door, and keep 
 out of the broad way that led to the doctor's office. 
 She said she had a big bottle of sweet-oil, and faith 
 to remove mountains. 
 
 "Well, all the congregation was thunderstruck at 
 the idea of Kate Negley setting up in opposition to 
 her own husband. Dr. Negley being the only doctor 
 at the Station. Ma said that anybody could have 
 knocked her down with a feather ; and I know it made
 
 THE CURING OF KATE NEGLEY. 45 
 
 me right weak in my knees, though, of course, I felt 
 like Kate was doing right to follow her leadings, and 
 thought she was mig'hty courageous. I never could have 
 done it myself, especially if I'd had such a good hus- 
 band as Kate. I have traveled about more than Kate, 
 and I know that hen's teeth ain't scarcer than good 
 men ; yea, like Solomon says, ' One among a thousand 
 have I found.' But of course a woman never appre- 
 ciates what she has, and Kate she always took all the 
 doctor's kindness and spoiling like it was her birth- 
 right, and ding-donged at him all the time about his 
 not having any religion or sanctification. Now, I 
 reckon you 've lived long enough to know that there are 
 three kinds of sanctified ; them that are sanctified and 
 know it, humble-like— such as me; them that are sanc- 
 tified and don't know or even suspicion it; and them 
 that are sanctified and know it too well. And I have 
 told ma many a time that Dr. Negley is one of the 
 kind that is sanctified and don't know it, and that 
 Kate might pattern after the doctor in some ways, to 
 her edification. Somehow, I've always felt like ten 
 or eleven children might have took some of the foolish- 
 ness out of Kate; but, not having any, she was just 
 on a high horse about something or other all the time. 
 "The evening after Kate did that talking in 
 church, ma saw the doctor riding by, and she called 
 him to the fence and asked him if he had heard about 
 Kate's talk, and v/hat he thought about it. And he 
 said yes. Brother Jones and them had told him about 
 it down at the post-office, and it had tickled him 
 might'ly; that he thought it was very funny. Ma 
 told him she should think it would make him mad for 
 Kate to get up and talk that away about doctors and 
 medicine. 'Mrs. Garry,' he says, 'women are women; 
 and one of their charms is that nobody knows what 
 they're going to do next. And if my wife,' he says, 
 'has a extry allowance of charm, I certainly ought to 
 feel thankful for it. ' He said if Kate wanted to quar- 
 rel with her bread and butter, and talk away his prac-
 
 46 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 tice, he wasn't going to raise any objections; that he 
 needed to take a rest anyhow, having worked too hard 
 all his life. He said, another thing, a woman that took 
 as many notions as Kate eouldn 't hold on to any one of 
 them very long, but was bound to get cured of it be- 
 fore much harm was done. 
 
 "Ma she told me what he said, and that, in her opin- 
 ion, Dr. Negley could give Job lessons in patience. 
 
 "Then we commenced to have times in the Station. 
 The first thing Kate did was to get up one night after 
 the doctor had gone to sleep, and go down-stairs and 
 across the yard to his office, and hunt up his saddle- 
 bags, and stamp on them, and smash every bottle in 
 them, and then sling them over in pa's cornfield. Pa 
 he found them out there in the morning after break- 
 fast, and took them to the doctor's office; and he said 
 the doctor did some tall swearing when he saw them. 
 But I believe that was a slander of pa's, because I 
 know the way the doctor acted afterwards. At dinner- 
 time he went up to the house mighty peaceful, and eat 
 his dinner, and then he says to Kate, very cheerful 
 and polite : ' I see that my saddle-bags have met with 
 a little accident. It's an ill wind that blows nobody 
 good,' he says, 'and I don't know but what it's a fine 
 thing for my patients, some of them medicines being 
 powerful stale. But it's mighty unfortunate for you, 
 Kate, ' he says, * for I will be obliged to use up all your 
 missionary money for the next year and a half to re- 
 plenish them saddle-bags, times being so hard,' he 
 says. 
 
 "You know Kate always give more money to mis- 
 sions than any woman in the Station,— doctor just 
 couldn't deny her anything,— and she prided herself 
 a heap on it, righteous pride, of course. She was just 
 speechless with wrath at what he said, and she saw 
 she 'd have to change her warfare and fall back on the 
 outposts. 
 
 ' ' So she started out and went to see the women in 
 the Station, and prayed with them, and strengthened
 
 THE CURING OF KATE NEGLEY. 47 
 
 their faith, and tried to make them promise to send for 
 her if anybody got sick, and not for the doctor, and 
 worked on them till they got plumb unsettled in their 
 minds. Some of them went to Brother Cheatham and 
 asked him about it, and he said it was a question every- 
 body must decide for themselves, but there certainly 
 was Scripture for it, he couldn't deny. It's a funny 
 thing what poor hands some preachers are at practic- 
 ing. Brother Cheatham couldn't get so much as a 
 crook in his little finger but what Dr. Negley must 
 come, double-quick, day and night. I've always felt 
 like getting their doctoring for nothing was a big 
 drawback to preachers' faith. 
 
 **Kate didn't only go about in the Station, but she 
 would keep on the watch, and when the doctor got a 
 call to the country, Kate would saddle her bay mare 
 and follow after him, sometimes ten or fifteen miles. 
 By the time she would get to the sick one 's house, the 
 doctor would be setting by the bed, feeling the pa- 
 tient 's pulse, or some such ; and Kate would sail across 
 the room, with never so much as 'Howdy' to the doc- 
 tor, and go down on her knees the other side of the 
 bed, and dab^a little sweet-oil on the sick person, and 
 pray at the top of her voice, and exhort the patient 
 to throw away the vile concoctions of the devil, and 
 swing out on the promise of James. And the doctor 
 wouldn't pay no more attention to her than she did to 
 him, but would dose out the medicine and go on about 
 his business, as pleasant as could be. After he was 
 gone, Kate would smash up all the bottles in sight, if 
 the folks wasn't mighty careful; and then she would 
 follow the doctor to the next place, never any more 
 noticing him or speaking to him than if he was a 
 fence-post. She said when the doctor was at home, 
 he was her husband, though unregenerate, and she 
 was going to treat him according to Scripture, and as 
 polite as she knew how: but when he was out dosing 
 the sick, he was an angel of darkness, and not fit to be 
 so much as looked at by the saved and sanctified.
 
 48 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 "Mary Alice Welden was one of the first to take up 
 with Kate's notions— I've always believed it was be- 
 cause Dick Welden scoffed at them. If Dick had been 
 a quick man, he never would have done it, knowing 
 well that the only way to get Mary Alice to do like he 
 wanted her to was for him to come out strong on the 
 opposite side. But it takes a hundred years to learn 
 some men anything ; and what did Dick do that Sun- 
 day but laugh at Kate's notions on healing. Ever 
 since Mary Alice had shook the red rag at Satan by 
 getting up and shouting in church one time when Dick 
 had told her point-blank she shouldn't, she had en- 
 joyed a heap of liberty, and Dick he had been dimin- 
 ished, like the Bible says. So when Dick laughed at 
 Kate, Mary Alice fired right up and told Dick Welden 
 that never another doctor or bottle of medicine should 
 ever step over her door-sill, and that the next time any 
 of her household got sick, prayer or nothing should 
 cure them. 
 
 "So the next time her little Philury had spasms, 
 Mary Alice sent over for Kate; and when Dick come 
 home for dinner, he found all the doors locked, and 
 looked in at a window, and there was Philury in fits 
 on the bed, and Kate and Mary Alice praying loud 
 and long on both sides. Dick was just crazy, and he 
 ran up the street for the doctor, and they come back 
 and broke in the window, and there was Philury lay- 
 ing quiet and peaceful and breathing regular, and 
 Kate and Mary Alice shouting and glorifying God 
 for casting a devil out of Philury. That gave Kate a 
 big reputation, and stirred the Station to the dregs. 
 And even the doctor said it was only by the grace of 
 God that Philury pulled through under the circum- 
 stances. 
 
 * * Sister Sally Barnes had been laying up for nearly 
 a year with a misery in her back, and the doctor had 
 give her physic, and she had took up all the patent 
 medicines she could borrow or raise money to buy, but 
 there she laid, and expected to lay the rest of her days.
 
 THE C URING OF KATE NEGLE Y. 49 
 
 Kate went up there one day and expounded Bible to 
 her and anointed her with that oil, and prayed over 
 her for about two hours, and then told her to rise and 
 cook dinner, that the Lord had healed her. And up 
 Sister Sally got, and has been up ever since. Of course 
 everybody was excited and talking about it. Ma asked 
 Dr. Negley one day what he thought about it, and he 
 said it was a mighty fine thing for Sister Sally's fam- 
 ily, and that Kate's medicine was certainly better for 
 some folks than his. 
 
 "That healing gave Kate a big name, and folks be- 
 gun to send' for her right and left. Some would send 
 for her and the doctor both, thinking it just as well 
 to be on the safe side and not neglect either faith or 
 works. I reckon it did the sick good just to lay eyea 
 on Kate, she was such a fine, healthy, rosy-cheeked 
 woman, and never had had a day's sickness to pull 
 her down. 
 
 "Then come along the time for Sister Nickin's 
 shingles. For seven years old Sister Nickins, Tommy 
 T.'s ma, had took down regular, every Washington's 
 Birthday, at ten o'clock in the morning, with the 
 shingles. Everybody thought a duck could as soon 
 get along without water as Sister Nickins without her 
 shingles ; and she never dreamt of such a thing as not 
 having them. They never got to the breaking-out 
 stage with her but once, but she was scared to death 
 every time for fear they would break out, and run all 
 around her and meet, and of course that will Idll any- 
 body dead. So she used to make her will and give 
 away her gray mule every year, beforehand. 
 
 "This time Kate sent Sister Nickins word not fo 
 make no will or give away the mule ; that she was go- 
 ing to cast them shingles into the bottomless pit by 
 prayer. So, at sun-up on the 22d, Kate went up to 
 Sister Nickins 's house, and set into praying and 
 anointing, and by ten o'clock she had Sister Nickins 
 so full of grace and glory that the devil or the shingles 
 couldn't get within a mile of her, and she never felt a
 
 50 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 single pain. And of all the Iialleluiah times, that was 
 one. You could hear the shouting all over town, and 
 nearly all the Station went up there. I went myself, 
 and saw Sister Nickins with my own eyes, up and 
 about, and full of rejoicings, and not a shingle to her 
 name. I thought it was wonderful. It seemed just 
 like Bible times over again. And Sister Nickins was 
 80 lifted up over it that she mounted her gray mule 
 after dinner and started out on a three months' visita- 
 tion through the county, to spread the news abroad 
 amongst her kin and friends. 
 
 "That was the winter I felt the inward call to 
 preach, but never got no outward invitations. So, 
 while I was having that trial of patience, I thought 
 I might as well help Kate some, though I knew my call 
 was to preach, and not to heal. And I would go around 
 a good deal with Kate, though I never was just as ram- 
 pant as she was, or as Mary Alice Welden, and always 
 allowed that doctors might have their uses. 
 
 **One day Kate came by for me to go up with her 
 to pray over old Mis' Gerton's rheumatism. So up 
 we went, and Kate told old Mis ' Gerton what we come 
 for, and Mis' Gerton said she never had no objections, 
 that prayer certainly couldn't do no harm, and oil 
 was good for the joints. So I poured on the oil, and 
 Kate did the praying. In about an hour Kate jumped 
 up and told old Mis' Gerton to get up and walk, that 
 the prayer of faith had healed her. *No such a thing,* 
 old Mis' Gerton says; 'them knees is worse than when 
 you commenced. ' Kate got red in the face, and said of 
 course the grace was thrown away on them that 
 wouldn't accept of it. Old Mis' Gerton said she 
 couldn't tell no lies; that she felt worse instead of bet- 
 ter ; that pain was pain, and rheumatism was rheuma- 
 tism, as well they knew that had it. She said she never 
 meant no disrespect, but that in her opinion prayer 
 couldn't hold a candle to Dr. Hayhurst's Wildcat Lin- 
 iment as a pain-killer. Of course Kate was horror- 
 struck, and she wiped the dust of old Mis' Gerton's 
 house off of her feet when we went out.
 
 THE CURING OF KATE NEGLEY. 51 
 
 "Then what should pa do about that time but take 
 down with the yellow janders. You know, and every- 
 body knows, that pa never did have a bit of religion. 
 I would hate to say such a thing about an own rela- 
 tion, but pa being my stepfather, and the second one 
 at that, I feel like he 's kind of far-removed. "Well, ma 
 would have been a mighty religious woman if she 
 hadn't been unequally yoked together with unbeliev- 
 ers three times. That's enough to wear a woman's 
 religion to a frazzle, goodness knows; and I have al- 
 ways made excuses for ma. So when pa got sick and 
 told ma to send for the doctor, ma, being one of those 
 women that is always trying to serve two masters, her 
 husband and her religion, sent for the doctor and Kate 
 both. And when I got there, a few minutes later, 
 there set the doctor by pa 's bed, and Kate and ma back 
 in the kitchen, and every time Kate would start over 
 the door-sill into pa's room, to pour the oil on him 
 and pray over him, pa would set up in bed and shake 
 his fist at her, and swear a blue streak, and tell her not 
 to come another step. Ma and me we nearly went 
 through the earth for shame at pa; and of course he 
 never would have done it if his liver had been right, 
 for I will say this for pa, he is a polite, mild-mannered 
 man, and slow to wrath, when he hasn't got the jan- 
 ders. Then Kate would flop down on the kitchen floor 
 and thank the Lord she was being persecuted for 
 righteousness' sake. And a good many people dropped 
 in, hearing the noise ; and everybody was plumb scan- 
 dalized at pa, and said he was a downright infidel, and 
 all their sympathies was roused for Kate. 
 
 ** After that she had a bigger business than ever, in 
 spite of a set-back or two, like old Mis' Gerton's rheu- 
 matism, and Brother Gilly Jones's baby dying one 
 night of the croup when him and Kate was praying 
 over it and wouldn't send for the doctor. Kate said 
 that it was the Lord's will, and the baby's appointed 
 time to die ; and Brother Gilly Jones, being sanctified, 
 and having eight more children anyhow, he agreed
 
 52 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 with Kate, and said he felt perfectly resigned ; though 
 Sister Jones, poor thing, never has got reconciled to 
 this day. 
 
 "Of course those things never fazed Kate, and she 
 was just on the top notch all the time, and going day 
 and night. And every Sunday there would be testi- 
 monials in church about healings, and faith begun to 
 take hold on both sanctified and sinner, till it actually 
 got to the point that folks' religion was doubted if they 
 sent for a doctor. And when spring opened up, the 
 doctor said his occupation was so near gone that he felt 
 Justified in going on that camp-hunt he had been want- 
 ing to make for fourteen years ; so he made up a party 
 of men— Masons and such— and went down on Green 
 River for two weeks' hunting. 
 
 ''Well, you ought to have seen Kate that morning 
 the doctor left. He wasn't out of sight before she 
 turned loose a-shouting over the triumph of righteous- 
 ness, and over having actually run the devil out of 
 town ; and she held a thanks-meeting up at her house 
 that night, and we had a full-salvation time. 
 
 **Kate invited me to stay with her while the doctor 
 was gone; so I shooed my chickens down to ma's, so's 
 I could have my mind free from worldly cares, and 
 shut up my house, and went. We had a mighty joy- 
 ful, edifying time for two days. 
 
 "The third night Kate woke me up sudden from 
 a good sleep, about three o'clock in the morning. 
 'Melissy,' she says, 'get up and light the lamp. I don't 
 know what on earth's the matter with me,' she says; 
 *I feel awful, and have got all the aches there is in- 
 side of me. ' * For goodness ' sake, Kate, ' I says, rolling 
 out of bed, *I reckon you are getting the grippe.' She 
 groaned. 'It's worse than the grippe, Melissy All- 
 good,' she says; 'I feel like I'm going to die.* I lit 
 the lamp and brought it over by the bed. *I do be- 
 lieve you have got some fever, Kate,' I says. *I am 
 eat up with it,' she says, 'and with aches, and have 
 a terrible gone feeling all over. I tell you, Melissy,
 
 THE C URING OF KATE NEGLE Y. 53 
 
 I'm an awful sick woman. Oh, what shall I do— what 
 shall I do?' *Do?' I says, no little surprised. 'Why, 
 pray, of course.' 'Well,' she says, kind of faint-like, 
 'you'd better be about it.' 
 
 ' ' I was a little outdone by her lukewarniness, but I 
 got down on my knees and went to praying. Kate kept 
 up a consid'able groaning. In about five minutes she 
 says: 'Get up from there, Melissy Allgood, and do 
 something for me. I'm a terrible sick woman,' she 
 says. 'Gracious sakes alive, Kate,' I says, 'there ain't 
 another thing I can do but anoint you with the oil.' 
 I run and brought the sweet-oil. ' Take it away ! ' she 
 says. ' The smell of it makes me sick ! I won 't have 
 it!' I was completely dazed, and it seemed to me like 
 the world was turning upside down. But what can 
 you expect of a woman that don't know what the feel- 
 ing of pain is, and never had a sick day since she was 
 a young child and got through the catching age? I 
 fell down on my knees and went to praying again, not 
 knowing just what to do. Kate stopped me again. 
 'Melissy Allgood,' she says, 'are you going to let me 
 lay here and die, and not stretch out even a finger to 
 help me?' she says. 'Why, Kate,' I says, plumb petri- 
 fied, 'you know I'm doing the very best that can be 
 done.' I says: 'You must have patience and faith, 
 and wait on the time of the Lord.' 'Oh!' she says, 
 fairly crying, 'what on earth made the doctor go ofi: 
 and leave me ? He might have known something would 
 happen to me. He ought to have stayed here, wdiere 
 he belongs! He'd know what to do for me if he was 
 here,' she says. 'He wouldn't let his own dear wife 
 lay here and die ! ' 
 
 " 'Kate,^' I says, 'you are wandering, the worst kind, 
 I'm going after Mary Alice Welden.' So I slipped 
 on my shoes and dress and run down the street to 
 Mary Alice's, and we hurried back as fast as we could. 
 I told Mary Alice that Kate was sick, and out of her 
 mind to that extent she was calling for the doctor. 
 Mary Alice said she certainly must be mighty bad off,
 
 64 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 and that we must pray with abounding faith, and be 
 firm. When we got back, Kate was still a-groaning 
 and crying. Mary Alice told her to cease her com- 
 plainings and put her trust in One who was mighty 
 to save. Then Mary Alice snatched up the bottle of 
 sweet-oil that set there on the table, and started at 
 Kate with it. *She won't have it on her,' I says, 'it 
 ain 't no use to try. ' ' She 's got to have it, ' Mary Alice 
 says, 'whether she wants it or not. It's a part of 
 James's directions.' Kate begun to holler and throw 
 out her arms when she saw the oil coming. 'Take it 
 away,' she says; 'it makes me sick!' 'You hold her 
 hands,' Mary Alice says, 'while I pour it on her.' So 
 I set down and took a good grip on Kate 's hands, and 
 Mary Alice poured the oil on her, and it went all over 
 her face and head and the pillow, she kept threshing 
 around so lively, and hollering till her mouth was fuU. 
 Then Kate she cried and carried on, and said we were 
 treating her shameful, and would be sorry for it when 
 she was dead and gone: We never paid any attention 
 to her, of course, but got down on both sides of the 
 bed and went to praying as loud and earnest as we 
 could, so as to drown the groaning. Then Kate said 
 she didn't want to be prayed for nohow, that what she 
 wanted was the doctor. Mary Alice told her she was 
 plumb out of her senses, and didn't know what she 
 was talking about. And Kate said, no such a thing; 
 that she was a mighty sick woman, but she was in her 
 right mind, and knew what she wanted, and that it 
 was the doctor. She said the doctor was the only friend 
 she had on earth. She said the doctor wouldn't stand 
 by and see her die and never lift a hand, and she knew 
 it. She said he would know of something to give her 
 that would ease them aches and pains, and let her die 
 in peace. But she said of course if the doctor was 
 there she wouldn't need to die— that he would save 
 her. She set up in bed. 'Melissy Allgood,' she says, 
 * run over and tell your pa to mount his horse and ride 
 for the doctor, ' she says, ' and never stop till he finds
 
 THE CURING OF KATE NEGLEY. 55 
 
 him!' 'Land of the living, Kate,' I says, 'you know 
 the doctor is thirty mile and more away, and nobody 
 knows where he 's at by now. ' ' Tell Mr. Garry I say 
 not to stop till he finds him!' Kate says. 'And to 
 keep life in me till he gets Jiere,' she says, 'I want old 
 Dr. Pegram, at Dixie, sent for immediate. He ought 
 [to get here in three hours' time. You tell Tommy T. 
 Nickins to take my mare and go for fiim, quick ! ' she 
 'says. 'And Mary Alice Welden, you go down in the 
 cellar and bring me one of those bottles of blackberry 
 cordial, to keep up my strength till Dr. Pegram 
 comes. * 
 
 "Mary Alice and me were smitten dumb right there 
 where we was at, on our knees. 'Kate Negley,' I got 
 the voice to say, 'are you sure them are your right- 
 minded wishes, and not the devil speaking through 
 you?' 'I tell you to do what I say, and hurry up!' 
 Kate says. 'Do you reckon I want to die ?' 
 
 "Mary Alice rose and walked out with never a 
 word ; but if I ever saw complete disgust wrote on any- 
 body's face, it was hers. I had to go down and get the 
 blackberry cordial myself, and you ought to have seen 
 Kate make away with it. Then I went out and started 
 off Tommy T. and pa. 
 
 "Old Dr. Pegram was there insida of three hours, 
 dosing out big pills for Kate to take every half-hour, 
 and powders every fifteen minutes ; and it looked like 
 Kate couldn't swallow them fast enough to suit her. 
 Dr. Pegram told ma and me that Kate had a mild case 
 of the grippe, and there wasn't no earthly danger. 
 
 "Wlien Dr. Negley and pa come poking in after 
 midnight that night, wore out and muddy, you never 
 saw as happy a woman in your life as Kate. She 
 laughed and she cried, and she hugged the doctor, and 
 she kissed him, and she said there never was anybody 
 like him, that he was her sweet angel from heaven, and 
 the dearest darling on earth, and she knew she 
 wouldn't have no chance to die, now he had come and 
 would 'know just what to do for her. And I reckon the
 
 56 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 doctor was the worst-astonished man that ever was; 
 but he was a heap too polite and kind to let on, and 
 went on dosing out physic for her just as if there 
 wasn't anything out of the common. And never a 
 word did he ever say to her, either, about having his 
 camp-hunt broke up ; and that 's the reason I Tinow 
 he 's sanctified, for, like I told ma, what sainted martyr 
 could do better? 
 
 "Of course the Station was shaken to the founda- 
 tions over Kate acting that way, and there was a big 
 time of rejoicing amongst the scoffers. And Mary 
 Alice Welden hasn't spoken to Kate since, and says 
 she never will. But I tell Mary Alice she ought to be 
 ashamed of herself; that she's too ready in her judg- 
 ments, and needs to make allowance for humans being 
 humans, and for folks changing with circumstances." 
 
 Lucy S. Furman.
 
 A DOCTOR'S STORY. 
 
 JROFT HOUSE, at the end of tho village, that 
 had stood vacant so long, was let at last. A 
 ladder leaned against the wall ; a painter was 
 painting the shutters, a gardener digging in the gar- 
 den. 
 
 Day by day the aspect of the place improved. Soft 
 muslin shades shrouded the windows, flowers bloomed 
 where only weeds had grown ; the garden paths were 
 laid with gravel. One night a travelling carriage was 
 driven rapidly through the village and in at the gate 
 leading to Croft House. 
 
 Whence came the vehicle ? Wlio its occupants ? No 
 one knew, but everyone desired to know. Nothing 
 that took place within that dwelling transpired out- 
 side. In passing by, one saw only that the standard 
 roses flourished and that the grass grew greener. "What 
 comments were made on the mysterious and invisible 
 inhabitants ! What strange tales circulated ! 
 
 I, the village doctor, concerned myself little enough 
 about the matter. The occupants of Croft House were 
 no doubt human beings, and as such must suffer some 
 of the ills that flesh is heir to ; in that case my services 
 would be required. I waited patiently. 
 
 A week went by ; and one morning before I set off 
 on my rounds, a messenger arrived requesting me to 
 call on Mr. Wilton of Croft House. Dressing myself 
 with more than ordinary care, I crossed the village 
 green, I was young, and felt important, 
 
 I was shown into the drawing-room. It was gay 
 with summer flowers, redolent of their perfume. On 
 a couch lay a young girl, in appearance almost a child, 
 
 (57)
 
 58 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 She was pale, delicate looking, and very lovely. In 
 front of her knelt a young man of two or three and 
 twenty— one of the handsomest young fellows I had 
 ever seen. He held the hands of the beautiful girl, and 
 they were looking into each other's eyes. As I ap- 
 proached he rose, bowed, and welcomed me with an 
 easy grace that won my heart. 
 
 "I confess I expected to find the village doctor an 
 older man," he said with a frank smile as he offered 
 me his hand. *'It is for my wife I desired your at- 
 tendance, ' ' he continued, looking at her with the deep- 
 est affection. "Una is not strong." 
 
 Then at a sign from him, I sat down beside the 
 couch of my interesting patient. 
 
 "You are very young, Mrs. Wilton," I remarked. 
 It was certainly rather a leading question. 
 
 **I am seventeen, doctor," she answered simply. 
 "We have been married only a few months. We are 
 strangers here, and wish to be so. Oh, Charlie, please 
 explain," she asked, turning to her husband with a 
 faint blush. "You can do it better far than I. 
 
 He bent over, kissed her on the forehead, then 
 straightening himself and looking at me, said: "In 
 attending my wife, Dr. Gray, I must ask you to under- 
 take a double duty. We have decided to tell you our 
 secret— in part- so that while we are your patients, 
 I trust we may look upon you as our friend— one who 
 will assist us in keeping our secret and in living the 
 entirely secluded life we desire to lead here. Wilton 
 is an assumed name. My father refused to acknowl- 
 edge my marriage with the girl I love. Ser father 
 withheld his consent to his daughter marrying into a 
 family too proud to receive her. We would have 
 waited any reasonable time; but, when our parents 
 sought to separate us entirely, we took our lives into 
 our own hands. We married, and hope— in time— to 
 be forgiven. 
 
 They had both spoken to me with the candour of 
 youth, of love, and of inexperience. It takes very lit-
 
 A DOCTOR'S STORY. 59 
 
 tie sometimes to bring a doctor into close relations with 
 his patients. I seemed to become the friend of this 
 interesting young couple at once. I assured them they 
 need not fear being intruded upon by the villagers, 
 arid the only gentlemen 's residences within calling dis- 
 tance were tenantless at that season of the year, the 
 owners either being up in London or travelling abroad. 
 As to the vicar, he was a man whose advanced age and 
 infirmities effectually precluded him from visiting 
 more than was absolutely necessary among his par- 
 ishioners. 
 
 **If you go to the church— a mile from here," said 
 I, "he may or may not' call upon you. If you do not 
 go, I think I may safely say he will not consider it 
 necessary. 'In that case you will probably never meet, ' ' 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Wilton thanked me warmly, pressing 
 me to come to see them frequently, which I did with 
 ever-increasing pleasure as the beautiful romance of 
 these two loving hearts unfolded itself. I soon dis- 
 covered that Mr. Wilton had received a college edu- 
 cation ; I also gleaned that ' ' Una ' ' was somewhat his 
 inferior in social position, and that since their run- 
 away marriage they had been travelling abroad. It 
 was no business of mine to know more than they chose 
 to tell. I respected their secret, and asked no ques- 
 tions. 
 
 One morning— my visits had become almost daily 
 now— I saw at once that there was something wrong 
 with Mrs. Wilton, and she saw also that I perceived it. 
 
 *'You need not feel my pulse, doctor; it is my 
 heart," she said in answer to my looks. *'You will 
 think me foolishly weak, I know," she added, forcing 
 a smile, "but I am miserable because my husband is 
 going to leave me." 
 
 * * Leave you ! For how long ? " I inquired anxiously. 
 
 She blushed, and, looking down, answered shyly, 
 "Till this evening. Ah, don't laugh," she implored; 
 "we have never been separated for so long since we 
 were married. I am nervous and fanciful, I suppose.
 
 60 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 but I scarcely slept last night for thinking of it, and 
 when I did, a dreadful dream kept repeating itself— 
 
 **0h, you must not mind dreams," I answered. 
 
 **I never did much before, but this— ah, Charlie!" 
 she cried, as Mr. Wilton came in booted and spurred, 
 **I will come and see you mount." 
 
 I saw the parting from the drawing-room window 
 where I stood— saw her husband place his hands on 
 either side of the sweet face, and gaze dov/n into it 
 with a look of unutterable love; saw their lips meet 
 together for a moment ; after that he kissed her fore- 
 head and her beautiful fair hair, then sprang into the 
 saddle, and rode off swiftly as though he could not 
 trust himself to linger longer. At the gate, turning, 
 he waved a last farewell. 
 
 She came into the drawing-room presently. 
 
 ** Doctor, excuse me. I think I will lie down," she 
 said, her large blue eyes looking peculiarly plaintive, 
 brimming as they were with tears. My presence was 
 not needed then. I bowed and took my leave. 
 
 But the evening of that day I was sent for to Croft 
 House. 
 
 "He has not returned," were the first words spoken 
 by Mrs. Wilton, as I entered the drawing-room. * * And, 
 oh ! what a day it has been, ' ' she continued feverishly ; 
 "so long, so sad ! I seem to have lived a cruel lifetime 
 in each hour." 
 
 "But it is not late. You said Mr. Wilton would 
 not return till evening," I urged. 
 
 "It has been evening a long time now. See, the sun 
 is setting. Then it will be night." She shuddered. 
 
 I sat with her an hour, perhaps, trying in vain to 
 distract her thoughts. And I too— knowing not how 
 or why— became uneasy. She told me her husband 
 had gone to D , the nearest town, for letters he ex- 
 pected to find at the post-office. I knew that I could 
 have ridden there and back easily in the time. Still, 
 a thousand simple causes might have delayed him. I 
 begged her to take courage, suggesting she would prob-
 
 A DOCTOR'S STORY. 61 
 
 ably laugh to-morrow at the fears she had entertained 
 to-day. But she shook her head. 
 
 '*I suffer too much ever to laugh at such feelings as 
 these," she said in a half -whisper. "I do not wish to 
 think it, but it is as though I knew something dreadful 
 was— Oh, I cannot, I dare not clothe the terrible 
 thought in words. That would make it seem so real— 
 so almost certain. Dr. Gray, can this be the punish- 
 ment for my disobedience— come so soon?" she asked 
 in awestruck tones. 
 
 I could not answer her, but proposed that she should 
 wrap a mantle round her and come with me into the 
 garden to watch for her husband. She thanked me 
 gratefully, and I carried a basket seat out for her and 
 placed it on the la^vn. 
 
 Sitting with her hands clasped about her knees- 
 paler, more fragile, more childish looking than I had 
 ever seen her— of a sudden I felt, rather than saw, that 
 a change had come to her. She bent forward as 
 though listening intently, and at the same moment a 
 distant sound struck on my ear— the galloping of a 
 horse on the high road. 
 
 Was there ever before on human countenance such a 
 beatified expression as that which dawned and deep- 
 ened on Mrs. Wilton's as the sound approached? It 
 was close to us now, but the trees in the garden hid 
 the road from our view. Without slackening speed 
 the horse galloped in at the open gate. 
 
 "Oh, Charlie, Charlie! Oh, thank God!" cried the 
 girl, in what seemed a wild, ungovernable ecstasy of 
 gratitude and joy. But I pulled her back or the horse 
 would have been upon her. 
 
 Then I saw that the animal was riderless, covered 
 with dust and foam ; that the bridle hung loose, drag- 
 ging on the gravel. 
 
 A groom who had been on the watch came out. In 
 another moment all the household were assembled on 
 the lawn. 
 
 Mrs. Wilton had fallen back, as I thought fainting,
 
 62 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 in my arms. But no, her senses had not forsaken her. 
 She raised herself and pointed in the direction the 
 horse had come. 
 
 "He lies there, there!" she cried, and pushing me 
 from her, ran forward towards the gate. I bade the 
 servants bring lanterns and follow me. To Mrs. Wil- 
 ton, who was out in the road by this time, I said all I 
 could say to dissuade her from going with me ; but my 
 words fell on deaf ears. Feeling it was useless— in 
 one sense cruel— to persist, I compelled her to take my 
 arm. Endowed for the time, by excitement, with al- 
 most superhuman strength, she seemed to drag me for- 
 ward rather than to lean on me. After proceeding 
 about a mile, we came to a bit of level road which for 
 some distance in front showed clear and distinct in 
 the moonlight. Here, I felt certain, we had lost all 
 trace of the horse's shoe marks, which hitherto had 
 been every now and again perceptible in the dusty 
 highway. 
 
 ** There is a shorter cut— if he knew of it," I said, 
 and stopped. 
 
 **Then if there is he would come by it— he would be 
 sure to find out and come by it," she cried. 
 
 And I led her back a little distance to a gate at the 
 entrance of a wood, where sure enough were traces 
 sufficient to show we were again on the right track. 
 Servants with lanterns had overtaken us by this time ; 
 so, calling out at intervals and listening in vain for a 
 response, we entered the dark wood. Through it was 
 an almost unfrequented bridle path, considered some- 
 what unsafe by day but particularly so at night; the 
 gnarled roots of trees forming a raised network upon 
 the ground. It was with considerable difficulty we 
 made our way. Mrs. Wilton stumbled many times, 
 would have fallen but for my support. At last she 
 loosed my arm and ran forward, signing me not to 
 follow her. In another moment the wood resounded 
 with a mid and piercing cry. She had seen what the 
 rest of us had failed to see, and when I came up to her
 
 A DOCTOR'S STORY. 63 
 
 she was kneeling beside her husband, her arms clasped 
 about his neck, her face close pressed to his. One 
 agonized look she gave me as I bent over them : * ' My 
 dream ! ' ' she said. I understood. 
 
 There was an ugly wound on the back of poor 
 Charlie Wilton's head; the body was still warm, but 
 the heart had ceased to beat. Though Mrs. Wilton did 
 not speak again, she never completely lost her senses, 
 but her mind seemed stunned. We put some hurdles 
 together and carried him back thus to Croft House. 
 
 An inquest was held, every particular of which was 
 minutely reported in the county newspaper, to appear 
 in condensed form in most of the journals of the day. 
 But no friends of the dead man ever came forward, 
 nor was it satisfactorily proved whether his death had 
 been the result of violence or of an accidental fall from 
 his horse in the dangerous pathway through the wood. 
 
 The post-office officials at D perfectly remem- 
 bered the deceased calling for letters on the day in 
 question, giving the name of Wilton; but there were 
 none for him. In the bank was lodged to his credit 
 some five or six thousand pounds. 
 
 I took upon myself the arrane-ements for the funeral 
 as of everything else. Mrs. Wilton's mind had not suf- 
 ficiently recovered from the shock it had received on 
 that terrible night to understand or care for what went 
 on around her. Only once— when I urged writing to 
 her friends— did she even momentarily rouse herself 
 to answer me. "My father will never forgive me," 
 she said. "I acted in defiance of his commands. No, 
 I cannot write to him." Then she added: "He has 
 married again," which perhaps in part explained. 
 
 A month later a baby was born— a boy whom she 
 called Charlie— and when she spoke the name, tears 
 sprang to her eyes for the first time. It was not until 
 I saw those tears that I had the slightest hope of her 
 mind rallying from the shock; but then I knew that 
 the living child would save her. She looked upon him 
 as having been sent direct from heaven to solace her
 
 64 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 for her loss. She regarded him as an emanation from 
 the departed spirit of her husband. There was cer- 
 tainly something uncommon about the child. He was 
 pretty, but not engaging. He never cried ; but it may 
 also be said, lie never smiled. He did not suffer, but 
 there was about him none of the joyousness of child- 
 hood. It seemed as though the thunder-cloud that 
 had burst over the mother's head had left its shadow 
 on the child. 
 
 Between two and three years after Mr. Wilton's 
 death a change seemed likely to occur in my own pros- 
 pects. A rich relation— a physician of high standing 
 —wrote urging me to come to London immediately, 
 on a matter, so he said, of the greatest importance to 
 myself. There was nothing to prevent my complying 
 with his request. The village was in a healthy state; 
 my outside practice might be made to spare me. I 
 wrote stating I would be with him on the following 
 day. 
 
 I went to Croft House to say good-bye. It was sum- 
 mer. Mrs. Wilton was sitting out on the lawn with 
 Charlie on a rug close at her feet. She made room 
 for me beside her, and we talked together for a short 
 time of her affairs and of the child. It was not until 
 I had risen to go that I broached the subject of my 
 departure. She looked surprised, alarmed. 
 
 "But, Charlie," she said; "if he should be ill?" 
 
 ' * I would not go if he were ill. I will return at once 
 if he should need me," I answered earnestly. "But is 
 he not the picture of health? Why, he seems exempt 
 from every childish trouble." 
 
 I told her my relative's address, knowing she only 
 cared to have it in case she needed me for her boy; 
 then I lifted the child in my arms and kissed him. 
 "Good-bye, little man!" I said cheerfully. He was a 
 splendid little fellow, of whom his mother might well 
 be proud ; he resembled his father, too, and was grow- 
 ing more like him every day. 
 
 I was about to set the child down, but something—
 
 'A DOCTOR'S STORY. 65 
 
 Bome feeling I cannot define— impelled me to hold him 
 closer; to look into his face — his eyes — more scrutini- 
 zingly than I liad ever done. And so looking, I shud- 
 dered at the thought that then assailed me. Great 
 powers ! Could fate be so cruel ? Had heaven no pity 
 for this poor mother who, so young, had already surely 
 borne enough of sorrow ? I put the boy down quickly 
 and turned away. 
 
 Perhaps— perhaps after all I may have been mis- 
 taken ! 
 
 I reached London, and Dr. B *s residence that 
 
 evening, and my worthy relative quickly explained the 
 object of his summons. He wished me to undertake, 
 with his supervision, a case requiring the utmost care 
 and consideration; one which rendered it necessary 
 that a medical man should reside for a time beneath 
 the same roof as his patient, and be with him night 
 and day. 
 
 This patient was Lord Welbury, a self-made man 
 BO far as his immense wealth was concerned; but he 
 came of an ancient and honourable race. 
 
 I accepted the munificent conditions offered, and 
 within a couple of hours of my arrival in town was 
 driven to Lord Welbury 's house in Belgravia, and 
 entered upon the duties of my post. 
 
 For some days and nights my responsibilities 
 absorbed all my attention. The life of a sick man 
 hung on a thread, my medical capacity was taxed to 
 its utmost ; I knew not, nor cared I, for the time being, 
 what went on outside that chamber. 
 
 The crisis passed, my patient began rapidly to 
 recover. The first day that he was able to sit up in 
 his room he asked me a startling question. He said : 
 "Doctor, am I sane?" 
 
 "Your mind has never been affected," I answered 
 unhesitatingly. "Your lordship is as sane as I am." 
 
 * ' Good. Therefore a will made by me now could not 
 be invalid?" 
 
 "Most certainly not on the ground of incom- 
 petency." 
 a-5
 
 66 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 * ' Then my will must be made to-morrow or next day 
 at latest. This illness has warned me to delay no 
 longer. My niece 's child will be my heir. ' ' 
 
 His words set me musing and turning over in my 
 mind how this could be. 
 
 "Your lordship is childless, then?" The remark 
 slipped from me almost unawares ; but they were fate- 
 ful words, as the result proved, *'I beg your pardon," 
 I added, seeing surprise and some annoyance written 
 on his face. 
 
 "Not at all," he answered courteously. **I supposed 
 you were acquainted with my family affairs, for they 
 are no secret. I have a son, though no communica- 
 tion has passed between us for nearly four years. He 
 set me and my wishes at defiance by marrying 
 beneath him, consequently will inherit little more 
 than an empty title. I mean to leave my fortune to 
 my niece 's child. The boy was committed to my care 
 when his parents went to India, two years ago. He is 
 a fine little fellow, and it shows how close in attend- 
 ance you have been on me if you did not even know 
 he was in the house—" 
 
 **Was your son's name Charles— that of the girl 
 he married Una?" I asked, scarcely heeding his last 
 words. My heart was beating faster than it should, 
 my voice in my earnestness less steady than it ought 
 to be. 
 
 "Yes. But why these questions?" 
 
 I knew he was well enough now to hear the truth, 
 therefore I answered : ' ' Because it is my belief your 
 lordship 's son is dead. I will relate to you a sad story ; 
 when I have finished you will be able to judge whether 
 or not you are concerned in it. ' ' Then I told, as briefly 
 as I could, the Croft House tragedy ; and as I did so, 
 read in the ever-increasing interest with which he 
 listened to my tale that my suspicions were correct. 
 
 That the man I had to deal with was of a proud, 
 egotistical, unsympathetic nature I was well aware; 
 that the death of his only son would not vitally affect
 
 A DOCTOR'S STORY. 67 
 
 him I had rightly guessed; but I was scarcely pre- 
 pared for the interest he displayed on learning of the 
 existence of his grandchild. The better nature of the 
 man seemed touched. • I spoke of little Charles's 
 beauty, his likeness to his father, even hinted at a 
 resemblance to Lord Welbury himself. With the fev- 
 erish impatience of an invalid he demanded that the 
 boy should be sent for at once. 
 
 "He cannot come without his mother. The two 
 lives are bound together as one." 
 
 "Then write to the mother and bid her bring him," 
 was the imperious reply. And the speaker turned his 
 face away as though to intimate no more was to be 
 said. The affair was settled. 
 
 On quitting the room I encountered a nurse leading 
 a smiling, rosy little urchin, clad in velvet and rich 
 lace. 
 
 "Speak prettily to the kind doctor, Georgie," said 
 the nurse. "This is the little heir, sir," she whis- 
 pered to me. 
 
 Three days later Mrs, Wilton— I must still call her 
 so— and her son arrived, I met them at the station 
 and took them in one of his lordship's carriages to 
 the house. The boy, exhausted apparently by the 
 journey, was asleep when he entered it; he was still 
 sleeping when his mother carried him across the 
 threshold of Lord Welbury 's door. 
 
 His lordship's reception of her was not ungracious. 
 Could he fail to feel touched at sight of this gentle, 
 beautiful young creature, who had loved his son so 
 well! But it was evident he resented the fact that 
 his grandson, whom he had specially desired to wel- 
 come, could not be prevailed upon to notice him, or 
 enticed to leave his mother 's arms. 
 
 "Excuse him. He is so tired," pleaded the young 
 mother, reading the disappointment on her father-in- 
 law's face. 
 
 "Well, well. Off to bed with him, then. Bring 
 him to me bright and smiling in the morning."
 
 68 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 Bright and smiling! Somehow the words struck 
 me — even haunted me— they were so totally inap- 
 plicable to Charlie. I tried to remember if I had ever 
 seen a smile upon that grave baby-face, but tried in 
 vain. 
 
 When I entered Lord Welbury's room next day— 
 my presence there at nights was now dispensed with— 
 the old man, in dressing-gown and slippers, was 
 reclining in an easy chair. In front of him stood Mrs. 
 Wilton, with Charlie clinging to her long black drap- 
 eries. 
 
 "Come here, Gray," exclaimed his lordship, irri- 
 tably. **I cannot get my grandson to notice me. What 
 is to be done?" 
 
 "Charlie is shy. He has been used to no one but 
 me," murmured the mother, raising her eyes with an 
 appealing look in them to mine. 
 
 "Madam, I fear you are spoiling him," said Lord 
 Welbury sharply. "The other child took to me at 
 once, but this—" 
 
 "Send for the other, sir," I suggested, and pres- 
 ently "the little heir," with whom I had previously 
 made acquaintance, was brought in by his nurse. The 
 latter sat down in a far corner with some knitting. 
 The child— as apparently he had been accustomed to 
 do— ran to the old man and scrambled at his knee. "I 
 love 'ou, I love 'ou, ' ' he cried. 
 
 Lord Welbury 's face was radiant. 
 
 "Now, Charlie, my man," said he, as the other child 
 after his affectionate greeting scampered off to play 
 beside his nurse. 
 
 Charlie was placed on his grandfather's knee. 
 
 "Say 'I love you,* " whispered Mrs. Wilton, as she 
 tried to clasp her own child's arms about Lord Wel- 
 bury 's neck. 
 
 "Say I love *ou," echoed the boy mechanically; 
 then dropped his head and lay quite placidly as 
 though he slept. 
 
 "Ha, ha, the young rascal! He's making himself
 
 A DOCTOR'S STORY. 69 
 
 at home at last," observed Lord Welbury, well 
 pleased. "And now that I come to see him more 
 closely, he's not unlike what his father was at the 
 same age, only quieter. Do you know he almost 
 strikes me as being a little dull. Have you found him 
 so, madam?" 
 
 "I have been too sad a companion for him, sir, I 
 know— I feel it now," sighed the poor mother, her eyes 
 wandering from her own boy to follow the antics of 
 the other, who astride a stick, was careering merrily 
 about the room. 
 
 "That can be soon remedied," said Lord Welbury, 
 putting Charlie off his knee ; "let the two youngsters 
 romp together. I warrant they'll make friends if let 
 alone. ' ' 
 
 And in order to try the experiment, we three sat 
 apart and kept up some desultory talk. This lasted 
 but a short time, however. It was broken in upon by 
 a startled cry from the younger boy, Georgie, who, 
 apparently terror stricken, rushed across the room. 
 
 "Naughty boy, naughty boy ! Send him away. He's 
 making faces at me," cried the spoilt child in an out- 
 burst of passion, pointing with outstretched finger at 
 his little companion. 
 
 The nurse dropped her knitting, and rose instantly. 
 **I have seen it from the first," she said, calmly con- 
 fronting us. * * The child is half an idiot, my lord, ' ' 
 
 All eyes were turned at poor Charlie, who stood 
 among some broken toys, his features distorted into 
 the ghastly semblance of a smile, 
 
 Mrs. Wilton, running to her boy, shielded him with 
 her arms. "My darling, my darling! Has God no 
 pity?" she cried, and bore him from the room. She 
 had prayed day and night— this unhappy mother— to 
 see either a smile on her baby's lips or a tear in his 
 eye, and hitherto her prayer had been denied. It 
 was granted now. The poor dulled senses of the child, 
 roused into something like activity by the antics of his 
 little lively playfellow, had caused the lips to smile. 
 But what a smile I
 
 70 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 Lord Welbury turned pale. A look of disgust, not 
 unmixed with anger, settled on his face. 
 
 "There is no doubt the boy is imbecile," he said, as 
 I was about to follow Mrs. Wilton from the room. 
 *'Dr. Gray, were you aware of this when you allowed 
 him to be brought here ? ' ' 
 
 * * I was not aware of it, " I replied readily. For the 
 sad foreboding that first assailed me on the lawn at 
 Croft House had received no confirmation hitherto. 
 "But even if the case is as we fear," I added earn- 
 estly, "it may be curable." 
 
 "Excuse me, doctor," he interrupted. "No man 
 who has seen that child as we have seen him can have 
 the slightest doubt but that he is an idiot for life." 
 
 "On the contrary, my lord, we must regard the 
 matter from another point. Remember the shadow 
 that rested on his mother before his birth. Where 
 there is no hereditary taint—" 
 
 "What then? On the mere chance of the child 
 being curable, do you suppose I am going to leave my 
 money to him? No!" he cried excitedly. "My own 
 life is too precarious for me to delay longer the set- 
 tling of my affairs. My niece 's child is still my heir. 
 I regard the other as non est. For heaven's sake don't 
 let me have my feelings harrowed by the sight of that 
 poor idiot any more. The mother shall have a hand- 
 some annuity. I pity her. ' ' 
 
 And that day Lord Welbury made his will, leaving 
 his immense fortune as he had said. 
 
 Once more I returned to my country practice ; Mrs. 
 Wilton and Charlie to Croft House. 
 
 Never was grief grander in its simplicity, or more 
 nobly borne than that of Mrs. Wilton. She still 
 prayed— prayed with the faith which we are told will 
 move mountains. Her eyes, when not raised to heaven, 
 were bent on her child, ever seeking for the dawning 
 of that intelligence which she believed must come in 
 answer to her prayers. She tried to teach him his 
 childish lessons; she read, she talked to him; even
 
 A DOCTOR'S STORY. 71 
 
 chanted in a low, sad voice the nursery rhymes that 
 happy mothers sing. 
 
 At last, one day, exercising over herself a supreme 
 control, she told her son the story of his father's 
 death, told it in simple, child-like language, but with a 
 pathos that might have moved a heart of stone. 
 
 The boy was standing at her knee, she holding his 
 unresponsive hand. But, as she proceeded with her 
 narration, he pressed gradually closer to her side. 
 With a thrill of rapture she looked at the drooped eye- 
 lids, hoping, praying to see a tear glisten on the dark 
 curled lashes. Trembling, she reached the climax of 
 her sad tale, and bending over him : 
 
 "Charlie," she whispered, "Charlie, he was dead! 
 you understand?" 
 
 Alas, she knew then, even ere she had done speaking 
 that the boy was incapable of understanding her. His 
 eyes were closed. He slept ! 
 
 And he seemed for ever thus. Whether the beauti- 
 ful but expressionless eyes were open or closed his 
 mental faculties were in that dulled dormant state, it 
 might be said they slept. 
 
 "He is like that little statue of Jesus now," she 
 once said to me, pointing to a marble figure of Christ, 
 ' ' but some day God will awaken his soul. Ah, doctor, 
 shall I live to see that day ? ' ' 
 
 I scarcely thought she could, but did not tell her so. 
 
 From the day on which she related the story of her 
 husband's death, she herself drooped visibly. 
 
 But grief kills very slowly. Five years passed by. 
 Lord Welbury was dead. His wealth— with the excep- 
 tion of the annuity to his son's widow— was left to 
 his niece's child; his title now by right became his 
 grandson's. 
 
 The boy grew fast ; he was eight years old, but his 
 mind still slumbered. He knew the sound of his 
 mother's voice, would come to the side of her couch 
 when called ; would lie for hours folded in her arms, 
 whispering back her loving words, repeating her gentle
 
 72 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 admonitions like an echo. The words apparently con- 
 veyed no meaning, but they touched some hidden 
 chord. 
 
 Weaker and weaker grew Mrs. Wilton. 
 
 On one of my daily visits the sick nurse, who was in 
 constant attendance now, whispered to me that the 
 end was near. I was startled, shocked, to perceive 
 how near! 
 
 "Doctor, dear friend," she gasped very faintly, as 
 I pressed her poor transparent hand; but her whole 
 attention was riveted on her son; she was gazing at 
 him with eyes out of which the light of earth was fad- 
 ing fast. It was evident she desired to say something, 
 but it was some time before the words would come. 
 At last, gathering strength, she said in a low, penetrat- 
 ing voice that scarcely faltered : "I am going to leave 
 you, Charlie. Here I could not help you, but when in 
 heaven I see our dear Lord face to face— when on my 
 knees before the great white throne—" 
 
 For an instant an expression of rapture irradiated 
 her features ; the next, with a slight sigh she sank back 
 upon the pillow. 
 
 I touched Charlie on the shoulder. He dropped 
 upon his knees and, unprompted, joined his trembling 
 hands in prayer. His gaze was directed upward. His 
 countenance assumed a look of intensity I had never 
 seen on it before. Quite suddenly he rose, and fling- 
 ing himself sobbing across the bed. "Oh, mother, 
 mother ! Do not leave me all alone, ' ' he cried. 
 
 "See! Your son is saved!" I whispered, bending 
 over Mrs. Wilton. But I was speaking to the dead. 
 
 And yet, even as I looked upon the still white face, 
 the lips seemed parting into a smile of the most holy, 
 calm, ineffable content. Could it be as she herself had 
 said? Was she already kneeling before the great 
 white throne— had God listened to her prayer at last ? 
 
 A few more words and this "o'er true tale" is 
 ended. 
 
 From the moment of his mother's death, the mists 
 that had obscured poor Charlie's mind dispersed.
 
 A DOCTOR'S STORY. 73 
 
 I took him to live with me, and watched his young 
 intelligence grow day by day to healthy vigour. Not 
 even a shadowy semblance of a cloud rests now upon 
 his mind. He has succeeded to his grandfather's 
 wealth as well as to the title, for "the niece's child" is 
 dead. 
 
 The present Lord Welbury ranks amongst Eng- 
 land's noblest sons— he is one of the greatest philan- 
 thropists of the day. 
 
 E. M. Davy.
 
 VI. 
 
 JOHN BARTINE'S WATCH : THE 
 DOCTOR'S STORY. 
 
 'T^ HE exact time 1 Good heavens ! my friend, wliy 
 
 *• I do you insist? One would think— but what 
 ^^a)| does it matter; it is easily bed-time — isn't that 
 near enough ? But, here, if you must set your watch, 
 take mine and see for yourself. ' ' 
 
 With that, he detached his watch— a tremendously 
 heavy, old-fashioned one — from the chain and handed 
 it to me, tlien turned away and, walking across the 
 room to a shelf of books, began an examination of 
 their backs. His agitation and evident distress sur- 
 prised me ; they appeared altogether reasonless. Hav- 
 ing set my watch by his, I stepped over to where he 
 stood and said, "Thank you." 
 
 As he took his watch and re-attached it to the 
 guard, I observed that his hands were unsteady. A 
 slight pallor had come into his face. With a tact, upon 
 which I greatly prided myself, I sauntered carelessly 
 to the sideboard and took some brandy and water, 
 then, begging his pardon for my thoughtlessness, 
 asked him to have some and went back to my seat by 
 the fire, leaving him to help himself, as was our cus- 
 tom. He did so, and presently joined me at the hearth, 
 as tranquil as if nothing unusual had happened. 
 
 This odd little incident occurred in my apartment, 
 where John Bartine was passing an evening. We had 
 dined together at the club, had come home in a hack 
 and, in short, everything had been done in the most 
 prosaic way; and why John Bartine should break in 
 upon the natural and established order of things to 
 
 (74)
 
 JOHN BARTINE'S WATCH. 75 
 
 make himself spectacular with a display of emotion^ 
 apparently for his own entertainment, I could nowise 
 understand. 
 
 The more I thought of it, while his brilliant conver- 
 sational gifts were commending themselves to my inat- 
 tention, the more curious I grew and, of course, had no 
 difficulty in persuading myself that my curiosity was 
 friendly solicitude. That is the disguise that curiosity 
 commonly assumes to evade resentment. So I ruined 
 one of the finest sentences of his monologue by cutting 
 it short without ceremony. 
 
 **John Bartine," I said, "you must try to forgive 
 me, if I am wrong; but with the light that I have at 
 present I cannot concede your right to go all to pieces 
 when asked the time o' night. I cannot admit that it 
 is proper to experience a mysterious reluctance to 
 look your own watch in the face, and to cherish in my 
 presence, without explanation, painful emotions which 
 are denied to me and which are none of my business." 
 
 To this ridiculous speech, Bartine made no immed- 
 iate reply, but sat looking gravely into the fire. Fear- 
 ing that I had offended, I was about to apologize and 
 beg him to think no more about the matter, when, 
 looking me calmly in the eyes, he said : 
 
 "My dear fellow, the levity of your manner does 
 not at all disguise the hidden impudence of your 
 demand; but happily I had already decided to tell 
 you what you wish to know, and no manifestation of 
 your unworthiness to hear it shall alter my decision. 
 Be good enough to persuade me to have a fresh cigar 
 and you shall hear all that I can tell you about the 
 matter. 
 
 ' ' This watch, ' ' he said, * ' had been in my family for 
 three generations before it fell to me. Its original 
 owner, for whom it was made, was my great-grand- 
 father, Bramwell Olcott Bartine, a wealthy planter of 
 Colonial "Virginia and as stanch a Tory as every lay 
 awake nights contriving new kinds of maledictions for 
 the head of Mr. Washington, and new methods of aid-
 
 76 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 ing and abetting good King George. One day this 
 worthy gentleman had the deep misfortune to per- 
 form for his cause a service of capital importance 
 which was not recognized by those who suffered its 
 disadvantages as legitimate. It does not matter what 
 it was; but among its minor consequences was my 
 excellent ancestor's arrest one night in his own house 
 by a party of Mr. Washington's rebels. He was per- 
 mitted to say farewell to his weeping family and was 
 then marched away into the darkness, which swallowed 
 him up forever. 
 
 "Not the slenderest clew to his fate was ever found. 
 After the war the most diligent inquiry and the offer 
 of large rewards failed to turn up any of his captors 
 or any fact concerning him. He had disappeared, and 
 that was all. ' ' 
 
 Something in John Bartine's manner that was not 
 in his words— I hardly knew what it was, or how it 
 manifested itself —prompted me to ask : 
 
 "What is your view of the matter, Bartine— of the 
 justice of it ? " 
 
 "My view of it," he flamed out, bringing his 
 clenched hand down upon the table as if he had been 
 in a public-house dicing with blackguards— "my view 
 of it is that it was a characteristically dastardly 
 assassination by that d— d traitor, Washington, and 
 his ragamuffin rebels ! ' ' 
 
 For some minutes nothing was said; Bartine was 
 recovering his temper, and I waited. Then I said : 
 
 "Was that all?" 
 
 ** No— there was something else. A few weeks after 
 my great-grandfather's arrest his watch was found 
 lying on the porch at the front door of his dwelling. 
 It was wrapped in a sheet of letter-paper bearing the 
 name of Elizabeth Bartine, his only daughter, my 
 grandmother. I am wearing that watch, ' ' 
 
 Bartine paused. His usually restless black eyes 
 were staring fixedly into the grate, a point of red light 
 in each, reflected from the glowing coals. He seemed 
 to have forgotten my existence.
 
 JOHN BARTINE'S WATCH. 77 
 
 A sudden thresliing of the branches of a tree outside 
 one of the windows, and almost at the same instant a 
 rattle of rain against the glass, recalled him to a sense 
 of his surroundings. A storm had risen, heralded by 
 a single gust of wind, and in a few moments the steady 
 splash of the water on the pavement was distinctly 
 audible. I hardly know why I relate that incident; 
 it seemed somehow to have a certain significance and 
 relevancy which I am enabled now to discern. It at 
 least added an element of seriousness, almost solemn- 
 ity. Bartine resumed: 
 
 **I have a singular feeling towards this watch— a 
 kind of affection for it; I like to have it about me; 
 though partly from its weight, and partly for a reason 
 that I shall now explain, I seldom carry it. The rea- 
 son is this : Every evening when I have it with me I 
 , feel an unaccountable desire to open it and consult it, 
 even if I can think of no reason for AAdshing to know 
 I the time. ' But if I yield to it, the moment my eyes 
 rest upon the dial I am filled with a mysterious appre- 
 hension — a sense of imminent calamity. And this is 
 the more unsupportable the nearer it is to eleven 
 o'clock— by this watch, no matter what the actual hour 
 may be. After the hands have registered eleven the 
 desire to look is gone ; I am entirely indifferent. But 
 then I can consult the thing as often as I like, with no 
 more emotion than you feel in looking at your own. 
 
 "Naturally, I have trained myself not to look at 
 that watch in the evening before eleven ; nothing could 
 induce me. Your insistence this evening upset me a 
 trifle. I felt very much as I suppose an opium-eater 
 might feel if his yearning for his special and particu- 
 lar kind of hell were re-enforced by opportunity and 
 advice. 
 
 "Now, that is my story, and I have told it in the 
 interest of your trumpery science; but if on any 
 evening hereafter you observe me wearing this 
 damnable watch, and you have the thoughtfulness to 
 ask me the hour, I shall beg leave to put you to the 
 inconvience of being knocked down. ' *
 
 78 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 His humour did not amuse me. I could see that in 
 relating his hallucination he was again somewhat dis- 
 turbed. His concluding smile was positively ghastly, 
 and his eyes had resumed something more than their 
 old restlessness ; they shifted hither and thither about 
 the room with apparent aimlessness, and I fancied had 
 taken on a wild expression, such as is sometimes 
 observed in eases of dementia. Perhaps this was my 
 own imagination ; but at any rate I was now persuaded 
 that my friend was afflicted with a most singular 
 monomania. 
 
 Without, I trust, any abatement of my affectionate 
 solicitude for him as a friend, I began to regard him 
 as a patient rich in possibilities of profitable study. 
 Why not? Had he not described his delusion in the 
 interest of science? Ah, poor fellow, he v/as doing 
 more for science than he knew ; not only his story but 
 himself was in evidence. I should cure him if I could, 
 of course, but first I should make a little experiment 
 in psychology — nay, the experiment itself might be a 
 step in his restoration. 
 
 "That is very frank and friendly of you, Bartine," 
 I said cordially, "and I'm rather proud of your con- 
 fidence. It is all very odd, certainly. Do you mind 
 showing me the watch?" 
 
 He detached it from his waistcoat, chain and all, and 
 passed it to me without a word. The case was of gold, 
 very thick and strong, and curiously engraved. After 
 examining the dial and observing that it was nearly 
 twelve o'clock, I opened it at the back and was inter- 
 ested to observe an inner case of ivory, upon which 
 was painted a miniature portrait in that exquisite and 
 delicate manner which was in vogue during the eigh- 
 teenth century. 
 
 "Why, bless my soul!" I exclaimed, experiencing 
 the keenest artistic delight— "how under the sun did 
 you get that done ? I thought miniature painting on 
 ivory was a lost art. ' ' 
 
 "That," he replied, gravely smiling, "is not I; it is
 
 JOHN BARTINE'S WATCH. 79 
 
 my excellent great-grandfather, the late Bramwell 
 Olcott Bartine, Esquire, of Virginia. He was younger 
 then than later— about my age, in fact. It is said to 
 resemble me ; do you think so ? " 
 
 ** Resemble you? I should say so! Barring the 
 costume, which I supposed you to have assumed out of 
 compliment to the art— or for vraisemblance, so to 
 say— and the no mustache, that face is yours in every 
 feature, line and expression." 
 
 No more was said at that time. Bartine took a book 
 from the table and began reading. 
 
 I heard outside the incessant plash of the rain in 
 the street. There was occasional hurried footfalls on 
 the sidewalks ; and once a slower, heavier tread seemed 
 to cease at my door— a policeman, I thought, seeking 
 shelter in the doorway. The boughs of the trees 
 tapped significantly on the window-panes, as if asking 
 for admittance. I remember it all through these 
 years and years of a wiser, graver life. 
 
 Seeing myself unobserved, I took the old-fashioned 
 watch key from the chain and quickly turned back the 
 hands of the watch a full hour ; then, closing the case, 
 I handed Bartine his property, and saw him replace it. 
 
 * ' I think you said, ' ' I began, with assumed careless- 
 ness, * ' that after eleven the sight of the dial no longer 
 affects you. As it is now nearly twelve"— looking at 
 my own timepiece— ''perhaps, if you don't resent my 
 pursuit of proof, you will look at it now." 
 
 He smiled good-humoredly, pulled out the watch 
 again, opened it, and instantly sprang to his feet with 
 a cry that Heaven has not had the mercy to permit me 
 to forget ! His eyes, their blackness strikingly intensi- 
 fied by the absolute pallor of his face, were fixed upon 
 the watch, which he clutched in both hands. 
 
 For some time he remained in that attitude without 
 Tittering another sound ; then, in a voice that I should 
 not have recognized as his, he said : 
 
 "D— n you! it is two minutes to eleven." 
 
 I was not unprepared for some such outbreak, and 
 without rising replied, calmly enough :
 
 80 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 "I beg your pardon ; I must have misread your 
 watcli in setting my own by it. ' * 
 
 He shut the case with a sharp snap and put the 
 watch in his pocket. He looked at me and made an 
 attempt to smile; but his lower lip quivered and he 
 seemed unable to close his mouth. His hands, also, 
 were shaking and he thrust them eleno.hed into his 
 coat pockets. 
 
 The courageous spirit was manifestly endeavoring 
 to subdue the coward body. The effort was too great. 
 He began to sway from side to side, as from vertigo ; 
 and before I could spring from my chair to support 
 him his knees gave way and he pitched awkwardly for- 
 ward and fell upon his face— dead! 
 
 The post-mortem examination disclosed nothing; 
 every organ was normal and sound. But w'hen the 
 body had been prepared for burial a faint, dark circle, 
 as if made by contusion, was seen to have developed 
 about the neck; at least, I was so assured by several 
 persons who said they saw it ; but of my own knowl- 
 edge I cannot say if that was true. 
 
 Nor can I affirm my knowledge of the limitations of 
 the principle of heredity. I do not know that in the 
 spiritual, as in the temporal, world natural laws have 
 no post-facto validity. Surely, if I were to guess at 
 the fate of Bramwell Olcott Bartine, I should guess 
 that he was hanged at eleven o'clock in the evening, 
 and that he had been allowed several hours in which 
 to prepare for the change. 
 
 As to John Bartine, my friend, my patient for five 
 minutes, and — Heaven forgive me! — my victim for 
 eternity, there is no more to say. He is buried, and 
 his watch with him ; I saw to that. May God rest his 
 soul in Paradise and the soul of his unfortunate Vir- 
 ginian ancestor, if, indeed, they are two souls. 
 
 Ambrose Bierce.
 
 VII. 
 
 TWO WILLS. 
 
 Y\ R. BROWN had returned home late from a 
 '^ - , visit to one of his patients. It was a serious 
 ^^ ease— doubly so for Brown— for not only had 
 his notoriously sure diagnosis failed him in this case, 
 but the patient was one of a family with which he 
 had been on an intimate footing for years, and conse- 
 quently his personal interest was awakened. The 
 doctor saw no hope whatever for the sick woman. 
 Since early morning he had hourly expected her 
 death. Weary and dispirited, after a light and hasty 
 supper, he sat down at his writing-table, and once 
 more passed in review the whole course of his patient's 
 illness. Every circumstance was recalled, 
 
 "Unaccountable! perfectly unaccountable!" he 
 murmured over and over again, and, with each repeti- 
 tion, he shook his grey head. 
 
 ** Doctor!" Brown started up in alarm. He had 
 not dreamed that anyone beside himself was in the 
 room. As he looked up, he saw a lady standing by 
 the door, dressed in a peculiar nightrobe with only a 
 light shawl thrown over it. 
 
 *'My God! What is that?" 
 
 It was indeed the subject of his thoughts. Amazed 
 beyond expression, Brown sprang from his arm-chair 
 and hastened toward the intruder. "My dear Madam! 
 Mrs. Morley, in heaven's name, why are you here?" 
 
 "Never mind, doctor. Sit down and write what I 
 tell you." 
 
 Brown mechanically obeyed the command. There 
 was something in the look and bearing of his visitor 
 which forbade contradiction. Strangely thrilled, 
 
 ^ (81)
 
 82 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 Brown took up his pen and wrote at her dictation the 
 following words : "I hereby direct that, in case of my 
 death, my body be opened, and the cause of my illness 
 and final demise be officially and authoritatively stated 
 by a competent physician. I am convinced that I am 
 poisoned, and that by my own husband, and only 
 through such a statement as the aforesaid will it be 
 put out of his power to get possession of the property 
 coming to my only child, his step-daughter. My will 
 relating to this property is in the hands of my lawyer, 
 Mr. Batt, in London. Mr. Batt is, as I have unfortu- 
 nately only lately discovered, a man open to bribery, 
 and my husband counts upon this characteristic for 
 the attainment of his object: that is to say, he hopes 
 to induce this lawyer, by pure falsification, to make 
 the will read in his favor. I believe he has already 
 succeeded in doing this, for, when, yesterday, I desired 
 to see a lawyer of this town, in order to have him take 
 down my last wishes, my husband put every obstacle 
 in the way of his coming. I have put a sealed copy of 
 my will in the double bottom of the little box which 
 stands always upon the table at my bedside. The 
 ostensible contents of the box are my daughter's first 
 cap and a lock of my father's hair." 
 
 Dr. Brown had driven his pen as if under the domi- 
 nation of a higher power. He was not conscious of 
 having once lifted it from the paper to the inkstand, 
 and yet there stood the written characters, black and 
 clear, upon the white paper, and reminded him that he 
 was not alone ; furthermore, that the head and heart 
 whose wish and request these characters had recorded, 
 belonged to an existence which held his own being, 
 thought, and will in its power. 
 
 He made an heroic effort to regain the mastery of 
 himself, and with a powerful shake, as if to free him- 
 self from the grasp of this strange will, he aros6. 
 ''Madam, I-" 
 
 * ' Yes, but, doctor, the master sent me to tell you to 
 come right away. Mrs. Morley has been lying for two
 
 TWO WILLS. 83 
 
 hours like dead, and the master thinks it must be 
 nearly over with her." 
 
 Browm staggered back in amazement, and stared so 
 vacantly at the waiting coachman that the man was 
 struck dumb. 
 
 **Jan? Where did you come from? Mrs. Morley 
 is not yet— ' ' 
 
 ''Dead? No, doctor, not yet, but the master says 
 she can 't last much longer. ' ' 
 
 "Very well. You see to the horses, and I'll come 
 right away." 
 
 Dr. Brown put his hands to his head. He had need 
 to convince himself by some such means of his own 
 mortal existence. Then he seized his hat and coat and 
 hurried after the coachman. 
 
 Drawing his coat tightly about him, he leaned back 
 in the corner of the carriage and racked his brain over 
 the strange occurrence, but to no purpose. The doctor 
 was a hard-headed, practical man, and if any one had 
 related to him the events of the past day, he would 
 have laughed him to scorn ; but, earnestly as he tried 
 to do so now, it was impossible for him to conjure up 
 a smile. The carriage stopped and Mr. Morley was at 
 the door to receive him. 
 
 *'I am glad you have come, doctor. I was afraid 
 you would be too late. As the clock struck twelve, 
 there was absolutely no breath nor pulse, and not 
 until half-an-hour ago did she seem to come back a 
 little to life. She has just asked for you." 
 
 These words were spoken outside the sick-room door. 
 The doctor laid aside his coat and went in, followed 
 by Mr. Morley. The physician felt something like 
 horror at being in the near presence of this man, who 
 since half-an-hour ago had figured in his mind as the 
 murderer of his wife ; and here in the sick-room while 
 looking upon the dying woman, in whose features he 
 again saw plainly his recent guest, even here, did he 
 feel again that compelling *orce which had put the 
 pen in his hand at home.
 
 84 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 The sick woman seemed to have been anxiously 
 awaiting his coming, for her great, earnest eyes fas- 
 tened themselves upon him, as he entered the room, 
 and as he bent over her, he heard distinctly the low 
 whispered words: ** Doctor, my child!" and in the 
 same low whisper Dr. Brown replied: "I will see that 
 your will is executed, ' ' 
 
 Then he raised his head and encountered a look 
 from those eyes which spoke a world of gratitude ; and 
 this was the last conscious look which lighted them, 
 for as Mr. Morley now softly approached, she looked 
 wanderingly at him, and then her eyelids closed, and 
 her muscles relaxed, and with a gentle sigh her heart 
 ceased to beat. 
 
 "All is over," said the doctor, as he stepped back 
 to give place to the mourning husband, who threw him- 
 eelf down beside his wife. 
 
 When he arose and turned toward the doctor, a tear 
 glittered on his lashes. His voice was hoarse and 
 tremulous when he thanked the physician for all ihe 
 pains which he had taken during the long illness of 
 his wife, concluding with, * ' I shall never forget it ! " 
 
 Dr. Brown only shook his head. He was thinking of 
 the dead woman's will, and answered evasively: "I 
 could not have helped your wife much, since I never 
 discovered the real cause of her illness." 
 
 **No self-reproaches, doctor! You did what you 
 could, and whether this disease can be exactly diag- 
 nosed seems to me, from what I know of it, altogether 
 doubtful." 
 
 "Every disease," replied the doctor, "must finally 
 disclose its cause to the patient and thorough investi- 
 gator ; but in this case there were so many accompany- 
 ing phenomena that it was quite impossible to dis- 
 cover the exact cause of the predominant disorder, at 
 least in the living body." 
 
 The doctor, as he said this, looked sharply at his 
 companion, over whose countenance a slight cloud 
 seemed to pass ; yet there was scarcely any discernible
 
 TWO WILLS. 65 
 
 change in his voice as he replied: "No, no, doctor, we 
 won't do that ! The beloved body was sufficiently tor- 
 mented in life ; in death at least it shall be at rest!" 
 
 "Yes, but it was the wish of the dead; and isn't 
 there any direction as to that in the will ? ' ' 
 
 "No!— yet perhaps— I don't know. Anyway the 
 will is to be read tomorrow, and should any such direc- 
 tion be found there— well, I suppose I shall have to 
 carry it out. I will send immediately an announce- 
 ment of the death to our attorney, Mr. Batt of London. 
 You will be present at the opening of the will, will 
 you not?" 
 
 "Most certainly!" 
 
 The doctor during this conversation had again 
 approached the bed of death. He carefully scruti- 
 nized the surroundings and, as if in an absent-minded 
 manner, picked up a little box from the table which 
 stood beside the bed and carelessly pushed back the 
 cover. At sight of the contents he could hardly 
 restrain an exclamation; for there, exactly as had 
 been described to him, were a baby's cap, yellow with 
 time, and a lock of hair, tied with a ribbon. 
 
 "Probably some of your wife's keepsakes?" he 
 remarked, turning inquiringly to Morley. 
 
 "Yes, and as such they must be given into the 
 hands of her daughter." 
 
 "Will you allow me the pleasure of sending them 
 to her by my sister who is going to Switzerland 
 tomorrow ? ' * 
 
 "I suppose it would be more proper that she should 
 receive them at my hands ; and yet, as I shall have to. 
 remain here for some time yet, and a journey home 
 in her delicate state of health would be hard for the 
 child, I shall be very much obliged to you if you will 
 send them to her. Give her my blessing with them, 
 and tell her that from this time forth I shall be more 
 a father to her than ever. ' ' 
 
 Dr. Brown thrust the little box deep into his breast- 
 pocket, and took his leave with the assurance that he 
 would faithfully execute Mr. Morley 's commission.
 
 86 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 Once at home under the light of the lamp, he was 
 not long in searching for the further contents of the 
 box, and he was filled with both horror and astonish- 
 ment as his search brought to light, from beneath a 
 cunningly-contrived double floor, the will as it had 
 been described to him— a clear, correct copy. After 
 this discovery, the doctor awaited with feverish 
 anxiety the hour for the announced opening of the 
 will. 
 
 At last it arrived, and Brown had to acknowledge 
 to himself that its contents agreed exactly with the 
 copy in his hands until it came to the names of the 
 heirs. Here appeared clearly and plainly, "my 
 daughter, Mara Dix ; ' ' and there, just as plainly, * * my 
 husband, John Morley." No directions with regard to 
 an inquest or autopsy appeared therein. 
 
 "I demand proof of the genuineness of that will!" 
 rang loud and clear through the room. No one could 
 imagine from whom the words proceeded. The will 
 had been drawn up and carefully preserved by a 
 prominent attorney in London, and the family 
 involved was one of the first in the country ; and now 
 came this demand, which, as everybody knew, was an 
 unmitigated insult. Who had brought it forward? 
 The chairman looked all about the room. There he 
 stood— Dr. Brown! He had again, quite uncon- 
 sciously, come under the spell of that mysterious 
 power, and in obedience to its behest had called out 
 those words ; now that they were spoken, he would not 
 recall them. Standing upright, the doctor repeated: 
 "I demand an examination of the will!" As he spoke, 
 he had the comfortable feeling of having kept a 
 promise. 
 
 "By what authority?" asked the attorney, 
 
 "As the guardian of the deceased's daughter." 
 
 "Have you anything to offer in support of this 
 request?" 
 
 "Yes, a copy of the original will." 
 
 "Will?"
 
 TWO WILLS. 87 
 
 "And this lias reference to an entirely different 
 party." 
 
 "Allow me to look at the document." 
 
 Dr. Bro^^^^ handed over the copy. A committee 
 retired with it to another room. On their return 
 the chairman announced that in accordance with Dr. 
 Brown's request, a preliminary examination of the 
 will having been made, the judge had decided to enter 
 a complaint against Attorney Batt of London for hav- 
 ing falsified the will, and at the same time to place 
 the property of the heiress-at-law under legal pro- 
 tection. 
 
 "Dr. Brown, have you anything further to say in 
 the matter?" 
 
 "I beg you will order an autopsy." 
 
 ' ' On what grounds ? ' ' 
 
 "It was the wish of the deceased." 
 
 * * Is that your only reason ? ' ' 
 
 "No, but because I have a strong suspicion that the 
 deceased came to her death through slow and pro- 
 tracted poisoning." 
 
 All present were filled with horror. 
 
 Again the court withdrew, and again the decision 
 was a fulfilment of the doctor's request; and when 
 the verdict at the ensuing inquest was brought in, it 
 was expressed in one word : Poison !
 
 VII. 
 A DOCTOR OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 
 
 A GENERAL PRACTITIONER. 
 
 DRUMTOCHTY was accustomed to break every 
 1 law of health, except wholesome food and 
 ^^1 fresh air, and yet had reduced the Psalmist's 
 farthest limit to an average life-rate. Our men made 
 no difference in their clothes for summer or winter, 
 Drumsheugh and one or two of the larger farmers 
 condescending to a topcoat on Sabbath, as a penalty 
 of their position, and without regard to temperature. 
 They wore their blacks at a funeral, refusing to cover 
 them with anything, out of respect to the deceased, 
 and standing longest in the kirkyard when the north 
 wind was blowing across a hundred miles of snow. If 
 the rain was pouring at the Junction, then Drumtochty 
 stood two minutes longer through sheer native dour- 
 ness till each man had a cascade from the tail of his 
 coat, and hazarded the suggestion, halfway to Kil- 
 drummie, that it had been "a bit scrowie;" a 
 "scrowie" being as far short of a "shoor" as a 
 "shoor" fell below 'Sveet." 
 
 This sustained defiance of the elements provoked 
 occasional judgments in the shape of a "hoast" 
 (cough), and the head of the house was then exhorted 
 by his women folk to "change his feet" if he hap- 
 pened to walk through a burn on his way home, and 
 was pestered generally with sanitary precautions. It 
 is right to add that the gudeman treated such advice 
 with contempt, regarding it as suitable for the effemi- 
 nacy of towns, but not seriously intended for Drum- 
 tochty. Sandy Stewart ** napped" stones on the road 
 
 (88)
 
 TOR ( 
 
 Psalmist V, 
 
 larsrer farmers 
 
 A Spoonful Evert Hour 
 
 lil of his 
 
 to Kil- 
 
 A'ie;" a 
 
 /" as a 
 
 way hi 
 
 1 1
 
 'A DOCTOR OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 89 
 
 in his shirt sleeves, wet or fair, summer and winter, 
 till he was persuaded to retire from active duty at 
 eighty-five, and he spent ten years more in regretting 
 his hastiness and criticising his successor. The 
 ordinary course of life, with fine air and contented 
 minds, was to do a full share of work till seventy, and 
 then to look after "orra" (odd) jobs well into the 
 eighties, and to "slip awa" within sight of ninety. 
 Persons above ninety were understood to be acquit- 
 ting themselves with credit, and assumed airs of 
 authority, brushing aside the opinions of seventy as 
 immature, and confirming their conclusions with illus- 
 trations drawn from the end of last century. 
 
 .When Hillocks' brother so far forgot himself as to 
 **slip awa" at sixty, that worthy man was scandalized, 
 and offered laboured explanations at the "beerial." 
 
 **It's an awfu' business ony wy ye look at it, an' a 
 sair trial tae us a'. A' never heard tell o' sic a thing 
 in oor family afore, an' it's no easy accoontin' for't. 
 
 **The gudewife was sayin' he wes never the same 
 sin' a weet nicht he lost himsel on the muir and slept 
 below a bush; but that's neither here nor there. A'm 
 thinkin' he sappit his constitution thae twa years he 
 wes grieve (steward) aboot England. That wes thirty 
 years syne, but ye 're never the same aifter thae for- 
 eign climates." 
 
 Drumtochty listened patiently to Hillocks' apolo- 
 gia, but was not satisfied. 
 
 "It's clean havers aboot the muir. Losh keep's 
 (Lord, keep us), we've a' sleepit oot and never been 
 a hair the waur. 
 
 **A' admit that England micht hae dune the job; 
 it's no cannie stravagin' (strolling) yon wy frae place 
 tae place, but Drums never complained tae me as if 
 he hed been nippit in the Sooth," 
 
 The parish had, in fact, lost confidence in Drums 
 after his wayivard experiment with a potato-digging 
 machine, which turned out a lamentable failure, and 
 his premature departure confirmed our vague impres- 
 sion of his character.
 
 90 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 "He's awa noo," Drumsheugli summed up, after 
 opinion had time to form; **an' there were waur fouk 
 than Drums, but there's nae doot he wes a wee 
 fliehty." 
 
 "When illness had the audacity to attack a Drum- 
 tochty man, it was described as a "whup," and was 
 treated by the men with a fine negligence. Hillocks 
 was sitting in the post office one afternoon when I 
 looked in for my letters, and the right side of his face 
 was blazing red. His subject of discourse was the 
 prospects of the turnip "breer," but he casually ex- 
 plained that he was waiting for medical advice. 
 
 "The gudewife is keepin' up a ding-dong frae 
 mornin' till nicht aboot ma face, and a'm fair deaved 
 (deafened), so a'm watchin' for MacLure tae get a 
 bottle as he comes wast (west) ; yen's him noo." 
 
 The doctor made his diagnosis from horseback on 
 sight, and stated the result with that admirable clears 
 ness which endeared him to Drumtochty. 
 
 "Confoond ye. Hillocks, what are ye ploiterin* 
 aboot here for in the weet wi' a face like a boiled 
 beetT Div ye no ken that ye've a titch o' the rose 
 (erysipelas), and ocht tae be in the hoose? Gae hame 
 wi' ye afore a' leave the bit, and send a haflin (half- 
 grown; a child) for some medicine. Ye donnerd 
 idiot, are ye ettlin (intending) tae follow Drums afore 
 yir time?" And the medical attendant of Drum- 
 tochty continued his invective till Hillocks started, 
 and still pursued his retreating figure with medical 
 directions of a simple and practical character. 
 
 "A'm watchin', an' peety ye if ye pit aff time. 
 Keep yir bed the mornin', and dinna show yir face 
 in the fields till a' see ye. A '11 gie ye a cry on Monday 
 — sic an auld fule— but there's no ane o' them tae 
 mind anither in the hale pairish." 
 
 Hillocks' wife informed the kirkyaird that the doc- 
 tor "gied the gudeman an awfu' clearin'," and that 
 Hillocks "wes keepin' the hoose," which meant that 
 the patient had tea breakfast, and at that time was
 
 A DOCTOR OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 91 
 
 wandering about the farm buildings in an easy un- 
 dress with his head in a plaid. 
 
 It was impossible for a doctor to earn even the most 
 modest competence from a people of such scandalous 
 health, and so MacLure had annexed neighbouring 
 parishes. His house— little more than a cottage — 
 stood on the roadside among the pines towards the 
 head of our Glen, and from this base of operations he 
 dominated the wild glen that broke the "wall of the 
 Grampians above Drumtochty— where the snowdrifts 
 were twelve feet deep in winter, and the only way of 
 passage at times was the channel of the river— and 
 the moorland district westwards till he came to the 
 Dunleith sphere of influence, where there were four 
 doctors and a hydropathic. Drumtochty in its length, 
 which was eight miles, and its breadth, which was 
 four, lay in his hand ; besides a glen behind, unknown 
 to the world, which in the night time he visited at the 
 risk of life, for the way thereto was across the big 
 moor with its peat holes and treacherous bogs. And 
 he held the land eastwards towards Muirtown so far 
 as Geordie. The Drumtochty post travelled every 
 day, and could carry word that the doctor was wanted. 
 He did his best for the need of every man, woman, 
 and child in this wild, straggling district, year in, 
 year out, in the snow and in the heat, in the dark and 
 in 'the light, without rest, and without holiday for 
 forty years. 
 
 One horse could not do the work of this man, but 
 we liked best to see him on his old white mare, who 
 died the week after her master, and the passing of the 
 two did our hearts good. It was not that he rode 
 beautifully, for he broke every canon of art, flying 
 with his arms, stooping till he seemed to be speaking 
 into Jess's ears, and rising in the saddle beyond all 
 necessity. But he could ride faster, stay longer in 
 the saddle, and had a firmer grip with his knees, than 
 any one I ever met, and it was all for mercy's sake. 
 When the reapers in harvest time saw a figure whirl-
 
 92 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 ing past in a cloud of dust, or the family at the foot 
 of Glen Urtaeh, gathered round the fire on a winter's 
 night, heard the rat4;le of a horse's hoofs on the road, 
 or the shepherds, out after the sheep, traced a black 
 speck moving across the snow to the upper glen, they 
 knew it was the doctor, and, without being conscious 
 of it, wished him God speed. 
 
 Before and behind his saddle were strapped the 
 instruments and medicines the doctor might want, for 
 he never knew what was before him. There were no 
 specialists in Drumtochty, so this man had to do 
 everything as best he could, and as quickly. He was 
 chest doctor and doctor for every other organ as well ; 
 he was accoucheur and surgeon; he was oculist and 
 aurist ; he was dentist and chloroformist, besides being 
 chemist and druggist. It was often told how he was 
 far up Glen Urtach when the feeders of the threshing 
 mill caught young Burnbrae, and how he only stopped 
 to change horses at his house, and galloped all the 
 way to Burnbrae, and flung himself off his horse and 
 amputated the arm, and saved the lad 's life. 
 
 "You wud hae thocht that every meenut was an 
 hour, ' ' said Jamie Soutar, who had been at the thresh- 
 ing, "an* a'll never forget the puir lad lying as white 
 as deith on the floor o' the loft, wi' his head on a 
 sheaf, an* Burnbrae haudin' the bandage ticht an* 
 prayin* a* the while, and the mither greetin' in the 
 corner. 
 
 " 'Will he never come?' she cries, *an' a' heard 
 the soond o* the horse's feet on the road a mile awa 
 in the frosty air. 
 
 " 'The Lord be praised!* said Burnbrae, and a' 
 slippit doon the ladder as the doctor came skelpin' 
 intae the close, the foam fleein' frae his hoi^e's mooth. 
 
 " *Whar is he?' wes a' that passed his lips, an' in 
 five meenuts He hed him on the feedin' board, and 
 wes at his wark— sic wark, neeburs— but he did it 
 weel. An* ae thing a* thocht rael thoctfu' o' him: 
 he first sent aff the laddie *s mither tae get a bed ready.
 
 A DOCTOR'OFTHE'OLD SCHOOL. 93 
 
 ** *Noo that's feenished, and his constitution '11 dae 
 the rest,* and he carried the lad doon the ladder in his 
 airms like a bairn, and laid him in his bed, and waits 
 aside him till he wes sleepin', and then says he : 'Burn- 
 hrae, yir a gey lad never tae say "Collie, will ye 
 lick?" for a' hevna tasted meat for saxteen hoors.' 
 
 *'It was michty tae see him come intae the yaird 
 that day, neeburs ; the verra look o ' him wes victory, ' ' 
 
 Jamie's cynicism slipped off in the enthusiasm of 
 this reminiscence, and he expressed the feeling of 
 Drumtochty. No one sent for MacLure save in great 
 straits, and the sight of him put courage in sinking 
 hearts. But this was not by the grace of his appear- 
 ance, or the advantage of a good bedside manner, A 
 tall, gaunt, loosely made man, without an ounce of 
 superfluous flesh on his body, his face burned a dark 
 brick colour by constant exposure to the weather, red 
 hair and beard turning grey, honest blue eyes that 
 looked you ever in the face, huge hands with wrist 
 bones like the shank of a ham, and a voice that hurled 
 his salutations across two fields, he suggested the moor 
 rather than the drawing-room. But what a clever 
 hand it was in an operation, as delicate as a woman's; 
 and what a kindly voice it was in the humble room 
 where the shepherd's wife was weeping by her man's 
 bedside. He was "ill pitten thegither" to begin with, 
 but many of his physical defects were the penalties of 
 his work, and endeared him to the Glen. That ugly 
 scar that cut into his right eyebrow and gave him such 
 a sinister expression, was got one night Jess slipped 
 on the ice and laid him insensible eight miles from 
 home. His limp marked the big snowstorm in the fif- 
 ties, when his horse missed the road in Glen Urtach, 
 and they rolled together in a drift. MacLure escaped 
 with a broken leg and the fracture of three ribs, but he 
 never walked like other men again. He could not 
 swing himself into the saddle without making two at- 
 tempts and holding Jess's mane. Neither can you 
 "warstle" through the peat bogs and snow drifts for
 
 94 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 forty winters without a touch of rheumatism. But 
 they were honorable sears, and for such risks of life 
 men get the Victoria Cross in other fields. MacLure 
 got nothing but the secret affection of the Glen, which 
 knew that none had ever done one-tenth as much for 
 it as this ungainly, twisted, battered figure, and I 
 have seen a Drumtochty face soften at the sight of 
 MacLure limping to his horse. 
 
 Mr, Hopps earned the ill-A\dll of the Glen forever 
 by criticising the doctor's dress, but indeed it would 
 have filled any townsman with amazement. Black he 
 wore once a year, on Sacrament Sunday, and, if pos- 
 sible, at a funeral ; topcoat or water-proof never. His 
 jacket and waistcoat were rough homespun of Glen 
 Urtach wool, which threw off the wet like a duck's 
 back, and below he was clad in shepherd's tartan 
 trousers, which disappeared into unpolished riding 
 boots. His shirt was grey flannel, and he was uncer- 
 tain about a collar, but certain as to a tie, which he 
 never had, his beard doing instead, and his hat was 
 soft felt of four colors and seven different shapes. 
 His point of distinction in dress was the trousers, and 
 they were the subject of unending speculation. 
 
 "Some threep (declare) that he's worn thae eeden- 
 tical pair the last twenty year, an' a' mind masel (my- 
 self) his gettin' a tear ahint, when he was crossin' oor 
 palin', and the mend's still veesible. 
 
 "Ithers declare 'at he's got a wab o' claith, and hes 
 a new pair made in ]\Iuirtown aince in the twa year 
 maybe, and keeps them in the garden till the new look 
 wears aff. 
 
 "For ma ain pairt," Soutar used to declare, "a* 
 canna mak up my mind, but there's ae thing sure, the 
 Glen wud not like tae see him withoot them : it wud 
 be a shock tae confidence. There's no muckle o' the 
 check left, bur ye can aye tell it, and when ye see thae 
 breeks comin' in ye ken that if human pooer can save 
 yir bairn's life it 'ill be dune." 
 
 The confidence of the Glen— and tributary states—
 
 A DOCTOR OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 95 
 
 was unbounded, and rested partly on long experience 
 of the doctor's resources, and partly on his hereditary 
 connection. 
 
 "His father was here afore him," Mrs. Macfadyen 
 nsed to explain ; "atween them they've hed the county- 
 side for weel on tae a century ; if MacLure disna un- 
 derstand oor constitution, wha dis, a' wud like tae 
 ask?" 
 
 For Drumtochty had its own constitution and a 
 epecial throat disease, as became a parish which was 
 quite self-contained between the woods and the hills, 
 and not dependent on the lowlands either for its dis- 
 eases or its doctors. 
 
 "He's a skilly man. Doctor MacLure," continued 
 my friend Mrs. Macfadyen, whose judgment on ser- 
 mons or anything else was seldom at fault; "an' a 
 kindhearted, though o' coorse he hes his faults like 
 us a', an' he disna tribble the Kirk often. 
 
 "He aye can tell what's wrang wi' a body, an* 
 maistly he can put ye rieht, an' there's nae new-fan- 
 gled wys wi' him: a blister for the ootside an' Epsom 
 salts for the inside dis his wark, an' they say there's 
 no an herb on the hills he disna ken. 
 
 "If we're tae dee, we're tae dee; an' if we're tae 
 live, we're tae live," concluded Elspeth, with sound 
 Calvinistic logic ; "but a '11 say this for the doctor, that 
 whether yir tae live or dee, he can aye keep up a shairp 
 meisture on the skin. 
 
 "But he's no verra ceevil gin ye bring him when 
 there's naethin' wrang," and Mrs. Macfadyen 's face 
 reflected another of Mr. Hopps' misadventures of 
 which Hillocks held the copyright. 
 
 "Hopps* laddie ate grosarts (gooseberries) till they 
 hed to sit up a' nicht wi' him, and naethin' wud do 
 but they maun hae the doctor, an' he writes * imme- 
 diately' on a slip o' paper. 
 
 "Weel, MacLure had been awa a* nicht wi* a shep- 
 herd's wife Dunleith wy, and he comes here withoot 
 drawin' bridle, mud up tae the een.
 
 96 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 ** 'Wliat's a dae here. Hillocks?' he cries; 'it's no 
 an accident, is't?' and when he got aff his horse he 
 cud hardly stand wi ' stiffness and tire. 
 
 ** 'It's nane o' us, doctor; it's Hopps' laddie; he's 
 been eatin* ower mony berries.' 
 
 *'If he didna turn on me like a tiger. 
 
 ** *Div ye mean tae say—* 
 
 ** 'Weesht, weesht,' an' I tried tae quiet him, for 
 Hopps wes comin' oot. 
 
 *' 'Well, doctor,' begins he, as brisk as a magpie, 
 'you're here at last; there's no hurry with you Scotch- 
 men. My boy has been sick all night, and I 've never 
 had one wank of sleep. You might have come a little 
 quicker, that's all I've got to say.' 
 
 *' 'We've mair tae dae in Drumtochty than attend 
 tae every bairn that hes a sair stomach,' and a' saw 
 MacLure was roosed. 
 
 " 'I'm astonished to hear you speak. Our doctor at 
 home always says to Mrs. 'Opps, "Look on me as a 
 family friend, Mrs. 'Opps, and send for me though it 
 be only a headache." * 
 
 " 'He'd be mair sparin' o' his offers if he hed four 
 an* twenty mile tae look aifter. There's naething 
 wrang wi' yir laddie but greed. Gie him a gude dose 
 o' castor oil and stop his meat for a day, an' he 'ill be 
 a* richt the morn.' 
 
 " 'He'll not take castor oil, doctor. We have given 
 up those barbarous medicines.' 
 
 " 'Whatna kind o* medicines hae ye noo in the 
 Sooth?' 
 
 *' 'Well, you see, Dr. MacLure, we're homoeopath- 
 ists, and I've my little chest here,' and oot Hopps 
 comes wi' his boxy. 
 
 " 'Let's see 't,' an' MacLure sits doon and taks 
 oot the bit bottles, and he reads the names wi ' a lauch 
 every time. 
 
 " 'Belladonna ; did ye ever hear the like ? Aconite ; 
 it CO wes a*. Nux Vomica. What next? Weel, ma 
 mannie,' he gays tae Hopps, 'it's a fine ploy, and ye
 
 A DOCTOR OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 97 
 
 'ill better gang on wi' the Nux till it's dune, and gle 
 him ony ither o' the sweeties he fancies. 
 
 *' *Noo, Hillocks, a' maun be aff tae see Drums- 
 heugh's grieve (steward), for he's doon wi' the fever, 
 an' it's tae be a teuch fecht (hard fight). A' hinna 
 time tae wait for dinner; gie me some cheese an' cake 
 in ma haund, and Jess 'ill tak a pail o' meal an' 
 water. 
 
 ** 'Fee; a'm no wantin' yir fees, man; wi' a' that 
 boxy ye dinna need a doctor ; na, na, gie yir siller tae 
 some puir body, Maister Hopps,' an' he was doon the 
 road as hard as he cud lick." 
 
 His fees were pretty much what the folk chose to 
 give him, and he collected them once a year at Kil- 
 drummie fair. 
 
 "Weel, doctor, what am a' awin' ye for the wife 
 end bairn ? Ye 'ill need three notes for that nicht ye 
 stayed in the hoose an' a' the veesits." 
 
 "Havers," MacLure would answer, ''prices are 
 low, a'm hearing; gie's thirty shillings." 
 
 "No, a '11 no, or the wife 'ill tak ma ears off," and 
 it was settled for two pounds. 
 
 Lord Kilspindie gave him a free house and fields, 
 and one way or other, Drumsheugh told me, the doe- 
 tor might get in about one hundred and fifty pounds 
 a year, out of which he had to pay his old housekeep- 
 er's wages and a boy's, and keep two horses, besides 
 the cost of instruments and books, which he bought 
 through a friend in Edinburgh with much judgment. 
 
 There was only one man ^ who ever complained of 
 the doctor's charges, and that was the new farmer of 
 Milton, who was so | good • that . he was above both 
 churohes, and held a meeting in^his barn. ■ (It was 
 Milton the Glen supposed at first to be a Mormon, but 
 I can't go into that now. )'^ -He offered MacLure a 
 pound less than he asked, and two tracts, whereupon 
 MacLure expressed his opinion of Milton, both from 
 a theological and social standpoint, with such vigour 
 and frankness that an attentive audience of Drum- 
 tochty men could hardly contain themselves. 
 
 2—7
 
 98 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 Jamie Soutar was selling his pig at the time, and 
 missed the meeting, but he hastened to condole with 
 Milton, who was complaining everywhere of the doc- 
 tor's language. 
 
 "Ye did rieht tae resist him; it 'ill maybe roose 
 the Glen tae mak a stand ; he fair bauds them in bond- 
 age. 
 
 "Thirty shillings for twal veesits, and him no mair 
 then seeven mile awa, an' a'm telt there werena mair 
 than four at nicht. 
 
 "Ye 'ill hae the sympathy o' the Glen, for a' body 
 kens yir as free wi' yir siller as yir tracts. 
 
 "Wes't 'Beware o' gude warks' ye offered him? 
 Man, ye chose it weel, for he's been colleckin' sae 
 mony thae forty years, a 'm feared for him. 
 
 "A've often thocht oor doctor's little better than 
 the Gude Samaritan, an' the Pharisees didna think 
 muckle o' his chance aither in this warld or that which 
 is tae come." 
 
 Ian Maclaeen.
 
 VIII 
 
 THE VARIOUS TEMPERS OF 
 GRANDMOTHER GREGG. 
 
 'lAT HEN the doctor drove by the Gregg farm about 
 JtZ-i dusk, and saw old Deacon Gregg perched 
 iS^J cross-legged upon his own gate-post, he knew 
 that something was wrong within, and he could not 
 resist the temptation to drive up and speak to the old 
 man. 
 
 It was common talk in the neighborhood that when 
 Grandmother Gregg made things too warm for him 
 in-doors, the good man, her spouse, was wont to stroll 
 out to the front gate and to take this exalted seat. 
 
 Indeed, it was said by a certain Mrs. Frequent, a 
 neighbor of prying proclivities and ungentle speech, 
 that the deacon 's wife sent him there as a punishment 
 for misdemeanors. Furthermore, this same Mrs. Fre- 
 quent did even go so far as to watch for the deacon, 
 and when she would see him laboriously rise and re- 
 signedly poise himself upon the narrow area, she 
 would remark: 
 
 "Well, I see Grandma Gregg has got the old man 
 punished again. Wonder what he 's been up to now ? ' ' 
 
 Her constant repetition of the unkind charge finally 
 gained for it such credence that the diminutive figure 
 upon the gate-post became an object of mingled sym- 
 pathy and mirth in the popular regard. 
 
 The old doctor was the friend of a lifetime, and he 
 was sincerely attached to the deacon, and when he 
 turned his horse's head toward the gate this evening, 
 he felt his heart go out in sympathy to the old man in 
 durance vile upon his lonely perch. 
 
 (99)
 
 100 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 But he had barely started to the gate when he heard 
 a voice which he recognized as the deacon's, where- 
 upon he would have hurried away had not his horse 
 committed him to his first impulse by unequivocally 
 facing the gate. 
 
 *'I know three's a crowd," he called out cheerily 
 as he presently drew rein, "but I ain't a-goin' to stay; 
 I jest— Why, where 's grandma?" he added abrupt- 
 ly, seeing the old man alone. "I'm shore I heard—" 
 "You jest heerd me a-talkin' to myself, doctor— or 
 not to myself, exactly, neither— that is to say, when 
 you come up I was addressin' my remarks to this here 
 pill." 
 
 "Bill? I don't see no bill." The doctor drew his 
 buggy nearer. He was a little deaf. 
 
 "No, I said this pill, doctor. I'm a-holdin' of it 
 here in the pa'm o' my hand, a-studyin' over it." 
 "What's she a-dosin' you for now, Enoch?" 
 The doctor always called the deacon by his first 
 name when he approached him in sympathy. He did 
 not know it. Neither did the deacon, but he felt the 
 sympathy, and it unlocked the portals of his heart. 
 
 "Well"— the old man's voice softened— "she thinks 
 I stand in need of 'em, of co'se. The fact is, that 
 yaller-spotted steer run agin her clo'es-line twice-t to- 
 day, drug the whole week's washin' onto the ground, 
 an* then tromped on it. She's inside a-renchin' an' 
 a-starchin' of 'em over now. An' right on top o' that, 
 I come in lookin' sort o' puny an' peaked, an' I hap- 
 pened to choke on a muskitty jest ez I come in, an* 
 she declared she wasn't a-goin' to have a consumpted 
 man sick on her hands an' a clo 'es-destroyin ' steer at 
 the same time. An' with that she up an' wiped, her 
 hands on her apron, an' went an' selected this here 
 pill out of a bottle of assorted sizes, an' instructed 
 me to take it. They never was a thing done mo' de- 
 lib 'rate an' kind— never on earth. But of co'se you 
 an* she know how it plegs me to take physic. You 
 could mould out ice-cream in little pill shapes an' it
 
 TEMPERS OF GRANDMOTHER GREGG. 101 
 
 would gag me, even ef 'twas vanilly-flavored. An' so, 
 when I received it, why, I jest eoare out here tw medi- 
 tate. You can see it from where you set, doctor. It's 
 a purty sizeable one, and I'm "feii^hty sasplfiova of it." 
 
 The doctor cleared his throat. *'Yas, I can see it, 
 Enoch— of co'se." 
 
 ** Could you jedge of it, doctor? That is, of its 
 capabilities, I mean?" 
 
 "Why, no, of co'se not— not less'n I'd taste it^ an' 
 you can do that ez well ez I can. If it 's quinine, it '11 
 be bitter; an' ef it's soggy an'—" 
 
 *' Don't explain no mo', doctor. I can't stand it. 
 I s'pose it's jest ez foolish to investigate the inward- 
 ness of a pill a person is bound to take ez it would be 
 to try to lif ' the veil of the future in any other way. 
 When I'm obligated to swaller one of 'em, I jest take 
 a swig o' good spring water and repeat a po'tion of 
 Scripture and commit myself unto the Lord. I al- 
 ways seem foreordained to choke to death, but I notice 
 thet ef I recover from the first spell o' suffocation, I 
 always come through. But I ain't never took one yet 
 thet I didn't in a manner prepare to die." 
 
 **Then I wouldn't take it, Enoch. Don't do it." 
 The doctor cleared his throat again, but this time he 
 had no trouble to keep the corners of his mouth down. 
 His sympathy robbed him for the time of the humor 
 in the situation. *'No, I wouldn't do it; d— doggone 
 ef I would." 
 
 The deacon looked into the palm of his hand and 
 sighed. "Oh, yas, I reckon I better take it," he said, 
 mildly. "Ef I don't stand in need of it now, maybe 
 the good Lord '11 sto'e it up in my system, some way, 
 'g'inst a future attackt." 
 
 "Well"— the doctor reached for his whip— "well, 
 7 wouldn't do \i— steer or no steer!'' 
 
 * * Oh, yas, I reckon you would, doctor, ef you had a 
 wife ez worrited over a wash-tub ez what mine is. An* 
 I had a extry shirt in wash this week too. One little 
 pill ain't much when you take in how she's been tan- 
 talized. * '
 
 102 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 The doctor laughed outright. 
 
 **Tell yOu wh'^jt tQ4o, Enooh. Fling it away and 
 don't let on. She don't question you, does she?" 
 
 */No, ;&iie' ain't nfever'xo.s.ay questioned me, but- 
 Well, I tried that onee-t. Sampled a bitter white cap- 
 sule she give me, put it down for quinine, an' flung it 
 away. Then I chirped up an' said I felt a heap bet- 
 ter—and that wasn't no lie— which I suppose was on 
 account o' the relief to my mind, which it always did 
 seem to me capsules was jest constructed to lodge in a 
 person's air-passages, Well, I taken notice that she'd 
 look at me keen now an' agin, an' then glance at. the 
 clock, an' treckly I see her fill the gou'd dipper an' go 
 to her medicine-cabinet, an' then she come to me an' 
 she says, says she, 'Open yore mouth!' An' of co'se 
 I opened it. You see that first capsule, ez well ez the 
 one she had jest adminstered, was mostly morphine, 
 which she had give me to ward off a 'tackt o' the neu- 
 raligy she see approachin', and here I had been tryin* 
 to live up to the requi'ements of quinine, an' wrastlin' 
 severe with a sleepy spell, which, ef I'd only knew it, 
 would o' saved me. Of co'se, after the second dose-t, 
 I jest let .nature take its co'se, an' treckly I com- 
 menced to doze off, an' seemed like I was a feather bed 
 an' wife had hung me on the fence to sun, an' I re- 
 member how she seemed to be a-whuppin' of me, but 
 it didn't hurt. That was on account of it bein' goose- 
 pickin' time, an' she was werrited with windy weather, 
 an' she tryin' to fill the feather beds. No, I won't 
 never try to deceive her again. It never has seemed to 
 me that she could have the same raspect for me after 
 ketchin' me at it, though she 'ain't never referred to 
 it but once-t, an' that was the time I was erected dea- 
 con, an' even then she didn't do it outspoke. She 
 seemed mighty tender over it, an' didn't no mo'n re- 
 mind me thet a officer in a Christian church ought to 
 examine hisself mighty conscientious an' be sure he 
 was free of deceit, which, seemed to me, showed a heap 
 o' consideration. She 'ain't got a deceitful bone in 
 lier body, doctor."
 
 TEMPERS OF GRANDMOTHER GREGG, 103 
 
 **Wliy, bless her old soul, Enoch, you know thet I 
 think the world an' all o' Grandma Gregg ! She's the 
 Bait 0* the earth— an' rock salt at that. She's saved 
 too many o' my patients by her good nursin', in spite 
 o' my poor doctorin', for me not to appreciate her. 
 But that don't reconcile me to the way she doses you 
 for her worries. ' ' 
 
 *'It took me a long time to see that myself, doctor. 
 But I've reasoned it out this a-way : I s'pose when she 
 feels her temper a-risin' she's 'feered thet she might 
 be so took with her troubles thet she'd neglect my 
 health, an' so she wards off any attackt thet might be 
 comin' on. I taken notice that time her strawberry 
 preserves all soured on her hands, an' she painted my 
 face with iodine, a man did die o' the erysipelas down 
 here at Battle Creek, an' likely as not she'd heerd of 
 it. Sir? No, I didn't mention it at the time for fear 
 she'd think best to lay on another coat, an' I felt sort 
 o' disfiggured with it. Wife ain't a scoldin' woman, 
 I'm thankful for that. An' some o' the peppermints 
 an' things she keeps to dole out to me when she's 
 fretted with little things— maybe her yeast '11 refuse 
 to rise, or a thunder-storm '11 kill a settin' of eggs- 
 why, they're so : disguised ...thet ^'cep't?>^^/ie^ I .know 
 they We medicine— **. 
 
 "Well, Kitty, I reckon we better oea-goin'." The 
 doctor tapped his horse." -*Be shore to give my love 
 to Grandma, Enoch. - An* ef you're bound to take 
 that pill— of co'se I can't no mo'n speculate about it 
 at this distance, but I'd advise you to keep clear o' 
 sours an' acids for a day or so. Don't think, because 
 your teeth are all adjustable, thet none o' yore other 
 functions ain't open to salvation. Good-night, 
 Enoch." 
 
 "Oh, she always looks after that, doctor. She's 
 mighty attentive, come to withholdin' harmful temp- 
 tations. Good-by, doctor. It's did me good to open 
 my mind to you a little. 
 
 "Yas,*' he added, looking steadily into his palm as
 
 104 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 the buggy rolled away— **yas, it's did me good to talk 
 to him; but I ain't no more reconciled to you, you 
 barefaced, higb-foreheaded, little rolly-poly, you. 
 Funny how a pill thet ain't got a feature on earth can 
 look me out o ' countenance the way it can, and frus- 
 trate my speech. Talk about whited sepulchures, an' 
 ravenin' wolves! I don't know how come I to let on 
 thet I was feeling' puny to-night, nohow. I might 've 
 knew— with all them clo 'es cedaubled over ; though I 
 can't, ez the doctor says, see how me a-takin' a pill is 
 goin' to help matters; but of co'se I wouldn't let on to 
 him, an ' he a bachelor. ' ' 
 
 He stopped talking and felt his wrist. 
 
 "Maybe my pulse is obstropulous, an' ought to be 
 sedated down. Reckon I'll haf to kill that steer— or 
 sell him— one, though I swo'e I wouldn't. But of 
 co'se I swo'e that in a temper, an' temp 'rate vows 
 ain't never made 'cep'in' to be repented of." 
 
 Several times during the last few minutes, while 
 the deacon spoke, there had come to him across the 
 garden from the kitchen the unmistakable odor of 
 fried chicken. 
 
 He had foreseen that there would be a good supper 
 to-night, and that the tiny globule within his palm 
 would constitute for him a prohibition concerning it. 
 
 Grandmother Gregg was one of those worthy if 
 difficult women who never let anything interfere with 
 her duty as she saw it magnified by the lenses of pain 
 or temper. It usually pleased her injured mood to 
 make waffles on wash-day, and the hen-house owed 
 many renovations, with a reckless upsetting of nests 
 and roosts, to one of her "splittin' headaches." She 
 would always wash her hair in view of impending 
 company, although she averred that to wet her scalp 
 never failed to bring on the "neuraligy." And her 
 "neuraligy" in turn meant medicine for the deacon. 
 
 It was probably the doctor's timely advice, aug- 
 mented, possibly, by the potencies of the frying-pan, 
 with a strong underlying sympathy with the worrying
 
 TEMPERS OF GRANDMOTHER GREGG. 105 
 
 woman within —it was, no doubt, all these powers 
 combined that suddenly surprised the. hitherto com- 
 plying husband into such unprecedented conduct that 
 any one knowing him in his old character, and seeing 
 him now, would have thought that he had lost his mind. 
 
 With a swift and brave fling he threw the pill far 
 into the night. Then, in an access of energy born of 
 internal panic, he slid nimbly from his perch and 
 started in a steady jog-trot into the road, wiping away 
 the tears as he went, and stammering between sobs as 
 he stumbled over the ruts : 
 
 "No, I won't— yas, I will, too— doggone shame, and 
 ghe frettin' her life out— of co'se I will— I'll sell 'im 
 for anything he'll fetch— an' I'll be a better man, yas, 
 yas I will— but I won't swaller another one o' them 
 blame— not ef I die for it." 
 
 This report, taken in long-hand by an amused lis- 
 tener by the road-side, is no doubt incomplete in its 
 ejaculatcry form, but it has at least the value of ac- 
 curacy, so far as it goes, which may be had only from 
 a verbatim transcript. 
 
 It was perhaps three-quarters of an hour later when 
 Enoch entered the kitchen, wiping his face, nervous, 
 weary, embarrassed. Supper Was on the table. The 
 blue-bordered dish, heaped with side-bones and second 
 joints done to a turn, was moved to a side station, 
 while in its accustomed place before Enoch's plate 
 there sat an ominous bowl of gruel. The old man did 
 not look at the table, but he saw it all. He would have 
 realized it with his eyes shut. Domestic history, as 
 well as that of greater principalities and powers, often 
 repeats itself. 
 
 Enoch's fingers trembled as he came near his wife, 
 and standing with his back to the table, he began to 
 untie a broad flat parcel that he had brought in under 
 his arm. She paused in one of her trips between the 
 table and stove, and regarded him askance. 
 
 "Reckon I'll haf to light the lantern befo' I set 
 down to eat, wife," he said, by way of introduction.
 
 106 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 **Isrul '11 be along d'rec'ly to rope that steer. I've 
 done sold him." The good woman laid her dish upon 
 the table and returned to the stove. 
 
 "Wish you'd 'a' sold 'im day befo' yesterday. I'd 
 'a' had a heap less pain in my shoulder-blade." She 
 sniffed as she said it ; and then she added, "That gruel 
 ought to be e't warm." 
 
 By this time the parcel was open. There was a 
 brief display of colored zephyrs and gleaming card- 
 board. Then Enoch began rewrapping them. 
 
 "Reckon you can look these over in the mornin*, 
 wife. They're jest a few new cross-stitch Bible texts, 
 an' I knowed you liked Scripture motters. Where '11 
 I lay 'em, wife, while I go out an' tend to lightin' that 
 lantern? I told Isrul I'd set it in the stable door so's 
 as he could git that steer out o' the way immejate." 
 
 The proposal to lay the mottoes aside was a master- 
 stroke. 
 
 The aggrieved wife had already begun to wipe her 
 hands on her apron. Still, she would not seem too eas- 
 ily appeased. 
 
 "I do hope you ain't gone an' turned that whole 
 Bteer into perforated paper, Enoch, even ef 'tis Bible- 
 texted over." 
 
 Thus she guarded her dignity. But even as she 
 spoke she took the parcel from his hands. This was 
 encouragement enough. It presaged a thawing out. 
 And after Enoch had gone out to light the lantern, it 
 would have amused a sympathetic observer to watch 
 her gradual melting as she looked over the mottoes : 
 
 "A VIRTUOUS WIFE IS FAR ABOVE 
 RUBIES." 
 
 "A PRUDENT VflFE IS FROM THE LORD." 
 "BETTER A DINNER OF HERBS WHERE 
 LOVE IS-" 
 
 She read them over and over. Then she laid them 
 aside and looked at Enoch's plate. Then she looked 
 at the chicken-dish, and then at the bowl of gruel
 
 TEMPERS OF GRANDMOTHER GREGG. 107 
 
 which she had carefully set on the back of the stove 
 to keep warm. 
 
 ''Don't know ez it would hurt 'im any ef I'd 
 thicken that gruel up into mush. He 's took sech a dis- 
 taste to soft foods* sense he's got that new set." 
 
 She rose as she spoke, poured the gruel back into the 
 pot, sifted and mixed a spoonful of meal and stirred it 
 in. This done, she hesitated, glanced at the pile of 
 mottoes, and reflected. Then with a sudden resolve 
 she seized the milk-pitcher, filled a cup from it, poured 
 the milk into the little pot of mush, hastily whipped 
 up two eggs with some sugar, added the mixture to 
 the pot, returned the whole to the yellow bowl, and set 
 it in the oven to brown. 
 
 And just then Enoch came in, and approached the 
 water-shelf. 
 
 "Don't keer how you polish it, a brass lantern an' 
 coal ile is like murder on a man 's hands. It will out. ' ' 
 
 He was thinking of the gruel, and putting off the 
 evil hour. It had been his intention to boldly an- 
 nounce that he hadn't taken his medicine, that he 
 never would again unless he needed it, and, moreover, 
 that he was going to eat his supper to-night, and al- 
 ways, as long as God should spare him, etc., etc., etc. 
 
 But he had no sooner found himself in the presence 
 of long-confessed superior powers than he knew he 
 would never do any of these things. 
 
 His wife was thinking of the gruel too when she 
 encouraged delay by remarking that he would better 
 rest up a bit before eating. 
 
 "And I reckon you better soak yo' hands good. 
 Take a pinch o' that bran out o' the safe to 'em," she 
 said, "and ef that don't do, the Floridy water is in 
 on my bureau." 
 
 When finally Enoch presented himself, ready for 
 his fate, she was able to set the mush pudding, done 
 to a fine brown, before him, and her tone was really 
 tender as she said: 
 
 * ' This ain 't very hearty ef you 're hungry ; but you
 
 108 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 can eat it all. There ain't no interference in it with 
 anything you've took." 
 
 The pudding was one of Enoch's favorite dishes, 
 but as he broke its brown surface with his spoon he 
 felt like a hypocrite. He took one long breath, and 
 then he said : 
 
 "By- the- way, wife, this reminds me, I reckon you'll 
 haf to fetch me another o' them pills. I dropped that 
 one out in the grass— that is, ef you think I still stand 
 in need of it. I feel consider 'ble better 'n I did when 
 I come in this evenin'." 
 
 The good woman eyed him suspiciously a minute. 
 Then her eyes fell upon the words "ABOVE 
 RUBIES" lying upon the table. Reaching over, she 
 lifted the pudding-bowl aside, took the dish of fried 
 chicken from its sub-station, and set it before her lord. 
 
 "Better save that pudd'n' for dessert, honey, an* 
 help yo'self to some o' that chicken, an' take a potater 
 an' a roll, and eat a couple o' them spring onions— 
 they're the first we've had. Sence you're a-feelin' 
 better, maybe it's jest ez well thet you mislaid that 
 pill." 
 
 The wind blows sometimes from the east in Simkins- 
 ville, as elsewhere, and there are still occasional days 
 when the deacon betakes himself to the front gate and 
 sits like a nineteenth-century Simon Stilites on his pil- 
 lar, contemplating the open palm of his own hand, 
 while he enriches Mrs. Frequent 's repertoire of gossip 
 by a picturesque item. 
 
 But the reverse of the picture has much of joy in 
 it ; for, in spite of her various tempers, Grandmother 
 Gregg is a warm-hearted soul— and she loves her man. 
 And he loves her. 
 
 Listen to him to-night, for instance, as, having fin- 
 ished his supper, he remarks: 
 
 "An' I'm a-goin' to see to it, from this on, thet you 
 ain't fretted with things ez you've been, ef I can help 
 it, wife. Sometimes, the way I act, I seem like ez ef I 
 forgit you're all I've got— on earth." 
 
 "Of co'se I realize that, Enoch," she replies. 
 "We're each one all the other's got— an' that's why I 
 don't spare no pains to keep you in health." 
 
 —Ruth McEnery Stuakt..
 
 IX 
 
 DR. BARRERE. 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Y\ R- BARRERE was a young man who was be- 
 
 ^^1 ginning to make his way. In the medical pro- 
 ^^ fession, as in most others, this is not a very 
 easy thing to do, and no doubt he had made some mis- 
 takes. He had given offence in his first practice to the 
 principal person in the little town where he had set 
 up his surgery by explaining that certain symptoms 
 which his patient believed to mean heart disease were 
 due solely to indigestion ; and he still more deeply of- 
 fended that gentleman's wife by telling her that her 
 children were over-fed. These are follies which a more 
 experienced medical man would never commit; but 
 this one was young and fresh from those studies in 
 which, more than in any other profession, things have 
 to be called by their right names. In his next attempt 
 he had nearly got into more serious trouble still, by his 
 devotion to an interesting and difficult case, in which, 
 unfortunately, the patient was a woman. From this 
 he came out clear, with no stain on his character, as 
 magistrates say. But for a doctor, as often for a 
 woman, it is enough that evil has been said. The slan- 
 der, though without proof, has more or less a sting, 
 and is recollected when all the circumstances— the dis- 
 proval, the clearing-up, even the facts of the case have 
 been forgotten. He was, therefore, not without exper- 
 ience when he came to settle in the great town of Pool- 
 borough, which might be supposed large enough and 
 busy enough to take no note of those village lies and 
 tempests in a teapot. And this proved to be the case. 
 
 (109)
 
 110 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 He was young, he was clever, he was au courani of all 
 the medical discoveries, knew everything that had 
 been discovered by other men, and was not without lit- 
 tle discoveries and inventions of his own. He was still 
 young, a few years over thirty, at the age which com- 
 bines the advantages of youth and of maturity, strong 
 in mind and in body, loving work, and fearing 
 nothing. If his previous encounters with the foolish 
 side of humanity had diminished in some degree his 
 faith in it, and opened his eyes to the risks which 
 those who think no evil are apt to run in their first 
 conflict with the stupidities and base ideas of men, he 
 had yet not suffered enough to make him bitter, or 
 more than wary in his dealings with the narrow and 
 uncomprehending. He no longer felt sure of being 
 understood, or that a true estimate of his intentions 
 and motives was certain ; but he did not go to the op- 
 posite extreme as some do, and take it for granted that 
 his patients and their surroundings were incapable of 
 doing him justice. He was sobered, but not embit- 
 tered. He was wise enough neither to ^how too much 
 interest, nor to betray too great an indifference. He 
 listened seriously to the tale of symptoms which were 
 nothing to anybody but their narrator, and he re- 
 strained his excitement when a matter of real import- 
 ance, something delicate and critical, came under his 
 view. Thus it was proved that he had learned his les- 
 son. But he did not despise his fellow cratures in 
 general, or think all alike guilty of affectation ana 
 self-regard, which showed that he had not learned that 
 lesson with extravagance. He was kind, but not too 
 kind. He was clever, but not so clever as to get the 
 alarming character of an experimentalist— in short, 
 he was in every way doing well and promising well. 
 When the untoward accident occurred which cut short 
 his career in Poolborough where he was universally 
 well thought of and looked upon as a rising man. 
 
 It may be well before going further to indicate cer- 
 tain particulars in his antecedents which throw light
 
 DR. BARRERB. Ill 
 
 upon Dr. Barrere's character and idiosyncrasies. He 
 was of French origin, as may be perceived by his 
 name. The name was not so distinctly French as held 
 by his father and grandfather, who ignored the 
 nationality, and wrote it phonetically Barraire. In 
 their days, perhaps, a French origin was not an ad- 
 vantage. But in the days when Arnold Barrere was 
 at college this prejudice had disappeared, and he was 
 himself delighted to resort to the old orthography, and 
 liked his friends to remember the accent which it 
 pleased him to employ. Perhaps the keen logical ten- 
 dency of his mind and disposition to carry everything 
 out to its legitimate conclusion with a severity which 
 the English love of compromise and accident prevents, 
 w^ere more important signs of his origin than even the 
 accent over the e. Dr. Barrere for his part did not 
 like to elude the right and logical ending either of an 
 accent or a disease. It annoyed him even that his 
 patient should recover in an irregular way. He liked 
 the symptoms to follow each other in proper sequence ; 
 and the end which was foreseen and evident was that 
 which he preferred to have occur, even when the 
 avoidance of it, and deliverance of the sufferer were 
 due to his own powers. Like his nation, or rather like 
 the nation of his forefathers, he was disposed to carry 
 out everything to its logical end. His outward man, 
 like his mind, bore evidence of his parentage. He was 
 about the middle height, of a light and spare figure, 
 with a thickly-growing but short and carefully crop- 
 ped black beard, his complexion rather dark but very 
 clear, his voice somewhat high-pitched for an English- 
 man, with an animated manner, and a certain sym- 
 pathetic action of head and hand when he talked, 
 scarcely <3nough to be called gesticulation, yet more 
 than usually accompanies English speech. He seemed, 
 in short, to have missed the influence of the two gener- 
 ations of English mothers and manners which might 
 have been supposed to subdue all peculiarities of race, 
 and to have stepped back to the immediate succession
 
 112 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 of that Arnold Barrere who was the first to bring the 
 name to this island. These individual features gave a 
 certain piquancy, many people thought, to the really 
 quite English breeding of the doctor, who had never so 
 much as crossed the Channel, and knew little more 
 French than was consistent with a just placing of the 
 accents, especially upon the letter e. 
 
 It would be unnecessary to enter into full detail of 
 how he formed acquaintance with the Surtees, and 
 came to the degree of intimacy which soon developed 
 into other thoughts. It is a proper thing enough in a 
 story, though not very true to real life, to describe a 
 young doctor as falling in love, by a sick bed, with the 
 angel-daughter who is the best nurse and ministrant 
 that a sick parent can have. Members of the medical 
 profession are not more prone than other men to 
 mingle their affections Avith the requirements of their 
 profession, and probably a devoted nurse is no more 
 the ideal of a young doctor than a good model is that 
 of a painter. As a matter of fact, however, it was 
 while attending Mrs. Surtees through a not very dan- 
 gerous or interesting illness that Dr. Barrere made the 
 acquaintance of Agnes. He might just as well have 
 met her in the society which he frequented sparingly, 
 for there was no particular difference in her sphere 
 and his, but there were reasons why Miss Surtees went 
 out little, less than most young women of her age. Her 
 family was one of those which had ranked amongst the 
 best in Poolborough in the time of their wealth, and 
 no one could say still that their place was not with 
 "the best people" of the town. But with a mercantile 
 community more than any other ( though also more or 
 less in every other) wealth is necessary for the retain- 
 ing of that position. Women who go afoot cannot 
 keep up with those who have carriages and horses at 
 their command, neither can a girl in whose house no 
 dances, no dinners, no entertainments, are ever given, 
 associate long on easy terms with those who are in the 
 full tide of everything, going everywhere, and ex-
 
 DR. BARRERE. 113 
 
 changing hospitalities after the lavish fashion of 
 wealthy commercial society. And this was not the 
 only reason that kept Agnes Surtees out of the world. 
 There was one more urgent which was told, and one 
 which no one named but every one understood. The 
 first was the delicate health of her mother. Dr. Bar- 
 rere was aware that there was not very much in this. 
 He knew that had she been able to drive about as did 
 the ladies who were so sorry for her, and clothe herself 
 in furs and velvet, and take change of air whenever 
 she felt disposed, there would have been little the mat- 
 ter with Mrs. Surtees. But he was too sensible to 
 breathe a word on this subject. He held his tongue at 
 first from discretion, and afterwards because he had 
 found out for himself why it was that Mrs. Surtees' 
 delicate health was kept before the public of Pool- 
 borough. It took him some time to make this discov- 
 ery ; but partly from hints of others, and partly from 
 his own perceptions, he found it out at last. 
 
 It was that these two ladies were involved in the life 
 of a third member of their household— a son and 
 brother whom the "best people" in Poolborough had 
 ceased to invite, and whose name when it was men- 
 tioned was accompanied with shakings of the head 
 and looks of disapproval. Dr. Barrere did not ever 
 see Jim Surtees until he had been acquainted with his 
 mother and sister for nearly a year— not that he was 
 absent, but only that his haunts and associates were 
 not theirs. He was a young man who had never done 
 well. He had been far more highly educated than was 
 usual with the young men of Poolborough ; instead of 
 being sent into the counting-house in his youth he had 
 been sent to Cambridge, which was all his father's 
 pride and folly, the critics said, exempting Mrs. Sur- 
 tees from blame in a manner most unusual. It was 
 supposed that she had disapproved. She had come of 
 a Poolborough family, in business from father to son, 
 and knew what was necessary ; but Surtees was from 
 the country, from a poor race of county people, and 
 
 2—8
 
 114 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 was disposed to think business beneath him, or at least 
 consider it as a mere stepping-stone to wealth. When 
 he died so much less well off than was expected, leav- 
 ing his family but poorly provided for, then was the 
 moment when Jim Surtees might have proved what 
 was in him, and stepped into the breach, replaced his 
 mother and sister in their position, and restored the 
 credit of his father's name. In that case all the old 
 friends would have rallied around him; they would 
 have backed him up with their credit, and given him 
 every advantage. At such moments and in such 
 emergencies mercantile men are at their best. No one 
 would have refused the young man a helping hand— 
 they would have hoisted him upon their shoulders into 
 his father's place; they would have helped him 
 largely, generously, manfully. Alas! Jim Surtees 
 did then and there show what was in him. He had 
 neither energy nor spirit nor ambition, nor any care 
 for his father's name or his mother's comfort. He 
 said at once that he knew nothing about business. 
 "What could he do? It was entirely out of his way. 
 He scarcely knew what it was his father dealt in. Cot- 
 ton? Yes— but what did he know about cotton, or 
 bookkeeping, or anything? The young man was in- 
 terviewed by all who knew him; he was sent for by 
 the greatest merchants in Poolborough. What he 
 ought to do was set before him by everybody who had 
 any right to speak, and by a great many who had 
 none. But nothing moved him. He knew nothing 
 about business— he would do nothing in it. Why 
 should he try what he could not do ? And with these 
 replies he baffled all the anxious counsellors who were 
 so eager to convince him to the contrary. Then there 
 were situations suggested, even provided, for him ; but 
 these were all subject to the same objections. Finally 
 it came about that Jim Surtees did nothing. He had 
 not been long enough at Cambridge to take his degree. 
 He was modest about his own capacities even when 
 pupils were suggested to him. He did not know
 
 DR. BARRERE. 115 
 
 enough to teach, he declared, till his modesty drove the 
 anxious advisers distracted. What was to be done? 
 Jim Surtees eluded every expedient to make him do 
 anything. At last he dropped altogether, and the best 
 people in Poolborough were conscious of his existence 
 no more. 
 
 These were the circumstances of the Surtees family 
 when Dr. Barrere made their acquaintance. He 
 thought for some time that the two ladies lived alone, 
 and that their withdrawal from society was somewhat 
 absurd, based as it was on that delusion about Mrs. 
 Surtees' health; but a little further information made 
 him change his mind. He changed his mind about sev- 
 eral things, modifying his first impressions as time 
 went on. He had thought the mother one of those im- 
 aginary invalids who enjoy that gentle level of ill- 
 health which does not involve much suffering, and 
 which furnishes a pretty and interesting role for many 
 unoccupied women ; and he had thought her daughter 
 an angelic creature, whose faith in her mother's 
 migraines was such that she cheerfullz and sweetly 
 gave up the pleasures of her youth in order to minister 
 to them. But as Dr. Barrere changed from a doctor 
 into a friend ; as he began to ask admittance at times 
 when he was not called for, and when, last seal of a 
 growing intimacy, he be^an to venture to knock at the 
 door in the evening after dinner— a privilege which 
 he pleaded for as belonging to the habits of his French 
 ancestry (of which he knew so little)— his eyes were 
 speedily opened to many things which a morning vis- 
 itor would never have divined. The first time he did 
 so, he perceived to his astonishment Agnes on the land- 
 ing, half concealed by the turn of the staircase, 
 eagerly looking down to see who it was; and her 
 mother, though so little able to move about, was at the 
 door of the little drawing-room, looking flushed and 
 wretched, far more ill than when he had been called in 
 to prescribe for her. For whom was it that they were 
 looking? It could not be for himself, whom nobody
 
 116 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 had expected, whom they received with a tremulous 
 kindness, half relieved, half reluctant. After a few 
 such visits he began to see that the minds of these poor 
 ladies were divided between pleasure in his society and 
 fear to have him there. If he stayed a little longer 
 than usual he saw that they became anxious, the 
 mother breathless, with a desire to have him go away ; 
 and that even Agnes would accompany him down 
 stairs with an eager alacrity as if she could not be 
 comfortable till she had seen him out of the house. 
 And yet they were always kind, liked him to come, 
 looked for him, even would say a word which showed 
 that they had noted his absence if for a week or so he 
 did not appear; althoue:h while he was there they were 
 ever watchful, starting at every sound, hurrying him 
 away if he stayed beyond his time. The sight of a tall 
 figure lurching along the street, of some one fumbling 
 with a latch-key, of which he was sometimes conscious 
 as he went away, was scarcely necessary at last to 
 make him aware what it was that occasioned this anx- 
 iety. Mrs. Surtees saw love dawning in the Doctor's 
 eyes. She would not shut out from her patient girl 
 the chances of a happier lot ; but what if the doctor 
 should meet Jim! See him coming home sodden and 
 stupid, or noisy and gay. As Dr. Barrere became in- 
 timate they had spoken to him of Jim. He was study- 
 ing hard, he was writing, he was always busy, he was 
 not fond of society. There were so many reasons why 
 he should never appear. And by and by the doctor, 
 with a great ache of pity, had learned all these excuses 
 by heart, and penetrated their secret, and miscon- 
 strued their actions and habits no more 
 
 Finally the doctor made the acquaintance of Jim, 
 and to his great surprise not only liked him, but un- 
 derstood why the mother and sister were not always 
 miserable, how life varied with them from day to day, 
 and how even Mrs. Surtees was often cheerful, though 
 never unwatchful, never at ease. Dr. Barrere thought 
 with justice that nothing could be more miserable,
 
 DR. BARRERE. 117 
 
 more inexcusable, than the life the young man was 
 leading. In theory fate should have put into every 
 honest hand a whip to scourge such a good-for- 
 nothing. And sometimes the doctor felt a righteous 
 wrath, a desire to scourge till the blood came : but it 
 was not so much out of moral indignation as out of an 
 exasperated liking, an intolerable pity. What might 
 happen in the house in those awful moments when all 
 was silent, and everybody at rest save the mother and 
 sister watching for Jim's return at night, neither the 
 doctor nor any one knew. But at other moments Dr. 
 Barrere found it impossible to resist, any more than 
 the women did, the charm of a nature which had not 
 lost its distinction even in the haunts where he had 
 lost everything else. He even tried to attract and 
 draw to himself the prodigal, entertaining visions on 
 the subject and fancying how, if there were a man 
 closely connected with the family, himself to wit, 
 Arnold Barrere, and not merely women who wept and 
 reproached and condoned and wept again, but never 
 made a determined stand, nor struck a decisive blow, 
 there might still be hope for Jim. It could not be said 
 that this told as a motive in the fervour with which he 
 offered himself to Agnes Surtees. The doctor was in 
 love warmly and honestly, and as he made his declar- 
 ation thought, as a lover ought, of nothing but Agnes. 
 Yet when she hesitated and faltered, and after a mo- 
 ment broke the long silence and spoke to him openly 
 of her brother, there was the warmth of a personal de- 
 sire in the eagerness with which he met her confessions 
 half way. *'Jim is no drawback," he said eagerly— 
 "to me none. I can help you with Jim. If you will 
 have me there shall be no question of depriving him of 
 any love or care. He shall have me in addition to help 
 him to better things." *'0h," Agnes had cried, giv- 
 ing him both her hands in the fervour of love and 
 trust, "God bless you, Arnold, for speaking of better 
 things for Jim, ' ' And it was on this holy ground that 
 their contract was made. Henceforward there were 
 no concealments from him.
 
 118 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 Dr. Barrere was not a man to let the grass grow 
 under his feet. There was no reason why his marriage 
 should be delayed. He wanted to have his wife— a 
 possession almost indispensable, he assured Mrs. Sur- 
 tees, with a smile, to a medical man ; and the mother, 
 anxious to see one child's fate assured, and still more 
 anxious, catching with feverish hope at the help so 
 hopefully offered for the other, had no inclination to 
 put obstacles in the way. The marriage day was set- 
 tled, and all the preparations thereto begun, when the 
 sudden horror which still envelopes the name of Sur- 
 tees in Poolborough arose in a moment, and the follow- 
 ing incidents occurred to Dr. Barrere.
 
 DR. BARRERB. U9 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 f 1_jr E WAS going to visit a patient in a suburb one 
 IwJSS' ^^^^ October night. But it could scarcely be 
 ^gpml called dark. There was a pallid moon some- 
 where among the clouds whitening the heavy mist that 
 lay over the half -built environs of the town— dismal 
 blank spaces— fields which were no longer fields, 
 streets which were not yet streets. The atmosphere 
 was charged with vapour, which in its turn was made 
 into a dim, confusing whiteness by the hidden moon. 
 Everybody knows how dismal are these outskirts of a 
 great city. A house built here and there stood out 
 with a sinister solidity against the blank around. New 
 roads and streets laid out with indications of pave- 
 ment, cut across the ravaged fields. Here and there 
 was a mass of bricks, and there a pool of water. A 
 piece of ragged hedgerow, a remnant of its earlier 
 state, still bordered the highway here and there; a 
 forlorn tree shedding its leaves at every breath of air 
 stood at the corner where two ways met. Dr. Barrere 
 was no ways timid, but he felt a chill of isolation and 
 something like danger as he pushed his way towards 
 one of the furthest points of the uncompleted road, 
 where one house stood shivering in the vague damp 
 and whiteness. He had to cross the other branching 
 road, at the corner of which stood the shivering pop- 
 lar, which shed its leaves as if with a perpetual shrink- 
 ing of fear. There he was vaguely aware of something 
 standing in the shade of the ragged hedgerow— a 
 figure which moved as he passed, and seemed to make 
 a step forward as if awaiting some one. To say that 
 it was a figure he saw would be too distinct— he saw a 
 .movement, a something more solid than the mist, 
 which detached itself as if with a suggestion of watch- 
 fulness, and immediately subsided again back into the
 
 120 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 shadows. Dr. Barrere, though he was not timid, felt 
 the thrill as of a possible danger, the suggestion hav- 
 ing something in it more moving than a distincter 
 peril. But if there was a man lurking there waiting 
 for some passer-by, it was not at least for him, and 
 he walked quickly on, and presently in the interest of 
 his patient, and in the many thoughts that hurry 
 through every active brain, forgot the curious hint of 
 mystery and danger which had for a moment excited 
 his imagination. 
 
 When he approached the spot again on his return, 
 even the suggestion had died out of his mind. His 
 eyesight and all his faculties were keen, as befits his 
 profession, and he saw, without being aware that he 
 was seeing, everything that oame within his range of 
 vision. Accordingly he perceived without paying any 
 attention, the vague figure of a man crossing the open- 
 ing of the road where the poplar marked the corner, 
 coming towards him. He saw the solid speck in the 
 white mist approaching— then in a moment, in the 
 twinkling of an eye, this vague silhouette in the night 
 became a sudden swift scene of pantomimic tragedy, 
 all done and over in a moment. A sudden movement 
 took place in the scene ; another something, almost less 
 than a shadow, suddenly came into it from behind the 
 poplar. No, these words are too strong. What came 
 into the night was the sound of a crashing blow and a 
 fall, and another figure, in a different position, stand- 
 ing over something prostrate, raining down, as in a fit 
 of frantic passion, blow on blow. Passion, murder, 
 horror, came in a second into the still confusion of the 
 misty air. Then, swift as the sudden commotion, came 
 a pause— a wild cry of consternation, as if for the first 
 time the actor in this terrible momentary tragedy had 
 become aware of what he was doing. The spectator's 
 senses were so absorbed in the suddenness of the catas- 
 trophe that there was time enough for the whole 
 drama to enact itself before he found voice. He had 
 broken mechanically into a run, and thought that he
 
 DR. BARRERE. 121 
 
 called out. But it was not (it seemed to him in the 
 hurried progression of ideas) his cry or the sound of 
 his approach, but a sudden horror which had seized 
 the man (was he a murderer?), who had in a moment 
 come to himself. When the doctor at full speed, and 
 calling out mechanically, automatically, for Help! 
 help ! reached the spot where the prostrate figure was 
 lying, the other had taken flight down the cross road 
 and was already invisible in the distance. The doc- 
 tor's first care was for the victim. He was not an 
 avenger of blood, but a healer of men. 
 
 Presently there appeared around him two or three 
 startled people— one from the nearest house carrying 
 a small lamp, which made the strangest, weird appear- 
 ance in the misty night ; a passerby on his way home ; 
 a vagrant from the deserted fields. They helped the 
 doctor to turn over the murdered man, who was still 
 living, but no more, and who, it was evident to Dr. 
 Barrere's experienced eyes, was on the point of death 
 and beyond all human help. The lamp had been 
 placed on the ground close by, and sent up an odour 
 of paraffin along with the yellow rays that proceeded 
 from its globe of light, and the figures kneeling and 
 bending over the inanimate thing in the midst looked 
 more like a group of murderers than people bringing 
 help and succour. Some time had elapsed before the 
 means of transporting him even to the nearest house 
 had been procured, and by that time there was no 
 longer any question of what could be done on his be- 
 half, and all that was possible was to carry away the 
 body. Dr. Barrere walked beside the melancholy con- 
 voy to the nearest police station, where he made his 
 deposition; and then he went home in all the tremor 
 of excitement and mental commotion. He had fortun- 
 ately no visits to pay that evening of any importance; 
 but he was too much stirred and troubled to remain 
 quietly at home, and after a while hurried out to 
 Agnes, his natural confidant, to tell her all about the 
 shock he had received. It struck him with surprise to
 
 122 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 see, when he entered the little drawing-room, that Jim 
 was ^vith his mother and sister. It was a thing that 
 had very seldom happened before. He sat apart from 
 them at the writing-table, ^vhere he was writing, or 
 making believe to write, letters. The sight of him 
 struck Dr. Barrere with a certain surprise, but he 
 could not have told why. There was no reason why he 
 should not be found in his mother 's drawing-room. It 
 was true that he was rarely to be seen there, but yet 
 sometimes he would make his appearance. This even- 
 ing he had dressed for dinner, which was still more 
 unusual : perhaps he was going out to some late even- 
 ing party; perhaps some one had been expected to din- 
 ner. These thoughts flew vaguely through Dr. Bar- 
 rere 's mind, he could not have told why. There was 
 no particular reason why he should thus desire to pen- 
 etrate the motives of Jim Surtees ' behaviour, or to ex- 
 plain to himself why the young man was there. The 
 speculation passed through his head \vithout thought, 
 if such an expression may be used, ^vithout any voli- 
 tion of his, as half our thoughts do, like the chance 
 flight of birds or butterflies across the air. They did 
 not detain him a moment as he came forward with his 
 greetings, and met the pleased surprise of the recep- 
 tion which the ladies gave him, * ' I thought it was too 
 late to look for you, ' ' his Agnes said, with a brighten- 
 ing of all the soft lines of her face, as if the sun had 
 risen upon a landscape. And then, as it was cold, a 
 chair was drawn for him near the fire. ''You have 
 been kept late on your round to-night," said Mrs. Sur- 
 tees. * ' Have you any very anxious case ? ' ' 
 
 **It is no case that has kept me," said the doctor. 
 **I have had a dreadful encounter in the road. You 
 know that district up beyond St. George 's-in-the-fields 
 —those half-built, desolate villas and cottages. The 
 roads are as lonely as if they were in the middle of a 
 wood, A new quarter by night is as bad as a bare 
 moor. ' ' 
 
 Agnes stood listening with her hand on the back of
 
 DR. BARRERE. 123 
 
 hia chair, but still a smile upon her face— the smile of 
 pleasure at his coming. Mrs. Surtees had let her knit- 
 ting fall upon her lap, and was looking at him, listen- 
 ing with pleased interest. They had not perceived the 
 agitation which, indeed, until he began to speak, he 
 had managed to suppress. "And what happened?" 
 Mrs, Surtees said. 
 
 "I have been," he answered, his voice breaking in 
 spite of himself, ' ' the witness of a murder. ' ' 
 
 * ' Good heavens ! ' ' The ladies were too much star- 
 tled to put another question except with their eager 
 eyes. They drew closer to him; the hand of Agnes 
 glided to his shoulder from the back of his chair. 
 "What she thought first was that his emotion did hon- 
 our to him. 
 
 Then he described to them briefly what he had seen 
 —the lurking figure in the shadow which had alarmed 
 himself as he passed first, but which he soon perceived 
 had no hostile intentions towards him ; the appearance 
 of the man approaching from the opposite direction as 
 he returned ; the sudden assault ; the rapid, breathless, 
 horrible suddenness of the tragedy. The ladies hung 
 upon his lips, making exclamations of horror. It was 
 not till afterwards that Dr. Barrere became aware that 
 the young man at the table behind made no sign, said 
 not a word. He had told everything, and answered 
 half a dozen hurried, faltering questions before Jim 
 made any remark. Then he suddenly stirred behind 
 backs (the group at the fireside having forgotten his 
 presence) and asked, "What are you talking about? 
 What's happened?" in a deep, half growling voice, as 
 of a man disturbed in his occupation by some fuss of 
 which he did not grasp the meaning. 
 
 "Oh," said Mrs. Surtees wiping her moist eyes, 
 * ' did you not hear, Jim ? The doctor has seen a mur- 
 der committed. God preserve us ! I feel as if I had 
 Been it myself. A dreadful thing like that coming so 
 neai us ! It is as if we were mixed up in it, ' ' she said. 
 
 "A murder? Are you sure it was a murder? It
 
 124 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 might be nothing more than a quarrel— how could you 
 tell in the dark ? ' ' said Jim, always in the same gruff, 
 almost indignant voice. 
 
 "If you had seen it as I did you would have been in 
 no doubt, ' ' said Dr. Barrere, turning half round, and 
 catching a side view of the tall figure slouching with 
 hands in his pockets, his face clouded with a scowl of 
 displeasure, his shoulders up to his ears. This sil- 
 houette against the light gave him a thrill, he scarcely 
 knew why. He paused for a moment, and then added, 
 ' ' After all you may be right ; it was murder to all in- 
 tents and purpose— but whether it was intended to be 
 so there may be a doubt. ' ' 
 
 "You are always so ready to come to tragical con- 
 clusions, ' ' said Jim in easier tones. * ' I dare say it will 
 turn out to have been a quarrel, and no more. ' ' 
 
 "A quarrel in which one is killed is apt to look like 
 murder. ' ' 
 
 These words gave them all a shivering sensation. 
 Even Jim's shoulders went up to his ears as if he 
 shared the involuntary shudder— and Mrs. Surtees 
 said again, drying her eyes, " It is as if we were mixed 
 up in it. Poor man, poor man, cut off in a moment, 
 without a thought!" 
 
 "It appears that he is a well known and very bad 
 character," said Dr. Barrere. "I feel almost more 
 sorry for the poor wretch that did it. The cry he gave 
 when he saw what he had done still rings in my ears." 
 
 "Then you think he did not mean it, Arnold?" 
 
 * ' God knows ! You would have said he meant every- 
 thing that passion and rage could mean to see the 
 blows; but that cry—" 
 
 "He repented, perhaps— when it was too late." 
 
 "It was horror— it was consternation. It was the 
 cry of a man who suddenly saw what he had done." 
 
 There was a pause of sympathetic horror and pity. 
 Then Jim Surtees went back to the writing-table, and 
 Dr. Barrere continued his conversation with the 
 ladies, which, however they tried to break into other
 
 DR. BARRERE, 125 
 
 and happier subjects, returned again and again to the 
 terrible scene from which he had just come. They 
 spoke in low tones together over the fire— the doctor 
 recounting over and over again the feelings with 
 which he had contemplated the extraordinary, sudden 
 tragedy, the rapidity with which all its incidents fol- 
 lowed each other, leaving him scarcely time to cry out 
 before all was over. He was naturally full of it, and 
 could speak of nothing else, and his betrothed and her 
 mother, always sympathetic, threw themselves entirely 
 into the excitement which still possessed him. It was 
 late when he rose to go away, soothed and calmed, and 
 with a sense of having at last exhausted the incident. 
 It startled him as he turned round, after taking leave 
 of Mrs. Surtees, to see that Jim was still there. And 
 the aspect of the young man was sufficiently remark- 
 able. The candles on the writing-table behind which 
 he sat had burned low. They had escaped from the 
 little red shades which had been placed over them, 
 and were flaring low, like a level sun in the evening, 
 upon the figure behind, which, with his head bowed 
 in his hands and shoulders up to his ears, seemed un- 
 conscious of all that was passing. Jim neither saw nor 
 heard the doctor move. He was absorbed in some all- 
 important matter of his own. 
 
 Next day Dr. Barrere was still deeply occupied by 
 the scene he had seen. He was summoned for the cor- 
 oner's inquest, and he was, as was natural, questioned 
 by everybody he met upon a subject which was in all 
 men's mouths. It was equally natural that he should 
 return next evening to bring the account of all the 
 encounters he had gone through and all that was news 
 on the subject to Agnes and her mother. Once more 
 he noted with surprise that Jim was in the drawing- 
 room. Was he turning over a new leaf ? Had he seen 
 the folly of his ways at last ? 
 
 They were sitting as before over the fire, Dr. Bar- 
 rere telling his story, the ladies listening with ab- 
 sorbed attention. The interest of this terrible tragedy
 
 126 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 whicli had taken place almost within their kin, which 
 they were seeing through his eyes, was absorbing to 
 them. They wanted to know everything, the most 
 minute details, what questions had been asked him, 
 and what he had replied. Jim was still behind backs 
 at the writing-table with the two candles in their red 
 shades, which did not betray his face, but threw a 
 strange light upon his hands and the occupation in 
 which he seemed to be absorbed. He was playing an 
 old-fashioned game with small colored glass balls on a 
 round board, called solitaire in the days when it was 
 in fashion. The little tinkle of the balls as he placed 
 them in the necessary order came in during the pauses 
 in the talk like a faint accompaniment. But no one 
 looked at him: they were too much absorbed in Dr. 
 Barrere's report. 
 
 "And are you the only witness, Arnold?" Agnes 
 asked. 
 
 "The only one ^\'ho saw the deed done," he said. 
 * ' It is very rarely that there is even one witness to the 
 actual fact of a murder. But there is other evi- 
 dence than mine; the man is supposed to have been 
 seen by various people, and there is a dumb witness of 
 the first importance, the stick which he must have 
 thrown away, or which dropped from his hand in the 
 horror, as I shall always believe, of his discovery of 
 what he had done." 
 
 At this point there was a ring as of the glass balls 
 all tinkling together on the board. The doctor turned 
 round, slightly startled in the high tension of his 
 nerves, and saw that Jim had upset his plaything, and 
 that the balls were rolling about the table. But this 
 was far from being an unusual accident in the game, 
 and neither Mrs. Surtees nor Agnes took any notice, 
 their nerves were not strained as Dr. Barrere's had 
 been. The mother spoke low with a natural thrill of 
 horror and pity. "And is it known," she said, "is it 
 known to whom the stick belongs?" 
 
 Before Dr. Barrere could reply there came a knock
 
 DR. BARRERE. 127 
 
 to the door— a knock not at the door of the room in 
 which they sat, but below at the street door, a thing 
 unusual indeed at that hour, but not so startling in 
 general as to excite or alarm them. 
 
 But perhaps all their nerves were affected more or 
 less. It was very sudden and sharp, and came into 
 the calm domestic atmosphere with a scarcely compre- 
 hensible shock. They all turned round, and Jim, the 
 doctor saw, had suddenly risen up, and stood with his 
 face turned towards the door. The summons rang 
 through the silence with an effect altogether out of 
 keeping with its simplicity. 
 
 ''Who can that be so late," said Mrs. Surtees. 
 **Jim, will you go and see?" 
 
 **It must be some one for me," the doctor said. 
 
 ''Poor Arnold! I hope it is someone near," said 
 Agnes faltering— for neither of them believed what 
 they said. It was something terrible, something novel, 
 some startling new event whatever it was. Jim, in- 
 stead of doing as his mother wished, sat down again 
 behind the writing-table, within the shelter of the red 
 shades on the candles, and they all waited, scarcely 
 venturing to draw breath. Presently the neat parlor- 
 maid, pale, too, and with a visible tremor, opened the 
 door. She said, with a troubled look at her mistress, 
 tha;t, "Please, there was some one down stairs who 
 wanted to speak to Mr. Jim." Mrs. Surtees was the 
 last to be moved by the general agitation. She said, 
 "For Mr. Jim? But let him come up, Ellen. Jim, 
 you had better ask your friend to come upstairs. ' ' 
 
 Once more there was a terrible, incomprehensible 
 pause. Jim, who had fallen rather than re-seated him- 
 self on the sofa which stood behind the writing-table, 
 said not a word; his face was not visible behind the 
 shaded lights. Mrs. Surtees threw a glance round her 
 —a troubled appeal for she knew not what enlighten- 
 ment. Then she said breathlessly, "What has hap- 
 pened? What is the matter? Who is it? Ellen, you 
 will show the gentleman up stairs. ' '
 
 128 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 Heavens ! How they; stood listening, panic stricken, 
 not knowing what they were afraid of, nor what there 
 was to fear. Mrs. Surtees still kept her seat tremu- 
 lously, and Jim, lost in the corner of the sofa, sud- 
 denly extinguished the candles— an act which they all 
 seemed to approve and understand without knowing 
 why. And then there came a heavy foot ascending the 
 stairs. Mrs. Surtees did not know the man who came 
 in— a tall soldierly man with a clear and healthful 
 countenance. It even gave her a momemtary sensa- 
 tion of comfort to see that Jim's ''friend" was no 
 blear-eyed young rake, but a person so respectable. 
 She rose to meet him with her old-fashioned courtesy. 
 *' Though I have not the pleasure of knowing you," 
 she said with a smile, which was tremulous by reason 
 of that causeless agitation, "my son's friends are al- 
 ways welcome." Oh heaven above! her son's friend! 
 Dr. Barrere was the only one among them who knew 
 the man. The sight of him cleared the whole matter 
 in a moment, and shed a horrible light over everything 
 to the doctor's eyes. He made a sudden sign to the 
 newcomer imploring silence. 
 
 * * I know this gentleman, too, Mrs. Surtees, ' ' he said, 
 **he is one of my — friends, also. )iVould it be taking a 
 great liberty if I were to ask you to leave us for a few 
 minutes the use of this room ? Agnes, it is a great in- 
 trusion—but—for God's sake take her away!" he said 
 in his betrothed 's ear. 
 
 Mrs. Surtees looked at him with some surprise and 
 an air of gentle dignity not entirely without offence. 
 "My dear," she said to Agnes, "Dr. Barrere would 
 not ask such a thing without good reasons for it, so let 
 us go." She was not a woman who had been accus- 
 tomed to take the lead even in her own family, and 
 she was glad, glad beyond description, to believe that 
 the business, whatever it was, was Dr. Barrere 's busi- 
 ness, and not— anything else. She accepted it with a 
 trembling sense of relief, yet a feeling that the doctor 
 was perhaps taking a little too much upon him, turn- 
 ing her out of her own room.
 
 DR. BARRERE. 1^ 
 
 The two men stood looking at each other as the 
 ladies went away, with Jim still huddled in the corner 
 of the sofa, in the shade, making no sign. Dr. Barrere 
 saw, however, that the stranger, with a glance round 
 of keen, much-practised eyes, had at once seen him, 
 and placed himself between Jim and the door. When 
 the ladies had disappeared the doctor spoke quickly. 
 ' ' Well, ' ' he said, * ' what is it, Morton ? Some new in- 
 formation ? ' ' 
 
 "Something I regret as much as any one can. Dr. 
 Barrere. I have to ask Mr. Surtees to come with me. 
 There need be no exposure for the moment : but I must 
 take him without delay." 
 
 ' ' Take him ! ' ' The doctor made a last effort to ap- 
 pear not to perceive. He said, "Have you too seen 
 something, then ? Have you further 'evidence to give, 
 Jim?" 
 
 There was no reply. Neither did the superinten- 
 dent say a word. They stood all three silent. Jim had 
 risen up ; his limbs seemed unable to support him. He 
 stood leaning on the table, looking out blankly over 
 the two extinguished candles and their red shades. 
 The officer went up and laid his hand lightly upon the 
 young man's shoulder. "Come," he said, "you know 
 what I 'm here for : and I 'm sorry, very sorry for you, 
 Mr. Jim: but no doubt you'll be able to make it all 
 clear. ' ' 
 
 "Barrere," said Jim, struggling against the dryness 
 in his throat, "you can prove that I have not been out 
 of the house— that I was at home all last night. I 
 couldn't— I couldn't, you know, be in two places at 
 one time— could I, Barrere?" 
 
 "Mr. Jim, you must remember that whatever you 
 say now will tell against you at the trial. I take you to 
 witness, doctor, that I haven't even told him what it 
 was for." 
 
 Jim ground out an oath from between his clenched 
 teeth. "Do I need to ask?" he said. "Doesn't every- 
 body know I hated him— and good reason too— hated 
 him and threatened him— but, God help me, not to 
 kill him!" cried the young man with a voice of 
 despair. 
 
 2-9
 
 130 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 \t\ 1^- BARRERE was left to break the news to the 
 I ^^ J motlier and daughter. He never knew how he 
 Ij t^^ l accomplished this dreadful office. They came 
 back when they heard the door shut, evidently not 
 expecting to find him, believing that he had withdrawn 
 with his "friend"— and the anxious, searching eyes 
 with which his Agnes looked around the room, the 
 mingled terror and pleasure of her look on discover- 
 ing him, never faded from his mind, Mrs. Surtees was 
 more disappointed than pleased. She said, with an 
 evident sudden awakening of anxiety, "Where is 
 Jim?" And then he had to tell them. How did he 
 find words to do it? But the wonderful thing, the 
 dreadful thing, was that after the shock of the first 
 intimation there seemed little surprise in the looks of 
 these poor ladies. The mother sank down in her chair 
 and hid her face in her hands, and Agnes stood behind 
 her mother, throwing her arms round her, pressing 
 that bowed head against her breast. They did not cry 
 out indignantly that it was not— could not be true. 
 They were silent, like those upon whom something 
 long looked for had come at last. The doctor left them 
 after a while with a chill in his very soul. He could 
 say nothing ; he could not attempt to console them in 
 the awful silence which seemed to have fallen upon 
 them. Agnes tried to smile as he went away— tried 
 with her trembling lips to say something. But she 
 could not conceal from him that she wished him to go, 
 that he could give no comfort, that the best thing he 
 could do for them in their misery was to leave them 
 alone. He went home very miserable in that con- 
 sciousness of being put aside, and allowed no share in 
 the anguish of the woman whom he loved. It was in- 
 tolerable to him ; it was unjust. He said to himself as
 
 DR. BARRERE. 131 
 
 he walked along that the tacit abandonment of Jim, 
 the absence of all protest on their part that his guilt 
 ■was impossible— a protest which surely a mother and 
 sister in any circumstances ought to have made— was 
 hard, was unjust. If all the world condemned him, 
 yet they should not have condemned him. He took 
 Jim's part hotly, feeling that he was a fellow sufferer. 
 Even were he dissipated and reckless, poor fellow, 
 there was a long, long way between that and murder. 
 Murder ! There was nothing in Jim which could make 
 it possible that he could have to do with a murder. If 
 he was hasty in temper, poor fellow, his nature was 
 sweet, nothwithstanding all his errors. Even he, 
 Arnold Barrere, a man contemptuous of the manner of 
 folly which had ruined Jim, a man with whom wrath 
 and revenge might have awakened more sympathy- 
 even he had come to have a tenderness for the erring 
 young man. And to think that Jim could have lain in 
 wait for any one, could have taken a man at a disad- 
 vantage, was, he declared to himself with indignation, 
 impossible. It was impossible ! though the two women 
 who were nearest to him— his mother and his sister- 
 did not say so, did not stand up in vindication of the 
 unhappy youth. 
 
 When he had exhausted this natural indignation 
 Dr. Barrere began to contemplate the situation more 
 calmly, and to arrange its incidents in his mind. The 
 horror of the thought that he was himself the chief 
 witness affected him little at first, for it was to the 
 fact only that he could speak, and the culprit, so far 
 as he was concerned, was without identity, a shadow 
 in the night, and no more. But a chill came over that 
 flush of indignant partisanship with which he had 
 made a mental stand for Jim when the other circum- 
 stances flashed upon him. He remembered his own 
 surprise to find Jim in the drawing-room when he ar- 
 rived at Mrs. Surtees' house; to see his dress so un- 
 usual, though scarcely more unusual than the fact of 
 his being there. He remembered how the young man.
 
 132 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 held aloof, how the candles had flared upon him 
 neglected. The little scene came before Dr. Barrere 
 like a picture— the candle shades standing up in a 
 ludicrous neglect, the light flaring under them upon 
 Jim's face. And then again, to-night: the senseless 
 game with which he seemed to amuse himself; the 
 tremble of his hands over the plaything; his absence 
 of interest in the matter which was so exciting to the 
 others. "Why was Jim there at all? AVliy did he ask 
 no question? Why keep behind unexcited, unsur- 
 prised, while the doctor told his story? And then the 
 reason thrust itself upon him in Jim's own words— "I 
 couldn't be in two places at once, could I? You can 
 prove that I was here last night." Good God, what 
 did it mean? Jim— Jim!— and his mother and sister, 
 who had sunk into despair without a word, who had 
 never said as women ought, "We know him better; it 
 is not true— it is not true." 
 
 Dr. Barrere went home more wretched than words 
 can say. Hard and terrible is an unjust accusation; 
 but oh, how easy, how sweet, how possible, is even the 
 shame which is undeserved ! A century of that is as 
 nothing in comparison with a day or hour of that 
 which is merited— of the horror which is true. He 
 tried to hope still that it was not true ; but he felt com- 
 ing over him like a pall, the terror which he could now 
 perceive had quenched the very hearts in the bosoms 
 of the two women who were Jim's natural defenders. 
 They had not been able to say a word— and neither 
 could he. Dr. Barrere stood still in the middle of the 
 dark street with the damp wind blowing in his face as 
 all this came before him. A solitary passer-by looked 
 round surprised, and looked again, thinking the man 
 was mad. He saw in a moment as by a revelation, all 
 that was before them— and himself. The horrible 
 notoriety, the disgrace, the endless stigma. It would 
 crush them and tear their lives asunder : but for him 
 also, would not that be ruin too ?
 
 DR. BARRERE. 133 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 *T^ HE trial took place after a considerable inter- 
 *• 1 val, for the assizes were just over when the man 
 W^m was killed. In that dreadful time of suspense 
 and misery proof after proof accumulated slowly with 
 a gradual drawing together as of the very web of 
 fate. The stick which was found by the body of the 
 murdered man was Jim's stick, wdth his initials upon 
 it, in a silver band— alas, his mother's gift. He was 
 proved to have had a desperate quarrel with the man, 
 who was one of those who had corrupted and misled 
 him. Then the alibi which had seemed at first so 
 strong disappeared into worse than nothing when ex- 
 amined : for Jim had been seen on his flight home ; he 
 had been seen to enter furtively and noiselessly into 
 his mother's house, though the servants were ready to 
 swear that he had not gone out that night ; and all the 
 precautions he had taken, instead of bringing him 
 safety, only made his position worse, being shown to be 
 precautions consciously taken against a danger fore- 
 seen. All these things grew into certainty before the 
 trial; so that it was all a foregone conclusion in the 
 minds of the townspeople, some of whom yielded to 
 the conviction with heartfelt pity, and some with an 
 eager improving of the situation, pointing out to what 
 horrible conclusions vice was sure to come. 
 
 Meanwhile this strange and horrible event, which 
 had held the town for more than nine days in wonder 
 and perturbation, and which had given a moral to 
 many a tale, and point to many a sermon, held one 
 little circle of unhappy creatures as in a ring of iron 
 —unable to get away from it, unable to forget it, their 
 hearts, their hopes, their life itself, marked forever 
 with its trace of blood. The two ladies had roused 
 themselves from their first stupor into a half fictitious
 
 131 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 adoption of their natural role as defenders of Jim. 
 God knows through how many shocks and horrors of 
 discovery Jim had led them, making something new, 
 something worse, always the thing to be expected, be- 
 fore they had come to that pitch that their hearts had 
 no power to make any protest at all. But when the 
 morning rose upon their troubled souls they began to 
 say to each other that it could not be true. It could 
 not be true ! Jim had now and then an acces of sud- 
 den rage, but he was the kind of man of whom it is 
 said that he would not hurt a fly. How could it be 
 possible that he would do a murder ? It was not pos- 
 sible ; any other kind of evil thing— but not that, oh, 
 not that! They said this to each other when they 
 rose up from tlie uneasy bed in which mother and 
 daughter had lain down together, not able to separate 
 from each other— though those rules of use and wont 
 which are so strong on women made them lie down as 
 if to sleep, where no sleep was. But when the light 
 came— that awful light which brings back common life 
 to us on the morning after a great calamity— they 
 looked into each other 's pale faces, and with one voice 
 Baid, '*0h no, no, it cannot be!" "Mother," cried 
 Agnes, "he would not hurt a fly. Oh, how kind he 
 was when I was ill, when you had your accident— do 
 you remember?" Who does not know what these 
 words are— Do you remember? All that he was who 
 is dead; all that he might have been who is lost; 
 all the hopes, the happy prospects, the cheerful days 
 before trouble came. No words more poignant can be 
 eaid. They did not need to ask each other what they 
 remembered— that was enough. They clasped each 
 other, and kissed with trembling lips, and then Agnes 
 rose, bidding her mother rest, and went to fetch her 
 the woman's cordial, the cup of tea— which is so often 
 all one poor female creature can offer to another by 
 way of help. 
 
 No, no, he could not have done it ! They took a little 
 comfort for the moment. And another strange com-
 
 DR. BARRERE. 135 
 
 fort tliey took in a thing which was one of the most 
 damning pieces of evidence against Jim: which was 
 that he had quarreled violently with the murdered 
 man and denounced him, and declared hatred and 
 everlasting enmity against him. The story of the 
 quarrel as it v/as told to them brought tears, which 
 were almost tears of joy, to Mrs. Surtees' eyes. The 
 man who had been killed was one of those adventurers 
 who haunt the outskirts of society wherever there are 
 victims to be found. He had preyed upon the lives . 
 and souls of young men in Poolborough since the days 
 when Jim Surtees was an innocent and credulous boy. 
 It was not this man 's fault that Jim had gone astray, 
 for Jim, alas, was all ready for his fall, and eager 
 after everything that was forbidden ; but in the fits of 
 remorse and misery which sometimes came upon him 
 it was perhaps no wonder if he laid it at Langton's 
 door; and that the mother should have held Langton 
 responsible, who could wonder? The facts of the 
 quarrel were as so many nails in Jim's coffin : but God 
 help the poor woman, they gave consolation to his 
 mother's heart. They meant repentance, she thought, 
 they meant generosity and a pathetic indignation, and 
 more, they meant succour ; for the quarrel had arisen 
 over an unfortunate youth whom the blackleg was 
 throwing his toils around as he had thrown them 
 around Jim, and whom Mrs, Surtees believed Jim had 
 saved by exposing the villain. The story was told re- 
 luctantly, delicately, to the poor ladies, as almost seal- 
 ing Jim's fate: and to the consternation of the narra- 
 tor, who was struck dumb, and could only stare at them 
 in a kind of stupor of astonishment, they looked at each 
 other and broke forth into cries at first inarticulate 
 which were almost cries of joy. "You do not see the 
 bearing of it, I fear," said the solicitor who had the 
 management of the case, as soon as out of his aston- 
 ishment he had recovered his voice. "Oh sir," cried 
 Mrs. Surtees, "what I see is this, that my boy has 
 saved another poor woman's son, God bless him! and
 
 136 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 ttat will not be forgotten, that will not be forgotten ! " 
 This gentleman withdrew in a state of speechless con- 
 sternation. "No, it will not be forgotten," he said to 
 Dr. Barrere. "I think the poor lady has gone out of 
 her senses, and little wonder. It is a piece of evidence 
 which we can never get over. ' ' Dr. Barrere shook his 
 head, not understanding the women much better than 
 the lawyer did. This gave them consolation, and yet 
 it was the seal of Jim's fate. 
 
 Dr. Barrere himself in the long period of waiting 
 was a most unhappy man. He stood by the Surtees 
 nobly, everybody said. No son could have been more 
 attentive than he was to the poor mother who was en- 
 tirely broken by this blow, and had suddenly become 
 an old woman. And he never wavered in his faith 
 and loyalty to Agnes, who but for that noble fidelity 
 would, everybody said, have been the most of all to be 
 pitied. For Agnes was young, and had all her life 
 before her, with the stain of this crime upon her name ; 
 and if her lover had not stood by her what would have 
 become of her? The people who had been doubtful of 
 Dr. Barrere, as half a Frenchman, as too great a theor- 
 ist, as a man who had not been quite successful in his 
 outset, began now to look upon him with increased 
 respect, and his firmness, his high honour, his disinter- 
 estedness were commented upon on all sides. But in 
 his heart the doctor was far from happy. His life, 
 too, seemed in question as well as Jim 's. If the worst 
 came to the worst, he asked himself, would society, 
 however sympathetic for the moment, receive the fam- 
 ily of a man who had been hanged— horrible words !— 
 without prejudice ? AVould there not be a stigma upon 
 the name of Surtees, and even upon the name of him 
 who had given his own as a shield to the family of the 
 murderer 1 He did his duty— no man more truly. He 
 loved his Agnes with all the warmth of an honest 
 heart, taking his share of all her trouble, supporting 
 her through everything, making himself for her sake 
 the brother of a criminal, and one of the objects of
 
 DR. BARRERE. 137 
 
 popular curiosity and pity. All this lie did from day 
 to day, and went on doing it: but still there were 
 struggles and dreadful misgivings in Dr. Barrere's 
 heart. He was a proud man, and except for what he 
 made by his profession a poor one. If that failed him 
 he had nothing else to fall back upon, and he already 
 knew the misery of unsuccess. He knew what it was 
 to see his practice wasting away, to see his former 
 patients pass by shamefacedly, conscious of having 
 transferred their ailments and themselves to other 
 hands, to be put aside for no expressed reason out of 
 the tide of life. At Poolborough he had begun to for- 
 get the experiences of his beginning, and to feel that 
 at last he had got hold of the thread which would lead 
 him if not to fortune, at least to comfort and the cer- 
 tainties of an established course of living. "Would this 
 last ? he asked himself. Would it make no difference 
 to him if he identified himself with ruin— ruin so hid- 
 eous and complete ? The question was a terrible one, 
 and brought the sweat to his brow when in chance 
 moments, between his visits and his cases, between the 
 occupations and thoughts which absorbed him, now 
 and tjhen, suddenly, in spite of all the pains he took, it 
 would start up and look him in the face. ' ' He had a 
 brotlher who was hanged, ' ' that was what people would 
 say; they would not even after a little lapse of time 
 pause to recollect that it was his wife's brother. The 
 brand would go with them wherever he went. *'You 
 remember the great murder case in Poolborough? 
 "Well, these were the people, and the brother was 
 hanged." These words seemed to detach themselves 
 and float in the air. He said them to himself some- 
 times, or rather they were said in his ear, without any- 
 thing else to connect them. The phrase seemed al- 
 ready a common phrase which any one might use— 
 "The brother was hanged." And then cold drops of 
 moisture would come out upon his forehead. And all 
 the possibilities of life, the success which is dear to a 
 man, the advancement of which he knew himself capa-
 
 133 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 ble— was it all to go? Was he to be driven back ouce 
 more to that everlasting re-commencement which 
 makes the heart of a man sick? 
 
 These thoughts accompanied Dr. Barrere as he 
 went and came, a son, and more than a son, to Mrs. 
 Surtees, and to Agnes the most faithful, the most 
 sympathetic of lovers. At such a moment, and in face 
 of the awful catastrophe which had come upon them, 
 any talk of marriage would have been out of place. 
 He had, indeed, suggested it at first in mingled alarm 
 and desperation, and true desire to do his best, in the 
 first impulse of overwhelming sympathy, and at the 
 same time in the first glimpse of all that might follow, 
 and sickening horror of self -distrust lest his resolu- 
 tion might give way. He would have fled from him- 
 self, from all risks of this nature into the safety of a 
 bond which he could not break. But Agnes had 
 silently negatived the proposal with a shake of her 
 head and a smile of pathetic tenderness. She, too, had 
 thoughts of the future, of which she breathed no word 
 to any one, not even to her mother. All that was in 
 his mind as subject of alarm and misgiving was re- 
 flected, with that double clearness and vivification 
 which is given to- everything reflected in the clear flow- 
 ing of a river, in the mind of Agnes. She saw all with 
 the distinctness of one to whom the sacrifice of herself 
 was nothing when compared with the welfare of those 
 she loved. He was afraid lest these alarms might 
 bring him into temptation, and the temptation be 
 above his strength; and his soul was disturbed and 
 made miserable. But to Agnes the matter took an- 
 other aspect. All that he foresaw she foresaw, but the 
 thought brought neither disturbance nor fear. It 
 brought the exaltation of a great purpose— the solemn 
 joy of approaching martyrdom. Arnold should never 
 suffer for her. It w^as she who would have the better 
 part and suffer for him. 
 
 The dreadful fact that it was Dr. Barrere only who 
 had witnessed the murder, and that he would have to
 
 DR. BARRERE. 139 
 
 speak and prove \Vliat he had seen, became more and 
 more apparent to them all as the time drew on. His 
 description of the blows that had been rained down 
 wildly on the victim, and of the lurking figure in the 
 shadow whom he had noted, as he passed the first time, 
 took away all hope that it might be supposed the act 
 of a momentary madness without premeditation. The 
 doctor had told his story with all the precision that 
 was natural to him before he knew who it was that 
 would be convicted by it; and now it was no longer 
 possible for him, even had his conscience permitted it, 
 to soften the details which he had at first given so 
 clearly, or to throw any mist upon his clear narrative. 
 He had to repeat it all, knowing the fatal effect it must 
 have, standing up with Jim's pale face before him, 
 with a knowledge that somewhere in a dim corner 
 Agnes sat with bowed head listening— to what she 
 already knew so well. The doctor's countenance was 
 as pale as Jim's. His mouth grew dry as he bore his 
 testimony ;. but not all the terrible consequences could 
 make him alter a word. He could scarcely refrain a 
 groan, a sob, when he had done ; and this involuntary 
 evidence of what it cost him to tell the truth increased 
 the effect in the highest degree, as the evidence of an 
 unwilling witness always does. There was but one 
 point in which he could help the prisoner; and for- 
 tunately that too had been a special point in his prev- 
 ious evidence : but it was not until Dr. Barrere got into 
 the hands of Jim's advocate that this was brought out. 
 "I see," the counsel said, ''that in your previous 
 examination you speak of a cry uttered by the assail- 
 ant after the blows which you have described. You 
 describe it as a cry of horror. In what sense do you 
 mean this to be understood ? ' ' 
 
 ^'I -mean," said Dr. Barrere very pointedly and 
 clearly— and if there had been any divided attention 
 in the crowded court where so many people had come 
 to hear the fate of one whom they had known from 
 his childhood, every mind was roused now, and every
 
 140 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 eye intent upon the speaker—* ' I mean— ' ' He paused 
 to give fuller f orca to what lie said. 
 
 "I mean that the man who struck those blows for 
 the first time realised what he was doing. The cry 
 was one of consternation and dismay. It was the cry 
 of a man horrified to see what he had done. ' ' 
 
 "The. cry was so remarkable that it made a great 
 impression on your mind ? ' ' 
 
 **A very great impression. I do not think I have 
 ever heard an utterance which affected me so much." 
 
 **Tou were hurrying forward at the time to inter- 
 pose in the scuffle. Did you distinguish any words? 
 Did you recognise the voice?" 
 
 "It would give an erroneous impression to say that 
 I meant to interpose in the scuffle. There was no 
 scuffle. The man fell at once. He never had a chance 
 of defending himself. I did not recognise the voice, 
 nor can I say that any words were used. It was noth- 
 ing but a cry." 
 
 "The cry, however, was of such a nature as to 
 induce you to change your mind in respect to what 
 had occurred?" 
 
 "I had no time to form any theory. The impres- 
 sion it produced on my mind was that an assault was 
 intended, but not murder ; and that all at once it had 
 become apparent to the unfortunate—" Here the 
 doctor paused, and there was a deep sobbing breath of 
 intense attention drawn by the crowd. He stopped 
 for a minute, and then resumed, "It had become 
 apparent to the— assailant that he had— gone too far; 
 that the consequences were more terrible than he had 
 intended. He threw down what he had in his hand, 
 and fled in horror. ' ' 
 
 * * You were convinced, then, that there was no mur- 
 derous intention in the act of the unfortunate— as 
 you have well said— assailant?" 
 
 "That was my conviction," said Dr. Barrere. 
 
 The effect made upon the assembly was great. And 
 though it was no doubt diminished more or less by the
 
 DR. BARRERE. 141 
 
 cross-examination of the counsel for the prosecution, 
 v/ho protested vehemently against the epithet of un- 
 fortunate applied to the man who had attacked in the 
 dark another man who was proceeding quietly about 
 his own business, who had lain in wait for him and 
 assaulted him murderously with every evidence of pre- 
 meditation, it still remained the strongest point in the 
 defence. "You say that you had no time to form any 
 theory?" said the prosecutor; *'yet you have told 
 us that you rushed forward calling out murder. Waa 
 this before or after you heard the cry, so full of 
 meaning, which you have described?" 
 
 "It was probably almost at the same moment," said 
 Dr. Barrere. 
 
 "Yet, even in the act of crying out murder, you 
 were capable of noticing all the complicated senti- 
 ments which you now tell us were in the assailant's 
 cry!" 
 
 "In great excitement one takes no notice of the 
 passage of time— a minute contains as much as an 
 hour." 
 
 "And you expect us to believe that in that minute, 
 and without the help of words, you were enlightened 
 as to the meaning of the act by a mere inarticulate 
 cry?" 
 
 "I tell you the impression produced on my mind, 
 as I told it at the coroner's inquest," said Dr. Barrere, 
 steadily; "as I have told it to my friends from the 
 first." 
 
 "Yet this did not prevent you from shouting mur- 
 der?" 
 
 "No; it did not prevent me from calling for help 
 in the usual way. ' ' 
 
 This was all that could be made of the doctor. 
 It remained the strongest point in poor Jim's favour, 
 who was, as everybody saw to be inevitable, con- 
 demned; yet recommended to mercy because of what 
 Dr. Barrere had said. Otherwise there were many 
 features in the case that roused the popular pity.
 
 142 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP, 
 
 The bad character of the man who had been killed, 
 the evil influence he was known to have exercised, the 
 injury he had done to Jim himself and to so many 
 others, and the very cause of the quarrel in which 
 Jim had threatened and announced his intention of 
 punishing him— all these things, had Jim been tried 
 in France, would have produced a verdict modified by 
 extenuating circumstances. In England it did not 
 touch the decision, but it produced that vague recom- 
 mendation to mercy with which pity satisfies itself 
 when it can do no more. 
 
 Dr. Barrere took the unfortunate mother and sister 
 home. Mrs, Surtees, broken as she was, could not be 
 absent from the court when her son's fate was to be 
 determined. She was as one stricken dumb as they 
 took her back. Now and then she would put her trem- 
 bling hands to her eyes as if expecting tears which 
 did not come. Her very heart and soul were crushed 
 by the awful doom which had been spoken. And the 
 others did not even dare to exchange a look. The 
 horror which enveloped them was too terrible for 
 speech. It was only after an interval had passed, and 
 life, indomitable life w^hich always rises again what- 
 ever may be the anguish that subdues it for a mo- 
 ment, had returned in pain and fear to its struggle 
 with the intolerable, that words and the power of com- 
 munication returned. Then Dr . Barrere told the 
 broken-hearted women that both he himself and others 
 in the town who knew Jim, with all the influence that 
 could be brought to bear, would work for a revision 
 of the sentence. It was upon his own evidence that 
 the hopes which those who were not so deeply, tre- 
 mendoiisly interested, but who regarded the case with 
 an impartial eye, began to entertain, were founded. 
 "I hope that the Home Secretary may send for me,'* 
 he said; "they think he will. God grant it!" He 
 too had worked himself into a kind of hope. 
 
 "Oh," said Agnes, melting for the first time into 
 tears at the touch of a possible deliverance, "if we
 
 DR. BARRERE. 143 
 
 could go, as they used to do, to the Queen, Ms mother 
 and his sister, on our knees ! ' ' 
 
 Mrs. Surtees sat and listened to them with her im- 
 movable face of misery. ^' Don't speak to me of hope, 
 for I cannot bear it," she said. "Oh, don't speak of 
 hope ; there is none— none ! Nothing but death and 
 shame." 
 
 "Yes, mother," said Dr. Barrere, and he added un- 
 der his breath," whatever happens— whatever hap- 
 pens—there shall be no death of shame."
 
 144 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 ^T^ HE recommendation to mercy was very strong ; 
 ^^1* I almost all the principal people in the town 
 ^Eg| interested themselves, and the judge himself 
 had been persuaded to add a potent word ; but as he 
 did so he shook his head, and told the petitioners that 
 their arguments were all sentimental. "What does 
 your lordship say then to the doctor's testimony?" 
 was asked him, upon which he shook his head more 
 and more. "The doctor's testimony, above all," he 
 said. "Mind you, I think that probably the doctor 
 was right, but it is not a solid argument, it is all senti- 
 ment ; and that is what the Home Office makes no ac- 
 count of." This was very discouraging. But still 
 there was a certain enthusiasm in the town in Jim's 
 favour, as well as a natural horror that one who really 
 belonged (if he had kept his position) to the best 
 class, should come to such an end ; and the chief people 
 who got up this recommendation to mercy were warm 
 supporters of the Government. That, too, they felt 
 convinced must tell for something. And there reigned 
 in Poolborough a certain hope which Dr. Barrere 
 sometimes shared. 
 
 Sometimes; for on many occasions he took the 
 darker view— the view so universal and generally re- 
 ceived, that the more important it is for you that a 
 certain thing should come to pass, the more you desire 
 it, the less likely it is to happen. And then he would 
 ask himself was it so important that it should come 
 to pass? At the best it was still true that Jim had 
 killed this man. If he were not hanged for it he would 
 be imprisoned for life; and whether it is worse to 
 have a relative who has been hanged for a crime or 
 one who is lingering out a long term of imprisonment 
 for it, it is hard to tell. There did not seem much to
 
 DR. BARRERE. 145 
 
 choose between them. Perhaps even the hanging 
 would be forgotten soonest— and it would be less of a 
 burden. For to think of a brother in prison, who 
 might emerge years hence with a ticket-of-leave, a dis- 
 graced and degraded man, was something terrible. 
 Perhaps on the whole it would be best that he should 
 die. And then Dr. Barrere shuddered. Die ! Ah ! if 
 that might be, quietly, without demonstration. But as 
 it was— And then he would begin again, against 
 his will, that painful circle of thought— "the brother 
 was hanged." That was what people would say. 
 After the horror of it had d-ed out fantastic patients 
 would cry, "The brother of a man who was hanged! 
 Oh, no! don't let us call in such a person." The 
 ladies would say this: they would shudder yet per- 
 haps even laugh, for the pity would be forgotten, even 
 the horror would be forgotten, and there would remain 
 only this suggestion of discomfort— just enough to 
 make the women feel that they would not like to have 
 him, the brother of a man who was hanged, for their 
 doctor. Dr. Barrere tried all he could to escape from 
 this circle of fatal thought; but however hard he 
 worked, and however much he occupied himself, he 
 could not do so always. And the thought went near 
 sometimes to make him mad. 
 
 He had, however, much to occupy him, to keep 
 thought away. He was the only element of comfort 
 in the life of the two miserable women who lived 
 under the shadow of death, their minds entirely ab- 
 sorbed in the approaching catastrophe, living through 
 it a hundred times in anticipation, in despair which 
 was made more ghastly and sickening by a flicker of 
 terrible hope. Mrs. Surtees said that she had no hope ; 
 she would not allow the possibility to be named; but 
 secretly dwelt upon it with an intensity of suspense 
 which was more unendurable than any calamity. And 
 when Agnes and her lover were alone this was the sub- 
 ject that occupied them to the exclusion of all others. 
 Their own hopes and prospects were all blotted out 
 
 2—10
 
 146 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 as if they had never been. He brought her reports 
 of what was said, and what was thought on the sub- 
 ject among the people who had influence, those who 
 were straining every nerve to obtain a reprieve: and 
 she hung upon his words breathless with an all-ab- 
 Borbing interest. He never got beyond the awful 
 shadow, or could forget it, and went about all day 
 with that cloud hanging over him, and frightened his 
 patients with his stern and serious looks. ''Dr. Bar- 
 rere is not an encouraging doctor," they began to 
 say, "he makes you think you are going to die;" for 
 the sick people could not divest themselves of the idea 
 that it was their complaints that were foremost in the 
 doctor's mind and produced that severity in his looks. 
 But all this was light and easy to the last of the 
 many occupations which filled Dr. Barrere's time and 
 thoughts, and that was Jim— Jim alone in his prison, 
 he who never had been alone, who had been sur- 
 rounded all day long with his companions— the com- 
 panions who had led him astray. No, they had not 
 led him astray. Langton, who was dead, whom 
 he had killed, had not led him astray, though he now 
 thought so, or said so, bemoaning himself. Such a 
 thing would be too heavy a burden for any human 
 spirit. A man cannot ruin any more than he can save 
 his brother. His own inclinations, his own will, his 
 love for the forbidden, his idle wishes and follies— 
 these were what had led him astray. And now he 
 was left alone to think of all that, with the shadow 
 before him of a hideous death at a fixed moment— a 
 moment drawing nearer and nearer, which he could 
 no more escape than he could forget it. Jim had many 
 good qualities amid his evil ones. He was not a bad 
 man; his sins were rather those of a foolish, self- 
 indulgent boy. His character was that of a boy. A 
 certain innocency, if that word may be used, lay un- 
 der the surface of his vices, and long confinement 
 Bway from all temptation had wrought a change in 
 him like that that came over the leper in the Scrip-
 
 DR. BARRERE. U7 
 
 tures, whose flesh came again as the flesh of a little 
 child. This was what happened to Jim, both bodily 
 and mentally. He languished in health from his con- 
 finement, but yet his eyes regained the clearness of 
 his youth, and his mind, all its ingenuousness, its 
 power of affection. Lying under sentence of death 
 he became once more the lovable human creature, the 
 •Running and attractive youth he had been in the days 
 before trouble came. All clouds save the one cloud 
 rolled off his soul. In all likelihood he himself forgot 
 the course of degradation through which he had gone ; 
 everything was obliterated to him by the impossibility 
 of sinning more— everything except the one thing 
 which no self-delusion could obliterate, the unchange- 
 able doom to which he was approaching day by day. 
 Jim had none of the tremors of a murderer. He con- 
 cealed nothing; he admitted freely that the verdict 
 was just, that it was he who had. lurked in the dark 
 and awaited the villain— but only he had never meant 
 more than to punish him, "It is all quite true what 
 the doctor says. I knocked him down. I meant to 
 beat him within an inch of his life. God knows if 
 he deserved it at my hands, or any honest man's 
 hands. And then it came over me in a moment that 
 he never moved, that he never made a struggle. It 
 was not because there were people coming up that I 
 ran away. It was horror, as the doctor say^. Noth- 
 ing can ever happen to me again so dreadful as that,'* 
 said Jim, putting up his handkerchief to wipe hiai 
 damp forehead. And yet he could tell even that story 
 with tolerable calm. He was not conscious of guilt; 
 he had meant to do what' 'he felt quite justifiable— 
 rather laudable than otherwise— to- thrash a rascal 
 "within an inch of his life." He had expected the 
 man to defend himself; he had been full of what he 
 felt to be righteous rage, and he did not feel himself 
 guilty now. He was haunted by no ghost; he had 
 ceased even to shudder at the recollection of the hor- 
 rible moment in which he became aware that instead
 
 148 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 of chastising lie had killed. But when his momentary 
 occupation with other thoughts died away and the rec- 
 ollection of what lay before him came back, the con- 
 dition of poor Jim was a dreadful one. To die— for 
 that!— to die on Thursday, the 3rd of September, at 
 8 horrible moment fixed and unchangeable. To feel 
 the days running past remorselessly, swift, without an 
 event to break their monotonous flying pace— those 
 days which were so endlessly long from dawn to twi- 
 light, which seemed as if they would never be done, 
 which had so little night, yet which flew noiselessly, 
 silently, bringing him ever nearer and nearer to the 
 end. Poor Jim broke down entirely under the pres- 
 Bure of this intolerable certainty. Had it been done 
 at once, the moment the sentence had been pro- 
 nounced ; but to sit and wait for it, look for it, antici- 
 pate it, know that every hour was bringing it nearer, 
 that through the dark and through the day, and 
 through all the endless circles of thoughts that sur- 
 mounted and surrounded it, it was coming, always 
 coming, not to be escaped! Jim's nerves broke down 
 under this intolerable thing that had to be borne. 
 He kept command of himself when he saw his mother 
 and sister, but with Dr. Barrere he let himself go. 
 It was a relief to him for the wretched moment. Save 
 for the moment, nothing, alas, could be a relief— for 
 whether he contrived to smile and subdue himself, or 
 ■whether he dashed himself against the wall of impos- 
 sibility that shut him in, whether he raved in anguish 
 or madness, or slept, or tried to put a brave face upon 
 it, it was coming all the time. 
 
 *'It is sitting and waiting that is the horrible 
 thing," he said; "to think there is nothing you can 
 do. That's true, you know, doctor, in Don Juan, 
 about the people that plunged into the sea to get 
 drowned a little sooner and be done with it— in the 
 shipwreck, you know. It's waiting and seeing it com- 
 ing that is horrible. It is just thirteen days today. 
 Death isn't what I mind! it's waiting for it. Will it
 
 DR. BARRERE. 149 
 
 be— will it be very— horrible, do you think— at the 
 moment— when it comes?" 
 
 "No," said Dr. Barrere, "if it comes to that, not 
 horrible at all— a moment, no more." 
 
 "A moment— but you can't tell till you try what 
 may be in a moment. I don't mind, doctor; some- 
 thing sharp and soon would be a sort of relief. It is 
 the sitting and waiting, counting the days, seeing it 
 coming— always coming. Nobody has a right to tor- 
 ture a fellow like that— let them take him and hang 
 him as the lynchers do, straight off. ' ' Then Jim was 
 seized with a slight convulsive shudder, "And then 
 the afterwards, doctor? for all your science you can't 
 tell anything about that. Perhaps you don't believe 
 in it at all. I do." 
 
 Dr. Barrere made no reply. He was not quite clear 
 about what he believed; and he had nothing to say 
 on such a subject to this young man standing upon 
 the verge, with all the uncertainties and possibilities 
 of life still so warm in him, and yet so near the one 
 unalterable certainty. After a minute Jim resumed. 
 
 " I do, " he said firmly. " I 've never been what you 
 call a skeptic. I don't believe men are : they only pre- 
 tend, or perhaps think so, till it comes upon them. 
 I wonder what they'll say to a poor fellow up there, 
 doctor? I've always been told they understand up 
 there — there can't be injustice done like here. And 
 I 've always been a true believer. I 've never been led 
 away— like that." 
 
 "It isn't a subject on which I can talk," said the 
 doctor, unsteadily; "your mother and Agnes, they 
 know. But, Jim, for the love of God don't talk to 
 them as you are doing now. Put on a good face for 
 their sakes." 
 
 "Poor mother!" said Jim, He turned all at once 
 almost to crying— softened entirely out of his wild 
 talk. "What has she done to have a thing like this 
 happen to her? She is a real good woman— and to 
 have a son hanged, good Lord!" Again he shivered
 
 150 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 convulsively. "She won't live long, that's one thing; 
 and perhaps it'll be explained to her satisfaction up 
 there. But that's what I call unjust, Barrere, to tor- 
 ture a poor soul like that, that has never done any- 
 thing but good all her life. You'll take care of Agnes. 
 But mother will not live long, poor dear. Poor dear ! ' * 
 he repeated with a tremulous smile. "I suppose she 
 had a happy life till I grew up— till I— I wonder 
 •what I could be born for, a fellow like me, to be 
 hanged!" he cried with a sudden, sharp anguish in 
 which there was the laughter of misery and the groan 
 of despair. 
 
 Dr. Barrere left the prison with his heart bleeding ; 
 but he did not abandon Jim. On the contrary, there 
 was a terrible attraction which drew him to the pres- 
 ence of the unfortunate young man. The doctor of 
 Poolborough jail, though not so high in the profession 
 as himself, was one of Dr. Barrere 's acquaintances, 
 and to him he went when he left the condemned cell. 
 The doctor told his professional brother that Surteea 
 was in a very bad state of health. "His nerves have 
 broken down entirely. His heart— haven't you re- 
 marked?— his heart is in such a state that he might 
 go at any moment. ' ' 
 
 "Dear me," said the other, "he has never com- 
 plained that I know of. And a very good thing, too, 
 Barrere; you don't mean to say that you would re- 
 gret it if anything did happen, before—" 
 
 "No," said the doctor, "but the poor fellow may 
 Buffer. I wonder if you'd let me have the charge of 
 him. Maxwell? I know j'-ou're a busy man. And it 
 would please his mother to think that I was looking 
 after him. What do you say?" 
 
 The one medical man looked at the other. Doctor 
 Barrere was pale, but he did not shrink from the look 
 turned upon him. "I'll tell you what I'll do, Bar- 
 rere," said the prison doctor at last. "I'm getting 
 all wrong for want of a little rest. Feel my hand— 
 my nerves are as much shaken as Surtees'! If you'll
 
 DR. BARRERE. 151 
 
 take the whole for a fortnight, so that 1 may take my 
 holiday-" 
 
 Dr. Barrere thought for a moment. *'A fortnight? 
 That will be till after— I don't know how I'm to do 
 it with my practice ; but I will do it, for the sake of 
 — your health, Maxwell: for I see you are in a bad 
 way." 
 
 *' Hurrah!" said the other, **a breath of air will 
 Bet me all right, and I shall be forever obliged to you, 
 Barrere." Then he stopped for a moment and looked 
 keenly in his face. *'You're a better man than I am, 
 and know more : but for God 's sake, Barrere, no tricks 
 —no tricks. You know what I mean," he said. 
 
 **No, I don't know what you mean. I know you 
 want a holiday, and I want to take care of a case in 
 which I am interested. It suits us both. Let me have 
 all the details you can," said Dr. Barrere.
 
 152 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 'T* HE day had come, and almost the hour. The 
 
 * I weary time had stolen, endless, yet flying on 
 ^SejbJ noiseless wings ; an eternity of featureless lin- 
 gering hours, yet speeding, speeding towards that one 
 fixed end. And there was no reprieve. The important 
 people of Poolborough had retired sullenly from their 
 endeavours. To support a Government faithfully and 
 yet not to have one poor favour granted— their rec- 
 ommendation to mercy turned back upon themselves ; 
 they were indignant, and in that grievance they for- 
 got the original cause of it. Still there were one or 
 two still toiling on. But the morning of the fatal day 
 had dawned and nothing had come. 
 
 To tell how Mrs. Surtees and Agnes had lived 
 through these days is beyond our power. They did 
 not live ; they dragged through a feverish dream from 
 one time of seeing him to another, unconscious what 
 passed in the meantime, except when some messenger 
 would come to their door, and a wild blaze and frenzy 
 of hope would light up in their miserable hearts : for 
 it always seemed to them that it must be the reprieve 
 which was coming, though each said to herself that it 
 would not, could not, come. And when they saw Jim, 
 that one actual recurring point in their lives was per- 
 haps more miserable than the intervals. For to see 
 him, and to know that the hour was coming ever 
 nearer and nearer when he must die ; to sit with him, 
 never free from inspection, never out of hearing of 
 some compulsory spectator; to see the tension of his 
 nerves, the strain of intolerable expectation in him— 
 was almost more than flesh and blood could bear. 
 They had privileges which were not allowed in ordi- 
 nary cases— for were not they still ranked among the 
 best people of Poolborough, though beaten down by
 
 DR. BARRERE. 153 
 
 horrible calamity ? Wliat could they say to him ? Not 
 even the religious exhortations, the prayers which 
 came from other lips less trembling. They were dumb. 
 "Dear Jim," and **God bless you," was all they could 
 say. Their misery was too great, there was no utter- 
 ance in it; a word would have overthrown the en- 
 forced and awful calm. And neither could he speak. 
 When he had said "Mother," and kissed her, and 
 smiled, that was all. Then they sat silent holding 
 each other's hands. 
 
 Through all this Dr. Barrere was the only human 
 supporter of the miserable family. He had promised 
 to stand by Jim, to the end, not to leave him till life 
 had left him— till all was over. And now the supreme 
 moment had nearly come. The doctor was as pale, 
 almost paler than he who was about to die. Tiere 
 was an air about him of sternness, almost of despera- 
 tion ; yet to Jim he was tender as his mother. He had 
 warned the authorities what he feared, that agitation 
 and excitement might even yet rob the law of its vic- 
 tim. He had been allowed to be with the condemned 
 man from earliest dawn of the fatal morning in con- 
 sequence of the warning he had given, but it appeared 
 to the attendants that Jim himself bore a less alarm- 
 ing air than the doctor, whose colourless face and 
 haggard eyes looked as if he had not slept for a week. 
 Jim, poor Jim, had summoned all his courage for this 
 supreme moment. There was a sweetness in his look 
 that added to its youthf ulness. He looked like a boy ; 
 his long imprisonment and the enforced self-denial 
 there was in it, had chased from his face all stains of 
 evil. He was pale and worn with his confinement and 
 with the interval of awful waiting, but his eyes were 
 clear as a child's— pathetic, tender, with a wistful 
 smile in them, as though the arrival of the fatal hour 
 had brought relief. The old clergyman who had bap- 
 tised him had come, too, to stand by him to the last, 
 and he could scarcely speak for tears. But Jim was 
 calm, and smiled; if any bit of blue sky was in that
 
 154 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 cell of the condemned, with all its grim and melan- 
 choly memories, it was in Jim's face. 
 
 The doctor moved about him not able to keep still, 
 with that look of desperation, listening for every 
 sound. But all was still except the broken voice of 
 the old clergyman, who had knelt down and was pray- 
 ing. One of the attendants too had gone down on 
 his knees. The other stood watching, yet distracted 
 by a pity which even his hardened faculties could not 
 resist. Jim sat with his hands clasped, his eyes for 
 a moment closed, the smile still quivering about his 
 mouth. In this stillness of intense feeling all observa- 
 tion save that of the ever-watchful doctor was mo- 
 mentarily subdued. Suddenly Jim's head seemed to 
 droop forward on his breast ; the doctor came in front 
 of him with one swift step, and through the sound of 
 the praying called imperatively, sharply, for wine, 
 wine ! The warder who was standing rushed to fill it 
 out, while Dr. Barrere bent over the fainting youth. 
 It all passed in a moment, before the half-said sen- 
 tence of the prayer was completed. The clergyman's 
 voice wavered, stopped— and then resumed again, fin- 
 ishing the phrase, notwithstanding the stir and hur- 
 ried movement, the momentary breathless scuffle, 
 which a sudden attack of illness, a fit or faint, always 
 occasions. Then a sharp sound broke the stillness— 
 the crash of the wine glass which the doctor let fall 
 from his hand after forcing the contents, as it seemed, 
 down the patient's throat. The old clergyman on his 
 knees still, paused and opening his eyes gazed at the 
 strange scene, not awakening to the seriousness of it, 
 or perceiving any new element introduced into the 
 solemnity of the situation for some minutes, yet gaz- 
 ing with tragic eyes, since nothing in the first place 
 could well be more tragic. The little stir, the scuffle 
 of the moving feet, the two men in motion about the 
 still figure in the chair, lasted for a little longer ; then 
 the warder uttered a stifled cry. The clergyman on 
 his knees, his heart still in his prayer for the dying,
 
 DR. BARRERE. 155 
 
 felt it half profane to break off into words to men in 
 the midst of those he was addressing to God— but 
 forced by this strange break cried, "What is it?— 
 what has happened?" in. spite of himself. 
 
 There was no immediate answer. The doctor gave 
 some brief, quick directions, and with the help of the 
 warder lifted the helpless figure, all fallen upon itself 
 like a ruined house, with difficulty to the bed. The 
 limp, long, helpless limbs, the entire immobility and 
 deadness of the form struck with a strange chill to the 
 heart of the man who had been interceding Avrapt in 
 another atmosphere than that of earth. The clergy- 
 man got up from his knees, coming back with a keen 
 and awful sense of his humanity. "Has he- 
 fainted?" he asked, with a gasp. 
 
 Once more a dead pause, a stillness in which the 
 four men heard their hearts beating ; then the doctor 
 said, with a strange brevity and solemnity, "Better 
 than that— he is dead." 
 
 Dead! They gathered round and gazed in a con- 
 sternation beyond words. The young face, scarcely 
 paler than it had been a moment since, the eyes half 
 shut, the lips fallen apart with that awful opening 
 ■which is made by the exit of the last breath, lay back 
 upon the wretched pillow in all that abstraction and 
 incalculable distance which comes with the first touch 
 of death. No one could look at that, and be in any 
 doubt. The warders stood by dazed with horror and 
 dismay, as if they had let their prisoner escape. Was 
 it their fault? Would they be blamed for it? They 
 had seen men go to the scaffold before with little feel- 
 ing, but they had never seen one die of the horror of 
 it, as Jim had died. 
 
 While they were thus standing a sound of measured 
 steps was heard without. The door was opened with 
 that harsh turning of the key which in other circum- 
 stances would have sounded like the trumpet of doom, 
 but which now woke no tremor, scarcely any concern. 
 It was the sheriff and his grim procession coming for
 
 156 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 the prisoner. They streamed in and gathered aston- 
 ished about the bed: Dr. Barrere turned from where 
 he stood at the head, with a face which was like ashes- 
 pallid, stern, the nostrils dilating, the throat held 
 high. He made a solemn gesture with his hand to- 
 wards the bed. "You come too late, ' ' he said. 
 
 The men had come in almost silently, in the excite- 
 ment of the moment swelling the sombre circle to a 
 little crowd. They thronged upon each other and 
 looked at him, lying there on the miserable prison bed, 
 in the light of the horrible grated windows, all awe- 
 stricken in a kind of %vey consternation not knowing 
 how to believe it ; for it was a thing unparalleled that 
 one who was condemned should thus give his execu- 
 tioner the slip. The whisper of the sheriff's low voice 
 inquiring into the catastrophe broke the impression a 
 little. * ' How did it happen— how was it ? Dead ! But 
 it seems impossible. Are you sure, doctor, it is not a 
 faint?" 
 
 The doctor waved his hand almost scornfully to- 
 wards the still and rigid form. "I foresaw it always; 
 it is— as I thought it would be," he said. 
 
 "His poor mother!" said the clergyman with a 
 sort of habitual, conventional lamentation, as if it 
 could matter to that poor mother ! Dr. Barrere turned 
 upon him quickly. "Go to them— tell them— it will 
 save them something, ' ' he said with sudden eagerness. 
 "You can do no more here." 
 
 "It seems impossible," the sheriff repeated, turning 
 again to the bed. "Is there a glass to be had?— any- 
 thing— hold it to his lips! Do something, doctor. 
 Have you tried all means? are you sure?" He had 
 no doubt; but astonishment, and the novelty of the 
 situation, suggested questions which really required 
 no answer. He touched the dead hand and shuddered. 
 "It is extraordinary, most extraordinary," he said. 
 
 "I warned you of the possibility from the begin- 
 ning," said Dr. Barrere; "his heart was very weak. 
 It is astonishing rather that he bore the strain so
 
 DR. BARRERE. 157 
 
 long." Then he added with that stern look, "It is 
 better that it should be so." 
 
 The words were scarcely out of his lips when a sud- 
 den commotion was heard as of some one hurrying 
 along the stony passages, a sound of voices and hasty 
 steps. The door which, in view of the fatal ceremonial 
 about to take place, had been left open, was pushed 
 quickly, loudly to the wall, and an important person- 
 age, the Mayor of Poolborough, flushed and full of 
 excitement, hurried in. ''Thank God," he cried, wip- 
 ing his forehead, "thank God, it's come in time! I 
 knew they could not refuse us. Here is the reprieve 
 come at last." 
 
 A cry, a murmur rose into the air from all the 
 watchers. Who could help it ? The reprieve— at such 
 a moment! This solemn mockery was more than hu- 
 man nerves could bear. The warder who had been 
 poor Jim's chief guardian broke forth into a sudden 
 loud outburst, like a child's, of crying. The sheriff 
 could not speak. He pointed silently to the bed. 
 
 But of all the bystanders none was moved like Dr. 
 Barrere. He fell backward as if he had received a 
 blow, and gazed at the mayor speechless, his under 
 lip dropping, his face livid, heavy drops coming out 
 upon his brow. It was not till he was appealed to in 
 the sudden explanations that followed thaf the doctor 
 came to himself. When he was addressed he seemed 
 to wake as from a dream, and answered with diffi- 
 culty; his lips parched, his throat dry, making con- 
 vulsive efforts to moisten his tongue, and enunciate 
 the necessary words. "Heart disease— feared all the 
 time—" he said, as if he had partly lost that faculty 
 of speech. The mayor looked sharply at him, as if 
 suspecting something. What was it? intoxication? 
 So early, and at such a time ? But Dr. Barrere seemed 
 to have lost all interest in what was proceeding. He 
 cared nothing for their looks. He cared for nothing 
 in the world. "I'm of no further use here," he said 
 huskily, and went toward the door as if he were blind,
 
 158 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 pushing against one and another. When he had 
 reached the door, however, he turned back. "The 
 poor fellow," he said, "the poor— victim was to be 
 given to his family after—. It was a favour granted 
 them. The removal was to be seen to— tonight; there 
 is no reason for departing from that arrangement, I 
 suppose ? ' ' 
 
 The officials looked at each other, not knowing what 
 to say, feeling that in the unexpected catastrophe 
 there was something which demanded a change, yet 
 unable on the spur of the moment to think what if 
 was. Then the mayor replied faltering, "I suppose 
 so. It need not make any change, do you think ? The 
 poor family— have enough to bear without vexing 
 them with alterations. Since there can be— no doubt 
 — " lie paused and looked, and shuddered. No 
 doubt, oh, no doubt! The execution would have been 
 conducted with far less sensation. It was strange 
 that such a shivering of horror should overwhelm 
 them to see him lying so still upon that bed. 
 
 "Now I must go— to my rounds," the doctor said. 
 He went out, buttoning up his coat to his throat, as 
 if he were shivering too, though it was a genial Sep- 
 tember morning, soft and warm. He went out from 
 the dark prison walls into the sunshine like a man 
 dazed, passing the horrible preparations on his way, 
 the coffin ! from which he shrank as if it had been a 
 monster. Dr. Barrere's countenance was like that of 
 a dead man. He walked straight before him as if he 
 were going somewhere; but he went upon no rounds; 
 his patients waited for him vainly. He walked and 
 walked till fatigue of the body produced a general 
 stupor, aiding and completing the strange collapse of 
 the mind, and then mechanically, but not till it was 
 evening, he went home. His housekeeper, full of anx- 
 ious questions, vras silenced by the look of his face, 
 and had his dinner placed hastily and silently upon 
 the table, thinking the agitation of the day had been 
 too much for him. Dr. Barrere neither ate nor drank.
 
 DR. BARRERE. 159 
 
 but he fell into a heavy and troubled sleep at the 
 table, where he had seated himself mechanically. It 
 was late when he woke, and dark, and for a moment 
 there was a pause of bewilderment and confusion in 
 his mind. Then he rose, went to his desk and took 
 some money out of it, and his cheque-book. He took 
 up an overcoat as he went thro\igh the hall. He did 
 not so much as hear the servant's timid question as 
 to when he should return. When he should return! 
 
 After the body of poor Jim had been brought back 
 to his mother's house and all was silent there, in that 
 profound hush after an expected calamity which is 
 almost a relief, Agnes, not able to rest, wondering in 
 her misery why all that day her lover had not come 
 near them, had not sent any communication, but for 
 the first time had abandoned them in their sorrow, 
 stood for a moment by the window in the hall to look 
 if, by any possibility, he might still be coming. He 
 might have been detained by some pressing call. He 
 had neglected everything for Jim; he might now bft 
 compelled to make up for it— who could tell? Some 
 reason there must be for his desertion. As she went 
 to the window, which was on a level with the street, 
 it gave her a shock beyond expression to see a pallid 
 face close to it looking in— a miserable face, haggard, 
 with eyes that were bloodshot and red, while every- 
 thing else was the colour of clay— the colour of death. 
 It was with difficulty she restrained a scream. She 
 opened the window softly and said: 
 
 "Arnold ! you have come at last !" The figure out- 
 side shrank and withdrew, then said, **Do not touch 
 me— don't look at me. I did it: to save him the 
 shame—" 
 
 ** Arnold, come in, for God's sake! Don't speak so 
 —Arnold-" 
 
 "Never, never more! I thought the reprieve would 
 not come. I did it. Oh, never, never more ! ' ' 
 
 "Arnold!" she cried, stretching out her hands. But 
 he was gone. Opening the door as quickly as her
 
 160 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 trembling would let her, the poor girl looked out into 
 the dark street, into the night: but there was no one 
 there. 
 
 Was it a dream, a vision, an illusion of exhausted 
 nature, unable to discern reality from imagination? 
 No one ever knew; but from that night Dr. Barrere 
 ■was never seen more in Poolborough, nor did any of 
 those who had known him hear of him again. He 
 disappeared as if he had never been. And if that was 
 the terrible explanation of it, or if the sudden shock 
 had maddened him, or if it was really he that Agnes 
 saw, no one can tell. But it was the last that was ever 
 heard or seen of Dr. Barrere. 
 
 Maeqaeet Oliphant.
 
 X 
 
 A WILL AND A WAY. 
 
 I 
 
 T WAS in that pleasant season of the year 
 when there is a ladder at every apple-tree, and 
 every man met on the road is driving with his 
 left hand and eating a red apple from his right. At 
 this season, as regularly as the year rolled round, old 
 Carshena Hubblestone nearly died of cramps, caused 
 by gorging himself with apples that fell almost into 
 his mouth from the spreading boughs of fruit trees 
 that fairly roofed his low-built house. This was, as 
 it were, Carshena 's one dissipation. The apples cost 
 him nothing, and his medical attention after his bouts 
 cost him nothing either, for he was the son of a physi- 
 cian, and though his father was long since dead, the 
 village doctor would not render a bill. 
 
 "Crow don't eat crow," Dr. Michel answered, 
 roughly, when- Carshena weakly asked him what he 
 owed. The chance of thus roistering so cheaply is not 
 presented to every man, and reluctance to let such a 
 bargain pass was perhaps what helped to lend period- 
 icity to the old man 's attacks. Dr. Michel always held 
 that this was his chief incentive, and, be this as it 
 might, it was very certain that apples and bargains 
 were the only two things on earth for which Car- 
 shena was ever known to show a weakness, creditable 
 or discreditable. .Most small communities have their 
 rich men and their mean men, but in the village of 
 Leonard the two were one. 
 
 As the years passed on and Carshena 's head whit- 
 ened, it naturally grew to be a less and less easy tas^- 
 for Dr. Michel to bring his patient back to the place 
 2-n (161)
 
 162 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 where lie had been before apples ripened. If the situ- 
 ation had not tickled a spice of hunJor that lay under 
 the physician's grim exterior he would have refused 
 these autumnal attentions. As it was he confined 
 himself to futile warnings and threats of non-attend- 
 ance, but he always did obey the summons when it 
 came. The townsfolk of Leonard would all have taken 
 the same humorous view of this weakness of Car- 
 shena's but for the trouble which it gave his too-good 
 sister Adelia— liked and pitied by every one. Adelia 
 nursed her brother in each attack with a tenderness 
 and anxiety that aggravated all the community. No- 
 body but his sister Adelia was ever anxious over Car- 
 shena. It was, therefore, like a bolt from a clear sky 
 when, in this chronicled autumn, the following con- 
 versation took place at the Hubblestones' gate. Dr. 
 Michel's buggy was wheeling out to the main road as 
 Mr, Gowan, the town butcher, was about to drive 
 through the gateway. 
 
 "Well, doctor," called the genial man of blood, a 
 broad grin on his round face, "how's the patient?" 
 
 "He's gone, sir," said Dr. Michel, drawing rein. 
 The butcher drew up his horse sharply, his ruddy face 
 changing so suddenly that the doctor laughed out- 
 right. 
 
 * ' Gone ! ' * echoed Mr. Gowan. * * Not gone ? ' ' 
 
 "Yes, sir, as I warned him time and again he would 
 
 go." 
 
 The butcher shook his head and pursed his lips, the 
 news slowly penetrating his mind. * ' Well, I certainly 
 would hate to die of eatin' apples," he said at last. 
 
 "I guess you'll find you hate to die of anything, 
 when the time comes," said the more experienced phy- 
 sician. ' ' Carshena, ' ' he added, * ' got nothing he didn 't 
 bring on himself, if that's any comfort to him." 
 
 "Don't speak hard of the dead, doctor," he urged. 
 "We've all got to follow him some day. He wasn't 
 a nice man in some ways, Carshena wasn't, but—" 
 
 "He was a nasty old man in most ways," snapped 
 the doctor.
 
 A WILL AND A WAY, 163 
 
 "Don't say such things now, doctor, don't," urged 
 his companion. "Ain't he paid in his full price, what- 
 ever his sins was? Poor soul! he can't be worse 'n 
 dead." 
 
 "Oh, yes, he can, and for one I believe he is," in- 
 terrupted the doctor. His crisp white hair seemed to 
 Mr. Gowan to curl tighter over his head as he frowned 
 with some thought he was nursing. "You haven't 
 seen the will I had to witness this morning ! " he burst 
 out. "Just you wait a little! Upon my soul! the 
 more I think of it the madder I get! It's out of my 
 bailiwick, but if I were a lawyer I'd walk right up 
 now under those old apple-trees yonder, and before 
 that man was cold on his bed I'd have his sister's 
 promise to break his old will into a thousand splin- 
 ters ! Wait till you hear it. Good-morning. ' ' 
 
 When the will was read and its contents announced, 
 the town of Leonard, including its butcher, took the 
 doctor's view to a man. 
 
 "A brute," said Dr. Michel, hotly, "who has let his 
 old sister work her hands to the bone for him, and then 
 turned her off like some old worn-out horse, has, in 
 my opinion, no right to a will at all. How about set- 
 ting this will aside in his sister 's interests, judge ? ' ' 
 
 A little convocation of the leading spirits of Leonard 
 were met together in Dr. Michel 's office tt) discuss the 
 matter of Carshena's will, and what should be done 
 with Adelia, cast on the charity of the village. Judge 
 Bowles, when appealed to, raised his mild blue eyes 
 and looked around the company, 
 
 "Adelia," he said, "is the best sister I ever knew. 
 Had the man no shame ? ' ' 
 
 "Shame!" said the town's barber, with a reminis- 
 cent chuckle; "why, he came into my parlors one day 
 and asked me if I 'd cut the back of his hair for twelve 
 cents, and let him cut the front himself ; and I did it, 
 for the joke of the thing! He saved thirteen cents 
 that way." 
 
 " Gentlemen, gentlemen ! ' ' demurred the judge ; but
 
 164 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 amid the general laughter the tax-gatherer's voice 
 rose : 
 
 ** There isn't a tax he didn't fight. This town got 
 nothing out of Carshena Hubblestone that he could 
 help paying; and now he leaves us his relatives to 
 support." 
 
 Judge Bowles rose to his feet. 
 
 "Gentlemen," he said, in mild but earnest rebuke, 
 "the man is dead. We all know what his character 
 was without these distressing particulars. It is en- 
 tirely true that we owe him nothing, but a dead man 
 is defenceless, and his will is his will, and law is law. 
 Did you ever think what a solemn title a man's last 
 will is? It means just what it says, gentlemen— his 
 last will, his last wish and power of disposition writ 
 down on paper, concerning his own property. It's a 
 Bolemn thing to break that. ' ' 
 
 "A man's no business having such a will and a dis- 
 position to write it down on paper," said the doctor. 
 "What were the exact terms of the will, judge?" 
 
 "Very simple," said Judge Bowles, dryly. "The 
 whole estate is to be sold, and the entire proceeds, 
 every cent realized, except what is kept back for re- 
 pairs and care, is to be appHed to the purchase of a 
 suitable lot and the raising of a great monument over 
 the mortal remains of Carshena Hubblestone." 
 
 "While his sister starves!" added Dr. Michel. 
 
 "Gee!" exclaimed the kindly butcher. He had 
 heard all this before, but thus repeated it seemed to 
 strike him anew, as somehow it did all the rest of the 
 company. They sat looking at each other in silence, 
 with indrawings of the breath and compression of lips. 
 
 "There is this extenuating circumstance," said the 
 doctor, with dangerous smoothness; "our lamented 
 brother was aware that unless he erected a monument 
 to himself he might never enjoy one. We— the judge, 
 Mr. Gowan, and myself— are made sole executors 
 under the will— without pay. In Carshena 's life 
 Adelia was his white slave. In his death, doubtless,
 
 A WILL AND A WAY. 165 
 
 he felt he could trust her to make no protest. I wish 
 you could have seen her with him as I have, gentle- 
 men. I shall call it a shame upon us if we let her eat 
 the bitter bread of our charity. She's been put upon 
 and trodden down, but she's still a proud woman in 
 her way, and we've got to save her from a bitter old 
 age. We've got to do it." 
 
 "It's the kind of thing that discourages one's belief 
 in humanity," said the judge, in a lowered tone. "This 
 affair might be only absurd if it weren't for the sis- 
 ter's share in it. As it is, it's a revelation of human 
 selfishness that makes one heart-sick. ' ' 
 
 Dr. Michel 's laugh rang out irreverently. 
 
 "It's perfectly absurd, sister or no sister," he said. 
 "Nobody, not one of us, loved Carshena in life— 
 though I think now we didn 't hate him half enough — 
 and here in death he's fixed it so the town's got to 
 pay for his responsibilities while his money builds 
 him a grand monument ! I call that about as absurd 
 as you'll get anywhere. I'll grant you it makes me 
 downright sick at my stomach, judge, but it don't 
 touch my heart. No, sir. Keep your organs separate, 
 as I do, gentlemen. There's one thing certain"— 
 he drew the eyes of his audience with uplifted finger— 
 "if we can't outwit this will somehow, we'll be the 
 laughing-stock of this whole county. I don't care a 
 snap of my finger if Carshena has a monument as high 
 as Haman's gallows, if only his sister is protected at 
 the same time. ' ' 
 
 "Well, short of breaking the will, what would you 
 suggest, doctor?" asked Judge Bowles, with a little 
 stiffness. He had not liked the familiar discourse on 
 his organs, but the doctor did not care. The judge 
 was ruffled at last, which was exactly what he desired. 
 
 "Suggest?" he cried, laughing. "I don't know; 
 
 but I know there never was a will writ-ten that couldn't 
 
 be driven through with a coach and six if the right 
 
 man sits on the box. You're the lawyer, judge." 
 
 ' The judge was a lawyer, as he then and there pro-
 
 166 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 ceeded to prove. He rose to his feet and spoke in his 
 old-fashioned style : 
 
 "Gentlemen, I think I speak for this company when 
 I say that we strongly object to the breaking of this 
 will as a bad precedent in the community. We wish 
 it carried out to the very letter. Our fellow-towns- 
 man knew his sister's needs better than we, and he 
 chose to leave her needy. There are many, many 
 things this town sorely wants, as he also knew, but he 
 chose to use his money otherwise. What a monument 
 to him it would have been had he built us the new 
 school-house our town requires! The wet south lot 
 down by the old mill is an evesore to the village. 
 Had he used that land and drained it and set up a 
 school-house there, or indeed any public building, 
 what a different meeting this would have been ! He 
 was our only man of wealth, and he leaves not so much 
 as a town clock to thank him for. No; a monument 
 to himself is what his will calls for, and a monument 
 he shall have. If we failed him here, which of us 
 would feel sure that our own wills would be carried 
 out ? In the confidence of these four walls we can say 
 that the difficulties of the inscription and the style of 
 monument seem insuperable. I know but one man to 
 whom I would intrust this delicate commission, I 
 feel confident that he would not render us too absurd 
 by too conspicuous a monument or too florid an in- 
 scription. Need I name Dr. Michel ? ' ' 
 
 "Out of my bailiwick," cried the doctor—" 'way 
 out of my bailiwick." But his voice was drowned 
 in the confusion of the popular acclaim that was form- 
 ing him into a committee of one. The kindly butcher 
 made his way to the doctor's side under cover of the 
 noise. 
 
 "Take it, doctor; now do take it," he whispered 
 in his ear. "There ain't a man in the town that can 
 shave this pig if you can't. I was sayin' just yester- 
 day you're lost in this little place of ourn. You've 
 got more sense than's often called for here. Here's
 
 A WILL AND A WAY. 167 
 
 the chance for you to show 'em what you can do. Do 
 take it." 
 
 The physician looked at the wheedling little butcher 
 with a glance from his blue eye that was half kindly, 
 half irritated. "Well, I'll take it," he cried; "I'll 
 take it; and I thank you for your confidence, gentle- 
 men." 
 
 It was a full month before the little company met 
 again in the doctor's office, but during that period 
 they knew Dr. Michel had not been idle in the matter 
 intrusted to his care. He was seen in close conversa- 
 tion with the town's first masons, the best carpenters, 
 the local architect, and these worthies, under close and 
 eager examination, gave answers that dashed the un- 
 spoken hbpes of those who questioned. Here were 
 hona fide bids asked for on so much masonry, so much 
 carpentering, and the architect had been ordered to 
 Bend in designs of monuments, how high he deemed it 
 unprofessional to state: but arguing inversely, they 
 judged by the length of his countenance that the meas- 
 urements were not short— he had particularly hated 
 Carshena. It was, for all these reasons, a rather anx- 
 ious-looking company that met in Dr. Michel's office 
 at his summons, and the doctor 's own face was not re- 
 assuring as he opened the meeting. 
 
 "Well, gentlemen," he said, slowly, "it's a thank- 
 less task you've given me, but such as it is, I hope you 
 will find I have performed it to your satisfaction. 
 Here are various plans for the monument to be erected 
 to our late fellow-citizen, and here is a plan of the 
 ground that it has seemed to me most suitable to pur- 
 chase. It has been a task peculiarly uncongenial to 
 me, because I, I suppose, know more than any of you 
 here how this money is needed where it ought to have 
 gone. I saw Adelia yesterday, and lonely and ghost- 
 ridden as that old house would be to any of us, it's a 
 home to her that's to be sold over her head to build 
 this." He laid his hand on the papers he had thrown 
 down on the table before him. The little company
 
 168 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 looked silently at each other, with faces as downcast 
 as if they were to blame. It was Judge Bowles who 
 spoke first. 
 
 "Gentlemen," he said, **we must not let ourselves 
 feel too responsible in this matter. We are only fol- 
 lowing our plain duty. Show us the monument which 
 you consider best, doctor." 
 
 The doctor was silently turning over the papers. 
 "Family feeling is a queer thing," he said, medita- 
 tively. "I saw Adelia the other day, and I asked her 
 if she wanted a neighbor to sleep in the house at night. 
 
 " 'There's nothing here for robbers to take, Dr. 
 Michel,' she said; 'and if it's ghosts you think I'm 
 afraid of, I only wish from my heart ghosts would 
 come back to visit me. Everybody of my blood is 
 dead.' " 
 
 "It's very pitiful," said Judge Bowles, slowly. 
 
 The doctor turned on him instantly. "Do you seem 
 to feel now that you could countenance breaking the 
 will, judge?" 
 
 "No," said the judge, shortly, as one who whistles 
 to keep his courage up. 
 
 The doctor's fingers drummed on the table as he 
 paused thoughtfully. 
 
 "Carshena," he said, "if you can believe me, meas- 
 ured out the kerosene oil he allowed for each week on 
 Monday; and when it gave out they went to bed at 
 dusk, if it gave out on Friday night. But one thing 
 Adelia did manage to do. So long as a drop of oil was 
 in the measure a light stood in a window that lit up 
 the ugly turn in the county road round the corner 
 of their house. I know her light saved me from a bad 
 collision once; some of you also, perhaps. She's kept 
 that little lamp so clean it always shone like a jewel 
 up there. The window-pane it shone through had 
 never a speck on it either. That's what I call public 
 spirit. And it's public spirit, too, that makes her keep 
 sweet-smelling flowers growing on the top of the old 
 road wall. In summer I always drive past there slowly
 
 'A WILL AND A WAY. 169 
 
 to enjoy them. When she comes on the charity of the 
 town she may console herself by remembering these 
 things. She did what she could (in spite of Car- 
 shena), and nobody can do more. Here are the plans 
 for his monument, gentlemen. I would like to have 
 your vote on them." 
 
 The little company, as if glad to move, drew about 
 the table as the doctor opened out the plans in a row. 
 The butcher, whose ruddy face looked dim in his dis- 
 appointment, and whose despondent chin hung down 
 on his white shirt bosom, picked up one of the de- 
 signs gingerly and examined it. 
 
 "Are they all alike, doctor?" he asked. 
 
 Judge Bowles looked over Mr. Gowan's shoulder. 
 
 "Each design seems to be a hollow shaft of some 
 kind, with a round opening at the top," he said, and 
 looked inquiringly over his glasses at the doctor, who 
 nodded assent. 
 
 **They are all hollow. You seem to get more for 
 your money so. The round opening at the top of the 
 shaft can be filled with anything we choose later. I 
 might suggest a crystal with the virtues of the de- 
 ceased inscribed on it. THen, if we keep a light burn- 
 ing behind the glass at night, those virtues will shine 
 before us by night and by day." 
 
 Judge Bowles lifted his eyes quickly. The doctor's 
 face was unpleasantly satiric, and his blue eyes looked 
 out angrily from under his curling white hair. Judge 
 Bowles sat down, leaning back heavily in his chair, 
 his perplexed eyes still on Dr. Michel's frowning 
 brow. Mr. Gowan, with a look as near anger as he 
 could achieve, moved to a seat behind the stove. His 
 idol was failing him utterly. He felt he himself could 
 have done better than this. Dr. Michel's roving eyes 
 glanced round the circle of dissatisfied and dismayed 
 faces, and then for the first time he seemed to break 
 from his indifference : 
 
 "This is all very well, gentlemen— very well indeed. 
 The facts are, you gave me a commission, and bound
 
 170 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 me to fulfill it strictly and to the letter, and now you 
 are dissatisfied because I have followed your wishes. 
 What did you expect? If you had left the matter 
 to me without restrictions, I should certainly have 
 tried to break the will, as I told you. Briefly, here is 
 my report. We shall have about twenty thousand 
 dollars all told to invest in a monument over our 
 lamented brother. Any one of these hollow masonry 
 structures here will cost about ten thousand dollars. 
 As to the purchase of a suitable lot, which the will di- 
 rects, I think even Carshena would declare it a good 
 bargain to pay nothing whatever for the land, and 
 that I can arrange, I believe. I have good reason to 
 suppose"— he began to speak very slowly— "that the 
 town would, without price, allow us to erect this monu- 
 ment on that unsightly bit of wet land to the south, 
 near the old mill, if we in turn will agree to drain the 
 grounds, keep them in good order, plant flowers and 
 shrubbery, and further promise to keep a light burn- 
 ing all night in an opening at the top of the monu- 
 ment. I spoke of a crystal set in that opening, with 
 the virtues of the deceased inscribed upon it, but we 
 can, if we choose, carve those same virtues in the more 
 imperishable stone below, and print something else— 
 a clock face perhaps— on the crystal above. That's a 
 mere minor detail." 
 
 Judge Bowles, whose gaze had been growing more 
 and more bewildered, now started in his chair and sat 
 suddenly upright. He stared at the doctor uncer- 
 tainly. The doctor cast a quick look at him, and went 
 on rapidly: 
 
 "If you will allow me, I'll make my report quickly, 
 and leave it with you. I have a great deal to do this 
 morning in other directions. It has occurred to me 
 that as the base of the monument is to be square and. 
 hollow, it would be easy to fit it into a comfortable liv- 
 ing-room, with one, or perhaps two, small rooms built 
 about it. I have not mentioned this to the architect, 
 but I know it can be done. The will especially directs
 
 A WILL AND A WAY. 171 
 
 that repairs and care be allowed for." The doctor 
 was talking rapidly now. "The monument will not 
 cost more than ten thousand, the clock about two. 
 Twelve thousand from twenty thousand leaves eight 
 thousand. The yearly interest on eight thousand and 
 the fact that we could offer free residence in the monu- 
 ment should let us engage a reliable resident keeper, 
 who would give the time and attention that such a 
 monument and such a park would need." 
 
 The doctor paused, and again looked about him. 
 
 The whole circle of faces looked back at him curi- 
 ously—some with a puzzled gaze, but several, includ- 
 ing Judge Bowles, with a half-fascinated, half-dis- 
 mayed air. Mr. Gowan alone preserved his look of 
 utter hopelessness. 
 
 ** Who'd take a job like that?" he said, gloomily. 
 "I wouldn't, for one, live in a vault with Carshena, 
 dead or alive." 
 
 "Oh, the grave could be outside, and the monu- 
 ment as a kind of monster head-stone, ' ' said the doctor 
 pleasantly. "My idea was to have the grave well out- 
 side. Four or five hundred and a home isn't much 
 to offer a man, gentlemen, but I happen to know a very 
 respectable elderly woman who would, it seems to me, 
 suit us exactly as well as a man. In fact. I think it 
 would considerably add to the picturesque features 
 of our little town park to have a resident female 
 keeper. I think I see her now, sitting in the summer 
 sunshine at the door of this unique head-stone monu- 
 ment, or in winter independently luxuriating in its 
 warm and hospitable shelter. I see her winding the 
 clock, affectionately keeping the grave like a gorgeous 
 flower-bed, caring for the shrubbery, burnishing the 
 clock lamp till it shines like a jewel, as she well knows 
 how to do, and best of all in her case, gentlemen, I 
 happen to know from her own lips that she has no 
 fear of ghosts. Why, gentlemen, what's the matter? 
 I protest, gentlemen." 
 
 At that moment Mr. Gowan might be said to be the
 
 172 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 doctor's only audience. The rest of the company were 
 engaged in whispering to each other, or speechlessly 
 giving themselves over to suppressed and unholy glee. 
 Judge Bowles was openly wiping his eyes and shaking 
 in his chair. Dr. Michel looked around the circle with 
 resentful surprise. 
 
 "You seem amused, gentlemen!" he said, with dig- 
 nity ; and then addressing himself to Mr. Gowan exclu- 
 sively, as if that gentleman alone were worthy to be 
 his listener, "Would you object to a woman as keeper, 
 Mr. Gowan?" 
 
 "What's her name?" asked the butcher. 
 A :oar of laughter, not to be long suppressed, 
 dr wned his words, Mr. Gowan looked about the 
 shaken cfrcle, stared for a moment, then suddenly, as 
 comprehension .like a breaking dawn, spread over his 
 round face, ^ brought iiit.".'=5 hand down hard on his fat 
 knee. 
 
 "W^^'/cloctor," he roaretfl, in admiration too deep 
 for 1. ^giiter, "if you ain't- the dawgornest!" 
 
 TJg doctor's wiry hair st;eemed to rise and spread 
 
 *s wings his eyes suappec'i and twinkled, his mouth 
 
 rer "Will some c,ne embody this in the form 
 
 "^^i'."; ■ '"he asked., gravely. The judge dried 
 
 " ^'■.^ face p. nth difficulty, rose to his feet. 
 
 "c "'^ deta he sai'' "I move that we build this 
 i imxu vies, whoSc ga . ^ enough for a suite of 
 t. Dms iUsi*. "klered, now start ^ structure on the lot 
 wnich our g \t. He stared a. ;n ; that we ornament 
 it with' an V cast a quick look' top : and ' -, 
 
 tnat— that "; 
 
 "Seconded ..me, I'll make my rer ' 
 
 The d jtor, , -T-have a great .s, hiS bo.1 
 
 thrown far baci. ,. ,/' ^ ^e of a conque - 
 
 over the assem' ^avor of the v^ 
 
 will plea S3 say Aye, ^jposed No. It • 
 
 be carried! it is carrx , he r:cited in on?- pid 
 brea+a. 
 
 "Amen!" endorsed Mr. Gowa^ rvently. 
 
 /
 
 A WILL AND A WAY. 173 
 
 And this warm approval of their butcher was in the 
 end echoed as cordially by the most pious citizens of 
 Leonard. After the first shock of their surprise was 
 over, natural misgivings were lost in enjoyment of 
 the grim humor of this very practical jest of their 
 good doctor's, that visitors now actually stop over a 
 train to see. Many a village has its park, and many 
 a one its illuminated clock; it was left for Leonard 
 to have in its park a grave kept like a gorgeous flower- 
 bed, and at the grave's head a towering monument 
 that is at once a tombstone, an illuminated clock and 
 a residence. 
 
 iWrho the next keeper may be it is one of the amuse- 
 ments of Leonard to imagine. The present keeper is 
 a happy old woman, whose fellow-citizens like nothing 
 better than to see her winding the clock, caring for 
 the flowers, burnishing the town lamp ; in summer 
 sitting in the sunshine at the door of the head-stone 
 monument, in winter luxuriating in that warm and 
 independent shelter. 
 
 * * I feel as if Carshena knew just what was best for 
 me, after all, doctor," she said to her physician, iji 
 his first call upon her in her new home .^nc* 
 worthy, with a nod of his white head ^' 
 
 the readiest manner. viems^to ^ ■ 
 
 "Doubtless, madam, doubtless," ht ^^*- "'• ^' ,nei 
 had all this in mind w^ ..aresqr- ^^^^ _ 
 
 Didn't you, Carshena? '^ ^^""^ ^ ^^'" ye s.nia.' / 
 at the grave as he p. ^i;?iow, sitting ^ ^^^ ^^^^^ ^^ 
 x^r-{. inty or rep . ^\ *^^« unique hr l,,;^^^ .^^^ 
 
 ,■■ ., . .^ter independently li 
 
 ' and hospitable shelter. I sec 
 
 ately keeping the gr V^ Beiscoe. 
 
 \- " qj^ - for the fh] ' \ ^^■ 
 
 9 
 
 .t. 
 
 - 'Ol ^U A
 
 XI 
 
 DOCTOR ARMSTRONG. 
 I. 
 
 OLVIN ARMSTRONG tried to take up his pen 
 with an air of happiness and relief, for it was 
 the last chapter of his great work which he 
 was about to commence. But the effort failed, and he 
 leaned back in his chair, thoroughly tired out— too 
 jaded to be brisk or energetic. 
 
 It was not his professional work that tired him. A 
 London surgeon, with a magnificent reputation, he 
 had more than enough to do; but he was only forty, 
 and his constitution was of iron. Work agreed with 
 him: it was Thought that utterly prostrated him at 
 times. No sooner was his last engagement fulfilled, or 
 his last patient despatched, than he retired to his 
 library and gave himself up to the great psychological 
 problem that racked his brains. Night brought a 
 short relief: he slept from twelve till six; but morning 
 renewed his wrestlings, and it was only the necessity 
 of attending to his surgery that freed him from the 
 incessant train of thought. Would that his head were 
 as cool as his strong, firm hands ! 
 
 It was the Llystery of Human Pain that was haunt- 
 ing him. Until two years back he had never given 
 such questions a thought, but then the problem began 
 to force itself upon him. How was it that so many 
 suffered a living martyrdom, whilst he himself never 
 knew a moment's pain? How was it that, having no 
 personal knowledge of pain, he nevertheless felt such 
 an overpowering sympathy with those who suffered, 
 and had such an instinctive inborn gift of giving re- 
 
 (174)
 
 DOCTOR G. 
 
 01 ake up his pen 
 
 w . . iief, for it was 
 
 tl at work which ht2 
 
 failed, and he 
 
 I I-. wl /m + ton 
 
 lii'ed llim. A 
 
 . . reputation, he 
 
 h. lio wjvs only forty, 
 
 a a Aii^- Work agreed with 
 
 Vaccinatin<^ the ^j*jBafated him at 
 
 K ' -s " ' neat fulfilled, or 
 
 retired to his 
 
 i psychological 
 
 jht brought a 
 
 i six ; but morniig 
 
 ' \v the necessity 
 
 , him from the 
 
 W ouid that his head wer 
 
 is! 
 
 n Pain that was haun t 
 k he had never giv( 
 hen the prob^ — ' - 
 w was it th<i 
 hilst he himseii nevi 
 
 was it t^' ' ' - - 
 
 ■ ripyprt'i, ■: 
 
 -^ who sri 
 
 i-5UXirijv' ijMuiTi giit of giv.
 
 DR. ARMSTRONG. 175 
 
 lief? And then the larger, less personal questions: 
 Was there any guiding hand allotting pain to inno- 
 cent mortals? "Were they really innocent? If there 
 V'as design in it all, from whom came the design, and 
 what was its purpose? Was it for good, or evil, or 
 both? If no Providence guided humanity, what was 
 the origin of pain? Why was it allowed to be? And 
 so on, in an endless train of thought, one problem sug- 
 gesting ten others, till the subject broadened out to 
 the doors of Eternity itself, and the mind reeled be- 
 fore its own imaginings. 
 
 Armstrong flew to his books for assistance, and 
 primed himself with the ideas of the metaphysicians; 
 but he was not satisfied, and a strong impulse led him 
 to try his own hand at solving the mystery. Gradu- 
 ally, after much hard reading and thinking, he 
 evolved a theory which, though far from satisfactory, 
 seemed ampler and better than the ideas of the old 
 philosophers; and then, slowly and laboriously, he 
 committed it to paper. As the work grew, he became 
 more convinced of the truth which seemed to lurk 
 in his views, the foundation of real discovery on 
 which his theses were based. Something of his mar- 
 vellous insight into disease and distortion seemed to 
 have entered into the book, and he was eager to give it 
 to the world. 
 
 So this was the last chapter ! By Jove ! how hot and 
 close the room was ! It was annoying to feel so dull 
 and listless, but there was some excuse: nine o'clock 
 at night is not a time when a man is at his freshest, 
 and there was nothing so wearing as this closely woven 
 intellectual work, where every thread had to be fol- 
 lowed to its end, every detail thought out, every pos- 
 sible ramification explored, and the mind kept at its 
 highest tension throughout, straining to cover the 
 whole ground and to order in logical sequence its 
 myriad elusive thoughts. Difficult? Why, there was 
 nothing to compare to it! But what was the good of 
 magnifying troubles ? Here was the final chapter, the
 
 176 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 conclusion which was to be so masterly, already 
 mapped out in his mind, only waiting to be trans- 
 ferred to paper. Armstrong wiped his damp fore- 
 head, and seized the pen. The room was lit as he liked 
 it, with only a lamp casting a subdued light on his 
 desk; the rest in deepest gloom. Now was the time 
 to begin. But he was terribly tired. 
 • •••••••• 
 
 "Kr-rkI 
 
 Armstrong leaned back in his chair, and pressed 
 his hand to his head. Something inside seemed to 
 have broken with a snap, or a tiny shutter had fallen 
 away, as in a camera, revealing a hidden lens in his 
 brain. His head was clearer and freer, as if some 
 clogging veil had suddenly been removed, and before 
 his eyes there burned a new light, steady and cold, 
 but brilliant. A cooler, purer air filled the room. The 
 present melted away from his vision. • * » * • 
 
 Far away— so far that everything was dwarfed, but 
 yet as distinct in every detail as though it had been 
 close at hand— Armstrong saw a vision. 
 
 A dark underground dungeon, with damp standing 
 in beads on its bare stone walls ; a man, bound, gagged, 
 and helpless; another, black-masked and sullen of 
 movement; a third, seated on a small platform, with 
 his face in shadow. A feeble hanging lamp, swaying 
 to and fro in the draughts of the cell, was the only 
 illumination. 
 
 The vision came nearer and nearer, and grew larger 
 as it came, until it reached Armstrong and filled his 
 room, and he felt the dank breath of the dungeon stir 
 his hair. He looked again : the masked man was at his 
 elbow, the man on the dais was above him— unrecog- 
 nisable in the shadow, but smiling gently; that much 
 he could see. Then he looked at the third man, the 
 prisoner ; and a thrill of dread went through him, for 
 he recognised himself,— in old-world, long-forgotten 
 garb, but still himself. And then the whole grew real, 
 •with a deadly reality; he was no more a mere spec-
 
 DR. ARMSTRONG. 177 
 
 tator, but a part of the vision, and the vision was a 
 part of his own existence. The chill of the room fell 
 on his spirit, filling him with vague, horrible forebod- 
 ings : the present mingled with the past, and his spirit 
 passed into the limp, helpless figure on the rack. He 
 —he himself, and none other— was the victim in the 
 torture chamber, and the world was black around 
 him. 
 
 There was a clank of steel on the floor, as though 
 little instruments had been dropped, and then a sud- 
 den sharp pang struck him from an unseen source. 
 Another, another, and yet another,— a very multitude 
 of keen stabbing pangs. In uncontrollable agony he 
 raised his voice to shout with pain, but the gag 
 stopped him, choked him, throttled his curses. And 
 the dark figure smiled from above. 
 
 Then came hot, burning, throbbing pains that shot 
 through him, turning the blood in his veins to fire, 
 and gnawing his vitals till they consumed away. He 
 tried to turn, to roll, to ease himself in any way, but 
 he was bound and rigid and helpless, and his efforts 
 only increased the torture. And still the figure sat 
 motionless above him. He turned his streaming eyes 
 upwards in mute appeal, and his answer was a smile. 
 
 Then the sharp pains and the burning misery ceased 
 for a while, and his aching limbs rested, and all 
 seemed over. But the presiding fiend waved a silent 
 signal, and worse came— stretching, straining torture, 
 that nearly pulled the wretched frame asunder (well 
 iJ! it had!), and dull grinding agonies, worse than 
 the sharper pains, more cruel and relentless than the 
 slabs or blows or thrusts. 
 
 And then the worst of all— the whole in combina- 
 tion. Crushing, grinding, distorting, straining, break- 
 ing, bending, blinding, burning, flaying, racking, 
 stabbing— more than the mind can picture or words 
 describe— in turn and together, and all the more hor- 
 rible, coming unseen and sudden and unawares. 
 Crush and rack and burn and grind, till the brain was 
 
 2— 12
 
 178 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 on fire and the body groaning under its burdens ; till, 
 the face was furrowed with tears of agony, the whole 
 frame shapeless and broken, limbs useless, muscles 
 tortured, twisted and crushed, nerves shattered, and 
 the spirit within flaming with miserable, hopeless hate. 
 Madness? No; that had come in the first silent mo- 
 ments of fear and pain, but the cruel hand had driven 
 it away, and now there was only Pain— deep, unfath- 
 omable Pain. 
 
 Then came a low whisper, the cool breath of Death 
 waiting softly outside the chamber, and the wounded 
 soul fluttered for a moment in joyous answer. But 
 the human fiend above knew it, and the torture 
 stopped. Sore, blistered, broken, and useless, he was 
 flung aside to endure still longer in his misery, and 
 Death turned sighing away. 
 • «***•••« 
 
 Armstrong sprang from his chair with curses on 
 his tongue and fury in his heart, and grasped convul- 
 eively at the retreating vision. But it was far, far 
 off, and melting slowly into air. 
 
 Then a great calm fell upon him, and he knew what 
 he had seen. It was a scene from a former life— his 
 last existence — and it was vouchsafed to him as a les- 
 son, a glimpse of the everlasting order of life. The 
 inspiration of a great Message glowed on his brow 
 and in his soul. And this was the Message which he 
 read, clear as the words of a seer :— 
 
 ''For inasmuch as thou hast suffered pain and bit- 
 terness of spirit in the past, so shalt thou now know 
 freedom from such; and to thee it shall be given, by 
 thy past sufferings, to discern and make lighter the 
 grievous burdens of thy fellow-men. And the pain 
 that thou hast felt in thy veins shall give thee under- 
 standing above all others, that thou mayest cure man's 
 infirmities and heal the sick of his house."
 
 DR. ARMSTRONG. 179 
 
 II. 
 
 The light of a great revelation dazzled Armstrong 
 for a while, but he rose from it with renewed strength 
 and hope and courage, resolved to devote himself more 
 than ever to the healing art. And first he destroyed 
 his manuscript, for his theories were shattered and 
 forgotten. The mystery of human pain was still un- 
 solved; but was it for him to solve it? Providence 
 had given him another mission,— to heal and cure. 
 And Providence had given him the clue to one mys- 
 tery, at all events— his own great sympathy with suf- 
 ferers and insight into suffering. Sometimes he won- 
 dered whether another revelation would follow; but 
 none came, and he pursued his usual career, doing 
 good and working hard. The idle speculations, the 
 restless quest of secret things, which had haunted him 
 and wearied him before, were now of the past, and he 
 lived for work alone. 
 
 But more was to come— unexpectedly and without 
 warning. 
 
 It was an ordinary case he was treating : brain sur- 
 gery. The man, a wretched creature, suffered se- 
 verely, and was in a broken state of health; Arm- 
 strong had traced it to brain pressure, and saw his 
 way easily to put things right by a cerebral operation. 
 He was just concluding an examination, and the pa- 
 tient lay quietly in the great chair, soothed by a slight 
 injection of morphia. Armstrong turned away to get 
 a light— it was five o'clock on an autumn day, just 
 beginning to grow dark— when suddenly there came 
 that strange grating "Kr-rk" in his head, and he felt 
 the room whirl around him. He clutched hard at a 
 table near him, but it receded from his grasp and he 
 felt himself falling down, down, down in giddy help- 
 lessness. Then the movement stopped, and he felt, as 
 before, that some weight had been lifted from his 
 brain, and a new, unused sense developed in him. But 
 this time there was no clear light, no pure air, no 
 vision.
 
 180 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 What was coming? Something, he felt, was in 
 Btore— some strange, new revelation— and he waited 
 eagerly. As the prophets of old were inspired, so 
 light had come to him, and now perhaps he would 
 learn one more secret of the troubled world. 
 
 But nothing came; all was blank darkness around 
 him, and an uneasy sense of foreboding stole slowly 
 over him, till his hand shook and his face grew damp 
 with cold sweat. 
 
 What was that? A far-off mocking laugh? And 
 • • • God in heaven! Not that again! Not 
 that/ 
 
 He tried to call again, for pangs worse than of 
 death were racking him; but something cold was 
 thrust into his mouth and choked him. And then his 
 eyes, shut tight in the clenched agony of pain, opened 
 again, and he saw the streaming dungeon walls, the 
 Bwaying lamp, the masked torturer, and the grim 
 shadow-figure seated motionless on the dais above 
 him; and his heart sank within him, and he turned 
 sick and faint. 
 
 For one brief moment the masked man turned away 
 —to heat his irons, perhaps, or rest his arms, weary 
 of their heavy work- and all Armstrong's spirit went 
 up in one short, agonised, burning prayer, in one 
 deep, strenuous remonstrance. 
 
 "I have felt it before," he cried. "I have endured 
 it before, and I know its meaning. Must I go through 
 all again? Have I failed in my duty? Save me from 
 pain and madness before it is too late ! God of cru- 
 elty. Pain-giver, merciless, wicked, infernal, save me, 
 save me, preserve me!" 
 
 His words, stifled by the gag, reached no human 
 ear; but in the cell a new presence was lurking, and 
 on his face fell a hot, quick breath. 
 
 A voice spoke in his ear, very soft and gentle and 
 low. 
 
 "You blaspheme in vain," it said; "God has not 
 sent you this vision, but 7."
 
 DR. ARMSTRONG. 181 
 
 III. 
 
 The torture was over, and Armstrong waited qui- 
 etly for the moment of restoration to the world ; but 
 it did not come, and a new fear seized him. What if 
 he never recovered from this state? As the Powers 
 of Good had vouchsafed him the first vision, so the 
 Powers of Evil had mocked him with the second— the 
 same as the first, but infinitely more terrible^ for 
 through the former a subtle strength of will had sus- 
 tained him, and he had emerged from it wiser, hap- 
 pier, and stronger, whilst now he felt himself deserted 
 and unaided, and * * * Heavens above! What 
 would come next 1 The physical torture was over, but 
 now his mind was on the rack, and it was worse, far 
 worse ! 
 
 The two grim figures remained in the cell, motion- 
 less as statues. A strange detachment of mind, a 
 mystic duality of self, was torturing Armstrong. 
 Here he felt the pangs and achings of the most terri- 
 ble pain; yet at the same time he knew that it was 
 all unreal, and his thoughts turned to the world above 
 —his work, his house, his friends, the very patient in 
 his chair, waiting and wondering. Somewhere be- 
 tween the two lay madness, and his spirit cried for 
 peace— a world all vision, or a world all reality— any- 
 thing but this perplexing, torturing union of the two. 
 
 Quick as thought came the answer. ''Look around 
 before you go," 
 
 It was the soft voice he had heard before— gentle, 
 but insistent. But he had seen too much of that hate- 
 ful cell, and he closed his eyes in tight resistance. 
 
 **Look around," said the voice, even more gently 
 than before. 
 
 A shuddering fear seized Armstrong. 
 
 The spirit read his thoughts. "You are afraid: 
 you dare not look at me. But you shall not see me. 
 Look!"
 
 182 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 He put his hand to his head and covered his eyes 
 with a convulsive movement. 
 
 "Listen!" said the voice. "You have not even seen 
 your enemy. Would you not know him ? ' ' 
 
 A cold sickness fell on Armstrong's spirit, and he 
 shuddered. Why see the monster who had tortured 
 him, the human fiend who could be nothing other than 
 repulsive ? 
 
 Then the voice spoke again, more gently than be- 
 fore. 
 
 "Listen ! I am the God of Evil, but I befriend you. 
 I pass my hand along your frame, and the pain leaves 
 you. I touch your eyes with my fingers, and they 
 open. Look around!" 
 
 Armstrong rose, sound and strong. The dungeon 
 was dark, but in its recesses he could see two cower- 
 ing figures, striving to hide themselves from his eyes. 
 One was the masked man; one was the director, the 
 inquisitor, the author of all his misery. 
 
 "See how he hides from you," whispered the voice. 
 "But you shall not be denied. Turn!" 
 
 The sudden thunder of that last word echoed 
 through the vault, and then there came a short, sharp, 
 double flash of blinding light. The first flash showed 
 a crouching, cowering figure in the background, with 
 pale, set face, and cruel eyes ; the second struck Arm- 
 strong full in the face and felled him to the ground. 
 • ••••«*«• 
 
 Dazed and frightened, as after a hideous nightmare, 
 he pulled himself together. The match he had taken 
 up was still in his hand, and he turned back, mas- 
 tering himself with a great effort, to his patient. 
 
 He lighted the big burner and turned it full on the 
 chair. The man, roused from the lethargy of morphia, 
 slowly opened his eyes. 
 
 Armstrong staggered back, stifling the cry of hor- 
 ror that rose to his lips ; for in that one glance he saw, 
 clear and unmistakable, the face of his torturer— re- 
 incarnated, but still the same.
 
 DR. ARMSTRONG. 183 
 
 IV. 
 
 Armstrong turned aside to hide his excitement. Af- 
 ter all, then, the vision had not been in vain : it was the 
 complement of the first; and now all was clear. The 
 Mystery of Human Pain ! His own great book on the 
 subject! He laughed aloud. All that thought and 
 time and labour had been wasted, and here was the 
 truth, shown to him in a dream— the truth that all the 
 world should know. A strange exaltation filled Ms 
 spirit. 
 
 "/ suffered pain, and now I reap my reward- 
 strong, happy, a healer of wounds, myself knowing 
 no suffering. He inflicted pain and torture, and now 
 he suffers for it." 
 
 The patient in the chair moved uneasily and 
 groaned. Armstrong went on: "A righteous Judge 
 rewards me for what I have undergone, and scourges 
 him for the evil he has wrought." 
 
 "The Lord have Mercy on his Soul!" 
 
 It was a deep voice that spoke, the words booming 
 and reverberating like the notes of heavy bells. It 
 touched a new chord in Armstrong's mind, and sent 
 the blood throbbing and pulsing through his head. 
 "The Lord have mercy on his soul!" Why? What 
 mercy had he had for others ? And with that the fury 
 of hate returned to him and surged through his veins, 
 till he felt himself more demon than man. Every 
 pang, every pain, every racking agony that he had 
 suffered in those two terrible visions, returned to him 
 threefold, burned into his soul, branded on every limb 
 and sinew. Curse him with the curse of the martyr, 
 and blast him with the breath of his iniquities ! 
 
 And then a cold, unnatural calm fell upon Arm- 
 strong, and his quivering hands grew steady and cun- 
 ning as before. 
 
 It was all so easy ! The man lay there, half con-
 
 184 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 Bcious— with enough sensation left to feel every tor- 
 ture inflicted on him, but yet unable to speak or groan. 
 It was a carefully managed anaesthetic, administered 
 just sufficiently to glaze the eyes and paralyze the 
 tongue, but no more. And the brain lay so near at 
 hand! 
 
 The mad fury of revenge had left Armstrong, and 
 he was cold, scientific and deliberate— no movement 
 hurried, no torment left untried, and all done with 
 the mechanical, even touch of the skilled workman. 
 A pang for a pang, a stab for a stab, a scald for a 
 scald; Armstrong remembered each pain he had en- 
 dured, and paid it back threefold. On the subtle 
 mechanism of the head he played as on a keyed instru- 
 ment, sending hot, shooting pains, and dull, numbing 
 clutches, to the remotest parts of the wretched frame. 
 
 All the poor worn nerves centered within his grasp, 
 and to his eyes they were visible throughout their 
 hidden course, coming to one common end, where he 
 grasped them as with a handle, and turned and 
 ground and twisted and crushed, till they stretched, 
 strained, groaned and quivered under his racking 
 touch. He hissed taunting words in his ears— words 
 that he knew could not be answered; he mocked at 
 the helpless agony. And all the while he watched the 
 blue lips, striving to curse and moan, but bound by 
 the hellish drug as with a gag; and the bloodshot, 
 straining eyes, too fixed even to appeal; and the dumb 
 agony of the whole wretched form. And a grim, silent 
 laughter shook him. 
 
 But it could not last forever : his hand wearied, and 
 his head reeled. He fell to the ground in a swoon. 
 • • • 
 
 Bells were ringing— light, airy, joyous bells ; and he 
 roused himself. The bells grew slower, fainter— died 
 out altogether— and in their place a voice was in his 
 ears, very soft and low. What was it saying 1 It was 
 so faint, so indistinct • • • 
 
 "On your soul may the Lord have mercy!'*
 
 DR. ARMSTRONG. 185 
 
 Armstrong rose as from a dream. In the chair lay 
 a shape, not mangled, indeed, but pale-faced, 
 ehrunken, distorted, horrible. He bent his head down 
 and listened to the heart ; there were two feeble beats, 
 a faint flicker, and then it stopped. 
 
 There was a strange catch in the surgeon's breath. 
 The room was hot and close ; he pushed the curtains 
 back, and looked out. It was night now— a deep blue 
 sky, studded with a myriad stars. And one star shot 
 upwards in a blaze of silver light. 
 
 Armstrong turned away, breathing heavily. There 
 was the body still, and there were the little instru- 
 ments he had used. 
 
 The present did not stir him, gave him no thought ; 
 but the knowledge of the future was upon him, and 
 he groaned aloud in the new-born agony of his soul. 
 For he knew what he had done : it was his chance, and 
 he had missed it ; it was his trial, his ordeal, and he 
 had failed • • • And in the next life on earth his 
 torture would be longer and harder to bear. The 
 Lord would have no mercy on his soul. 
 
 D. L. B. S.
 
 XII 
 
 DR. WYGRAM'S SON. 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 HEN I met Dr. Clarence Wygram a few weeks 
 ago, I had not seen him for nearly fifteen 
 years. We were boys at school together, and 
 fast friends at that time, but our intercourse since 
 then has been very intermittent. Since he lost his 
 wife in Southern Italy, many years ago, much of his 
 life has been spent abroad, and, though he is to be seen 
 in London at intervals, I seldom catch a glimpse of 
 him. We do not belong to the same set in town, and 
 as, being possessed of an ample fortune, he has never 
 engaged in practice as a physician, his wandering and 
 unoccupied life is little akin to my own. We do, how- 
 ever, meet occasionally by accident, when we talk over 
 old times, vow to see more of each other in the future, 
 and then part for— perhaps, other ten years. Such 
 acquaintanceships as this of Wygram and myself are 
 the most unsatisfactory of all— they can scarcely be 
 called friendships. Life, in my opinion, is too brief 
 for such unfrequent greetings. It is important, how- 
 ever, that I recall, for a moment, this penultimate 
 meeting with my old friend. It happened long ago, 
 but the circumstances are still fresh in my memory. 
 As I have said, this was our last meeting but one, 
 and the date some fifteen years ago. 
 
 I was about to travel to the North by the night mail, 
 and accidently stumbled against Dr. Wygram on the 
 crowded platform at Euston. He is always pleased 
 to be facetious, when we do chance to see each other, 
 in regard to our mutually altered appearance since 
 
 (186)
 
 DR. WYGRAM'S SON. 187 
 
 our last meeting, and predicts, in jocular fashion, that, 
 ere long, we shall certainly pass without recognition 
 on either side. There is some truth in what he says, 
 yet, to judge by my friend's careworn and haggard 
 appearance on this occasion, I should say he was aging 
 somewhat faster than myself. 
 
 It seemed that we were to be fellow-travellers. He 
 also was going north, though not so far as myself, and 
 I willingly shared a compartment, which he had 
 already secured for himself and liis son, a stripling 
 youth, apparently about fourteen. The latter was re- 
 turning to school after the Easter Holidays, and his 
 father (who, by the way, is not above the Cockney 
 weakness of calling every big school a college) was 
 accompanying him on the journey. I remember that, 
 for the first hour or two, we had enough of conversa- 
 tion to beguile the time. Wygram had, of course, been 
 abroad— I forget where, or for how long, but we were 
 quite agreed— we always are, on this point— to view 
 the simple fact of his absence as being a perfectly 
 sufficient and satisfactory explanation of the time that 
 has elapsed since our last meeting, however long that 
 interval may be. After that, our conversation began 
 to languish. Our old friendship notwithstanding, we 
 have really very little in common. Having spent a 
 somewhat fatiguing day, I felt disposed to doze, and I 
 believe that I ultimately slept. 
 
 When I awoke, with a start, we were travelling at 
 a high rate of speed. On the seat directly opposite 
 to mine reclined my young travelling companion, ap- 
 parently asleep, the lamplight falling full upon his 
 upturned face. He seemed to all appearance not very 
 robust; I think his father had hinted as much to me 
 on the platform before we started. The boy's sleep 
 was a somewhat restless one, and he shifted his posi- 
 tion uneasily, as, ever and anon, the oscillation of the 
 carriage half aroused him. As, only half awake my- 
 self, I sat drowsily watching him, I suddenly became 
 aware that his father, who was looking over some
 
 188 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 papers by the aid of a reading lamp at the farther 
 e-nd of the compartment, seemed to wish, by a sign 
 that he made, that I should join him. The thought 
 struck me at the time, that perhaps he desired some 
 conversation with me while his son was not a listener. 
 I accordingly shifted my travelling rugs, and took a 
 seat opposite to that of my old friend. 
 
 The impression, on my part, that he did not wish the 
 boy to overhear what he said was partly confirmed 
 when my companion began the conversation in tones 
 so low as to be barely audible above the rattle of the 
 train. But I confess that I was somewhat unprepared 
 for the substance of his communication, even when 
 I did catch his meaning. At first, what he said was 
 almost unintelligible to me, but at length I contrived 
 to gather, from what he told me, that some trouble 
 (afiliction, I think, was the word he used) had lately 
 overtaken him, and he seemed, though indirectly, to 
 appeal to me for sympathy under his trial. The ap- 
 peal, however, was entirely indirect, as no particulars 
 were afforded— at least, if they were, I failed to un- 
 derstand their meaning. Under these circumstances, 
 I was about to inquire, as delicately as I could, what 
 the nature of his difficulty might be, when I chanced 
 to notice that, as he spoke, his eyes would every now 
 and then wander from looking in my face, and turn, 
 as it were unconsciously, in the direction of his boy, 
 not apprehensively, or as if he were afraid of him as 
 a listener, but gently and tenderly, as if in deep solici- 
 tude on his account. This being the case, I forebore to 
 press the father with questions which might be con- 
 sidered intrusive. The trouble to which he alluded 
 was perhaps connected with the lad's future, perhaps 
 with something else concerning him, anyhow the secret, 
 whatever it was, seemed to lie in that, or in some other 
 equally delicate quarter, for Dr. Wygram did not give 
 me any explicit details— rather avoided doing so, with 
 a reticence quite unlike his customary frankness. But 
 he had a favour to ask of me. It came to that, in the 
 end.
 
 DR. WYGRAM'S SON. 189 
 
 "You know," he said appealingly, "you are my 
 oldest friend— almost my only friend now, for ray 
 wandering life does not gain me new ones, and I beg 
 you, most earnestly, to aid me, to help me, in this 
 trouble— " Here he paused as if about to make some 
 disclosure, then, checking himself, "to counsel me, 
 when I ask you, at a future time." 
 
 Of course, my somewhat pardonable curiosity had 
 no further excuse, but I murmured that I would be 
 very glad if, at any time, I could be of service to him. 
 I added that our old friendship justified such a claim 
 on his part, and that, for my own, I would gladly meet 
 it, when necessary. I confess I thought that the re- 
 serve accompanying his request was somewhat sin- 
 gular. 
 
 "Ah, but promise! promise to me!" (he repeated 
 the word with such passionate emphasis as to startle 
 me) ; "promise that if I write you at any time and ask 
 you to come to my help, you will do it— wherever I 
 maybe." 
 
 This last clause of his request was a tolerably com- 
 prehensive one, as, from the doctor's well-known mi- 
 gratory habits, the summons might possibly be indited 
 from Mongolia, or the farthest recesses of Crim-Tar- 
 tary. But to pacify him, for I saw that my old friend 
 was strangely perturbed, I said that I would do what 
 he wished, at any time, if I could ; which latter clause 
 covered the aforesaid difficulty so far. He seemed 
 relieved by my assurance. His manner grew calmer. 
 
 "I cannot tell you more just at present," he said 
 (this with a glance at the boy), "except that I am in 
 sore trouble, from which, at another time, not now, the 
 counsel of a friend may relieve me. It concerns one 
 near and dear to me" (ah! then the secret did lie 
 there), "and you are the only one I could trust. Per- 
 haps, in time, my trouble may be dissipated" (this 
 with a hopeless, sickly smile), "and then you will be 
 glad I have not bored you with it, but if not, and if 
 I seek fulfilment of your promise, remember !" With 
 which words he abruptly broke off the conversation.
 
 190 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 Shortly afterwards my fellow-travellers reached 
 their destination. Dr. "Wygram had, by this time, 
 completely recovered his vivacity. When wishing me 
 good-bye, a silent pressure of the hand, more pro- 
 longed than usual, alone betrayed any recollection, on 
 his part, of our midnight conversation. I did not re- 
 cover my own equanimity so rapidly; the interview 
 came back upon me, as I sat alone for the rest of the 
 journey, somewhat too vividly for that. A nameless 
 uneasiness possessed me. I wearied myself with possi- 
 ble explanations of AVygram 's alleged troubles. Money 
 difficulties were out of the question in the case of one 
 so well off as he, so simple and unostentatious in his 
 mode of life, and he would be the last man to gamble. 
 His son— pooh ! The birch was the best cure for boy- 
 ish peccadilloes, and he would get that on going back 
 to school. Still, reason with myself as I might, Dr. 
 Wygram 's nameless trouble remained with me; the 
 boy's sleeping face in the lamplight, the father's 
 urgent entreaty "remember," these did not pass away. 
 After all, I would reproach myself for having prom- 
 ised to obey the summons of my friend whenever it 
 might come ; how awkward that might be ! Why could 
 not he, if so anxious for my counsel, arrange to come 
 to me ? Altogether, it was not until several days had 
 elapsed that I shook off the disagreeable impression 
 left by the journey. As for Dr. Wygram 's possible 
 summons, I looked for that, more or less confidently, 
 for several months, then my expectation of its coming 
 began to fade. As a matter of fact, it did come after 
 all, but not for fifteen years. Then it came upon this 
 wise. I had been from home for some days. On re- 
 turning, a pile of letters awaited me. Sorting them 
 over one by one, the last in the heap was addressed 
 in an unmistakable handwriting. " Wygram 's sum- 
 mons at last," I said to myself, as the mist of the 
 years rolled away and I was once more travelling 
 northwards in the train ; once more my friend 's voice 
 in my ear, * ' remember ! ' ' once more the lamplight on 
 his son's sleeping face.
 
 DR. WYGRAM'S SON. 191 
 
 Opening the letter, I read as follows:— 
 
 Low Tor Cottage, by Liskeard, Cornwall, 
 Sept. 3, 188—. 
 Dear F. :— Remember promise given long ago. Pray 
 come as soon as possible! Thine 
 
 Claeence Wygram. 
 In the circumstances, what could I do but make ar- 
 rangements, as speedily as I could, to keep my prom- 
 ise ? Within twenty-four hours I was on my way to 
 Cornwall.
 
 122 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMy. 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 GIG awaited my arrival at the nearest railway 
 station, and a short drive brought me to Low 
 Tor Cottage. Dr. Wygram met me at tne 
 door. Considering the lapse of years since our last 
 interview, 1 was, of course, prepared to find my friend 
 looking much older; but I was scarcely prepared tc 
 Bee nim so utterly feeble-looking and broken, alike, 
 apparently, with age and sorrow, as when he greeted 
 me in the doorway. He bade me welcome in hurried 
 nervous tones ; evidently he laboured under the influ- 
 ence of suppressed emotion. We entered the sitting- 
 room: the dinner-table was set for two persons only. 
 He apologized for his secluded quarters, and the hum- 
 ble arrangements of his household. ' * I have only been 
 here for a month or two," he explained, "since my 
 return from the Continent." A staid, elderly maid- 
 servant here entered the room. It was, of course, too 
 early for any confidential talk between my host and 
 myself; and, as the servant waited upon us during 
 dinner, anything but commonplaces were out of the 
 question. I judged from what I saw, however, that 
 Dr. Wygram was living alone; perhaps it was better 
 BO. Our intercourse would be the more unrestrained. 
 Somehow, I do not know how it happened, I was the 
 first to break the ice, upon the question of the object 
 of my visit. And this prematurely, in fact within 
 half an hour of my arrival. Now I had mentally 
 cautioned myself, on the way down, against precipi- 
 tate allusions to the purpose of my coming ; yet, as it 
 chanced, I stumbled upon the delicate topic, unawares, 
 before the servant had left us to our wine. It was, 
 then, on his son's account that Dr. Wygram sought 
 my presence here. As much I gathered from his si- 
 lence, sudden and pained, when I made the remark.
 
 DR. WYGRAM'S SON. 193 
 
 Of course after this, and until we were alone together, 
 I turned the conversation into other channels, in what 
 I fear must have seemed a very clumsy fashion. My 
 host grew more and more absent and distrait. When 
 at length we drew our chairs near the fire, for the 
 autumn evenings were growing chilly, he had not 
 opened his lips for some minutes. I was quite unpre- 
 pared for what was to come. No sooner were we 
 alone, than, in his attempt to speak, he burst into 
 tears. It was long before he regained his composure. 
 At first all he could utter was a renewal of his thanks 
 to me for coming to see him in his loneliness— his 
 worse than lonely life, as he termed it. 
 
 I could make nothing of all this, but I endeavoured 
 to assure him of my earnest desire to help him, if only 
 he would frankly confide in me as his friend. It was 
 pitiful to see how, even after this invitation, it pained 
 him to make any avowal. He sank into a reverie for 
 a few momenta, then, quickly rising to his feet and 
 laying a hand on my shoulder, said:— 
 
 * * I will show you my sorrow, my friend, rather than 
 speak of it myself. What I show you will speak for 
 itself, for all words are vain." 
 
 So saying, he motioned me to follow him, and led 
 the way from the room, carrying with him a small 
 shaded lamp. 
 
 When we entered an adjoining apartment the shad- 
 ows there were so dense, and the light we had with 
 us was so feeble, that, for some moments, I could dis- 
 cern nothing. A dull fire smouldered in the grate, 
 but shed no light on the interior of the room, which 
 seemed furnished as a small parlour. There was a 
 large sofa at the farther end, and someone lay upon 
 it covered with rugs. Dr. Wygram held the light a 
 little lower, the rays fell upon an upturned face, that 
 of a boy apparently asleep. I started, for was it not 
 the self-same face upon which the flickering light of 
 a railway carriage lamp had fallen so many years be-, 
 foret The very same, in every^ lineament, ^nothingj 
 was changed. 
 
 2—13
 
 194 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 I am not naturally quick in coining to a conclusion. 
 Things dawn upon me now even more slowly than of 
 old. I was startled for the moment, nothing more; 
 though a creeping horror moved already towards my 
 heart, I had not felt its actual touch, 
 
 "That is my sorrow," said the father, turning to 
 me, without diverting the rays of the lamp from his 
 son 's face ; then, without another word, motioned me 
 to follow him out. I did so. The shadows fell once 
 more upon the sleeper, even as the shadows of the 
 years had fallen, till that moment, upon my recollec- 
 tion of his features. 
 
 On a sudden the full significance of what I had seen 
 rushed upon me. 
 
 "Great God!" I cried, "what is this, Wygram? 
 Speak!" 
 
 We were in the corridor now, and he did not return 
 an answer. We re-entered the lighted room. My pa- 
 tience gave way. 
 
 "For Heaven's sake," I said, "Wygram, tell me 
 what is the meaning of this ! How is your son— the 
 boy sleeping yonder— the same, unchanged— ?" The 
 query died upon my lips, for he to whom I spoke was 
 pale as ashes. I read the answer of my inarticulate 
 question, there and then, in his face. By virtue of 
 some nightmare spell, the boy I had seen so many years 
 before, the boy, who by this time should have been a 
 grown man, was slumbering, still a boy, in the room 
 we had just quitted. 
 
 They say that when, in dreams, an3rthing manifestly 
 absurd or inconsistent presents itself, the dreamer at 
 once awakes. In the sitting-room of the cottage that 
 night, seated beside my old friend, how often did I 
 think myself dreaming, and long for the moment of 
 waking to be precipitated by the seeming contradic- 
 tion I had just witnessed ! For some time neither of 
 us spoke. Dr. Wygram sat motionless with the blank 
 and, as it were, featureless expression on his counte- 
 nance which I have so often seen sudden calamity im-
 
 DR. WYGRAM'S SON. 195 
 
 part. Yet his affliction, new and inexplicable to me 
 as yet, must have become familiar enough to himself. 
 After all, jt must have been its first, its only revelation 
 to another, which, as it were, reawakened himself to 
 a sense of its utter bewilderment and hopelessness. 
 And to me (of all men) he had turned for help, for 
 counsel, in circumstances so astounding ! What could 
 I do? My own brain was in a whirl. The sense of 
 wonderment once past, a painful search for possible 
 explanation succeeded— explanation of what? That 
 was the puzzling difficulty. A problem was before me, 
 but, from lack of all precedent, the conditions of effec- 
 tual presentation were wanting. How, then, attempt 
 the solution? 
 
 It must have arisen, I suppose, from the mental con- 
 fusion under which I laboured that I can give no very 
 lucid account of what immediately followed. I can- 
 not tell at what period of the evening the silent cur- 
 rent of our several thoughts flowed into a stream of 
 conversation. But I reproduce here the substance of 
 Dr. Wygram's narrative, in his own words, as far as 
 possible, omitting some details not germane to the nar- 
 rative. 
 
 ''My son," commenced Dr. Wygram, ''inherited 
 his mother's malady, that which in her case proved 
 fatal, pulmonary consumption. The unmistakable 
 symptoms developed themselves in him at an early age. 
 All the so-called remedies had been tried without avail. 
 Humanly speaking, my boy was doomed, my house 
 was apparently to be left unto me desolate. At first 
 I was in despair, a despair lightened to me at last, 
 however, by a gleam of hope. You are aware that I 
 have devoted my life to the study rather than the prac- 
 tice of medicine. Being untrammelled with regular 
 avocations, I have been enabled to explore, more fully 
 than many of my professional brethren, what may be 
 called the by-paths of study— those less explored 
 tracks which are open to the medical scientist who is, 
 by training, a chemist as well. The practice of scien-
 
 196 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 tific medicine, among us in this country, at all events, 
 is in its infancy, although many, whose interest it is 
 to conceal the fact, will assure you to the contrary. 
 If any proof were needed of my assertion, the lame 
 and halting methods in use at the present day would 
 suffice. The insufferable greed for money so shame- 
 lessly manifested renders the modern practitioner only 
 a better-class charlatan. Their failures are so gross, 
 their expedients to conceal these failures so unblush- 
 ing, that I have long recommended an adoption by the 
 public of the Chinese system. The far-seeing Celes- 
 tials only pay their medical adviser when they are 
 perfectly well. When they fall sick his pay stops till 
 he can restore them to health. 
 
 **But there is a second, and a higher path, known 
 only to a few, and these enthusiasts, careless of the 
 rewards of the crowd. It is but a dim and perilous 
 way at the best— it is easier to deride those who at- 
 tempt to traverse it than to follow them. The herd of 
 the profession eschew it for the most part. Present- 
 day materialists will have nothing, accept nothing, 
 which cannot be seen, tasted, handled, brayed in a 
 mortar, fitting fate for themselves as purblind fools! 
 See how reluctantly, how incredulously, the results of 
 even such a coarsely unmistakable remedy as electric- 
 ity are received by the profession. Yet electrical en- 
 ergy, in medicine, is a clumsy weapon compared with 
 others in the armoury of transcendentalism. There 
 are blades infinitely keener for the expert— viewless 
 brands, wielded by few— the peerless Excalibur itself, 
 kno^v^l to still fewer- for its point of a truth turneth 
 every way, to guard the path to the Tree of Life." 
 Here he shuddered, but after a pause went on : "These 
 higher methods have their risks, their inseparable dan- 
 gers. Remember that experiment must at last be 
 made upon the living, human, subject. Demonstra- 
 tion upon a score of tortured puppies will not avail. 
 Is it a wonder that the crude experimentalist, great at 
 the torture trough, and brave in its cruelties, recoils
 
 DR. JVYGRAM'S SON. 197 
 
 when the higher issue is at stake ? But as I said, my 
 boy was doomed, save, as I hoped, in the last resort 
 of transcendentalism. That last resort I tried, but not 
 until numberless trials in the laboratory had convinced 
 me that my method must avail. I had discounted 
 every possibility of failure. So long did I delay that 
 the lamp of life had almost, with him, burned to the 
 socket. But I was wary ; I knew well that the step I was 
 about to take was an irrevocable one, and my chief 
 anxiety was to prevent a possible miscarriage of conse- 
 quences. My plan, in short, promised to secure for one, 
 already within sight of death's portal, a lease of life 
 prolonged— by how many months or years I could not 
 tell— that question lay in darkness, but at least pro- 
 longed beyond what I could reasonably expect consid- 
 ering his condition. A growth of new vital force — 
 which yet was not a growth— everything pointed the 
 other way, let me say a stock, was to be grafted into 
 the decaying and wasting organism, permanent in its 
 character, constant, without flux or reflux. But (ah! 
 that hut which mars all that blooms and hopes!), like 
 all gifts added from without, unlike all properties 
 resident within, it, the gift, had an imperfection, a 
 Btrange, deadly, and irremediable fault. It grew not, 
 progressed not, aged not (do not start !) ; and this, its 
 thrice-accursed property, was so malignantly, so dev- 
 ilishly potent, beyond hope of elimination or reduc- 
 tion, that it subdued unto itself whatsoever it touched 
 or joined. Life preserved under its influence would 
 be preserved, not in activity but as it were in arrest- 
 ment, in default of needed repair, or rather with a sub- 
 tle supply and repair of its own so elusive as to evade 
 detection. 
 
 "Thus," continued Dr. Wygram— ''thus, with all 
 my caution, I erred— erred as all do, misled by some 
 devil's wile, who work against the gods. Fool that I 
 was, my own caution deceived me, and that lying 
 legend of him who sought for immortality, but forgot 
 the advent of old age. But it is past now; others
 
 198 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 would have slipped on that insuperable threshold 
 where I fell. I exulted in the thought that my boy- 
 would drink of the water of life and so defy the kill- 
 ing years — but I forgot that he was not yet a man — 
 knew not that I was condemning him to a life of imma- 
 turity. Hurry misled me at the last. Before I knew 
 it, he was almost gone— then I took the irrevocable 
 step. It was well that I worked in secret. No eye 
 but mine saw him as (oh, wondrous change!) he rose 
 from his sick-bed with an assured gift of life in every 
 limb and pulse, so sudden and startling that I dreaded 
 the coming of life 's angel almost as much as I had the 
 advent of him of death. For a time, I say, I would 
 almost, unknowing, have undone that which had been 
 done— but that stage passed, and I only watched and 
 waited. ' ' 
 
 Dr. Wygram paused. Was it fancy that as he did 
 so I thought I heard a light footstep in the room above 
 us ? The speaker did not seem to notice it, but went 
 on:— 
 
 * * For a time I knew no fear, that I had erred I did 
 not know, as yet. For months he advanced in growth 
 towards manhood. Then the spell began to work its 
 hellish will. As he was then, as he is now, so will he 
 ever be. A blight fell upon him, a chill mildew rained 
 itself upon the issues of his life. A true death in life 
 is his, for life hasteth to fruition and then falls ; but 
 this existence, with which I have dowered him, con- 
 tinues changeless, dateless, ageless, as the years of the 
 Everlasting. I tell thee," screamed the father, as he 
 sprang to his feet in a frenzy of uncontrollable horror 
 — "I tell thee my boy will never die !" 
 
 Overmastered by the contagion of his excitement, I 
 too had risen from my seat. As we faced each other 
 in silence, a breathing murmur rose on the air, form- 
 less at first, then died away. Again a hushed mur- 
 mur, then a crash of chords from an instrument in the 
 room above. He of whom we spoke was playing 
 Chopin's Marche Funebre."
 
 DR. WYGRAM'S SON. 199 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 NEED not enter into the details of my stay 
 at Low Tor Cottage, even if I were able to re- 
 produce them with correctness. My residence 
 there was, to me, a prolonged nightmare, with all hope 
 of an awakening denied me. Dr. Wygram had so 
 completely surrendered himself to despair as to be in- 
 capable of making any effort. It would have been a 
 positive relief to myself had I been able to have con- 
 sidered him insane, and the mystery before me a de- 
 lusion springing from that cause. But that conclu- 
 sion was shut out most effectually by my own personal 
 testimony (of which he always eagerly availed him- 
 self) as to his son's identity, and his practically un- 
 altered condition after an interval of so many years. 
 I had every opportunity of assuring myself on tJiis 
 point. Young Wygram, though shy and backward, 
 preferring to mope in solitude, was our companion 
 after a day or two. But he never seemed wholly at 
 ease, would not join in any sustained conversation, and 
 had an apathetic listlessness about him which was posi- 
 tively repellent. It was vain to try to arouse either 
 father or son from the overwhelming depression into 
 which both had apparently sunk. Some melancholy 
 drives we took together in a pony phaeton through 
 the solitudes of West Cornwall did not enliven us 
 much. It is a haunted land at its best, with its rolling 
 moorlands, and its mystic Dosmery Pool, fabled as 
 ebbing and flowing in its silent depths in sympathy 
 with the tides of the distant sea. As day after day 
 slipped away, I began to feel myself as partaking of 
 my friend 's hopelessness. Yet, if I hinted the useless- 
 ness of continuing with him, he would become almost 
 frantic. As he pathetically repeated to me, I was his 
 only friend, the only one to whom he could confide his
 
 200 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 sorrows, so insupportable when borne alone. Gradu- 
 ally lie persuaded me, on one point, against my better 
 judgment. It was finally agreed between us that ere 
 I left some steps should be taken on his part to en- 
 deavour to obtain a reversal, or part reversal rather, 
 of the conditions under which 'his son laboured (I use 
 the periphrasis as the plain words to me are unspeak- 
 ably painful), by something of the same methods by 
 which they had been compassed. The prospect to me 
 was very distasteful, indeed revolting, nor did Dr. 
 Wygram's laboured explanations convey much infor- 
 mation to my non-professional mind. It is useless to 
 detail them here, they would be intelligible only to the 
 expert. But I could not deny him what he asked. I 
 fancy his wish was to secure some witness of his own 
 moral innocency, should any untoward accident hap- 
 pen. I cannot blame him; indeed, I think he would 
 have been justified in taking almost any steps, short 
 of taking his son's life, in the unparalleled circum- 
 stances of the ca?e. 
 
 And the time was short. That was another per- 
 plexity. The constant state of nervous apprehension 
 which overcame Dr. Wygram whenever his residence 
 in one place lasted any time, pointed, of itself, to the 
 necessity of making haste. Perhaps he magnified this 
 difficulty; I cannot say. But there was something 
 about their retired life which seemed likely to invite 
 gossiping curiosity, in a country district more espe- 
 cially. That the neighbours had already questioned 
 him as to the nature of his son's delicacy he assured 
 me over and over again. What could they mean? 
 '*He has been watched," the father would say, excit- 
 edly. "We have already been here too long. They no- 
 tice his unaltered appearance since our arrival. A 
 growing lad, such as he appears, would have made 
 some progress in the time, and they notice that he does 
 not— nor ever will," he would add bitterly, "unless 
 my last efforts should prove successful." It was idle 
 to try to reason him out of these fears— for all I knew
 
 DR. WYGRAM'S SON. 201 
 
 they might be real. It was pitiful to think how long 
 they had possessed him, during many weary years. 
 When I had met himself and his son fifteen years be- 
 fore, they were, even then, travelling as fugitives from 
 place to place to avoid detection ; still more harrowing 
 to think that, in the father's case, from his rapidly 
 aging look and growing feebleness, these wanderings 
 must soon cease. Of his son's fate, in that overwhelm- 
 ing contingency, I could never trust myself to think. 
 The thought of it often overcame Dr. Wygram him- 
 self. He told me once, that on one occasion, when 
 abroad, the terror of this self-same prospect so un- 
 manned him that he had attempted to confide in a 
 brother practitioner, an Englishman, resident, I think, 
 in Milan. **Like most countrymen of his craft 
 abroad," said my poor friend bitterly, "he proved to 
 be utterly incredulous. I might have known it, before 
 exposing myself to his coarse ridicule. The line of 
 my studies has been so utterly outside the old groove 
 of pill and bolus, lancet and catheter, it is little won- 
 der that the crowd will have none of its results. This 
 professional brother only laughed in my face, rubbed 
 his hands in glee, as at a good joke, asking me if I 
 would not part with my recipe for a consideration, 
 seeing he had some half-dozen youngsters of his own 
 whose growing powers added to the tailor's bill. Eng- 
 lish medical men are proverbially obtuse, but for the 
 full development of their sheer obstinancy and mulish- 
 ness they should be transplanted to the soil which gave 
 birth to transcendentalism. ' ' 
 
 It was a breathless autumn evening when, in my 
 presence. Dr. Wygram commenced his second experi- 
 ment with his son. The dim scent of the shrubberies 
 stole in through the open windows— over which the 
 blinds were drawn. On a couch in the centre of the 
 room lay young Wygram in a deep slumber, super- 
 induced by an opiate which his father had adminis- 
 tered, to aid the further stages of the treatment. A 
 brass chafing dish lay upon the floor, containing some
 
 202 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 smouldering embers; from a tripod upon the table 
 hung a small retort of crimson glass which glowed like 
 a ruddy gem in the flickering light of the spirit lamp 
 underneath. 
 
 With arms stripped bare to the elbows, Dr. Wygram 
 bent over his son, watching the depth of unconscious- 
 ness in which the latter was immersed. For nearly an 
 hour my friend had not spoken a word. I did not 
 wish to interrupt him, but I saw by his manner at 
 length that the critical moment had arrived. He 
 turned to me at last, and in a broken whisper told me 
 that a few moments longer would decide his success 
 or failure. "We shall now, I trust," he said, "have 
 insight granted us in regard to a hitherto hidden 
 mystery. ' ' 
 
 I do not know whether he ever obtained the insight 
 in question, but I know that it was never granted to 
 me. For, at that moment, loud voices were heard in 
 the corridor. The door was unceremoniously thrown 
 open, and three men entered the room. Their leader, 
 a puffy, red-faced individual, fixed me with his glitter- 
 ing eye from the moment of his coming into the room. 
 "That is the man!" he said, to his subordinates, 
 pointing, at the same time, to me as I stood irresolute. 
 A sudden panic possessed me that instant. To es- 
 cape by the door was impossible, as the men stood 
 beside it, but the window behind me was handy. I 
 turned, lifted the blind, and precipitately jumped into 
 the garden a few feet below. I do not believe that I 
 ever ran so fast in my life as I did on that occasion 
 through the mazes of the shrubbery. My one frantic 
 desire was to get away at all hazards from that dread- 
 ful dwelling, though from what I fled I could not have 
 told. I only knew that horror, the accumulated hor- 
 ror, of the past weeks, compressed into the moment, 
 possessed me to my very heels. A wretched dog 
 prowling about the garden gave chase to me as I fled, 
 under the impression that I was making off with some 
 portable property belonging to the establishment ; but
 
 DR. WY GRAM'S SON. 203 
 
 Jlsoon left him far behind, and I do not think that the 
 men joined in the pursuit, beyond the limits of the 
 couage, if, indeed, they followed me at all. In my 
 terror I never looked behind, but ran through fields, 
 hedges, and ditches till I arrived, breathless and hat- 
 less, at the nearest railway station. The officials 
 seemed somewhat surprised at the appearance I pre- 
 senied, but I got a ticket without question, and was 
 soon seated in a railway carriage on my way to 
 London. 
 
 These memoranda, written after a long period of 
 nervous prostration, must be published, if for my own 
 exculpation alone. Shortly after their committal to 
 paper, a longing curiosity impelled me to inquire as 
 to the fate of my old friend. I had promised not to 
 desert him, and that promise I had scarcely kept. At 
 all hazards, then, I resolved to go to Cornwall once 
 more, even if by doing so, I should fall into the hands 
 of the authorities, as I doubted not he had done. At 
 all events, my own innocency was beyond question. 
 
 On the Paddington platform my apprehensions in 
 this latter respect were redoubled. A young man 
 standing beside me, when I was taking out my ticket, 
 certainly eyed me very narrowly. 
 
 * * One of the minions of the law, ' ' I said to myself ; 
 ''the affair has got wind after all." As I was about 
 to take my seat he came forward and asked if he had 
 
 the pleasure of addressing Mr. F of Blank Street. 
 
 Resolved to brazen it out to the last, I admitted my 
 identity. 
 
 "You are acquainted with Dr. Wygram, I think?" 
 he continued, interrogatively. 
 
 I owned that I was. Denial, at this stage, would 
 have been useless. 
 
 ' ' I am his son, ' ' he said smilingly. 
 
 "His son!" I gasped. Then, after all, Dr. 
 Wygram 's second experiment had succeeded, and he 
 who was before me had been freed from the spell of
 
 201 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 his youth. Yes, there was no doubt of it! He was 
 now a man ! " Is it possible ? " I repeated, gazing at 
 him with astonishment. 
 
 "I think there is no doubt of it," he replied coolly. 
 * * You will be sorry to learn that my father is far from 
 well," he resumed. "I have been from home for a 
 long time, but am just going down to see him, in Corn- 
 waU." 
 
 ' * Just going down to see him ? ' ' This was mystery 
 upon mystery. 
 
 "My dear sir," I said in despair, **I am very sorry 
 indeed to hear of your father's illness, but would you 
 kindly answer me one question as distinctly as you 
 can. If you are Dr. Wygram's son, how is it that 
 you do not remember me ? " 
 
 "I do now most distinctly," he replied. "I re- 
 member travelling with you and my father, many 
 years ago, when I was going to school in the North." 
 
 Heavens ! Then all the years, since then, had been 
 a blank to him ! 
 
 "Have you no recollection," I suggested, "of hav- 
 ing been with your father since then, a short time ago, 
 in Cornwall?" 
 
 "Ah! that is my brother," he quickly returned. 
 "Yes, he was with my father, when he took ill— been 
 with him too long, in fact, for the good of either. My 
 father, I am sorry to say, has for some time been quite 
 unhinged mentally. ' ' 
 
 I should think he has, was my inward comment, for 
 I saw it all in a moment. There were two young 
 Wygrams; both of these I had seen when they were 
 youngsters of the same age. Why had I not thought 
 of this before? Is it not my special weakness that 
 things dawn upon me very slowly? The rest, of 
 course, was Dr. Wygram's delusion, ultimately neces- 
 sitating his being placed under the care of his friends. 
 
 "My dear sir," I replied, after a pause, and with 
 some effusion of manner, ' ' I sincerely trust that your 
 father's distressing illness may be but temporary. On
 
 DR. WYGRAM'S SON. 203 
 
 his being able to receive the message, kindly 'present 
 him with my warmest regards. Meanwhile, one ques^ 
 tion more before we part, for I am not going byfthiS 
 train ; I— I have changed my mind. How many years'*. 
 may I ask, may there be between your own age and 
 that of your brother ? ' ' 
 
 "About fourteen or fifteen," was the reply. 
 
 ' ' Quite so ; and when you were youngsters of about 
 the same age, say, were you not considered very like 
 one another?" 
 
 "Remarkably so," he answered, laughingly, "as like 
 as two peas." 
 
 G. M. McCrie.
 
 XIII 
 
 ON THE INDIA FRONTIER : THE 
 DOCTOR'S STORY. 
 
 WANT Berlyng," he seemed to be saying, thongli 
 it was difficult to catch the words, for we were 
 §S^I almost within range, and the fight was a sharp 
 one. It was the old story of India frontier warfare ; 
 too small a force and a foe foolishly underrated. 
 
 The man they had just brought in— laying him hur- 
 riedly on a bed of pine-needles, in the shade of the 
 conifers where I had halted my little train— poor 
 Charles Noon of the Sikhs, was done for. His right 
 hand was off at the wrist, and the shoulder was almost 
 severed. 
 
 I bent my ear to his lips, and heard the words which 
 sounded like ' ' Want Berlyng. ' ' 
 
 We had a man called Berlyng in the force— a gun- 
 ner—who was round at the other side of the fort that 
 was to be taken before night, two miles away at least. 
 
 ' ' Do you want Berlyng ? " I asked slowly and dis- 
 tinctly. Noon nodded, and his lips moved. I bent 
 my head again till my ear almost touched his lips. 
 
 ' ' How long have I ? " he was asking. 
 
 "Not long, I'm afraid, old chap." 
 
 His lips closed with a queer, distressed look. He was 
 sorry to die. ' ' How long ? " he asked again. 
 
 "About an hour." 
 
 But I knew it was less. I attended to others, think- 
 ing aU the while of poor Noon. His home life was 
 little known, but there w-as some story about an en- 
 gagement at Poonah the previous warm weather. Noon 
 was rich, and he cared for the girl; but she did not 
 
 (206)
 
 ON THE INDIA FRONTIER. 207 
 
 return the feeling. In fact, there was some one else. 
 It appears that the girl's people were ambitious and 
 poor, and that Noon had promised large settlements. 
 At all events, the engagement was a known affair, and 
 gossips whispered that Noon knew about the some one 
 else and would not give her up. He was, I know, 
 thought badly of by some, especially by the elders. 
 
 However, the end of it all lay on a sheet beneath the 
 pines and watched me with such persistence that I was 
 at last forced to go to him. 
 
 "Have you sent for Berlyng?" he asked, with a 
 breathlessness which I know too well. 
 
 Now, I had not sent for Berlyng, and it requires 
 more nerve than I possess to tell unnecessary lies to a 
 dying man. The necessary ones are quite different, 
 and I shall not think of them when I go to my account, 
 
 ** Berlyng could not come if I sent for him," I re- 
 plied soothingly. "He is two miles away from here, 
 trenching the North Wall, and I have nobody to send. 
 The messenger would have to run the gauntlet of the 
 enemy's earthworks." 
 
 "I'll give the man a hundred pounds who does it," 
 replied Noon, in his breathless whisper. "Berlyng 
 will come sharp enough. He hates me too much, ' ' 
 
 He broke off with a laugh which made me feel sick. 
 
 I found a wounded water-carrier— a fellow with a 
 stray bullet in his hand— who volunteered to find 
 Berlyng, and then I returned to Noon and told him 
 what I had done. I knew that Berlyng could not come. 
 
 He nodded and I think he said, "God bless you." 
 
 "I want to put something right," he said, after an 
 effort ; " I 've been a blackguard. ' ' 
 
 I waited a little, in case Noon wished to repose some 
 confidence in me. Things are so seldom put right that 
 it is wise to facilitate such intentions. But it appeared 
 obvious that what Noon had to say could only be said 
 to Berlyng. They had, it subsequently transpired, not 
 been on speaking terms for some months. 
 
 I was turning away when Noon suddenly cried out 
 in his natural voice, "There is Berlyng."
 
 208 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 I turned and saw one of my men, Swearney, carry- 
 ing in a gunner. It might be Berlyng, for the uni- 
 form was that of a captain, but I could not see his face. 
 Noon, however, seemed to recognize him. 
 
 I showed Swerney where to lay his man, close to me, 
 alongside Noon, who at that moment required all my 
 attention, for he had fainted. 
 
 In a moment Noon recovered, despite the heat, which 
 was tremendous. He lay quite still, looking up at the 
 patches of blue sky between the dark, motionless tops 
 of the pine trees. 
 
 His face was livid under the sunburn, and as I 
 wiped the perspiration from his forehead he closed his 
 eyes with the abandon of a child. Some men, I have 
 found, die like children going to sleep. He slowly 
 recovered and I gave him a few drops of brandy. I 
 thought he was dying and decided to let Berlyng wait. 
 
 I did not even glance at him as he lay, covered with 
 dust and blackened by the smoke of his beloved nine- 
 pounders, a little to the left of Noon and behind me as 
 I knelt at the latter 's side. After a while his eyes 
 grew brighter and he began to look about him. 
 
 He turned his head, painfully, for the muscles of 
 his neck were injured, and caught sight of the gun- 
 ner's uniform. "Is that Berlyng?" he asked, ex- 
 citedly." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 He dragged himself up and tried to get nearer to 
 Berlyng. And I helped him. They were close along- 
 side each other. Berlyng was lying on his back, star- 
 ing up at the blue patches between the pine-trees. 
 
 Noon turned on his left elbow and began whisper- 
 ing into the smoke-grimed ear. 
 
 "Berlyng," I heard him say, "I was a blackguard. 
 I am sorry, old man. I played it very low down. It 
 was a dirty trick. It was my money— and her people 
 were anxious for her to marry a rich man. I worked 
 it through her people. I wanted her so badly that I 
 forgot I— was supposed— to be a— gentleman. I found
 
 ON THE INDIA FRONTIER. 209 
 
 •out— that it was you— she cared for. But I couldn't 
 make up my mind to give her up, I kept her— to her 
 word. And now it's all up with me— but you'll pull 
 through and it will all— come right. Give her my— 
 love— old chap. You can now— because I'm done, I'm 
 glad they brought you in— because I've been able— to 
 tell you— that it is you she cares for. You— Berlyng, 
 old chap, who used to be a chum of mine. She cares 
 for you— God, you're in luck! I don't know whether 
 she's told you— and I was— a d— d blackguard." 
 
 His jaw suddenly dropped— and he rolled forward 
 with his face against Berlyng 's shoulder. 
 
 Berlyng was dead when they brought him in. He 
 had heard nothing. Or perhaps he had heard and 
 understood— everything. 
 
 Henry Seton Mereiman.
 
 XIV 
 DOCTOR GREENFIELD. 
 
 T\\R' GREENFIELD looked round his small 
 ~^ft study with satisfaction and a touch of pride. 
 ^^1 In spite of the book-cases filled with treatises 
 on medicines and diseases, and the inevitable patient's 
 chair, the room still managed to be an attractive one. 
 The book-cases were of oak; the dreaded chair lay 
 claim to be a particularly good specimen of an early 
 Sheraton; and over the chimney-piece, and on all 
 available space of the soft green-colored walls hung 
 good mezzotint prints in dark frames. 
 
 The servant put a match to the log-laid fire, for al- 
 though it was May, there was an evening chill, and a 
 sensation of damp. 
 
 The Doctor had dined early, with the expectation 
 of a long drive, so his evening at home was uninten- 
 tional, and caused by the little piece of pink paper 
 which now lay unheeded at his feet. He stretched 
 himself, felt how tired he was, and how luxurious was 
 this unexpected evening at home. Then he remem- 
 bered the cause and, with an involuntary movement, 
 stooped and picked up the paper from where it lay. 
 He opened it and read it again, though he had done 
 so several times already. 
 
 A telegram so short, but he knew what it had meant 
 to the sender of it ; a lifelong message of despair, of 
 shipwrecked hopes and utter loneliness. * ' Charlie died 
 this evening." Dr. Greenfield read it out loud quite 
 slowly— and once more it fluttered to the ground, and 
 he sighed. So it was all over; the eight weeks' watch- 
 ing; the alternate hope and despair; the grim fight 
 with death— and death had triumphed. He saw the 
 
 (210)
 
 DOCTOR GREENFIELD. 211 
 
 girl, the sender of the message, standing as she had 
 done when he told her that her brother must die. He 
 thought of the weeks during which time he had been 
 so much thrown with this girl— Juliet Carson— the 
 days which they had spent together watching by the 
 sick man's bed, fighting the battle of skill and science 
 wdth destiny. 
 
 And all the time his mind dwelt on it, he knew it did 
 not really touch him— the worst part to him was that 
 his science had failed him. For a moment he let him- 
 self believe that the constant facing death, which as 
 a doctor he was bound to confront, had hardened his 
 feelings, made him callous, and taken his sense of pity 
 and sympathy from him ; but he was too honest, and 
 he remembered with a true flash of conviction that it 
 had always been so, and memory took him back over 
 many years, and he seemed to hear his nurse saying, 
 ''Master George has no heart, he didn't feel his fath- 
 er's death a bit." And it came to him how right she 
 had been, how he had wanted to care, but something 
 wouldn't let him; he could not cry as his brother did, 
 and he had felt as if he belonged somewhere else. All 
 his later life, too, he had known it. He had no sym- 
 pathy, no pity, and he knew that others felt the want 
 in him, though often they did not know what it was. 
 He had lived for thirty-five years now, and he had 
 never cared for anyone ; and for the first time tonight, 
 as he sat and looked into the fire, he knew that his life 
 had been only half complete, that he lacked what was 
 the best, and that his whole existence had been colour- 
 less. Still, as he argued against himself, if he had 
 lacked the best, he had also missed the worst : many of 
 his friends had gone ; he had wanted to care, but the 
 power was not there; he had seen piteous sights; he 
 had witnessed heartrending scenes of poverty and de- 
 spair, but they had all been nothing to him ; they had 
 passed by, and he had forgotten. 
 
 Somehow the image of Juliet to-night came back to 
 him ; the girl in her sorrow and loneliness with no one
 
 212 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 left to her; and he wondered why his heart was not 
 wrung with pity. Although she did not stir his heart, 
 or his senses, he could see she was beautiful ; but for 
 some other man, not for him. A new and painful sen- 
 sation of loneliness suddenly swept over him, a horri- 
 ble whiff of middle age, a foretaste of the solitude of 
 old age, which must overtake him, but he could do 
 nothing to help himself, he had no will, no power. He 
 sat on in his deep reverie, with his eyes fixed on the 
 burning logs. Then he got up from his chair and went 
 to the window and looked out on the May evening. 
 
 It was half -past eight o'clock, and the chill which 
 comes just after sunset was in the air. He stood look- 
 ing into the clear blue distance, listening to the night- 
 ingales and the hum of the bees. Then suddenly he 
 saw a sight which astonished him— a procession wind- 
 ing its way down the long avenue of limes which faced 
 his window: a curious procession, too— a funeral— it 
 was unlike any he had seen before. It gave him a 
 strange sensation. Preceding it were men and women, 
 chanting as they went. 
 
 They paused as they came near to him, the singing 
 ceased, and several made a gesture as if they would 
 ask him to join them ; then they drew back as he heard 
 one say, "Ah, not him; he knows no pity, he has no 
 love, he cannot come ; ' ' and they passed on, taking up 
 their chant ; and for the first time in his life he knew 
 he was an outcast and a pariah. He was hungering 
 and thirsting for someone to help him and pity him. 
 
 Behind them came men carrying the body of the 
 dead man, and he bowed as they went by. Once more 
 he looked, and he saw three figures— three white-robed 
 women, walking together. And the one who walked 
 in the midst had the eyes of Juliet Carson, and in her 
 hands she held a large cup. The three paused as they 
 came near to him, and it seemed to him as if a veil fell 
 between the rest of the procession and them, the music 
 got fainter, and he was left alone with these three; 
 something within him told him that they held in that
 
 DOCTOR GREENFIELD. 213 
 
 cup the power of pity and love, that they alone could 
 give them to him, and he cried to them to take pity on 
 him. Then Juliet, for it was Juliet, spoke to him ; her 
 eyes were troubled, though her face shone with a radi- 
 ant smile, and her voice came to him as a soft wind, 
 and stilled his despair and restlessness. 
 
 "Listen," she said, "and know what you ask. We 
 are three sisters, Love, Joy, and Sorrow, and if you 
 drink of this cup you can never again be as you were. 
 You would wish, likely, to take only Love and Joy, but 
 as love brings joy, so also it surely brings sorrow, and 
 you cannot take one without the other. Say, will you 
 take Love, and in so doing accept Joy and Sorrow as 
 they come?" and she paused while he made his choice. 
 
 But with eager, trembling hands he took the cup she 
 offered him and drank thirstily, and then— his whole 
 being was flooded with hope and delight, and as he 
 handed the cup back to Juliet in her radiant form of 
 love, she bent forward a little and kissed him— a kiss 
 which thrilled his soul, and sent the life-blood rushing 
 through his veins. Then the figures vanished. Once 
 more he heard the faint sound of distant music, and 
 then— and then * * * 
 
 The Doctor straightened himself in his chair, and 
 looked round him in a dazed, bewildered manner. 
 
 "A dream," he murmured. "Is it possible? I, 
 too, of all men." 
 
 He looked round him. The May morning was 
 breaking into his room, the birds were singing, the sun 
 was up. So then he had fallen asleep in his chair, 
 and all that seemed so real, so tangible, was nothing 
 but a dream— a dream of possibilities, and an awak- 
 ening to realities. 
 
 As his mind grew clearer, he remembered all that 
 had taken place the night before— ah! that telegram 
 was the reality ; and once more he stooped to pick it 
 up. But, as he read it, a new feeling, and yet not a 
 new feeling came to him— the sensation of his dream. 
 It made him giddy, and he went to the window to
 
 214 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 steady himself, and to feel the air. But in him, and 
 all around him, he was conscious of a change ; a rush 
 of almost divine pity and love swept across him. Ah ! 
 that, then, was no dream; he was in touch with the 
 love, the sorrow, and pity of the world ; he shared them 
 all ; he was one of them, he was no longer the pariah, 
 the outcast; and more than that, he too loved, and his 
 love had been alone with her suffering and sorrow all 
 night. Last night he had not cared ; to-day the pity 
 of it almost stifled him. 
 
 He threw up the -window and stepped onto the lawn ; 
 the fresh dew was upon everything, and he stretched 
 himself in the rays of the sun, and thanked God that 
 he was alive. He looked long up the avenue, where 
 in his dream he had seen the procession come down, 
 and he shuddered when he thought how they had left 
 him— no, not all— and his heart beat as he thought of 
 Juliet Carson, and how she had come to him at the 
 time of his great want. And the thought of her 
 brought back to him the reality and the present, and, 
 as he listened to the clock striking six, he knew that 
 his restlessness must wait ; he who had waited all his 
 life was now impatient for two hours to be over. Ah ! 
 had it come to this. He smiled at his own impetuosity, 
 but had not the heart to rebuke himself. 
 
 He spent the next two hours wandering up and 
 down his garden, listening to the morning sounds, as 
 the world woke bit by bit to its day's work. He 
 watched the workmen pass by his gate on their way to 
 take up their daily toil, and he wondered why he had 
 never pitied them— his had been so much more a case 
 of pity. Though worn and tired, and perhaps sad- 
 dened, they, too, had loved ; they had somewhere, some- 
 time, romance in their lives. 
 
 As the church clock struck eight he made his way 
 to the stables and ordered his dog-cart. His own voice 
 had a conscious sound in it, and he felt all the world 
 must know he was a changed man. As he drove 
 through the deep lanes, with the honeysuckle, pink
 
 DOCTOR GREENFIELD. 215 
 
 may, and wild cherry blossom all in their beauty be- 
 fore him, he felt that there was only life, only beauty 
 in the world, and all the sorrowful and sad side of it 
 had fled away. But as he neared the old manor house, 
 where death triumphed, his beating heart quietened 
 somewhat, and he felt a touch of sorrow come over 
 him. 
 
 He was evidently expected, for he was admitted at 
 once into the long low room, into which the sun was 
 pouring. The window was thrown up, and as he 
 paused he felt that the stillness of death was in the 
 house. Then he heard a slight movement and turned. 
 At the open window stood Juliet, the sun's rays light- 
 ing up her white gown, and her brown hair ; her eyes 
 had the troubled expression of his dream, but there 
 was no radiance in the sad, weary, little face. In her 
 hands she held great branches of white lilacs, lilies, 
 and roses. 
 
 He went to meet her with outstretched hand, and a 
 great pity in his heart spiritualizing his human love. 
 
 "I knew," she said simply; "I knew you would 
 come." Had she, too, seen the vision, or was it in his 
 face? 
 
 And did she bend her head as in his dream?— for 
 his lips found hers, and that kiss drew the bitterness 
 from her sorrow, while it opened ap his new life for 
 him, sweeping away all the years he had left behind, 
 and flooding his soul with light and love. 
 
 And although they were in the presence of death, 
 did not love triumph? 
 
 Lady Mabel Howard.
 
 XV 
 
 DR. GLADMAN, A SKETCH OF 
 COLONIAL LIFE. 
 
 I 
 
 T WAS Christmas morning in Southern lati- 
 tudes. The thermometer stood at 80 degrees 
 in the shade, and we had just finished a really 
 splendid run across the Pacific, right away from the 
 Cape, without touching, and w^e were all delighted to 
 be once more about to stand on terra firma. I had 
 signed articles in London, at a shilling a month, as 
 surgeon, to the good ship "Teneriffe," the Company 
 naturally considering the said shilling good pay in 
 addition to a free passage for myself, and at a reduced 
 rate for my wife, to Sidney. 
 
 >Ve were passing a lighthouse, and could see the 
 smoke rising from the little settlement at King 
 George's Sound. The houses and harbour itself were 
 hidden by the first of the many headlands that were 
 between us and the narrow opening to the anchorage. 
 There was the usual bustle on deck and tramping to 
 and fro of the sailors, who were getting the anchor 
 clear and the decks in readiness to let go. 
 
 My wife and her sister were making certain changes 
 in their dress that they might be ready the moment 
 we dropped anchor to go ashore. I could hear my 
 wife ask her sister Rosie if she could really believe 
 "this everlasting voyage w^as over?" as I was hur- 
 riedly finishing off my letters in the saloon to take 
 ashore. I had just fastened and sealed up a long 
 letter to my friend H. at "Bart's," and another to 
 my mother in peaceful Devonshire, and had done the 
 same for some half dozen or more of my wife 's, w^hen 
 I heard the orders, "Hard a-port," "Ease her," 
 
 (216)
 
 A SKETCH OF COLONIAL LIFE. 217 
 
 "Slow," passed to the wheel and engine room as the 
 pilot's boat came alongside. It was manned by four 
 rowers in man-o'-war's-man dress, and a tiny golden- 
 haired boy, who didn't look more than ten, in the stern 
 holding the tiller ropes in his little brown fist, and 
 keeping his eyes fixed on the pilot's movements till he 
 was safe on deck. Then he said authoritatively, ''Let 
 go the rope; fall astern," rolling the "r" and giving 
 it "starn" in the approved style. 
 
 I ran down the companion-way again, and knocked 
 at our state-room to tell my women-folk to come up and 
 see him— they both are so fond of children. On going 
 in I found my wife standing in the midst of open port- 
 manteaus, fastening on her sister's white veil or pug- 
 gery, attired herself in shore-going garments, and with 
 another long red-and-white-striped puggery shading 
 her own neck. My wife insists on considering Aus- 
 tralia tropical! 
 
 "Do they wear gloves, do you suppose, in this 
 place?" she said, taking a long pair of grey ones off 
 the cabin sofa, with a somewhat scornful emphasis on 
 the "this place" which expressed her private feeling 
 about Australia generally. 
 
 "Of course they do; life in Australian towns is 
 the same as life anywhere else," I said, proud of my 
 information, derived from the blue-books of the Agent- 
 General. 
 
 My wife smiled. She has a peculiarly sweet way of 
 smiling sometimes, instead of answering one, which is 
 equivalent to her to having the last word, and is far 
 more than equivalent to me, and very trying, as I have 
 to conjecture what the last word would have been. 
 
 We all went on deck. The pilot's boat vv'as already 
 some distance astern, and we could hardly see the little 
 boy. We found we were steaming slowly through the 
 blue water, past the swelling furze-covered headlands, 
 the one we had just passed being crowned by a white 
 lighthouse, with what looked at the distance a tiny 
 white cottage, with neat palings and outhouses 
 round it.
 
 218 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 The pilot was in command on the bridge. We could 
 see his figure against the sky, standing on the narrow 
 strip of a platform, from which the officer of the watch 
 rules his seagirt kingdom with an even more absolute 
 despotism than that of the sultans of the "Arabian 
 Nights." His broad back, upright figure, and strong 
 hands grasping the rail in front, gave one a sense of 
 security, though the quick clear enunciation of the 
 necessary orders was not quite that of a sailor, or at 
 least did not sound so, after the jolly roar to which 
 we were accustomed in our skipper. 
 
 For all that, we soon found ourselves safely anchored 
 well in sight of the tiny jetty of the straggling collec- 
 tion of wooden and corrugated iron buildings that 
 form the town of Albany. 
 
 The ship was at once surrounded by a swarm of cop- 
 per-coloured savages— lads and men, from apparently 
 ten years old to about thirty— more or less nude, who 
 proceeded, one out of each pair in their rough boats, 
 to dive into the clear blue water after the coins the 
 passengers threw in, and which they came lap holding 
 in their white teeth, shaking the water out of their 
 close black curls. 
 
 We were watching two of these chattering gleaming 
 "bronzes," as my wife called them, averring that un- 
 less you looked upon them as statuary they were really 
 not proper, when the captain came up to us, as we 
 leant over the bulwarks, to introduce the pilot, who 
 stood just behind him with an amused smile at my 
 wife's last remark. 
 
 "Doctor, let me introduce Dr. Gladman, our pilot, 
 to you," said our skipper, "Mrs. M. and Miss N., 
 this is our parish doctor, health officer, and pilot— Dr. 
 Gladman." 
 
 The pilot bowed, and holding his peaked cap in his 
 left hand stood with his close curling grey hair un- 
 covered in the glowing Australian sunshine, while he 
 shook hands with my wife and her sister. "Welcome 
 to Australia, ladies," said he, still holding his cap.
 
 A SKETCH OF COLONIAL LIFE. 219 
 
 ' * Thank you, doctor, ' ' said my wife. * ' But are you 
 not afraid to remain uncovered in this dreadful sun?" 
 
 "Not for a short moment, madam," he replied, and 
 added, glancing at her delicate pale face and the more 
 blooming cheeks of her sister, "We naturalised Aus- 
 tralians long ago gave up all hope of having your 
 beautiful English complexions," replaced his cap 
 
 "Naturalised?" echoed Rosie, looking ready to 
 shake hands over again. ' ' Are you really an English- 
 man, Dr. Gladman ? Oh ! I am so glad. I was afraid 
 every one would be Australian— Colonial now." 
 
 Dr. Gladman laughed, "A good colonist," he said, 
 "but not a Colonial. No, it certainly seems a very 
 long time ago, but I did originally come from 'Home,' 
 as we say out here. I was born in Buckinghamshire, 
 and bred at Bart's." 
 
 The magic word Bart's— my beloved hospital!— 
 completed the charm Dr. Gladman 's fine head, clever 
 face, and quick cheery speech had worked. 
 
 Here was a brother in arms, at the first push off! 
 As we made the tour of the ship together, necessary 
 before he could give us our clean bill of health and a 
 soul could leave the ship, I found he had known sev- 
 eral of the older men of my time who were youngsters 
 in his. He had qualified fifteen years before I did, 
 but by the time we had reached the cabin to go over 
 the ship's papers with the captain he seemed an old 
 friend. There is something in the air of strange lands 
 that draws Englishmen together. I had been sent 
 out for my health ; so had he, he told me with a jolly 
 laugh, ' ' quite a wreck, they said, ten years ago ! " I 
 told him the latest medical news from England, and 
 found he was only a fortnight behind me ! and saw his 
 Medical Journal and Lancet as regularly as I did. 
 As we sat down to the saloon table, I asked him how 
 they managed for a pilot, supposing a ship should 
 come in and signal for one, while he was away across 
 the bay, or over on the bush, in his capacity of doctor, 
 
 "Oh," said Dr, Gladman, "it doesn't often happen.
 
 220 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 You see the regular liners— the P. and 0. and Orient 
 boats— don't require a pilot, they come in so often. 
 I don't quite know why you signalled for one, skip- 
 per," he added, turning to the captain, who had or- 
 dered sherry to be put on the table, and was sitting 
 with his elbows well squared putting his very black 
 and inky signature to the ship's papers. 
 
 "I've never been in here as skipper before. Why, 
 it must be four years since I was here at all, Glad- 
 man. I was chief officer on the 'Regulus,' don't you 
 remember, when I last came into the Sound? Let's 
 nee, in 1880 it was." 
 
 "Ay, so you were," returned the pilot; "but," he 
 added, turning to me, "one of my boat's crew has a 
 pilot's license too, and can take a boat in quite as well 
 AS I can. If they don't care to have him, they have 
 to wait till I get back, if I am out. Once or twice 
 I 've been run very hard though, doing pilot and doc- 
 tor at the same time almost." 
 
 "I remember, Gladman, just this very day, eight 
 years ago," struck in the captain, "you took in the 
 
 'Badger' for Captain D . I was his mate then, 
 
 just before that awful gale of wind when the old 
 jetty was nearly washed to pieces. It was the first 
 time I ever saw you, and you were off then to some 
 good lady— do you remember?" 
 
 "Yes, I remember that," said the pilot, balancing 
 his silver pencil-case on his finger. "I hadn't my lit- 
 tle coxswain with me then, had I, skipper?" 
 
 "Hadn't you? Oh! no— of course you hadn't"— 
 and the skipper laughed. "He was only born that 
 night, was he ? Dear, dear, how time flies ! So he is 
 eight years old to-day ! Here 's to him ! ' ' And the 
 skipper raised his glass, and so did the doctor, saying 
 to me, "It's the little chap you noticed in my boat— 
 my little coxswain." 
 
 I drank my glass also to the little fellow's health, 
 and then the captain said: 
 
 "Tell the doctor, Gladman, how you came to take 
 him."
 
 A SKETCH OF COLONIAL LIFE. 221 
 
 "What is his name?" I said. "I saw a curly- 
 headed little fellow in the stern of your boat, and also 
 that you had four men besides. That is a good large 
 crew, isn't it, simply to pull you out to a ship and 
 back?" 
 
 * ' It isn 't a man too much, either, doctor, and when 
 you have seen our Breaksea in a storm of wind and 
 rain you'll agree with me. Besides, that gig is all 
 I have to take me to my patients across the bay, up 
 the harbour to the town. Of course there is a path 
 to the town round the cliffs from the lighthouse, 
 where I live." 
 
 "You saw it as we passed, doctor. Gladman is 
 lighthouse-keeper, among other things," put in the 
 skipper. 
 
 "But," went on the pilot, smiling at the interpola- 
 tion, "it is a long way round, and I haven't time 
 for long ways round. We get all our provisions, too, 
 by the boat, and my wife goes to church and pays her 
 calls in it. She is a first-rate sailor, isn't she, skipper? 
 And as for that monkey, Jack— my little coxswain- 
 he's a far better pilot than I am." 
 
 "Is he now?" said the captain. "Tell the doctor 
 how you came to take him," he said, with a sailor's 
 love of a good yarn. 
 
 "He is not your son, then?" I said, a little sur- 
 prised ; for I had noticed that the child was more care- 
 fully dressed than one would expect one of the crew's 
 lads to be. 
 
 "Well, he is, and he isn't. My wife and I adopted 
 him. We lost our little one— it was a girl though— 
 the day he was born. Yes, it is eight years ago to-day 
 our little one was down with scarlet fever. She was 
 nearly two. There had been an epidemic of it in the 
 town, but I never knew how the child got it, up there 
 miles away, unless, you know, doctor, ' ' he said a little 
 sadly, "I took it up to the cottage myself— I always 
 feared so. I used, before then, to think if I had been 
 to any infectious cases in the town, that after the
 
 222 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 couple of hours' row across and round the point I 
 should be safe and not take anything up to the cot- 
 tage. Anyhow, the little thing had it, and badly; I 
 hadn't much hope in the morning. My poor little 
 wife— she was one of your Bart's sisters before I mar- 
 ried her— literally fought the disease inch by inch, 
 and we both of course did all that could be done. I 
 had sat up half the night— Christmas Eve— with the 
 little maid. It was one of those bad throat cases, 
 doctor, ' ' said the pilot, a little gruffly, turning to me. 
 
 I nodded, and he Avent on: "About seven, one of 
 the men at the lighthouse came to say a pilot was sig- 
 nalled for by a ship off the head." 
 
 "That was the 'Badger'— ay. I rememuer you 
 coming aboard in the cool of the morning, as well as 
 if it was to-day," said the captain. 
 
 ' ' The other fellow was away, ' ' continued the pilot ; 
 "so I had a bath and changed all my things, and left 
 the poor wife, who was beginning to lose hope, sitting 
 with the baby on her lap. I hardly thought it would 
 live till I got back. Just as I rounded the headland 
 —or was it a bit farther on, skipper— f" 
 
 "Thereabouts," said the skipper. 
 
 "We met a boat from the town, and one of the 
 boatmen called out to know if I was aboard, because I 
 was wanted in Albany. His wife was taken bad. 
 
 ' ' You know what that means, doctor ! ' ' grinned the 
 skipper. 
 
 "I ought to, captain," I said, hearing as he spoke 
 a smothered murmur from our state-room, from which 
 I guessed that the dead silence which had till then 
 prevailed therein was only another proof of the truth 
 of the saying, that women are curious beings. 
 
 Wholly unconscious that he had any other hearers 
 than myself and the captain, the pilot went on : 
 
 "We were steaming into the harbour as quick as 
 we could, so I told the man to fall astern, and we 
 towed them behind us. When I got to Mrs. Rogers, 
 I found that she was better, and that I shouldn't be
 
 A SKETCH OF COLONIAL LIFE. 223 
 
 wanted probably that day at all ; but I did not intend 
 to go back home— I thought it best not; but after an 
 hour or two I saw my boat run in alongside the jetty, 
 and one of the fellows come ashore. In a few mo- 
 ments, Rogers brought me a note from my wife beg- 
 ging me to come back if I possibly could; she was 
 frightened about the child. 
 
 "I knew I could do nothing, but I couldn't bear 
 the thought of the wife's being all alone up there and 
 looking for me— and perhaps, later on, I shouldn't be 
 able to go — so, as I found when I went up to Rogers' 
 cottage that everything was put off, and my patient 
 preparing her husband's tea, I set off home again. 
 
 * ' The day had clouded over, and the hot wind that 
 had blown off the land all day had died down, and 
 there was that dead silence we always have before a 
 black squall of wind and rain comes up from the sea. 
 
 "Before we got across the bay, gusts of wind dead 
 in our teeth caught us once or twice and curled the 
 water round her bows; and just as I jumped ashore, 
 the first dash of rain came. As I stepped on to our 
 verandah, a great roaring gust nearly swept me away. 
 
 "I went up to the windows, and took down one of 
 the outside shutters my wife had put up to protect the 
 glass, and saw her sitting with the little one in her 
 arms. She was relieved to see me, and beckoned to me 
 to go round and come in. But, you know," said the 
 pilot, clearing his throat, "I couldn't go in, going 
 back, as I was, to the good woman in labour over at 
 Albany. It wouldn 't have been safe. ' ' 
 
 "No," I said, "I suppose not;" but I wondered if 
 I should have been so conscientious if it had been I. 
 
 "It may have been hard of me, perhaps," said the 
 pilot, looking straight in front of him ; ' ' but I thought 
 it right; and I could do nothing; I knew that when 
 I left in the morning. I opened the window and told 
 the wife how it was. She was very good ; she wanted 
 me to come in, of course, if only to kiss the little thing 
 before it died. But I told her I did not think I ought.
 
 224 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 I couldn't do anything for the child; it was dying 
 then." 
 
 The good honest fellow stopped a moment, and 
 again I heard a movement, and I thought a stifled 
 sob, from our cabin; but the captain broke in in a 
 rather unnecessarily loud voice : 
 
 "You were quite right, doctor. It was very good of 
 you. I couldn't have done it myself, I should have 
 felt so for the missis. ' ' 
 
 ' * I felt for my wife, ' ' said the pilot, in rather a hard 
 voice; "but I couldn't have done any good," he re- 
 peated, as if afraid to trust himself to say anything 
 else. Then he went on : 
 
 * * She sent the girl out with some food for me in the 
 verandah; and we watched the little one, she inside 
 and I out. I couldn 't hear anything in the room, the 
 wind roared and shook the verandah so; but I could 
 see the child was breathing slower. Then my wife put 
 her hand under the wrap to feel its little feet." He 
 broke off, and then added : 
 
 "I didn't see the end. One of the men came up 
 to say they had signalled for the doctor from the 
 town. So I had to start back. The gig tore through 
 the black seas before the gale. It was a pitch dark 
 night, about eight when I started. I got to Mrs. 
 Rogers just in time. The youngster was born about 
 midnight. The mother did very well, and when I left, 
 about four in the morning, the bay was like a sheet 
 of glass, and the sun rising without a cloud over the 
 cliffs. The jetty had been washed away, all but the 
 stonework, and my men had had to beach our boat 
 right up on the road. 
 
 ''When I got back, I found the wife on the lookout 
 by the lighthouse. She had heard nothing of us, of 
 course, since I left the night before. ' ' 
 
 "That was a hardish day's work," said the skipper 
 —"thirty hours of it. 
 
 "Well, I was not sorry to get my boots off, and 
 get some sleep, before I started on my round. I'd a
 
 A SKETCH OF COLONIAL LIFE. 225 
 
 longish ride that day to the telegraph construction 
 camp, over the hill there, ' ' said Dr. Gladman, getting 
 up from the table and taking his cap. 
 
 "And your little girl— doctor?" said my wife, sud- 
 denly appearing at her cabin door, tears on her cheek 
 and a little gasp in her voice. 
 
 ' ' It was dead, ma 'am, ' ' said the father, and turned 
 to the companion and went on deck. 
 
 We saw very little more of Dr. Gladman while we 
 were in Albany. My wife and her sister went up to 
 the lighthouse and called on his wife. They came 
 away charmed with her and the dainty little house- 
 hold she reigned over. My wife was enthusiastic over 
 the trim garden, cool little parlour, and "exquisitely 
 clean kitchen, ' ' and ' * would you believe it, ' ' she said, 
 "she has only one maid-servant, and that a girl of 
 seventeen ! ' ' 
 
 "I think," she said impressively, stopping in our 
 walk up and down the deck, as we were taking our last 
 turn that night after leaving Albany, gliding past 
 the shadowy coast under the wonderful Southern 
 Cross—" I think they are both splendid, those Glad- 
 mans." 
 
 A burly figure leaning over the bulwarks, puffing 
 clouds of smoke into the still night air, turned round, 
 and the captain's voice said: 
 
 "That's what they are, ma'am. That's the sort 
 of colonist this country wants; a man like Gladman 
 is worth a whole shipload of the ne'er-do-weels they're 
 so fond of sending out. As for such like!—" he 
 pointed with his elbow, as he replaced his pipe, to a 
 group of dissipated-looking youngsters coming up 
 from the bar, whose determination to drink more than 
 was good for them had been a source of worry to him 
 all the way out— "As for such like," he said, with a 
 look it would do many intending emigrants good to 
 have seen, "I ask you, doctor, what's the good of 
 them?'* 
 
 —Gentleman's Magazine.
 
 XVI 
 
 DR. WRIGHTSON'S ENEMY. 
 
 IP* OR the last thirty years, Dr. Wrightson had 
 ji— been the sole medical adivser of the little town 
 JwiwBJ of Oakliampton, and he was still a hale, 
 hearty, jovial, stout gentleman, of about sixty years 
 of age. 
 
 Dr. Wrightson lived in the High Street, in a long, 
 low, white house, which never failed to look as clean 
 and bright as if it had been thoroughly donelup all 
 over the previous week. A large brass plate^ .appa- 
 rently fresh from the foundry) announced in large 
 letters to every passer-by that this was the abode of 
 Dr. Wrightson. To the left of the white house stood 
 the surgery, which was marked by a glaring red lamp 
 and several bells, and over this surgery presided a 
 helpless and timid young man named Titmas, the 
 doctor's only assistant. 
 
 Many wondered how it was that Dr. Wrightson did 
 not engage a partner in his business ; but that gentle- 
 man invariably turned a deaf ear to all hints of this 
 nature. He was strong and well, he said, and able 
 to do his work himself without any help at present. 
 There would be time enough to talk about a partner 
 when he grew to be an old man. The real fact of the 
 matter was, that Dr. Wrightson could not bear to 
 admit ' ' a rival near his throne. ' ' He was fond of his 
 profession, proud of his reputation in it, and very 
 jealous of every other practitioner. A partner would 
 have driven him distracted ; and I doubt if he would 
 ever have allowed him to feel a single pulse, or to 
 have sent so much as a black draught out of the dis- 
 pensary, without his express permission. 
 
 (226)
 
 DR. WRIGHTSON'S ENEMY. 227 
 
 Besides this, Dr. Wrightson had another reason for 
 wishing to keep all the practice of Oakhampton in 
 his own hands. The doctor had a daughter— his only- 
 child, and the very apple of his eye. To make, or 
 save a fortune for Fanny was the first great object of 
 Dr. Wrightson 's life, his one daily anxiety; and in 
 this task the worthy doctor found an able and willing 
 coadjutor in his sister Penelope, who shared all his 
 hopes and tears, and seconded his endeavours to make 
 a handsome provision for pretty Fanny. A partner 
 would necessarily have been very much in the way of 
 this project. If he did half the work, he would also 
 have divided the profits, and that would by no means 
 have suited Dr. Wrightson 's purposes; and, in short, 
 a partner, or even an assistant above the calibre of the 
 inoftsensive Titmas, who had not two ideas in his head, 
 would have caused Dr. Wrightson tortures of jealousy 
 and uneasiness. 
 
 Fanny Wrightson had been carefully brought up 
 at a first-class boarding-school; for her mother died 
 when she was a very little child, and Aunt Penny, who 
 then came to take charge of her brother's establish- 
 ment, though an excellent housekeeper, was scarcely 
 equal to the responsibility of undertaking the educa- 
 tion of her niece. The day she was seventeen, Fanny 
 returned to Oakhampton as a "-finished'^ young lady, 
 with a variety of rather useless accomplishments, and 
 a very slender stock of common sense. 
 
 Fanny had, moreover, a fine taste for romance, 
 which seemed to be in some danger of fading away 
 from pure inanition at Oakhampton, when an event 
 occurred which startled the whole Wrightson family 
 from their usual equanimity, and raised a storm of 
 conflicting emotions in the heart of pretty Fanny. 
 
 "What do you think? what will you say? what is 
 to be done?" exclaimed Miss Wrightson, as she en- 
 tered her brother's room in an excited manner one 
 afternoon just before dinner-time. 
 
 **Well, Penelope, what's the matter now? Is the
 
 228 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 house on fire, or are there burglars in the cellar, or 
 what ? ' ' asked Dr. Wrightson, quietly looking up from 
 a medical journal which he was perusing with deep 
 attention. 
 
 "No, no, brother! but something quite as bad. That 
 old house in Church Street is taken, and by whom, do 
 you think ? By a medical man ! There ! His name 
 is Peirce— Montague Peirce— and they are coming in 
 at Lady Day." 
 
 "The deuce they are I" cried Dr. Wrightson, throw- 
 ing down his journal with a bang. "Much good may it 
 do them ! I flatter myself the poor man may go back 
 where he came from without having done me much 
 injury. I have not lived in Oakhampton all these 
 years without being able to hold my own against any 
 impertinent upstart .in the kingdom ; and so you may 
 tell him, if you see him, with my compliments— my 
 most respectful compliments. Ha, ha, ha! a pretty 
 joke, indeed. Poor Mr. Montague Peirce ! I am sorry 
 for him. His prospects are not very lively, poor fel- 
 low ! Eh ? Fanny, my dear, what have you got to say 
 about it?" 
 
 "I say it's a horrid, wicked shame," replied Fanny, 
 throwing her long curls over her shoulders, "and I 
 quite hate this Mr. Montague Peirce already. What 
 business has he to come poking his nose into Oak-, 
 hampton, of all places ? as if anybody would ever think 
 of sending for him when they could get my dear old 
 darling papa to attend them. The idea of such a 
 thing! But never mind, Aunt Penny, perhaps Mr. 
 Peirce will take some of the poor people who can't 
 pay, off papa's hands; and then he will have more 
 time to spare for us at home." 
 
 "Bless the child! that's not a bad idea," said Dr. 
 Wrightson. "So we'll let him have some of the very 
 poor people, shall vve ? Yes, yes ! so he shall. Excel- 
 lent practice for a rising man. Give him confidence 
 and experience, won't it? We'll hope, though, the 
 poor fellow has not a large family to support, or else
 
 DR. WRWHTSON'S ENEMY. 229 
 
 that he has some private means of his own. He won't 
 live in that house for nothing, I can tell him," 
 
 "The rent alone is sixty pounds a year," remarked 
 Miss Wrightson; "and the garden is being thoroughly 
 set in order, Mudge tells me. Mudge has been em- 
 ployed to do many little odd jobs about the house, and 
 I met him coming out of it just now. Mudge hears 
 Mr. Peirce is a single man— quite a young man— but 
 has his mother living with him. He was doing well 
 in London, and was reckoned very clever there, so the 
 servants told Mudge ; but the air did not suit the old 
 lady, and so they have come to settle in the country. 
 I can't think whoever can have advised them to come 
 to Oakhampton, of all places. 
 
 * ' Some ignorant busybody who did not know what 
 he was about, you may depend upon it," said Dr. 
 Wrightson. "Now, let's go to dinner, Penny." 
 
 "It's not as if you were ever ill, you know, or un- 
 able to attend to your duties," continued Miss Pene- 
 lope, as she walked into the dining-room, "or as if, 
 when you did go away for a day or two, you could 
 not get Mr. Halliday, from Littleton, to come and 
 look after your patients. It's such a ridiculous thing 
 of a young man to come down from London, and try 
 to cut you out at Oakhampton, brother." 
 
 "It merely evinces great folly and j^resumption on 
 the part of the young man, my dear Penny, and so 
 we '11 say no more about the matter. ' ' 
 
 But from that day forward the favourite topic in 
 the Wrightson family was the last enormity committed 
 by Mr. Montague Peirce. 
 
 "I saw that fellow's trap standing at Hornibrook's 
 door," Dr. Wrightson would suddenly observe; "that 
 fellow" being the very mildest designation that was 
 ever bestowed to Mr. Peirce. 
 
 "Oh, yes! I daresay you did. The man makes 
 free with everybody, I hear, ' ' Miss Wrightson would 
 reply, indignantly. "He goes and pays people long 
 visits, and bores them to death, I've no doubt, and
 
 S3b fkE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 then hopes all the to\vn will take it for granted that 
 he is attending them. 
 
 It was very disagreeable lor poor Dr. Wrightson, 
 when he drove through the streets in his neat, respecta- 
 ble, blue brougham, to meet this young Peirce dashing 
 past in his light, smart-looking dog-cart, drawn by a 
 big chestnut horse; and it was most unpleasant for 
 the whole family to go to church every Sunday, know- 
 ing they were liable to be jostled against "those 
 Peirces" in the aisle. 
 
 Miss Penelope declared she could hardly bear to 
 walk down the street, lest she should meet her adver- 
 saries j and as for Fanny, she could not think how it 
 happened, but she never went near the windows with- 
 out seeing the "dreadful man" pass by. It was curi- 
 ous, that, under these painful circumstances Fanny 
 should spend the greater part of her time in looking 
 out of the window. To be sure, Mr. Peirce was as 
 good-looking and pleasant a young man as could be 
 met with on a summer's day, and the old lady, his 
 mother, was quite a picture in her rich black silks ; but 
 the Wrightsons insisted upon considering the Peirces 
 as their mortal enemies, and would not listen to a 
 word in their favour. 
 
 The rest of the inhabitants of Oakhampton were 
 naturally less rancorous against the intruders. The 
 Peirces were not likely to injure them in any way. 
 Mr. Priestly, the rector, his wife, and daughters, of 
 course, called on Mrs. Peirce, and pronounced her to 
 be a very lady-like, well-informed, agreeable person. 
 The Pentelows, and the Fanthoms, and the Horni- 
 brooks, and the Goslings, and old Mr. Lilljovhite, 
 thought it incumbent upon them to follow the exam- 
 ple of the Rector, and it was soon rumoured that the 
 Peirces were not unlikely to prove a great addition 
 to the society of Oakhampton. Young men were 
 scarce articles in that locality, and Mr. Peirce, not 
 having much too do, entered with great zest into the 
 cricket matches, and the croquet parties of the neigh- 
 bourhood.
 
 DR. WRIGHTSON'S ENEMY. 231 
 
 Besides, Oakhampton was a place that was improv- 
 ing rapidly. That is to say, a railroad had lately run 
 through the town, and, in consequence, fresh villas, 
 streets, terraces, and squares, were rising up in every 
 direction. Quite a new population had been formed 
 during the last few years, and many of these new com- 
 ers, who had not known Dr. Wrightson from their 
 cradles upwards, rejoiced in the advent of the new 
 doctor and determined to patronize Mr, Peirce from 
 London at once. There were, indeed, other persons 
 in Oakhampton, old inhabitants who should have 
 known better, but who were so perverse and ill-judging 
 as to prefer the treatment of Llr. Peirce to that of 
 Dr. Wrightson, who was by this disaffected party 
 termed "a twaddling old woman." Others, again, 
 there were, who had been affronted occasionally, when, 
 on sending for Dr. Wrightson himself, they had been 
 put off w^th "that stupid creature, Titmas," who 
 never seemed to know what he was about ; and these 
 now gladly employed the rival practitioner. With the 
 best intentions, poor Dr. Wrightson could not possibly 
 make himself ubiquitous, or attend to fifty patients at 
 once. Thus it happened one unlucky day, when Dr. 
 Wrightson had been to pay a visit to his old and faith- 
 ful ally, Lady Cardozo, who lived about five miles 
 from Oakhampton, that Mrs. Pankhurst's little girl 
 took the opportunity of swallowing a pin, which stuck 
 in her throat, and frightened the whole Pankhuvst 
 family into fits. As the case was one quite beyond the 
 powers of poor Titmas, Mr. Peirce was called in, and 
 extracted the pin with so much promptitude and skill 
 that Mrs. Pankhurst was delighted with him, and 
 asked him to prescribe for her own nervous affections 
 at the same time, and also, to call the next day and 
 see how the child w^as going on. It is true that Mr. 
 Pankhurst (as in honour bound) called on Dr. Wright- 
 son immediately, and explained to him fully all the 
 circumstances of the case, but that headstrong and 
 unreasonable old gentleman could not be induced to
 
 232 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 see the thing at all in its proper light. He looked 
 annoyed and huffy, and remarked in his most caustic 
 manner, "that if Mr. and Mrs. Pankhurst were satis- 
 fied with the attendance of Mr. Peirce, that was all 
 that could be desired." Dr. Wrightson had not the 
 slightest wish to interfere, and thought Mr. Pankhurst 
 could not do better than secure the services of the 
 young man altogether. Having been so successful in 
 his treatment of Miss Pankhurst, he would doubtless 
 continue to give advice to the rest of the family. Per- 
 haps when Dr. "Wrightson said this, he never expected 
 to be taken at his word ; but it did so happen that the 
 very next week the whole of the little Pankhursts 
 (eight in number) were seized, in regular rotation, 
 with the scarlatina, and Mr. Peirce was in regular 
 attendance at Pankhurst Park for the next three 
 months. This was a terrible blow to Dr. Wrightson, 
 for Pankhurst Park was one of the most profitable 
 households in the neighbourhood ; and the Pankhursts 
 were rich, influential people, and kept a good deal of 
 company; and of course Mrs. Pankhurst went about 
 in her usual idiotic manner, recommending Mr. Peirce 
 as the most wonderful man of the age, and the only 
 doctor worth consulting in the county. 
 
 Still Dr. Wrightson and his sister shook their heads 
 and shrugged their shoulders, and repeated "that fel- 
 low would be found out before long. ' ' Now, it so hap- 
 pened that the garden of Dr. Wrightson 's house in 
 High Street stood at right angles with the garden ot 
 Mr. Peirce 's house in Church Street, and at a certain 
 point, the walls met. Fanny Wrightson 's bed-room 
 window commanded an excellent view of the Peirce 's 
 garden, and it was a never-failing source of interest 
 to watch the proceedings of the Peirce family. She 
 was anxious to see what "tTie enemy" did, when he was 
 at home, and she soon contrived to make herself com- 
 plete mistress of his movements, and became inti- 
 mately acquainted with his habits and customs. He 
 was very kind and attentive to his mother, that was
 
 DR. WRIGHTSON'S ENEMY. 233 
 
 certain, and apparently he was good to his servants 
 and spoke civilly to them. They looked as if they 
 had a great regard for him; even the fat, lazy, old 
 tabby cat loved him and followed him about, and 
 jumped upon his shoulder whenever she could get the 
 opportunity. Fanny could not help rather taking a 
 fancy to that old eat of the Peirces, and when she got 
 over the wall into the Wrightson 's garden, Fanny was 
 actually guilty of giving her some milk sometimes 
 when her aunt was out. 
 
 It was about this time Fanny took violently to the 
 study of Shakspeare. ''Romeo and Juliet" was her 
 favourite play. What sweet passages there were in 
 "Romeo and Juliet!" Nothing could be more strik- 
 ing, for instance, than that part where Juliet exclaims 
 —"Oh, Romeo! Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo?" 
 
 And how affecting were the lines— 
 
 ' ' My only love sprung from my only hate. 
 Too early seen unknown ; and known too late, 
 Prodigious birth of love it is to me, 
 That I must love a loathed enemy." 
 
 But nothing would induce either Dr. Wrightson or 
 his sister to allow the poor Peirces any quarter. He 
 was an interloper and an adversary of the most aggres- 
 sive nature. If Mr. Peirce happening to meet Dr. 
 Wrightson in the street, should, in the innocence of 
 his heart, take off his hat in passing, the old gentleman 
 would turn his head the other way and pretend not to 
 see him, or would coldly return the greeting with a 
 gesture of intense disgust. 
 
 When Miss Wrightson and Mrs. Peirce met at the 
 house of some mutual acquaintance, as was not unfr©^ 
 quently the case, the spinster would draw herself up. 
 tuck in her chin, and curtsey in her stiffest manner 
 to the widow, and declining all conversation, would 
 sniff alarmingly during the whole period that Mrs. 
 Peirce remained in the room. Neither the doctor Eor 
 his sister scrupled to express the utmost solicitude for 
 all Mr. Peirce 's patients. They feared any sick per-
 
 234 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 son ran a very poor chance who had Peirce for their 
 medical attendant, and they did not hesitate to say 
 that rather than be left to the mercy of "that inex- 
 perienced, conceited young fool," they would prefer 
 being in the hands of Mr. Titmas himself. 
 
 In spite of all they thought, said, and looked, how- 
 ever, Mr. Peirce 's practice increased daily. The farm- 
 ers and their families flocked to his door on market 
 days, for "the young man from London" had per- 
 formed some almost miraculous cures, it was stoutly 
 averred. Then many of the tradespeople thought it 
 fair to give "young Peirce" a turn now and then, 
 and his reputation spread to the servants of some great 
 families in the neighbourhood. Old Lady Cardozo's 
 own maid actually refused to consult Dr. Wrightson 
 about her digestion, and announced boldly * ' that Mr. 
 Peirce had done such wonders for her cousin, Mrs. 
 Hogsflesh, the butcher's wife, in a similar case, that 
 rather than not have the benefit of his advice, she 
 would walk all the way into Oakhampton on her own 
 legs, and pay him for it out of her own money. ' ' And 
 so good an effect had Mr. Peirce 's medicine upon the 
 malady of Llrs. Milliken, that the good woman en- 
 treated her mistress to try just one bottle of it, for 
 her ladyship suffered sadly from precisely the same 
 symptoms as Mrs. Hogsflesh. The dose, taken surrep- 
 titiously and in great fear and trembling by old Lady 
 Cardozo, was most efficacious, and though she was too 
 loyal to her old friend to desert Dr. Wrightson alto- 
 gether, still Lady Cardozo sent Mrs. Milliken con- 
 stantly into Oakhampton on secret embassies to Mr. 
 Peirce for further supplies of his very excellent rem- 
 edy for a weak digestion. 
 
 And so the autumn slipped away, and the trees grew 
 bare, and the winds howled, and the damp, ohilly fogs 
 of November fell upon the little town of Oakhampton, 
 and the more Fanny saw of her father's enemy, the 
 less it became in her power to hate him, as she felt 
 a good and dutiful daughter should do. This made 
 her very unhappy at times.
 
 DR. WRIGHTSON'S ENEMY. 235 
 
 Lectures on scientific subjects were quite an annual 
 institution in Oakhampton during the long winter 
 evenings. Fanny AYriglitson had always been a very 
 regular attendant at these lectures, not that she under- 
 stood what they were about, the least in the world, or 
 that she came home a bit wiser than she went out, but 
 the lectures offered some excuse for a very mild kind 
 of dissipation, and Fanny's life was a monotonous 
 one. This year Fanny was more devoted than ever to 
 the ''pursuit of knowledge under difficulties," for 
 Mrs. Peirce and her son were sure to be at the Athe- 
 nseura, and it sometimes happened (Fanny declared 
 she never knew how) that she found herself seated 
 next to the Peirces, and then Mr. Peirce would very 
 good-naturedly explain to her everything that she 
 could not understand, and would make the most ab- 
 struse subjects as simple to her as A B C. 
 
 Dr. Wrightson never went to lectures. He was too 
 tired of an evening, even if he had no patients to visit, 
 and he was glad to take his "forty wdnks" in his arm- 
 chair by the fire. Aunt Penelope was too much afraid 
 of risking a bad cold to stir out after dark, and so 
 Fanny was duly called for every Thursday evening at 
 half-past seven, by her neighbours, the Pentelows, who 
 also left her again at her own door about ten o'clock; 
 and when she returned. Dr. and Miss Wrightson were 
 too sleepy to ask many questions, or to make any 
 stringent inquiries as to Fanny's adventures. She 
 thought it was not worth while to wake them up and 
 make them uncomfortable by telling them about the 
 Peirces, and I have no doubt that if they gave the mat- 
 ter a moment's thought, they took it for granted that 
 Fanny invariably sat between her friends, Eliza and 
 Harriet Pentelow. 
 
 It chanced, however, one Thursday morning, that 
 Dr. Wrightson descried in a shop window a notice, 
 stating that Montague Peirce, Esq., was to deliver a 
 lecture on chemistry at the Athenieum that evening, 
 and he instantly came home, in great wrath and in-
 
 236 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 dignation, to forbid Fanny or any of his household to 
 attend the lecture, as usual, on pain of his heavy dis- 
 pleasure. Not any member of his family, he declared, 
 should ** encourage the man to make a Tom-fool of 
 .hximself by giving lectures," 
 
 In vain Fanny remonstrated and entreated and 
 coaxed her father to let her go, that once. Dr. Wright- 
 son was inexorable, till his pretty little daughter in 
 despair burst into tears, and then Aunt Penny inter- 
 fered, and assured her father that he had better say 
 no more about it. "Fanny was moped to death at 
 home, and after all, it would be amusing to hear what 
 fit mess the young idiot made of his lecturing, and how 
 he would be the laughing-stock of the place, with his 
 absurd conceit and presumption." So Fanny at length 
 obtained a reluctant consent. It was raining hard 
 when the Pentelows called for her, but Fanny did not 
 care for that. Wrapped in her large waterproof 
 cloak, she tripped along the muddy streets to the 
 Athenseum, feeling very proud and very happy, and 
 firmly convinced that if she had been forced to stay at 
 home her heart must have broken at once. Mrs. Peirce 
 saw her as she entered, and made her a sign to come 
 and sit by her, and the old lady was so good and kind 
 as to confide to Fanny her nervous fears for ''Monty," 
 though, at the same time, she was quite sure his would 
 be the best lecture of the season. And such was soon 
 the opinion of everybody in the room. Mr. Peirce 
 had so fine a voice, so happy a delivery, and such a 
 thorough knowledge of his subject, that the attention 
 of the audience was attracted, even by the first few 
 sentences. 
 
 Mrs. Peirce and Fanny were gratified to their 
 hearts' content by the acclamations of applause which 
 greeted the close of the lecture. 
 
 The evening wound up with some amusing experi- 
 ments with laughing gas by which several school-boys 
 and a shopman or two were thrown into convulsions 
 of laughter. This proved so catching, that the whole
 
 DR. WRIGHTSON'S ENEMY. 237 
 
 room was in an uproar of merriment, and the audi- 
 ence clapped and screamed, and stamped and cheered, 
 till the whole street resounded with the sounds of 
 their mirth. At the very height of this confusion, a 
 rough, dirty-looking man was observed to press hastily 
 through the crowded hall, towards the platform. His 
 eager looks and evident anxiety caught the attention 
 of the lecturer, and he instantly went forward to meet 
 him. 
 
 After speaking to the man for a moment, Mr. 
 Peirce's countenance changed to an expression of the 
 deepest concern and alarm. He whispered a few words 
 to his mother, and immediately left the room. 
 
 "What is it? What has happened? Is anybody 
 ill ? " inquired Fanny of Mrs. Peirce. 
 
 "My poor child," said the old lady, putting her 
 arm around Fanny's waist affectionately, "something 
 very terrible has happened. I hardly know how to 
 tell you that your father has met with a sad accident. 
 Can you bear it bravely ? They say it is now freezing 
 very hard out of doors, and the streets are slippery. 
 It seems Dr. Wrightson, on his way to see a patient, 
 has fallen down and hurt himself severely. They 
 have sent for Montague. Let us try to slip quietly 
 out at that side door, and we shall be at home as soon 
 as they are." 
 
 It was quite true, that the rain had soon turned to 
 sleet, and the sleet had frozen as it fell, and the streets 
 were a perfect sheet of glass, in which the houses were 
 reflected as in a mirror. 
 
 Dr. Wrightson had been sent for to a sick person, 
 and in picking his way cautiously along the pavement, 
 he had been suddenly startled, just as he passed the 
 Athenseum, by the shouts of laughter and applause 
 that issued from its partly-opened doors. In his as- 
 tonishment and irritation at these unexpected sounds, 
 the doctor made a false step, his foot slipped from 
 under him, and he fell, with his head on the curb- 
 stone and his leg doubled under him; and there he
 
 238 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 lay, stunned and helpless, till some workingmen pass- 
 ing by, ran to his assistance. 
 
 Seeing he was perfectly unconscious, the men fan- 
 cied he was dead, and this was the report that one of 
 them carried to Mr. Peirce. 
 
 When. Fanny and Mrs. Peirce made their way into 
 the street, they found that it was hardly possible to 
 walk without falling. No horse could keep its footing 
 at all, and people were slipping and sliding about in 
 every "^ direction. It was with considerable difficulty 
 that the two ladies reached Dr. Wrightson's door in 
 safety, and there they were met by a melancholy cav- 
 alcade. The good old Doctor lay on a shutter, borne 
 by half-a-dozen strong men, and was followed by a 
 crowd of sorrowing friends. At the head of the pro- 
 cession walked the Rector and Mr. Peirce. 
 
 At the surgery-door appeared Mr. Titmas, fright- 
 ened at the tramping of so many feet, who, when he 
 learnt what had occurred, speedily lost the little stock 
 of presence of mind he had ever possessed, and col- 
 lapsed altogether into a state of helpless imbecility. 
 
 Miss Wrightson, who was summoned down-stairs 
 by the shrieks of the parlour-maid, instantly fainted 
 dead away, in the front hall, just as the lifeless form 
 of her brother was brought into the house. 
 
 Nobody seemed to have any presence of mind but 
 poor little Fanny, who stood there, pale and trembling 
 to be sure, but quite ready to obey Mr. Peirce 's direc- 
 tions, and to make herself useful in every possible way. 
 Under Mrs. Peirce 's superintendence a bed was soon 
 prepared for Dr. Wrightson, in his own study; splints 
 and bandages were procured from the surgery, and 
 Mr. Peirce proceeded to examine the injuries sustained 
 by the poor gentleman. 
 
 His head was badly cut, but it was hoped that no 
 great harm was done in that quarter; his right leg, 
 however, had sustained a compound fracture, and he 
 seemed much bruised and shaken by his fall. Mr. 
 Priestly strove to help Mr. Peirce, Mr. Titmas being
 
 DR. WRIGHTSON'S ENEMY. 239 
 
 quite incapable of being of the slightest use to any- 
 body, and Mrs. Peirce proved herself to be a most 
 valuable and experienced nurse. As soon as Miss 
 Wrightson was restored to her senses, she sat crying 
 and rocking herself backwards and forwards, in a cor- 
 ner of the room, declaring that her brother was dying, 
 and that she should not long survive him, while Fanny 
 knelt by her father's bedside, patiently watching the 
 proceedings of Mr. Peirce and his mother, and waiting 
 upon them in a quiet unobtrusive way, which raised 
 her very much in their opinion. 
 
 The first words spoken by Dr. Wrightson were, 
 "Send for Halliday immediately. I don't know what 
 has happened; but it seems to me, I am ill, and Tit- 
 mas is no better than a fool. But don't send for that 
 fellow Peirce, whatever you do. D'ye hear? all of 
 you. I tell you I won't have the man in my house as 
 long as I am alive to be the master of it." 
 
 ' ' Ahem ! my good friend, ' ' began the Eector, gently 
 clearing his throat, "it is not possible to send to Lit- 
 tleton tonight; the roads are quite impassable. You 
 have had the misfortune to slip down yourself, and 
 your leg has been broken. It is now set, and will, we 
 trust, under the blessing of Providence, be ere long 
 restored to use." 
 
 "Nonsense! Don't tell me," cried the Doctor, 
 angrily, "Halliday must and shall be sent for. He 
 will come directly he knows I am ill. My leg shall not 
 be set till Halliday comes. Let no one dare to meddle 
 with it." 
 
 " Oh ! my dear, dear father, ' ' said Fanny, throwing 
 her arms around him, "do be good and let Mr. Peirce 
 doctor your leg ; it will soon be better, if you will only 
 lie still and be patient. For the sake of your poor 
 little Fanny, do let Mr. Peirce stay with you now. 
 Oh ! Mr. Peirce, please don't mind what he says. Don't 
 let papa send you away. If he should say anything 
 a little rude you won't listen to him, will you? I 
 think he is so ill he scarcely knows what he says. Dear
 
 240 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 Mrs. Peirce, pray ask your son to stay here, whatever 
 papa may say against it. ' ' 
 
 "Nothing will induce me to leave him, as long as I 
 can be of the slightest use to him, Miss Fanny, you 
 may depend upon that," said Mr. Peirce, firmly. 
 
 In the meantime, Dr. "Wrightson tried to move, but 
 fell "back with a moan, and shut his eyes again. His 
 face was quite contracted with pain. 
 
 * ' Calm yourself, dear sir, ' ' began Mr. Priestly once 
 more. "Consider that your system has sustained a 
 severe shock. You cannot keep your mind too quiet. 
 Leave everything to us, and try to sleep. Let me en- 
 treat you to lie still, and trust yourself to the kind 
 care of my very excellent young friend here, and his 
 good mother. Believe me, you could not possibly be 
 in better hands." 
 
 "My patients! what will become of my patients?" 
 groaned Dr. Wrightson presently. "That fellow will 
 inveigle away every patient I have. If I lose my prac- 
 tice in Oakhampton, I am a ruined man this night. I 
 am too old to go away and begin life afresh elsewhere. 
 You will be left a beggar, my poor child, if I lose my 
 patients here." , 
 
 "If you would allow me, Dr. Wrightson, to act as 
 your assistant, till you are able to make some arrange- 
 ment with your friend Mr. Halliday, I can only say I 
 should be most happy to do so," said Mr, Peirce. "I 
 would, of course, work strictly under your directions, 
 and follow out your wishes in every respect; and I 
 would take care to make it understood that I was only 
 taking your place for the time being. There ! now will 
 you consent to go to sleep with an easy conscience ? ' ' 
 
 Dr. Wrightson did not answer for some minutes, 
 then suddenly holding out his hand to Mr. Peirce, he 
 exclaimed, with tears in his eyes : 
 
 "I am at your mercy, sir ; I shall lie here for many 
 a long week to come, and maybe I shall never again be 
 the man I was. There is a fine opening in Oakhamp- 
 ton, sir, for a rising young man now. You had better 
 take advantage of it. I am not able to help myself."
 
 DR. WRIGHTSON'S ENEMY. 241 
 
 "Thank you, Dr. Wrightson; then you will let me 
 have my own way," said Mr. Peirce, quietly; "and 
 you will consider me as your junior partner till you 
 are quite strong and well again. Nay, if you have any 
 scruples about the matter, you shall pay me, just as 
 you do my friend Titmas— there need be no obligations 
 between us. And by the by, to begin with, where were 
 you bound to this evening? I had better just run 
 round there at once, and when I return I shall hope to 
 find you quite comfortable and fast asleep. My mother 
 will remain here to-night ; she is a capital nurse. ' ' And 
 the young doctor, feeling amply repaid for his services 
 by a look of intense gratitude from Fanny, retired to 
 get his instructions from Mr. Titmas. 
 
 The next day the snow fell fast and lay thick on the 
 ground. All communication between Oakhampton and 
 Littleton was entirely cut off for more than a week. 
 No Mr. Halliday could by any possibility come over 
 to attend to the medical requirements of Oakhampton. 
 Mr. Peirce, however, cheerfully trudged about in his 
 great jack boots, though he was often up to his waist 
 in the snow, and he never failed faithfully to report 
 progress to Dr. Wrightson of all his patients, humor- 
 ing the old gentleman by invariably asking his advice 
 and opinion, though, perhaps, he did not always follow 
 it very implicitly. 
 
 On Christmas Eve, Mr. Halliday, with some diffi- 
 culty, made his way to the bedside of his old friend, 
 and expressed himself highly delighted with the prog- 
 ress Dr. Wrightson had made. Nothing could have 
 been more judicious, he declared, than Mr. Peirce 's 
 mode of treatment. The leg was going on marvellously 
 well, and though it would naturally be a tedious pro- 
 cess at the doctor's age, still the bones were knitting 
 famously already. Dr. Wrightson was most fortunate 
 at such a moment to fall into such skilful hands. 
 "There was not one man in a dozen who could have 
 made so neat a job of such a ease." So said Mr. Halli- 
 day emphatically, 
 a— 16
 
 242 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 "Ah," sighed Dr. Wrightson; ''it's all very well, 
 but I 'm done for, Halliday. I have had a great shake ; 
 I shall never be fit for much work again after this. I 
 never was ill before in my life, and at my age one 
 can't stand this sort of thing. My poor child here will 
 suffer for it. I ought to have looked out for a partner 
 before this, and have got a good round sum down, for 
 a share in the business. Now it is simply worth noth- 
 ing at all. That young fellow Peirce has got hold of 
 all my patients. They seem to take a fancy to him, 
 and no partner of mine will have a chance against him. 
 But he 's a clever dog, and knows what he is about ; I 
 must say that for him, ' ' 
 
 * ' Then, in the name of goodness, why not make him 
 your partner, Wrightson ? It is quite out of the ques- 
 tion that I should come over from Littleton to look 
 after your patients, and so I tell you plainly. I 
 could not undertake it. Why not get this young 
 Peirce now, to put his money in with yours, and save 
 you all the hard work? That will be your plan, 
 depend upon it. You will then have Oakhampton 
 entirely in your own hands, and carry all before you." 
 
 "That's what they all say," replied Dr. Wrightson ; 
 ' ' but the man would not be such a fool as to consent to 
 it, when he can get all my connection away from me 
 for nothing, if he chooses to try. The ladies are all 
 for him ; he is popular enough here already. They are 
 tired of me. I am old and worn out, and past my work 
 now, and Peirce is the man to suit them henceforth in 
 Oakhampton. I can see it plainer every day. ' ' 
 
 "Oh, papa! dear papa! pray don't talk in that 
 dreadful way," cried Fanny, who was in the room; 
 ' ' Mr. Peirce is only anxious to work for you, and be of 
 use to you, till you are better. I assure you he would 
 gladly be your partner, or do anything to make you 
 happy and comfortable. Indeed, and indeed, papa, 
 you may believe me when I tell you this. ' ' 
 
 "Bless my heart, alive! Fanny, how do you know 
 what Peirce wants? Why, Fanny, child, what's all
 
 DR. WRIGHTSON'S ENEMY. 243 
 
 this mean, eh ? How the girl colours, and how guilty 
 she looks, a little minx! Come, child, tell me what 
 makes you think Peirce would like to be my partner 
 instead of my rival ? I should like to know. ' ' 
 
 "Here is Mr. Peirce, ask /im," replied Fanny, 
 hiding her blushing face behind the red moreen cur- 
 tains of her father's bed. 
 
 "My object, sir, is not so much to be your partner as 
 your son," said Mr. Peirce, coming forward boldly. 
 "If I can combine the two relations, I shall indeed 
 esteem myself a fortunate man. Will you let me help 
 you to work for our dear Fanny ? I do not think you 
 can be more devoted to her interests than I am. Let 
 me see. Suppose we say a share in your practice would 
 be worth 'fifteen hundred pounds — I have that sum 
 lying idle at my banker 's at this moment. It shall be 
 paid into your account as soon as you please. Then 
 I am not entirely 'without private means. My father 
 left me an income of about eight hundred a year. Will 
 you come to terms and give me Fanny's hand into the 
 bargain ? ' ' 
 
 "What! so you've got possession of her heart safe 
 enough, I '11 warrant me, you young rogue, and I have 
 not a word to say for myself. I'm fairly conquered; 
 you've won the day. Fanny, where are you? To go 
 and play such a trick to your poor old bed-ridden 
 father! Eh! are you not ashamed of yourself, miss?" 
 
 "No, papa, not a bit!" said Fanny, coming out of 
 her concealment behind the curtain; "and you have 
 nobody but yourself to thank for it, after all; for if 
 you had not abused poor Montague from morning till 
 night, I dare say I should never have thought of him 
 twice, or troubled my head about him in any way. As 
 it was—" 
 
 "You never thought of anybody else I may venture 
 to hope, and I am duly grateful to your father for it, ' ' 
 added Mr. Peirce confidently. 
 
 "Well, well, well! Have it your own way. I am a 
 poor, broken-down, useless, helpless, old man; but I
 
 244 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 did not tliink my own daughter would have gone over 
 to the enemy. "When there are traitors in the camp, 
 I've nothing for it but surrender at discretion. Make 
 your own terms— give me no quarter— I've deserved 
 it all for being a wicked, jealous, uncharitable, ill- 
 natured old brute. You've heaped coals of fire enough 
 on my head, Peirce, if that 's any consolation to you. ' ' 
 ' ' To-morrow is Christmas Day, ' ' said Fanny, gently 
 taking her father's hand, and putting it into that of 
 her lover. "Now, father dear, promise me you will 
 never have any more enemies as long as you live, which 
 we hope will be very, very long, now you have Mon- 
 tague to take all the hard work off your hands. In 
 Oakhampton, at least, let us always have in future 
 'Peace and good- will towards men.' " 
 
 Hon. Eleanor Eden. 
 
 1
 
 XVII 
 
 THE COMING OF THE SHIP: THE 
 DOCTOR'S PATIENT. 
 
 A selected reading from The Head of a Hundred. Edited 
 by Maud Wilder Goodwin. Dr. Humphrey Huntoon, a young 
 Englishman, in the early days of the colonies comes to this 
 country in pique at the coldness of Elizabeth Romney, his 
 sweetheart, who is above him in social station. The story is 
 filled with charming pictures of colonial life and sentiment. 
 In the opening part of this reading, Huntoon, in a burst of 
 confidence, tells his old friend, the ship-captain, of his dis- 
 appointment in love. In the second part a new ship comes 
 from England. 
 
 ^T^ IS strange what lightness of spirit comes with 
 ^L^ the laying bare of a sore heart. Verily, a 
 ^Sl trouble half told is half healed. Here I, who 
 had not been merry for months, found myself now 
 Bmiling in the dark, as I talked of those pleasant days 
 of old. Then, like a mourner ashamed that he hath 
 forgot his grief, I caught up my melancholy once more. 
 "Well, well! All that is over and gone. If she 
 loved me in those childish years (and I still think she 
 did), she outgrew the foolishness soon enow. Yet, 
 from time to time, as she grew into maidenhood, she 
 let drop some word, some hint, as tho' she would say, 
 * Perhaps ! ' but ere I could pry into the meaning of her 
 words her eyes gathered merriment, like as if they 
 were laughing at the poor fool who allowed himself to 
 be cheated thus. 
 
 *'Once, ere I went to Oxford, I rode beneath her 
 window. She, leaning out of the casement, did drop a 
 sprig of lad's-love, which a moment before she had 
 been holding to her lips ; then, when I looked up, with 
 
 (245)
 
 246 A DOCTOR OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 
 
 my heart in my eyes, she slammed the window to, and 
 a moment later I heard her calling her dog witliin. ' ' 
 
 "Tush, tush, lad! A woman's ways are like the 
 maze at Hampton Court. If thou lose the clew, thou 
 mayst wander round and round forever and be no 
 nearer coming out. Why didst thou not ask her flat, 
 would she have thee for her husband ? ' ' 
 
 "Why not, indeed. Ah, therein lies the root of all 
 my bitterness! When I had finished my studies at 
 Oxford and got my degree as a physician and 
 chirurgeon in London, I found myself with a scanty 
 portion of a thousand pounds. Yet had I none the 
 less high hopes of carving my way to fame and for- 
 tune, as other men have done from still lower estate. 
 This did I write to Sir William Romney, and in a 
 packet I enclosed a letter to his daughter. 
 
 * * Therein I told her anew what she knew of old, that 
 I loved her. I asked her not to share the fortunes of 
 a poor adventurer. I did but seek a pledge that she 
 would grant me a year and a day, and a promise that 
 if by that time I had aught of success to lay at her feet, 
 she would look on my suit with favor." 
 
 * ' It was done like thyself, Humphrey. What answer 
 made she ? ' ' 
 
 * ' Answer ! Oh, it makes me mad to think on 't ! She 
 might have said me nay, and yet I would have gone 
 my way loving her like a knight of old, without hope 
 of reward or return ; but to be flouted and baited, and 
 badgered and mocked, when I had offered her that 
 poor thing, my heart— oh, it was ill done !" 
 
 The instinct of my body to keep pace with my rest- 
 less and turbulent soul led me to stride up and down, 
 striving to master the storm within me. When I took 
 my seat again. Captain Chester drew me on to speak 
 further. 
 
 "Perhaps," he said, "the maid was but the mouth- 
 piece of her father. I hear of him everywhere as a 
 hard, cold man." 
 
 "Oh ! Ay, ay, ay," I broke in, "I have said all that
 
 THE COMING OF THE SHIP. 247 
 
 over and over to myself, like a madman, since ever I 
 received Sir William's cool note of dismissal, inclosing 
 the daughter's mocking lines; but whenever I would 
 soothe my sore heart with the thought that she wrote 
 it not of her own free will, my reason says: ' 'Tis 
 false, and thou knowst it!' She would brave a thou- 
 sand fathers if she really loved, and her will was 
 crossed. I know, of course, that her refusal jumped 
 with her father's wish." 
 
 I was down for a week with that wretched James 
 City fever. By day I shivered, and by night I burned 
 wdth a consuming heat. Pory said it served me right 
 that I, who had come hither hoping to fatten on the 
 misfortunes of others, should myself fall a victim. 
 
 Thus he talked, like himself, and equally like him- 
 self he stayed by my bedside day and night, scarcely 
 taking off his clothes, tending me as if I were a baby, 
 and mixing doses of the bark, a sovran remedy, till he 
 saw me well on the road to recovery. 
 
 My convalescence he cheered as he had cured my ill- 
 ness. One day (I was quite recovered then) my lively 
 friend came bounding in, full of excitement. 
 
 "A ship lieth in the harbor," cried he, *'and she 
 hath brought— what think ye?" 
 
 ''Sooth, I know not. How should I? And if I did, 
 'twere cruel to spoil thy sport by saying so. "What is 
 this wondrous cargo ? ' ' 
 
 "Why, twenty maids, come out with one that is 
 already betrothed to Babcock, the blacksmith!" 
 
 "Well, what of it?" 
 
 "What of it, man ! Why, 'twould be the making of 
 the colony could we get twenty score in place of one. 
 Ay, I say, 'twould be the making of this colony. A 
 shipload of good wives were the best cargo England 
 could send us." 
 
 ' ' And thou wouldst choose the handsomest for thy- 
 self, by right of thine office, I dare be sworn." 
 
 "Nay, not I. I have ever had too poor luck at play 
 to throw dice with Fate for such heavy stakes. ' ' With 
 this he ran out, laughing.
 
 248 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 When lie was gone, I stretched my head forth from 
 the window of my lodging. Yonder in the river, a tall 
 ship lay black against the shining water. I could see 
 the sailors in their glazed hats and loose, flapping 
 breeches, casting anchor to the time of their harsh 
 Bong. Skiffs and canoes were plying busily betwixt 
 the ship and the shore. One curious thing I noted, 
 that, whereas only one went out in each canoe, two 
 came back ; and then, as mine ear caught the ringing 
 of the church bells, and mine eyes marked the gallants 
 who had gone of late ill-clad and worse shaven, now 
 tricked out in bands of fine lawn and ruffles at their 
 wrists, a sudden light brake on me, and I realized that 
 all this was because the twenty maids were come, and 
 straightway these bachelors, who till now had been 
 quite content in their single estate, must set their silly 
 hearts on being married. 
 
 "Ho! there, Master John!" I shouted, as I caught 
 sight of Pory's grizzled head and pointed beard under 
 my window. "Read me this riddle: *What is that 
 which flies when pursued, and pursues when fled 
 from?' " 
 
 "A maid." 
 
 * ' Verily, thou art a shrewd fellow to have guessed it. 
 Come up, therefore, and tell me all thou knowest which 
 thou mayst do, and yet be gone in five minutes." 
 
 "That my civility may the more brightly shine 
 against the foil of thine uncivil words, I will come, 
 and, to heap coals of fire on thy head, I will tell thee 
 of the scene on shipboard. The choosing of husbands 
 and wives went on as merrily as the choosing of part- 
 ners for a country-dance. It was a busy market, I can 
 tell thee." 
 
 "A market— how meanest thou?" 
 
 "Why, 'tis thus they manage it, by bargain and 
 sale; and belike 'tis as good an arrangement as any, 
 since when the husband hath paid down his hundred 
 pound of tobacco for a wife, he is bound to make him- 
 self believe he hath a bargain, and the wife, seeing he
 
 THE COMING OF THE SHIP. 249 
 
 hath set so high an estimate on her worth, in honor 
 must strive to live up to his valuation. ' ' 
 
 "And was every one of the twenty maids married 
 thus?" 
 
 "Ay, all but one, and she remained without a part- 
 ner from choice, which thou wouldst have declared 
 impossible. Many offered for her, though she wore her 
 veil and coverchief close and would not show her fea- 
 tures. But she would look at none, and went off at the 
 last to lodge with her friend— one that was taken to 
 wife by Miles Gary. I was somewhat struck with 
 curiosity over the conduct of the one unwed maid, and 
 I searched out her name in the ship's register, where 
 she is set down as Elizabeth Devon. Now, fare thee 
 well ! for my five minutes are over, and if I told thee 
 more, 'twould be what I know not, and, ergo— lies." 
 
 After my nimble-witted friend was gone his way, I 
 Bat for long, looking down into the street and watching 
 the bridal couples as they passed from under Parson 
 Buckle 's blessing to their new homes. All this billing 
 and cooing and setting up of new households made me 
 feel but the more lonely and doleful. So I went not 
 abroad that day, tho ' I was well enow to be out, but sat 
 reading and studying with no other comforter than 
 my pipe. But, to say truth, the pipe is no mean con- 
 soler, and there is no friend that doth so adapt himself 
 to thine every mood, so partake, as it were, the very 
 shade and subtlety of thy thought and feeling, as 
 tobacco. Well, as I sat thus, the day wore on to eve- 
 ning. The flame in my pipe was expiring with a final 
 flicker, when a knock sounded at my door. 
 
 * ' Come in ! " I called, and Miles Gary entered. 
 
 "Why, how now, Gary! Art thou come to complain 
 of thy bride of half-a-dozen hours ? Hath she beaten 
 thee over the head with the new broomstick, and thou 
 art ashamed of thy black eye, and come to get it healed 
 by stealth after dark ? ' ' 
 
 "Nay, 'tis nowt that," answered the burly yeoman, 
 as he stood awkwardly twirling his Monmouth cap on 
 the end of his finger.
 
 250 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 I saw that my jests were less amusing to him than 
 to me ; so putting off my jibing tone, I asked him ser- 
 iously if aught were ailing in his household. 
 
 "Ay, 'tis the friend of my wife." He grinned with 
 sheepish pleasure over the last word. 
 
 ' ' Is that the unwed maid, Elizabeth Devon, of whom 
 Master Pory spake?" 
 
 ' ' Yes ; her arm was hurt on the ship in the storm, 
 and methinks it must have been ill-treated, for, in 
 place of mending it grows ever worse ; yet have we had 
 a hard task to persuade her to see the leech, and even 
 now am I come without her consent. I fear me she is 
 'er-headstrong ; but my Kate will have nowt said to 
 her save wi ' cap in hand, and she gives more attention 
 to her friend than to her husband, ' ' 
 
 "Well, well, that is but natural. Grumble not, 
 Cary ; but remember that thy courtship must be done 
 after marriage, and be content to bear awhile with 
 coolness. ' ' 
 
 I took up my box as I spake, and we went out into 
 the night together. As we walked through the town, 
 I marvelled much that all should be changed of a sud- 
 den. 'Twas no longer a camp, but a village. For good 
 or evil, the first English homes had been planted here 
 in the heart of the wilderness. 
 
 "VVe stopped before Gary's cottage, and I marked its 
 shining neatness. The stepping-stone in front of the 
 door was polished as smooth as marble, and the floor 
 within, for all it was but of logs rudely smoothed with 
 an axe, was clean and neatly set in order. 
 
 As I stepped into the kitchen, which served for hall 
 end parlor and dining-room all in one, I was greeted 
 by the mistress of the house with a deep-bobbing 
 courtesy which brought her short skirt down over her 
 bright stockings, and almost hid the high heels and 
 pointed toes of her wedding slippers. 
 
 "Is thy friend badly hurt?" said I. 
 
 "Ay, sir, she suffers much, but she bears it ever with 
 so brave a heart and so cheerful a face that none would 
 guess it to look at her. ' '
 
 THE COMING OF THE SHIP. 251 
 
 *'Hast thou bandages and swathing-cloths at 
 hand?" 
 
 "Nay, not rightly at hand, but a plenty in the sea- 
 chest, which hath not yet been opened. Wilt thou lend 
 a hand— Miles?" 
 
 I could but smile to watch the coquetry with which 
 the name was spoken, and to see how a soft tone and 
 glance oiled the wheels of life and made the half-sulky 
 husband her willing slave. 
 
 Foreseeing that the uncording of the chest would be 
 a matter of time, I stepped to the door of the nearer 
 chamber (the house boasted but two), and finding it 
 ajar, I bowed my head to its low porportions and 
 entered. 
 
 The room had been filled with flowers, in honor of 
 the home-coming of the bride. 'Tis wonderful to me 
 how thoughtful and tender to women these rough fel- 
 lows oft be. The window-sash, its panes filled with 
 oiled paper, was swung open and the night wind blew 
 the perfume of wildrose and honeysuckle in my face. 
 I can feel it still. A single candle shed a dim light 
 around and threw a yellow ray on a wooden armchair 
 close to the table. 
 
 As I turned me toward this chair, suddenly my 
 heart stopped beating. If the thing had not been so 
 wildly impossible, I could have sworn it was Elizabeth 
 Romney herself sitting there. The maid, whoever she 
 was, had the same delicate curve of ear and throat, 
 the same droop of the eyelid, the very trick of the 
 hand lying open palm upward on the knee. 
 
 I brushed my hand across my eyes and looked again. 
 My God !— Incredible !— It could not be!— yet what a 
 likeness ! 
 
 Then I told myself that I was going mad from dwel- 
 ling too long on one thought. I must speak and break 
 the spell. As I opened my lips, a sudden searching 
 conviction fell upon me like a lightning flash that this 
 was indeed she, the one woman in the world to me. 
 I gasped out: ^^ Elizabeth!"
 
 252 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 The maiden turned, and for the first time caught 
 sight of me standing thus in the doorway. She gave 
 one low cry of *'T1iou!" 
 
 After that one word we faced each other in blank 
 silence. The folk in boolis have ever some pat speech 
 ready for such a moment ; but in real life 'tis not so. 
 How could I speak when my brain was whirling like a 
 mill wheel, and my voice choked in my throat ? I stood 
 still and looked upon her, and the longer I looked, the 
 harder I found it to believe my eyes were not playing 
 me a trick. 
 
 Yet 'twas but the truth they told me. There she 
 sat— she that had been brought up to be tended and 
 waited upon, and compassed about with luxuries, now 
 sick and suffering, with only a wooden armchair to 
 rest upon, and a cottage roof to shelter her. How, in 
 God's name, had it come to pass? 
 
 Her face was deadly pale, for all she had been three 
 months on the sea; and now, as she gazed at me, she 
 grew even whiter, and swayed as though she would 
 fall in a swoon. But all the while she kept her eyes 
 fixed steadfastly on mine. They were eyes never to be 
 forgotten by one who had seen them once. I have 
 heard folks praise the brilliancy of her glance and the 
 curling length of her eyelashes ; but, to her lover, there 
 lay a subtler charm in the tender trouble of her eye- 
 brows, bending slightly downward toward the inner 
 corner. I noted it now as distinctly as the drowning 
 man counts the bubbles in the water. 
 
 I was the first to find my voice, and I hated myself 
 that it sounded hard and stern, when I was mad to 
 fling myself at her feet and entreat her to trust herself 
 to me. But that abominable diffidence of mine, which 
 is so akin to pride, made me seem in her eyes, I doubt 
 not, like a pragmatical schoolmaster chiding a recreant 
 child. 
 
 ''Elizabeth Romney!— am I dreaming, or is it 
 indeed thou— come on the ship with the maids?" 
 
 An angry flush swept over the whiteness of her
 
 THE COMING OF THE SHIP. 253 
 
 cheek and rose to meet the hair that curled in childish 
 rings round her little ears, 
 
 ' ' Thou art thinking, perhaps, that I, too, like these 
 others, am come three thousand miles in search of a 
 husband?" 
 
 I knew not what to say, and so I said nowt. 
 
 ''Well, believe 't if you will!" she flung out, her 
 eyes one blaze of wrath; *'but believe not that thou 
 art such a husband as I would seek— not though thou 
 wert the only man on this side of the ocean, and 
 though all the tobacco in Virginia were the price in 
 thine hand. ' ' 
 
 "I am not likely to believe that. Mistress Betty," I 
 answered bitterly. "Yet would I rather believe any- 
 thing than that this journey is a mad prank of thine 
 without rhyme or reason. Wild and venturesome 
 thou hast ever been, but never unmindful of thy sex 
 or thy station." 
 
 "Which means that now I have shown myself 
 unmindful of both. I thank thee, Humphrey Hun- 
 toon; but till I seek thy counsel, do thou keep thy 
 censure ! ' ' 
 
 I know not what we might have spoken further, for 
 anger was hot in both our hearts ; but at that instant 
 Dame Gary and her good man came in, bearing a roll 
 of linen and a whale-oil lamp, which, vile smelling as 
 it was, gave a brighter light than the candle. 
 
 As it shone on the maiden's face, the look of illness 
 and suffering was more plain to be seen ; and I cursed 
 myself for a fool that I had forgotten all this time the 
 arm I had been called to tend. I took the linen from 
 Dame Gary's hand and tore it into strips. 
 
 * * Will you be good enough to let me see the hurt ? " I 
 asked, in a constrained voice. Without a word, she 
 threw back her short cape and showed me the right 
 arm wound round and round with clumsy swathings, 
 which I straightway set to work to unwind. It was 
 well that my calling had trained the fingers to work 
 coolly.
 
 254 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 I went near to breaking out into oaths when I laid 
 bare the arm and saw how great a bungler had had 
 charge of the hurt there on the ship. As it was, that 
 which had been so ill done must be undone. 
 
 The doing of this cruel kindness went near to break 
 my heart, yet she who suffered bore it without a groan. 
 The free hand grasped the arm of the chair more 
 closely, and the face was set in the look of one who 
 would die ere look or sound of weakness be wrung 
 from her. Only the sharper drawing down of the eye- 
 brow marked the strain and stress of suffering. 
 
 At length, after a time which seemed to me longer 
 than any month I have known since, the poor arm was 
 rebound in a pair of splints hastily made from barrel 
 staves. As I swathed it in band over band of linen, I 
 turned to Dame Gary— I dared not trust my voice to 
 address that other. ''Your friend," quoth I, ''hath an 
 excellent courage." 
 
 * ' That hath she ! ' ' broke in Miles Gary, who had the 
 true English love of bravery, and who, as he stood by, 
 holding the lamp while I worked, had been greatly, 
 stirred by the sight of the maid 's endurance. ' ' Had we 
 but a company of soldiers like her, we had no need 
 of a stockade round about James Gity. ' ' 
 
 "Ay," put in his wife, "but ye should have seen her 
 on the sea! In that great storm when her arm was 
 broke, she was the only one of us that screamed not, 
 nor wailed, nor wished herself on land ; but went about 
 cheering and encouraging all. ' ' 
 
 Methought I saw a glance of warning pass from 
 the girl in the chair to the woman in waiting, for she 
 straightway brake off her discourse, and spake quite 
 sharply to her husband, bidding him go before with 
 the light, that we might follow without breaking our 
 necks. 
 
 So they went out and I walked behind them stu- 
 pidly as far as the door. There I found my wits, and, 
 turning back, I stepped close to the armchair.
 
 THE COMING OF THE SHIP. 255 
 
 * ' The doctor, ' ' quoth I, in a low voice, ' ' craves par- 
 don for the hurt he could not help." 
 
 "The doctor," she replied, also speaking very soft, 
 "is pardoned in advance, for he hath but done his 
 duty. For the friend, 'tis another matter. I cannot 
 soon forget that he has failed me." 
 
 "Yet he, too, hath but thy good at heart, and that 
 thou wilt some day confess ; and so must I leave thee. 
 Good-night, madam ! ' ' 
 
 I spoke the last words in a louder tone, and, bowing 
 low, I passed out of the chamber. 
 
 Maud Wilder Goodwin.
 
 XVIII 
 
 DR. PENNINGTON'S COUNTRY 
 PRACTICE. 
 
 ^^ EXT to her husband and her children there 
 *j* was nothing that Mrs. Graham liked better 
 i^^Bl than worrying herself. To a degree far be- 
 yond that attained by any other woman in Marston, 
 she enjoyed "the luxury of woe," and during the last 
 few days she had been indulging in it without stint. 
 For during those days there had been five burglaries 
 in that town, and the little place, ordinarily no more 
 excited than most summer resorts, had become almost 
 hysterical. First of all the post-office had been robbed, 
 and then, as though that robbery had been merely by 
 way of practice, the thieves on the next night had 
 broken into a private house. Other robberies had fol- 
 lowed in quick and defiant succession, and within 
 twenty-four hours the little red brick railroad-station 
 on Orawaupum Street had been broken into, and the 
 money in the safe stolen. Then indeed there was ex- 
 citement, for, as in all small towns not too remote from 
 large cities, the station was the real centre of town 
 life, and its misfortune was looked on almost as a sac- 
 rilege. 
 
 Even the summer residents seemed to consider it as 
 such, and when, as was the custom at Marston, the 
 ladies drove down to the station in the late afternoon 
 to meet their husbands on their return from the city, 
 not one but looked at the little red building as though 
 she expected to hear it cry out against the profana- 
 tion. 
 
 The older ladies sat comfortably in their carriages, 
 and, in voices pitched high because they were in the 
 
 (266)
 
 •^KS
 
 DR. uUNTRY 
 
 g 
 
 a degree far Iv, 
 
 'ig in it without stint 
 
 ■ In . r, Hve burglarit;: 
 
 .1 iruaril}^ no mor 
 
 iiad become almos 
 
 Violent /'^^z:/. ' tl been robbed, 
 
 . Li Deen merely by 
 
 :ie next night ha' 
 
 ' heries had fo' 
 
 -.11, and withi-: 
 
 ' brick railroad-static r; 
 into, and th' 
 
 .- there wa« .•" 
 
 ns not too remote 
 
 e of tuv\ t 
 ... stasasar- 
 ii to consider it as 
 .a...„ji at Marston, tht 
 tntion in the late afternoon 
 - return from th 
 
 — red building as th 
 
 :' out against the prof an?. 
 
 •mfortably in their carriages, 
 , because they were in th-.
 
 DR. PENNINGTON'S COUNTRY PRACTICE. 257 
 
 open air, talked volubly of the burglaries. One and 
 all agreed that they would never have expected a bur- 
 glary in Marston, and Mrs. Graham, by reason of her 
 power of self-worry, speedily obtained a high and 
 commanding position among them as a sort of possible 
 martyr. The younger ladies, at the urgent entreaties 
 of their own or their friends' inquisitive little broth- 
 ers, left their carriages and moved in a pretty crowd 
 upon the station. There the boys pointed out the 
 drawers from which the money had been stolen, and 
 the girls examined them from a distance with respect- 
 ful interest. There, too, they saw the station-master 
 in close conversation with an important-looking per- 
 son, while a young man seated on the desk in the 
 office swung his legs vigorously and looked bored. He 
 brightened up obviously, however, at the sudden in- 
 flux of pretty girls, and removed his hat. The other 
 men merely glanced at the intruders and continued 
 their conversation. 
 
 When they had seen everything, the young ladies 
 retreated to the platform, from which they carried 
 on an animated conversation with their elders in the 
 carriages, while the bored young man came to the win- 
 dow and looked at them with admiration. 
 
 Suddenly all the talk was checked. Then a mur- 
 mur of respectful admiration ran through the crowd 
 of ladies, and the coachmen sat up straighter and 
 flicked their horses. Even the ubiquitous small boys 
 became silent, as into the station yard whirled an 
 open carriage in which sat a young and very 
 pretty woman. As soon as it had drawn up near the 
 platform, the talk began again, this time all directed 
 at its occupant. 
 
 "How do you do to-day, Mrs. Marmaduke?" was 
 the first remark from everybody, with a rising inflec- 
 tion on the second syllable of "to-day;" and when 
 Mrs. Marmaduke had replied that she was very well, 
 there was a chorus of almost incredulous congratula- 
 tion. Then there was a hush, broken in a moment by 
 Mrs, Graham. 
 
 2-17
 
 258 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 "Have you heard anything of your silver yet?" she 
 began. Without waiting for an answer, she contin- 
 ued, "I wonder how you bear it so well. I'm sure I 
 shouldn't. I'm dreadfully afraid of burglars, and I 
 know it would kill me to know that they were in the 
 house. ' ' 
 
 "But I didn't know it," said Mrs. Marmaduke, 
 with superiority. "Not even Mr, Marmaduke knew 
 that they had been there until afterwards." 
 
 "Ah, yes," returned Mrs. Graham; "but to find 
 out, even afterwards, that the horrid men had been 
 there— ugh!— and had taken all your silver— every 
 bit of it-" 
 
 "They left some," coolly interrupted the heroine. 
 Mrs. Graham pretended not to hear her. 
 
 "You should have had a burglar-alarm," she said, 
 patronizingly. "Mr. Graham is going to have one 
 put in for me." 
 
 "We have a burglar-alarm," answered Mrs. Mar- 
 maduke. "But it was out of order." 
 
 ' ' Oh, how annoying ! ' ' chorused all the listeners ex- 
 cept Mrs. Graham, who sank back in her seat and sig- 
 nalled for her daughter Clara to come to her. 
 
 Just then the train came around the curve below 
 the station, and all the adventurous girls retreated to 
 their carriages. Out from his office ran the old sta- 
 tion-master, followed by the important-looking man 
 and by the bored young man. The man who carried 
 the mail-bag to the postoffice sauntered up, and for an 
 instant everything was expectation. Then expecta- 
 tion became reality and confusion as the train came 
 to a stop. For a moment there was an outpouring of 
 passengers, then a thinning out of the crowd, and then 
 a sort of stampede of the carriages for the post-office, 
 until, when the train started again, only Mrs. Mar- 
 maduke 's and Mrs. Graham's remained. Mrs. Mar- 
 maduke lay back in hers, looking at her husband, as 
 he stood on the platform talking to the bored young 
 man, while Mrs. Graham, after looking carefully
 
 £)}?. PENNINGTON'S COUNTRY PRACTICE. 259 
 
 around for her husband, sank back without being able 
 to find him. Clara Graham had looked also, and when 
 she could find neither her father nor her brother she 
 began again the conversation interrupted by the ar- 
 rival of the train. 
 
 "There were two burglars, mamma," she said. 
 "One was rather an old man, they say, while the other 
 was much younger. And of course there must have 
 been a third one to watch — " 
 
 "Drive on, George," interrupted Mrs. Graham; 
 and the coachman had just turned from the platform 
 when the gray-bearded station-master ran out. 
 
 ' ' Hi, there ! Mrs, Graham ! " he shouted, waving a 
 brown envelope, and as the carriage stopped with a 
 jerk, the old man plunged down from the platform 
 and ran to it. 
 
 "A telegram from Mr. Graham," he explained, 
 and, while Mrs. Graham opened it hurriedly, he 
 waited with one hand on the wheel-guard. 
 
 "Who were those two men talking with you, Mr. 
 Underbill?" asked Clara Graham, inquisitively. 
 
 "Wal, the gentleman wi' the red beard— him 
 a-standin' in the doorway noaw," answered the old 
 man, pointing towards the station, "is the represent- 
 ative o' th' Martson Enterprise, — Mr. Long his name 
 is. An' t'other one, him a-talkin' to Mr. Marm'duke, 
 's 'porter fur one o' th' Noo York papers,— I don' 
 rightly know's name." 
 
 "Clara," said Mrs. Graham,— "There's no answer, 
 Mr. Underbill. Drive on, George. Clara, your father 
 won't be home to-night; he and Phil are detained by 
 business. They won't be home until to-morrow night." 
 
 "Oh, well," said Clara, cheerfully, "of course we 
 shall miss them, but I think we can get along one night 
 without them." 
 
 "Ordinarily, yes," her mother answered, promptly, 
 Mrs, Graham did not like to be considered dependent 
 even on her husband. "Ordinarily, most certainly. 
 But there are these awful burglars, and we haven't 
 a man in the house. ' '
 
 260 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 "There's George, mamma," suggested Clara. But 
 George with great promptness, spoke over his shoul- 
 der, as old coachmen have a way of doing : 
 
 "Please, mem, I've got to be 'ome to-night, because 
 o' my wife h'end the baby as she h 'expects." 
 
 "Yes," said Mrs. Graham, slowly, "George is right-, 
 he must be at home. Could your Cousin "Will come, 
 do you think, Clara?— No: he's away, too. There's 
 Mr. Frisbie; we might ask him to take care of us. 
 No sensible burglars would think of robbing the par- 
 sonage. ' ' 
 
 "No, I don't suppose they would," answered Clara. 
 "But then Mr. Frisbie wouldn't leave Mrs. Frisbie 
 and the little baby alone. And then suppose the bur- 
 glars were not sensible—" 
 
 ' * They must be, ' ' said Mrs. Graham, with decision, 
 "or they wouldn't have broken into the Marmadukes' 
 house." 
 
 "Oh, mamma," suggested Clara, "couldn't we tele- 
 graph to somebody to come out to us ? We might have 
 a messenger-boy sent out, or two or three, if you 
 wanted. ' ' 
 
 "I've got a boy, miss," said George, the coachman. 
 " 'E might take care o' ye, mem, over night." 
 
 But when she found that George's boy was only 
 nine years old, Mrs. Graham shook her head. 
 
 "He's too young. And I do not want messenger- 
 boys. They would be so slow, and they wear great 
 rubber trousers and always have their hands in their 
 pockets." This was said very slowly and thoughtfully. 
 
 "We might telegraph to some friend in the city, 
 mamma," suggested Clara. "He could come out on 
 the ten o'clock train, and get here before eleven. I 
 don't suppose the burglars would come before 
 eleven." 
 
 ' ' Oh, no. They never come before eleven o 'clock, ' ' 
 said Mrs. Graham, as decidedly as though she had 
 served an apprenticeship with a burglar and knew all 
 the rules governing his entrance into the best houses.
 
 DR. PENNINGTON'S COUNTRY PRACTICE. 261 
 
 The idea of telegraphing to a friend evidently pleased 
 her. "We might telegraph to— to— " 
 
 "We might telegraph to Dr. Pennington," sug- 
 gested Clara, with just the suspicion of a blush. '*He 
 would be sure to come." 
 
 Her mother did not notice the blush, and was evi- 
 dently considering the question of telegraphing. Just 
 then the carriage turned in at the Grahams' gate. 
 
 "We muct telegraph," said Mrs. Graham, nodding 
 her head with great decision. "Yes, we must tele- 
 graph, and to Dr. Pennington." 
 
 It was later than usual that evening when Dr. John 
 Pennington dropped into the little French restaurant 
 near his office, to which his bachelorhood doomed him, 
 and, as almost every one else had gone, he was forced 
 to eat a solitary meal. As he looked carelessly 
 through an evening paper which he had taken up to 
 pass the time, he happened to notice the following 
 bit of news : 
 
 "The village of Marston is very much excited over 
 several burglaries committed there recently. The resi- 
 dence of E. L. Marmaduke, a wealthy merchant of 
 New York City, was entered on Tuesday night, and 
 a large quantity of jewelry and silver stolen. Last 
 night, after visiting several houses with little success, 
 the burglars broke into the railroad-station. Many 
 commutation tickets had been renewed the day be- 
 fore, and the burglars secured nearly two hundred 
 dollars in money. There are supposed to be three men 
 in the gang. No clue to them has yet been found. ' ' 
 
 "I wonder," thought the doctor, as he slowly sipped 
 his coffee, ''I wonder if they have been to the Gra- 
 hams' yet. If they have, I'll wager a large amount— 
 I'd go as high as my last year's professional income— 
 that Mrs. Graham is now in a state of violent hyster- 
 ics. If they haven't, she has at least sufficient ma- 
 terial to keep her in a state of worry for about one 
 year." He finished his coffee. "I believe I'll run 
 out to Marston to-morrow," he continued, thought-
 
 262 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 fully; "that is, if I'm not too much occupied." (Pen- 
 nington religiously made this reservation, though 
 since he had become a doctor he had never been too 
 much occupied.) "I haven't been there for a long 
 time, and the burglaries will give me a good excuse 
 for leaving my patients." 
 
 Having made this determination, he dismissed the 
 matter from his mind, and, finishing his coffee, sat in 
 silence till he had smoked his cigar. Then he went 
 home to take up his usual task of waiting for patients. 
 AVhen he reached his rooms, he found Mrs. Graham's 
 telegram on his table It was as enigmatical as 
 women's communications generally are, and was 
 worded thus: 
 
 "Will you kindly take ten-o'clock train and spend 
 night with us ? Will explain on arrival. ' ' 
 
 * ' Spend the night ? AYill explain on arrival ? WTiat 
 on earth can the woman mean?" cried the doctor. 
 "Can any of the family be sick, I wonder? If so, 
 why should she send for me, when there must be other 
 doctors near by? No: that can't be the reason." But, 
 as he could think of no other explanation, he accepted 
 this one as the most plausible, and decided to take 
 his case of medicines with him to Marston. Looking 
 at his watch, he saw that he could barely catch the 
 train, and hastily began to pack his handbag. Then, 
 telling his landlady that he would be back in the 
 morning, he called a cab, and reached the station with 
 five minutes to spare. 
 
 A night ride in an accommodation train is not ex- 
 citing, and Pennington's trip to Marston was monoto- 
 nous enough. He did not dare to read by the villain- 
 ous light, and so he devoted his time to speculating 
 on Mrs. Graham's telegram. He stepped from the 
 train at Marston, however, without having come to 
 any definite conclusion on the subject. 
 
 "I think, sir," said an elderly coachman, stepping 
 up to the young doctor and touching his hat, ' ' I think 
 you must be the gentl'n h 'expected at the Grahams'.
 
 DR. PENNINGTON'S COUNTRY PRACTICE. 263 
 
 Will you step this way, sir? I 'ave the buggy 'ere. 
 These burglaries are h 'awful, ain't they, sir?" he be- 
 gan, as he touched up the little mare, 
 
 "Burglaries?" said Pennington. "Oh, yes, I did 
 read about some burglaries up here—" 
 
 "Yes, sir," said the man, "an' Mrs. Graham is 
 just scared out o' her senses, sir, an' when she got the 
 telegram from Mr. Graham, sir,— come up, Jess,— 
 sayin' that neither he nor Mr. Phil 'ud be up to-night, 
 she sent for you 't once. Ye see, sir," he continued, 
 waxing confidential, "I'm out o' the runnin', on ac- 
 count o' the visitor h 'expected at my 'ouse to-night." 
 
 For the first time it dawned upon the doctor that 
 it was not for his professional services that he was 
 wanted, but more heroic ones, and he wished that he 
 had left his case of medicines at home. Old George, 
 however, gave him little time for thought, but enter- 
 tained him with accounts, partly real, partly fictitious, 
 of the daring and ferocity of the burglars who in- 
 fested the village, until the doctor began to wish that 
 Mrs. Graham had been able to secure any other pro- 
 tector than himself. 
 
 As the carriage rolled up to the house, the door 
 opened, and Mrs. Graham, evidently on the watch, 
 rushed out. 
 
 ' ' Oh, Dr. Pennington ! ' ' she cried, excitedly. ' ' You 
 can't tell how glad I am to see you ! I Jiope you don't 
 think it presuming in me to send for you?" 
 
 "Not at all," began Pennington, getting out of the 
 carriage ; but Mrs. Graham noticed his medicine-case, 
 and interrupted him. 
 
 "You've brought your pistols," she exclaimed. 
 "How splendid of you to think of them I" 
 
 "Do not for one instant think that you presumed 
 in sending for me," said Pennington, as he ran lightly 
 up the steps and took Mrs. Graham's outstretched 
 hand. "You know, Mrs. Graham, that it can only be 
 a pleasure to me to be of any service to you or Miss 
 Clara."
 
 264 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 * ' It is very good of you, I 'm sure, and I shall never 
 forget it ; but now come right into the library, Clara 
 will be delighted to see an old friend who has come 
 in time of need. It was she who suggested sending 
 for you," added Mrs. Graham, and Pennington 
 blushed with pleasure. ''It's very strange," went on 
 the lady, "that Clara isn't half so worried about the 
 burglars as I am, when it generally takes so much 
 to worry me. Clara, here is Dr. Pennington, pistols 
 and all; wasn't it good of him to come?" she con- 
 cluded, as she entered the library. Clara came for- 
 v/ard to greet Pennington, blushing slightly, and look- 
 ing so charming that he felt he would be glad to have 
 the burglars come, that he might have the pleasure 
 of defending her. 
 
 *'I have just told Mrs. Graham, Miss Clara," said 
 Pennington, "that the goodness is all on her side. 
 You can't realize how pleasant it is to see you again. 
 As for my pistols," he added, carefully laying down 
 his medicine-case, "it overwhelms me with mortifica- 
 tion to confess that I have left the key of my case 
 behind." 
 
 "Perhaps it is best that you did," said Mrs. Gra- 
 ham, while Clara laughed. 
 
 "Don't worry about that, Dr. Pennington," she 
 said, tapping the case lightly. "Wait a moment, and 
 I will bring something that will do as well as the pis- 
 tols you have here." And she ran from the room. 
 When she returned, Mrs. Graham was insisting that 
 Pennington should take something to eat. 
 
 "Here is a weapon," cried Clara, gaily, holding up 
 an old-fashioned muzzle-loading horse-pistol. She 
 handed it to Pennington, who colored as he took it. 
 "I think that will frighten the burglars," she panted, 
 looking at Pennington and laughing. 
 
 "Clara," said Mrs. Graham, "I wouldn't have that 
 thing fired off in the house for the world. Your father 
 fired it off once at a cat, and the noise it made gave me 
 a nervous shock I didn 't get over for a week. Besides,
 
 DR. PENNINGTON'S COUNTRY PRACTICE. 265 
 
 it brought in all the neighbors,— and some of them 
 were very common people,— who thought we had had a 
 dynamite explosion here. ' ' 
 
 "But this ancient fire-arm has no hammer," said 
 Pennington, after examining it. "A pistol without a 
 hammer, Mrs. Graham, is like a man without a head,— 
 comparatively useless." 
 
 "My ignorance of such things," said Mrs. Graham, 
 with a shudder, "is something stupendous, and I hope 
 you won't laugh at me when I ask what the hammer of 
 a pistol is?" 
 
 "Let me show you, mamma," cried Clara, jumping 
 up and taking the pistol from Pennington 's hands. 
 
 "Be careful, Clara, be careful," cried Mrs. Graham, 
 evidently alarmed at its proximity. "Are you quite 
 sure that it won't go off by itself?" 
 
 * ' Quite sure, ' ' answered the doctor. But Mrs. Gra- 
 ham 's fears could not be allayed until Pennington had 
 placed the pistol on the bookcase. She gave a sigh of 
 relief. 
 
 "I am sure that we shall not need a pistol," said 
 Pennington, ' ' for burglars never come where they are 
 expected." 
 
 "Perhaps that is so," answered Mrs. Graham. "I 
 know that I am awfully timid about them. But, doc- 
 tor—could you— would you— do you mind sleeping on 
 this lounge tonight?" 
 
 "Not in the least," cried Pennington. ",Why, Mrs. 
 Graham, it looks extremely comfortable." 
 
 " It is very comfortable, ' ' said Clara, giving it a lit- 
 tle pat by way of enforcing her remark. "It is quite 
 out of the ordinary run of lounges, I often take 
 naps on it myself. ' ' 
 
 * ' That settles it, ' ' cried Pennington. "Now not even 
 wild horses could drag me to a bed of ease. ' ' 
 
 "I am very grateful to you," said Mrs. Graham, 
 who did not look upon the matter as a trifling sacrifice 
 for the doctor to make. "I think we can make you 
 comfortable, however. ' '
 
 266 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 "Of course you can, Mrs. Grraliam; and then just 
 think of the fame that awaits me if the burglars do 
 come. Why, the papers will be full of me. 'Dr. Pen- 
 nington defends two helpless ladies from desperate 
 burglars. His only weapon a horse-pistol without a 
 hammer,' and so on." 
 
 "I don't see how you can joke about such horrid 
 men ; the very thought of them makes me shudder. But 
 we mustn't keep you up all night, doctor. It is long 
 after eleven. Clara, take my hand; you couldn't per- 
 suade me to go up the stairs by myself. Doctor, would 
 you mind standing in the hall till we get to our 
 rooms—" 
 
 ' ' Like the White Knight and Alice, ' ' laughed Clara. 
 * ' You remember he asked Alice to wait till he was out 
 of sight, because her presence would cheer him—" 
 
 "Clara, you saucy girl!" cried her mother. "Doc- 
 tor, I will send Bridget down to make up a bed on the 
 lounge. Good night," she called again, as she reached 
 her room. 
 
 "Don't treat the poor burglars too cruelly, Dr. Pen- 
 nington," cried Clara, looking over the baluster, and 
 then with a laugh she vanished. 
 
 "I wonder what she meant by that," thought Pen- 
 nington, as he went back to the library. In a minute 
 Bridget appeared with sheets and blankets, and in a 
 short time had made up a bed on the broad lounge. 
 Then she departed and Pennington was left alone. 
 
 "Suppose the burglars should come," he thought, 
 as he prepared to turn in. "But it's not likely they 
 will. At any rate, I mustn't let my imagination run 
 away with me; so here goes." And with that he 
 turned out the gas and settled himself on the lounge, 
 where, in spite of discomforts present and burglars to 
 be, he was soon fast asleep. 
 
 Ke had been asleep, it seemed to him, for hours, 
 when he suddenly sat up, wide awake in an instant. 
 Had he dreamed that he had heard footsteps at the 
 back of the house, or was there really some one moving
 
 DR. PENNINGTON'S COUNTRY PRACTICE. 267 
 
 about ? Pennington listened with every nerve strained 
 to its utmost tension. There it goes again ! He was 
 sure he heard a noise. It came from the dining-room— 
 and it sounded like the rattling of silver. 
 
 They're here," he muttered, and drew a long breath. 
 "What in thunder am I to do-? Ah ! I'll get that old 
 pistol and use the poker as a hammer; the old thing has 
 a cap on it." Crawling softly from the lounge, he 
 groped his way towards the fireplace. The room was 
 as dark as a pocket, and before he had finished his un- 
 certain journey he struck his foot smartly against the 
 coal-scuttle. It rattled. He made a dive to stop it 
 from falling, and in so doing upset it. It fell with a 
 crash loud enough, it seemed to him, to wake the Seven 
 Sleepers. 
 
 Despite the pain of his stubbed foot, Pennington did 
 not hug his injured member with the affection usually 
 displayed on such occasions but ground his teeth and 
 listened intently for any sign from the burglars that 
 they had heard him. 
 
 A momeni of suspense ; then he assured himself that 
 they had heard nothing, and, securing pistol and 
 poker, started for the library door. He reached it 
 safely, and, opening it noiselessly, looked out into the 
 hall. A narrow streak of light from the partly- 
 opened dining-room door showed him where to steer, 
 and, grasping the poker firmly in his right hand and 
 the pistol in his left, he tiptoed across the hall. 
 The rattling of silver in the dining-room contin- 
 ued, and almost drowned the nearer and solemn tick of 
 an old eight-day clock, whose brass and iron nerves 
 the doctor envied. 
 
 Creeping cautiously to the door, he looked through 
 the crack. The light was turned half on in the dining- 
 room. At the farther end of the room, with his back 
 turned towards him, was an old man, who seemed to be 
 taking silver from the drawers of the sideboard and 
 putting it into a basket at his side. 
 
 "The old villain!" thought Pennington. "How
 
 268 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 cool he is ! I wonder where the other two fellows are. 
 Somewhere at hand, I suppose." 
 
 Suddenly the burglar turned half around, as though 
 he were about to leave the room. Pennington shrank 
 back. 
 
 "I can't shoot the fellow in cold blood," he said to 
 himself. Just then his hand touched the knob of a 
 door which he knew opened into a large closet. An 
 idea struck him. He opened the door very quietly, and 
 then, picking up the rug from the hall floor, was ready 
 to carry out his plan. 
 
 The burglar was nearing the door. ''Come up as 
 soon as you can, ' ' he said, and as a muffled voice from 
 somewhere answered, ' ' All right, ' ' he opened the door 
 and stepped into the hall. 
 
 With a bound Pennington threw the heavy rug over 
 the man's head, deftly twisting it so that he could 
 make no sound to warn his comrades. But the doctor 
 had not thought of the basket of silver which the man 
 carried, and it fell to the floor with a crash. There was 
 a quick movement in the direction from which the an- 
 swering voice had come, and a scream from upstairs. 
 Pennington fairly hurled his prisoner into the closet 
 and locked the door ; then he stood a moment uncertain 
 whether to run upstairs to the aid of Mrs. Graham and 
 Clara or search for the other burglar. Suddenly he 
 heard a step behind him. Before he could turn he re- 
 ceived a blow on the side of his head. He fell to the 
 floor, where he lay half stunned. Then his hands were 
 tied behind him, and he felt himself picked up by his 
 assailant and held a moment uncertainly in mid air. 
 
 **Put him in here, Fred," said a voice, and, to his 
 horror, Pennington heard the key turn in the lock, and 
 the next instant he was thrown into the closet with as 
 little ceremony as he had himself used towards the 
 burglar. Then the door was locked. 
 
 A sudden cough from the burglar made Penning- 
 ton's hair stand on end, and he shivered when he heard 
 the man, sputtering and coughing, feeling audibly for
 
 DR. PENNINGTON'S COUNTRY PRACTICE. 269 
 
 what Pennington knew was his revolver. He was as 
 brave as most men, and at once determined not to lie 
 still at the mercy of a desperate ruffian. Very cautious- 
 ly he tried to pull his hands out of the bonds that held 
 them. To his joy, he found that the hastily-tied knots 
 would give way at a little straining. 
 
 Meanwhile, upstairs, Mrs. Graham and Clara had 
 gone to bed together for additional safety. Clara did 
 not tell her mother, but to herself confessed that she 
 had every confidence in Dr. Pennington, and so went 
 calmly to sleep. Mrs. Graham was less confident 
 than her daughter, and her sleep was light and broken. 
 The consequence was that the fall of the silver basket 
 woke her up instantly. She gave a scream. 
 
 * ' Clara ! ' ' she cried, shaking her daughter. * ' Clara, 
 the burglars are here ! ' ' 
 
 "Where?" demanded Clara, sitting bolt upright, 
 and looking in bewilderment out from the mist of her 
 long brown hair. 
 
 * ' Down stairs, ' ' said Mrs. Graham, in a hoarse whis- 
 per. *'Help me, Clara, and scream." With that she 
 set the example by uttering a shriek that rang through 
 the house, waking the servants in their rooms. Clara 
 sprang from the bed, and, scarcely knowing what she 
 did, began piling all the movable furniture in front of 
 the door, while her mother uttered scream after scream 
 with the regularity of a piece of clock-work. 
 
 There was a step in the hall, then another. 
 
 ** There are two of them!" gasped Mrs. Graham, in 
 an interval of screaming. The door was opened slight- 
 ly. "Push up the bedstead, Clara!" and the two wo- 
 men pushed the heavy piece of furniture against the 
 door. The movement was so sudden that the door 
 closed upon the intruder's fingers. There was a howl 
 of pain. 
 
 "Scream!" commanded Mrs. Graham, as Clara 
 caught her by the arm. The girl did not at once obey. 
 
 "Oh, mother," she cried, "what do you suppose 
 they've done to John— I mean Dr. Pennington?"
 
 270 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 ''Let me in," cried a voice in the hall. "Let me 
 in." The two women screamed again. The door was 
 pushed open and a man's head and shoulder thrust in. 
 In desperation, Mrs. Graham picked up the water- 
 pitcher. Eushing towards the man, she threw it at 
 him. It struck the wall and broke, near enough to him 
 to drench him. 
 
 "Hold on, I say!" he cried. "Mother, what are 
 you doing? Are you hurt? Have those scoundrels 
 hurt you?" 
 
 "Phil!" cried Mrs. Graham and Clara at once. 
 * * Phil ! Why, what are you doing here ? How did you 
 come?" And they rushed upon him, dragging him 
 through the narrow opening and embracing him rap- 
 turously. 
 
 "What are you doing here?" asked Mrs. Graham 
 again, as she released him. He could not answer at 
 once, but after Clara had let him go, he answered, — 
 
 "Well, father at first forgot all about the burglars. 
 We were at the library, working away like beaver law- 
 yers, when he suddenly thought of 'em. He jumped 
 up and said we must come right home, because you'd 
 be scared out of your wits. ' ' Here he kissed his moth- 
 er again. "So we bundled up the papers, and, as we 
 were too late for the ten o'clock train, we came up on 
 the other road, and walked across. We brought Fred 
 with us, too." 
 
 * * Fred Austin ? ' ' asked Mrs. Graham. Phil nodded, 
 and went on : 
 
 "Father was sure you'd be awake, but you didn't 
 seem to be, so we looked around, and pretty soon got 
 in through the front window, which was open." Mi's. 
 Graham looked frightened. ' ' Then we felt sure there 
 was something to pay, especially when we saw the sil- 
 ver basket and the silver scattered around on the table 
 and sideboard, and the safe open, so father picked up 
 the silver, while Fred and I ran into the kitchen." 
 Mrs. Graham had gasped when she heard of their dis- 
 covery, and stood listening with almost tragic intent- 
 ness.
 
 DR. PENNINGTON'S COUNTRY PRACTICE. 271 
 
 "We found no one there, but we heard a crash in 
 the hall and ran back. Fred came through the door 
 into the pantry, while I came by the dining-room. First 
 thing I knew I heard somebody fall in the hall, and 
 then Fred called me. He 'd found a big fellow stand- 
 ing by the door, evidently waiting for me, and he'd hit 
 him pretty hard on the head. Then we tied his hands 
 with a handkerchief and threw him into the closet. ' ' 
 
 "Well," said Mrs. Graham, looking relieved, while 
 Clara drew a long breath, "that was good. Where is 
 your father. Bring them both here. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Isn 't father here ? ' ' asked Phil. ' ' Wliy, he came 
 upstairs first— has that scoundrel touched him, I won- 
 der?" And Phil darted out of the room and down- 
 stairs. 
 
 ' ' Then there was some one in the house, ' ' said Mrs. 
 Graham, "for Phil said that Fred had to strike some 
 one." 
 
 "Mamma," said Clara, tremulously, seizing her 
 mother 's arm, ' ' Fred hit Dr. Pennington ! ' ' And she 
 looked at her mother with wide-open eyes of alarm. 
 Mrs. Graham went into the hall, her daughter follow- 
 ing her, 
 
 "Be still!" commanded Mrs. Graham, opening the 
 door into the servants' hall. "Girls, I'm ashamed of 
 you! Bridget, Eliza! Be still at once!" Her voice 
 had its effect, and the house became quiet again. 
 
 Meantime the two prisoners in the closet had not been 
 idle. Pennington at first lay where he had been thrown, 
 noiselessly trying to slip his hands through his bonds. 
 The burglar had evidently rid himself of the rug, and 
 Pennington could hear him groping his way about the 
 closet, now and again colliding with unknown obsta- 
 cles. He was nearing the prostrate doctor, who re- 
 doubled his efforts to free himself. Suddenly the burg- 
 lar's foot struck smartly against Pennington's head. 
 The man stopped and drew back ; then he pushed his 
 foot forward again till it once more touched the doctor. 
 Pennington, who had not quite freed himself when the
 
 272 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 burglar first collided with him, jerked his hands out of 
 their fastenings, and, springing to his feet, aimed a 
 blow in the direction in which he thought the burglar 
 stood. He missed his aim in the darkness and bruised 
 his knuckles against the wall. 
 
 "Whew!" he cried, jumping with pain. Just then 
 he got a blow from the burglar on his shoulder. He 
 turned on him, but caught his foot on the rug and fell 
 at full length. He sprang up in an instant, however, 
 picking up the rug as he did so, and stood prepared to 
 defend himself as long as possible. 
 
 "Have you found your father?" asked Mrs. Gra- 
 ham, leaning over the baluster and looking into the 
 darkness of the lower hall. 
 
 "Not yet, Mrs. Graham," answered a voice. 
 
 "Why don't you light the gas, Fred?" asked Mrs. 
 Graham, impatiently. There was a scratching of a 
 match, and in an instant the hall was lighted. Just 
 then Phil Graham came from the dining-room. 
 
 "I can't find father," he said anxiously. 
 
 Clara came timidly half-way down the stairs. 
 
 "Fred," she asked, "what sort— who was it you 
 struck?" 
 
 "A tall man, standing here. He was waiting for 
 us to come out of the dining-room ; but I came up be- 
 hind and hit him— so," answered Fred Austin, with 
 some pride. 
 
 "Lucky he did, too," said Phil. "The fellow had 
 this," he added, holding up a pistol. Then, in a tone 
 of astonishment, he cried, "Hello! it's father's old 
 horse-pistol ! ' ' 
 
 Clara flew down the stairs to her brother, her long 
 hair streaming behind her, "It wasn't a burglar!" 
 she cried. * ' It wasn 't a burglar ! Why did you strike 
 him?" turning fiercely upon Fred Austin, and then 
 bursting into tears of terror. 
 
 Mrs. Graham followed her down. "He wasn't a 
 burglar," she explained to the perplexed young men. 
 "It was Dr. Pennington. He came down here to pro-
 
 DR. PENNINGTON'S COUNTRY PRACTICE. 273 
 
 tect us while you were away. He must have heard you 
 and taken you for burglars, and you took him for one, 
 and-" 
 
 "Pennington!" echoed Phil, while Fred looked at 
 Clara, with admiration and contrition, the former real, 
 the latter half feigned. ' ' I put Pennington, if it was 
 he, into the closet," he added, stepping towards the 
 place. Clara was before him, however. 
 
 The sound of voices in the hall had already attract- 
 ed the attention of the two prisoners. The burglar 
 groaned as he heard them, and his groan was fatal to 
 him, for it indicated that he was in the middle of the 
 closet. Instantly the doctor turned and threw the rug 
 in the direction of the sound. His aim was good, and 
 in a moment he had the burglar's head again envel- 
 oped. His hands were free, however, and he grappled 
 with Pennington so vigorously that he had much ado 
 to defend himself. Suddenly he gave the burglar a 
 strong shove from him. At that moment the door was 
 flung open. 
 
 ' ' John, ' ' cried Clara. The burglar fell through the 
 door into the hall. For an instant there was silence. 
 Then the burglar began to kick violently and to shout. 
 
 "It's father!" cried Phil Graham, as he made a 
 dive for the half-smothered man and set him on his 
 feet. Mr. Graham looked around wildly for an instant 
 as he got rid of the rug. 
 
 * ' There 's a burglar in there ! " he cried. * ' Shut the 
 door. Quick, shut the door!" And he threw himself 
 against it, refusing to move until Fred Austin had 
 locked it. "Whew!" he gasped. "The scoundrel! 
 Have you locked it Fred?— Tried to garrote me— 
 whew ! ' ' And he wiped his face and looked around on 
 his astonished family. 
 
 "Why, how did you get in there, father?" asked 
 Phil, while Mrs. Graham led her husband to a chair. 
 Clara stood still near the door. 
 
 ' ' I was going up stairs with the silver basket, which 
 the burglar had left on the sideboard—" 
 
 2—18
 
 274 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 "No," interrupted his wife, penitently: "I told 
 Eliza I would put the silver in the safe myself, and I 
 was doing it when Dr. Pennington came. I ran out to 
 meet him, and forgot all about the silver. I don't be- 
 lieve there was any burglar at all. ' ' 
 
 "Yes, there was," said Mr. Graham, sturdily. "As 
 I was coming out of the dining-room, a fellow threw 
 this rug over me, and then threw me, rug and all, into 
 the closet. Presently he came in after me, I suppose to 
 remove the only witness against him. He was choking 
 me when you opened the door, and I broke away from 
 him." And Mr. Graham pointed to the closet door. 
 
 "Why, that's where we put Pennington," cried 
 Austin and Phil Graham. Clara darted to the door 
 and opened it wide. 
 
 "John!" she cried again. "Come out, come out." 
 And, in obedience to her call, John Pennington came 
 out. 
 
 "Where's that burglar?" he asked. 
 
 "There were three of them," answered Mrs. Gra- 
 ham, promptly. "We have got them all." Penning- 
 ton looked around bewildered. He recognized Phil 
 Graham, and then saw Mr. Graham sitting in the hall 
 chair, the rug at his feet. His face fell. 
 
 "This was the burglar you captured," said Mrs. 
 Graham ; and Mr. Graham nodded. 
 
 "Who hit me, then?" demanded Pennington, rub- 
 bing his head. Fred Austin seemed bashful about an- 
 swering, and Phil spoke up : 
 
 "We took you for a burglar and captured you, just 
 as you had captured father." 
 
 * ' Then there were no burglars ? ' ' asked Pennington, 
 doubtfully. 
 
 "No, there were no burglars," answered Mrs. Gra- 
 ham. 
 
 "Well," said Pennington, as he rubbed his head 
 again, "I suppose it's all right, but it's rather hard on 
 a well-meaning fellow—" And he smiled rather 
 weakly.
 
 DR. PENNINGTON'S COUNTRY PRACTICE. 275 
 
 *'It's all right," said Clara, unconsciously laying 
 her hand on his arm. ' ' 
 
 ''My dear," said Mr. Graham to his wife some time 
 later, as they were in their room together, "my dear, 
 didn't Clara call the doctor John?" 
 
 ''I didn't think you noticed it," answered Mrs. Gra- 
 ham. 
 
 "I did, though," said Mr. Graham, "It seems to 
 me, though there were no burglars to take our silver, 
 that Pennington has taken our little woman's heart." 
 
 ' ' Fair exchange is no robbery, ' ' remarked Mrs. Gra- 
 ham; and her husband looked at her, and nodded sev- 
 eral times as though something pleased him. 
 
 Butler Munroe.
 
 XIX 
 
 THE DOCTOR : AN OLD VIRGINIA 
 FOX HUNTER. 
 
 ^^ OW the doctor was a Southerner of the old 
 ^3g school. Nor was he merely a North Caro- 
 ^^1 linan, a Tennesseean, a Kentuckian or a 
 Georgian— not any, thank you! No; our friend 
 was a Virginian— a real, "old-fashioned, blue- 
 blooded, whole-souled, open-handed Virginian." And 
 this he was by virtue of eight or nine generations 
 of forebears who had fought, physicked, speechified, 
 fox-hunted, raised negroes and tobacco, in that immor- 
 tal commonwealth. No day passed but the doctor, in 
 his simple fashion, unconsciously thanked God that he 
 was a Virginian. For did not virtue, valor, honor, 
 gallantry, select the Old Dominion in the days of the 
 Stuarts as their special depot, from whence, in modi- 
 fied streams, these qualities might be diffused over the 
 less fortunate portions of the Western world ? To the 
 unsophisticated Englishman, to the ignorant French- 
 man or German, an American is an American. If he is 
 not rampantly modern, sensationally progressive, and 
 furiously material, he is nothing at all. But the doctor' 
 would scarcely ever speak or think of himself as an 
 American, except in the same sense as an Englishman 
 would call himself a European. The doctor was every 
 moment of the day, and every day in the year, a Vir- 
 ginian above everything; and as I have already said, 
 he felt thereby that a responsibility and a glory above 
 that of other mortals had been conferred upon him by 
 the accident of his birth. I may add, moreover, 
 that he was unquestionably non-progressive, that he 
 was decidedly not modern, while to this day he is so 
 
 (276)
 
 AN OLD VIRGINIA FOX HUNTER. 277 
 
 reactionary that the sound of a railway irritates him ; 
 and finally, that he was, and I feel sure still is, emi- 
 nently picturesque. 
 
 The doctor was about sixty-five at the time of which 
 I write (not so very many years ago). He had never 
 set foot outside Virginia, and never wanted to. That 
 a country, however, or climate, or people, or scenery, 
 existed that could be mentioned in the same breath 
 with the old Cavalier colony, never for one moment 
 was accounted within the bounds of possibility by that 
 good and simple soul. 
 
 And yet, paradoxical as it may seem, the doctor was 
 proud of his descent from pure English stock. "None 
 of Scotch or Irish, or Scotch-Irish for me. No, I thank 
 you, sir." "My folks," he was fond of relating, "were 
 real English stock, who came over way back in early 
 colonial days, and settled on the York River. They 
 were kin to the nobility." Whatever may have been 
 the accuracy of this last claim, the doctor's patronymic 
 in Virginia genealogy was above reproach, and would 
 have secured him an entree (had he owned a dress coat, 
 and had he felt a hankering after Eastern cities) into 
 those small exclusive coteries in transatlantic society 
 that still recognize birth as superior to wealth and 
 even intellect. I should not like it to be supposed that 
 my dear doctor, of whom I am excessively fond, was 
 given to blustering about either his State or his de- 
 scent. Your fire-eating, blowing, swaggering Southern- 
 er belongs either to a lower social grade, to the more 
 frontier States of the South, or, to a greater degree 
 perhaps than either, to the fertile imagination of Yan- 
 kee editors and dime novelists. The doctor was a Vir- 
 ginian. His thoughts and his habits, which were pe- 
 culiar and original, were simply those of Virginians 
 of his class and generation somewhat strongly empha- 
 sized. He was just and unassuming, kindly and home- 
 ly. There was about him a delightful, old-fashioned, if 
 somewhat ponderous suavity of manner, that the rest 
 of the Anglo-Saxon race have long, long outgrown.
 
 278 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 Even to hear a married female who was not black ad- 
 dressed as otherwise than "Madam" positively pained 
 him. As for the children, the doctor had a separate 
 greeting for every one of them, let his host's quiver 
 be ever so fall. Ay, and generally something more 
 than that; for the doctor's capacious pockets were 
 known by the little ones to be almost as ines^haustible 
 in the way of chincapins, hickory-nuts and candy, as 
 his well-worn saddle-bags were of less inviting condi- 
 ments. 
 
 The doctor's belief in his country (and by his coun- 
 try of course I mean Virginia) was the religion in 
 which he was born. He would never have dreamt of 
 intruding it on you. International comparisons he 
 could not make, for he had never been out of the State. 
 I feel perfectly sure, however, if the doctor had trav- 
 elled over every corner of the earth, that his faith was 
 of that fundamental description which was proof 
 against mere sights and sounds. He would have re- 
 turned to the shade of his ancestral porch, temporarily 
 staggered, perhaps, but still unconvinced that any 
 land or any people could compare with old Virginia. 
 
 The average American in London is a spectacle 
 which has in it nothing inharmonious ; on the contrary, 
 in these days it is sometimes hard to distinguish him 
 from the native. To picture the doctor in London, 
 however, requires an effort of imagination from which 
 the intellect shrinks. Of one thing I am sure, and 
 that is, he would be very miserable. He would call iu 
 vain for glasses of cold water like that from the limpid 
 spring under the poplar tree at home, of which the 
 doctor consumes about a horse-troughful a day. He 
 would hang over the apple-stalls, and groan over the 
 deficiencies of a country that could do no better than 
 that. He would get up two hours before the servants, 
 and prowl about disconsolate and hungry till break- 
 fast. ^Tiat an apology, too, for a breakfast it would 
 be without an "Old Virginia hot-beat biscuit!" In his 
 despair of getting a "julep" he might take a whiskey
 
 AN OLD VIRGINIA FOX HUNTER. 279 
 
 punch before Ms early dinner. But here, again, how- 
 could the emblazoned wine-card, with its, for him, 
 meaningless contents, supply the want of that big 
 pitcher of foaming buttermilk for which his simple 
 palate craves? The pomp and wealth, the glitter and 
 glare of a great capital, would be simply distasteful to 
 our patriarch. In his own land he and his have been 
 for all time aristocrats— after their own fashion, it is 
 true, but still aristocrats. They have been strongly in- 
 clined to regard themselves as the salt of the earth— 
 and perhaps they are; a good sturdy British foible 
 this, intensified by isolation and the mutual admira- 
 tion atmosphere which isolation creates. At any rate, 
 gold lace and liveries and coronets are not indispensa- 
 ble adjuncts of honor and breeding. The doctor, how- 
 ever—if we can imagine him gazing on the stream of 
 carriages rolling past Hyde Park corner on a summer 
 evening— would be sensible, for the first time in his 
 life, to a feeling somewhat akin to insignificance creep- 
 ing over him. He would hate and despise himself for 
 it, but still it would make him uncomfortable, and he 
 Avould want to get away home. A depressing suspicion 
 would come over our good friend that the haughty 
 squires and dames knew no more of Virginia's history, 
 or of Pages and Randolphs, and Pendletons 
 and Byrds, than they knew of the obscure 
 Elijahs and Hirams and Aarons that tilled the 
 stony fields of New England. I fear, more- 
 over, that the suspicion would be too well founded. 
 As a Cumberland squire in the eighteenth cen- 
 tury might have been disillusioned by a visit to the 
 the capital, so to a much greater degree would our good 
 Virginian friend have in all probability suffered by a 
 similar transportation. Once home again, however, I 
 can safely affirm of the doctor, that these uncomfort- 
 able sensations would have vanished in no time. Once 
 more in his cane-bottomed rocking-chair on the shady 
 porch ; once more within sight of the blue mountains, 
 the red fallows, and the yellow pine-sprinkled sedge-
 
 280 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 fields of Ms native land, he would quickly recover from 
 the temporary shocks that had irritated him. The sub- 
 lime faith in "the grand old Commonwealth" would 
 return, and he would thank God more fervently than 
 ever he was a son of Virginia ; not because of her pres- 
 ent or her future— for he considered the Virginia he 
 belonged to died with slavery— but on account of her 
 people and her past. The doctor, happily, had been 
 spared all these trials and his faith remained pure and 
 unimpaired. The only capital he had ever visited was 
 the charming little city of Richmond, where every 
 third man or woman he met was his cousin ; where most 
 of society call one another by their Christian names, 
 dine in the middle of the day, and sit out on chairs in 
 the street after supper. Richmond is delightful, and 
 so are its people ; but its atmosphere would tend to con- 
 firm, not to shake, the doctor's homely faith. 
 
 Perhaps the Southern States was the only part of 
 the -world where the practice of medicine has ever been 
 looked upon as an honorable adjunct to the possession 
 of considerable landed estates and an aristocratic 
 name. As in England there were squire-parsons, so in 
 Virginia there were squire-doctors, men of considera- 
 ble property (as things go there) both in land and 
 slaves, regularly practising in their own neighbor- 
 hood. The slaves that constituted the bulk of their 
 wealth have gone, but the lands and the practice re- 
 main—for those who still survive and are able to sit 
 upon a horse. 
 
 The doctor is one of these survivals— and may he 
 long flourish I He had only a moderate property— two 
 farms— of which we shall speak anon. But then he 
 was a Patton ; and as everybody south of the Potomac 
 knows, the Pattons are one of the first families in the 
 State— none of your modern and self-dubbed F. F. 
 V. 's are they, but real old colonial people, whose names 
 are written on almost every page of their country's his- 
 tory. Besides this, Judge Patton, the doctor's father, 
 was one of the greatest jurists south of Washington-—
 
 'AN OLD VIRGINIA FOX HUNTER. 281 
 
 ''in the world," Yirginians said; but as a compromise 
 we will admit he was one of the first in America, and 
 quite distinguished enough to reflect a social halo over 
 his immediate descendants, supposing even they had 
 not been Pattons. 
 
 The original Patton mansion was burnt down in 
 1840. Nothing was left but the office in the yard, 
 where in those days our friend the doctor pursued his 
 youthful medical investigations and entertained his 
 bachelor friends. The judge was a busy man, and 
 much absent. He was always ' ' laying out to build him 
 a new house;" but death ''laid him out" while the 
 scheme was still in embryo. The doctor, who, as only son, 
 became proprietor, had his hands too full, what with 
 negroes, and farming, and physicking, and fox-hunt- 
 ing, to carry it out till the war was upon him, and with 
 its results put an end, as he thought at the time, to 
 everything which makes life sweet. 
 
 It must not, however, be supposed that the doctor 
 and his father had gone houseless or camped out since 
 1840. Not at all. From the old brick office, whose iso- 
 lation had saved it from that memorable conflagration, 
 there had grown— I use the word advisedly, as applica- 
 ble to Virginia architecture — there had grown a ramb- 
 ling structure, whose design, rather than whose actual 
 weight of years, gave it an appearance venerable 
 enough to command the respect and admiration of 
 summer tourists from New York and Philadelphia. It 
 was not often such apparitions passed that way, and 
 when they did, it was generally in pursuit of filthy 
 lucre suppositiously concealed in the fields or the for- 
 ests. Nor are mining prospectors as a rule sentimental, 
 but sometimes they are in America. When such rarae 
 aves came by the doctor's front gate, they would al- 
 most always pull up and gaze through it with that ad- 
 miration and respect that Northerners are inclined to 
 pay to anything in their own country that recalls the 
 past. 
 
 ' ' Oh, isn't that too quaint for anything ! " the ladies
 
 282 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 who sometimes accompanied them never failed to re- 
 mark. ' ' That 's a real old ramshackle Virginia house, 
 by thunder ! and a pretty heavy old fossil inside it, you 
 bet ! ' ' said the more observant of the gentlemen. 
 
 The doctor would have gloried in such criticism had 
 he heard it. He hated Yankees ; he hated your new- 
 fangled houses; he hated railroads; he hated towns; 
 he hated breech-loading guns ; sights and sounds and 
 things that he was not familiar with at five-and-twenty 
 he would have none of when he was between sixty and 
 seventy. 
 
 The doctor's house was unconventional, to be sure, 
 while weather and neglect of paint or whitewash had 
 given it an air of antiquity to which it had no real 
 claim. It lay a hundred yards back from the road, and 
 appeared to consist of four or five small houses of vary- 
 ing dimensions, and occupying relationships toward 
 one another of a most uncertain kind. Two of these 
 leaned heavily together, like convivial old gentlemen 
 ' ' seeing one another home. ' ' The rest lay at respectful 
 distances from each other, connected only by open ve- 
 randahs, through which the summer breeze blew fresh- 
 ly, and lovingly fanned the annuals that spread and 
 twined themselves along the eaves. Almost every style 
 of Virginia rural architecture found places in this 
 homely conglomeration of edifices, which even "old 
 man Jake, ' ' the negro, who has for twenty years looked 
 after the doctor's horses and stolen his corn, described 
 as "mighty shacklin', and lookin' like as if they'd bin 
 throwed 6.ovm. all in a muss." 
 
 It was, however, a real old characteristic Virginia 
 house of its kind. There were squared chestnut logs, 
 black with rain and sun, against which the Venetian 
 shutters of the windows banged and thumped in gusty 
 spring days as against walls of adamant. These same 
 logs were got out of the woods and squared, the doc- 
 tor would tell you, in days ' ' when men had plenty of 
 time and plenty of force (i. e., slaves) to do thase 
 things properly." Then there were walls of pine
 
 AN OLD VIRGINIA FOX HUNTER. 283 
 
 weather-boarding, erected at a period when, the same 
 authority would inform you, "people began to saw and 
 season their lumber five or ten years before they start- 
 ed to build." There were roofs of wooden shingles 
 slanting and sloping in every direction— black, rotting, 
 and moss-grown here, white and garish there, where 
 penetrating rains had forced the slow and reluctant 
 hand of repair. Dormer-windows glared out at you, 
 patched as to their shattered panes with local news- 
 papers of remote date, and speaking of stuffy attics be- 
 hind, where hornets, yellow- jackets and '^ mud-daub- 
 ers" careered about in summer-time over the apple- 
 strewn floors. Then there was the old brick office- 
 relic of a distant past ; of a period when the Virginia 
 planters, though surrounded by the finest clay, were so 
 absorbed in tobacco that they sent to England for their 
 bricks. It is probable, however, that these particular 
 bricks were produced upon the spot. At any rate, their 
 comparative antiquity and presumably mellow tone 
 have been ruthlessly effaced, for this is the only part 
 of the doctor's mansion that he has selected for a coat 
 of whitewash. It is used for professional purposes, 
 and is known by the doctor's patients as the "suj- 
 jery. ' ' I know it is hopeless to try, by a bald descrip- 
 tion of timber and bricks and mortar, to give any idea 
 of how the doctor's rambling homestead appealed to 
 the sense of the picturesque, and to the affections of 
 those of us who were familiar with it and with its in- 
 mate. No doubt, however, the latter had something to 
 do with this. Nor should the surroundings be forgot- 
 ten. The stately oaks that towered high above the 
 quaint low buildings, and covered with leaves and 
 dvhris the greater portion of that domestic enclosure 
 which in those parts was known as the yard. The 
 straggling, branching acacias that grew close to the 
 house, and spread their tall arms above the roof, litter- 
 ing it in autumn with showers of small, curly leaves, 
 and choking the wooden gutters (for the doctor consid- 
 ered tin piping as a modern heresy) with fragmentary
 
 284 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 twigs. The fresh, green turf that had matted and 
 spread for one hundred and fifty years around this 
 house and the more stately one that preceded it. The 
 aged box-trees that had once, no doubt, in prim Dutch 
 rows lined some well-tended gravel path, but now 
 cropped up here and there upon the turf, like beings 
 that had outlived their time and generation. The clus- 
 tering honeysuckles, bending their old and rickety 
 frames to the ground. The silver aspens before the 
 door, whose light leaves shivered above your head in 
 the most breathless August days. The slender mimosa, 
 through whose beautiful and fragile greenery the first 
 humming-birds of early June shyly fluttered ; and the 
 long row of straw hives against the rickety fence, 
 where hereditary swarms of bees— let well alone- 
 made more honey than the doctor and all his neighbors 
 could consume. 
 
 Yes ! These objects are, and all and many more are, 
 twined around my heart, but the doctor's front gate 
 occupies no such position at all. It was all very well 
 for the people who stopped in the road and looked 
 through its bars at the fine old oaks, the green lawn 
 beyond, and the quaint, straggling structure, and then 
 drove on their way. For those, however, whose duty 
 or pleasure compelled them to penetrate that barrier, 
 it was entirely another matter. It was a home-made 
 gate— a real "old Virginia" gate— put up at the close 
 of the war as a protest, it would almost seem, against 
 Yankee notions of hurry. To look at the tremendous 
 portal, 5«ou would have supposed that the doctor was 
 the most defiant recluse, instead of the most hospitable 
 of men. It was, however, a typical Virginia gate 
 strongly emphasized, just as the doctor was a typical 
 Virginia gentleman strongly emphasized. I couldn't 
 speak accurately as to its dimensions, but I have often 
 had to jump for life as it fell, and from the way in 
 which it hit the ground, I should say that it must have 
 w^eighed nearly a thousand pounds. Its weight would 
 have been of no importance whatever to anyone but
 
 "AN OLD VIRGINIA FOX HUNTER. 285 
 
 the doctor and the posts which supported it, had it 
 been properly hung with two hinges and a latch. No 
 doubt it had commenced life with these advantages; 
 but during all the years I struggled with it, there wasf 
 no latch, and only a bottom hook-hinge. It was kept in 
 its place by two ponderous fence rails being leaned up 
 against it. The most elementary mathematician will at 
 once arrive at the result which ensued on the removal 
 of these rails (a herculean task in itself) and the 
 opening of the gate, unless extraordinary skill was ex- 
 ercised. It was really a performance beyond a single 
 man ; so most visitors, unless they were ' ' riding for the 
 doctor"— in the most serious business sense— holloaed 
 for assistance, or rode about till some of the hands 
 came up to the rescue. It must not be supposed that 
 the doctor's establishment, though strongly typical in 
 a sense, resembled to any extent the real old Virginia 
 mansion. The Pattons, it will be remembered, had 
 been burnt out, and the present pile had been original- 
 ly intended only as a makeshift; but it was such a 
 makeshift as would perhaps be seen nowhere out of 
 Virginia. Of the more substantial family mansions 
 there were plenty crowning the hills in the doctor's 
 neighborhood. Square blocks of brick, some many- 
 windowed and green-shuttered, with huge Grecian por- 
 ticoes supported by rows of white fluted pillars stretch- 
 ing along their face. Great big wooden barns, others 
 with acres of roof and rows of dormer-windows, and 
 crazy, crumbling porches, and stacks of red brick chim- 
 neys clambering up outside the white walls at the gable 
 ends, or anywhere else where they came handy for that 
 matter. There were plenty of these within range of 
 the doctor's house and the limits of his practice, and 
 to the proprietor of every one the doctor was related. 
 The stages of this relationship varied from the unques- 
 tioned affinity of cousins and nephews, to that which 
 is described in Virginia by the comprehensive and far- 
 reaching appellative of "kin." To be kin of the Pat- 
 tons, moreover, was in itself a desirable thing in Vir-
 
 286 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 ginian eyes. Though the doctor lived in such an un- 
 pretentious residence, and worked day in and day out 
 as a country practitioner, there were people in the 
 neighborhood holding their heads pretty high, who 
 were always pleased to remember that their father's 
 first cousin had married the doctor's mother's brother. 
 
 With all the doctor's quaint ideas and strong prej- 
 udices, I have said that he was a thorough gentleman. 
 He was of the kind meant for use, and not for show. 
 Good Heavens! "VVliat would your dashing British 
 y^sculapius, in his brougham or well-appointed dog- 
 cart, have said to my old friend's appearance when 
 setting out for a long ^vinter day's work? I can see 
 him now, riding in at the gate on some wild January 
 day, bringing hope in his kindly face, and good con- 
 servative, time-honored drugs in his well-worn saddle- 
 bags. A woollen scarf is drawn round his head, and 
 on the top of it is crammed an ancient wide-awake. A 
 long black cloak, fastened round his throat with a 
 clasp, and lined with red flannel, falls over the saddle 
 behind. His legs, good soul, are thickly encased in 
 coils of wheat straw, wound tightly round them from 
 his ankles upwards. In his hand, by way of a whip, he 
 carries a bushy switch plucked from the nearest tree, 
 and upon one heel a rusty spur that did duty at Bull's 
 Run. 
 
 Now do not suppose that the doctor on such occa- 
 sions was regarded as a scarecrow, or that his neigh- 
 bors looked upon liim as eccentric or even careless of 
 attire; on the contrary, this was a good old Virginia 
 costume. The doctor's appearance as above described 
 was not the desperate expedient of a frontier and tran- 
 sitory condition-:- not at all. It was a sui;vival of two 
 hundred years of a peculiar civilization ; a civilization 
 that had been wont to look inside the plantation fence 
 for almost every necessary ; a patriarchal dispensation 
 whose simplicity was to a great extent the outcome of 
 exclusiveness ; a social organization wherein each 
 man's place was so absolutely fixed, that personal ap-
 
 AN OLD VIRGINIA FOX HUNTER. 287 
 
 parel was a matter of almost no moment, and personal 
 display, such as engages the well-to-do of other coun- 
 tries in mischievous rivalry, was hardly known. 
 
 The general shabbiness of Virginia was not the tem- 
 porary shabbiness of a pioneering generation— that 
 condition everybody can understand— but the pictur- 
 esque and almost defiant tatterdemalionism of quite an 
 old and thoroughly self-satisfied community, unstimu- 
 lated by contact with the outer world. It was a mel- 
 low, time-honored kind of shabbiness of which Virgin- 
 ians are almost proud, regarding it as a sort of mute 
 protest, though an extreme one, against those modern 
 innovations which their souls abhorred. The doctor 
 had been a widower since the first year of the war. In 
 accordance with local custom, he had buried his wife 
 in the orchard. A simple marble shaft in that homely 
 quarter spoke of her virtues and her worth to the colts 
 and calves that bit the sweet May grass around her 
 tomb, and to the inquiring swine that crunched the rot- 
 ting apples as they fell in autumn from the untended 
 trees. Neither had the doctor been blessed with sons 
 or daughters. Who would he " 'ar (heir as a verb) 
 his place to" was a eommon subject of discussion 
 among the negroes on the property. The doctor's pro- 
 fession, no doubt, was his first care ; but his heart was 
 with his farms and his fox-hounds. The doctor had 
 practised over, or, as we used to say there, ** ridden" 
 the south side of the country for nearly forty years. 
 He had studied medicine with the intention only of 
 saving the doctor's bill in his father's household of 
 eighty negroes. He had soon, however, dropped into 
 a regular practice, and for the last five-and-twenty 
 years, at any rate, no birth or death within a radius of 
 ten miles would have been considered a well-conducted 
 one without his good offices. The doctor's income, up- 
 on the well-thumbed scroll of hieroglyphics that he 
 called his books, was nearly three thousand dollars a 
 year. He collected probably about fifteen hundred. A 
 considerable portion, too, of this fifteen hundred was
 
 288 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 received in kind payments, not conveniently convert- 
 ible, such as bacon, Indian corn, hams, wheat flour, 
 woollen yarns, sucking pigs, home-made brooms, eggs, 
 butter, bricks, SAveet-potato slips, sawn plank, tobacco- 
 plants, shingles, chickens, baskets, sausage-meat, sole- 
 leather, young fruit trees, rawhides, hoe-handles, old 
 iron. To utilize these various commodities, it would 
 have been necessary for the doctor to have had a farm, 
 even supposing he had not already been the fortunate 
 proprietor of two. Indeed, a farm to a Southern doc- 
 tor is not only necessary as a receptacle for the agricul- 
 tural curiosities that are forced upon him in lieu of 
 payment, but for the actual labor of those many dusky 
 patients who can give no other return for physic and 
 attendance received. You could see a bevy of these 
 Ethiopians almost any day upon the doctor's farm, 
 wandering aimlessly about with hoes or brier-blades, 
 chattering and cackling and doing everything but 
 work. 
 
 The doctor might have been called a successful phy- 
 sician. He had no rivals. There were two inferior 
 performers in the district, it is true, who were by way 
 of following the healing art— small farmers, who were 
 reported to have studied medicine in their youth. One 
 of these, however, had not credit sufficient to purchase 
 drugs, and the other was generally drunk. So it was 
 only their near relations, when not dangerously indis- 
 posed, who patronized them — or some patient of the 
 doctor's now and again, perhaps, who took a fancy the 
 latter was too "aristocratic," till he got badly sick, 
 and returned with alacrity to his allegiance. There is 
 no doubt, I fear, but that the doctor practised on the 
 lines of thirty years ago. Tory to the backbone in 
 every other department of life, it was hardly to be ex- 
 pected that he should have panted for light and lead- 
 ing in that branch of learning in which he had no rival 
 within reach. Papers or magazines connected with the 
 healing science I never remember to have seen inside 
 the Patton homestead; and yet, after a great deal of
 
 AN OLD VIRGINIA FOX HUNTER. 289 
 
 experience of the good old man's professional care, I 
 have a sort of feeling that I would as soon place my 
 life in his hands as in the hands of Sir Omicron Pi ! 
 
 What time the doctor had to spare from physicking, 
 I have said he devoted to farming and to fox-hunting. 
 I should like to follow him for a bit on his long pro- 
 fessional rounds, and listen to his cheery talk in home- 
 stead and cabin ; to help him fill his long pipe, which 
 he draws out of his top-boot when the patient has set- 
 tled down to sleep or quiet; to hear him once again 
 chat about tobacco and wheat, politics and foxes. I 
 should like, too, to say something of the doctor's farm- 
 ing—heaven save the mark— on his two properties ; the 
 one ** 'ard" him by his father, and the other one, the 
 quarter place near by, that ' ' cum to him with his wife, 
 ole Gunnel Pendleton's daughter." 
 
 I must only pause to remark, however, that the doc- 
 tor farmed, as he did everything else, in the good old 
 Virginia fashion— 'or in what is now irreverently 
 known as the ''rip and tar (tear) principle." He 
 didn't care anything about acres or estimates; and as 
 for farm books, his professional accounts pestered him 
 quite enough. Of rotations, he neither knew nor want- 
 ed to know anything. His great idea was to plough 
 and sow as much land as he could scuffle over with all 
 the labor he could scrape together. Of manuring, 
 clovering, or fertilizing, he t^ok little account. If he 
 "pitched" a big crop only, he was a proud and happy 
 man. When each recurring harvest brought results 
 more insignificant than the last, a temporary disgust 
 with the whole business used to seize on my old friend, 
 and he would swear that the wheat crops had been of 
 no account since the war ; that tobacco had gone to the 
 devil, and that he 'd quit fooling with a plantation for 
 good and all. In the eyes of those who knew him, how- 
 ever, such tirades meant absolutely nothing. A Vir- 
 ginian of his description could no more have helped 
 farming than he could have altered any other of the 
 immutable laws of nature. A younger generation, and 
 
 2—19
 
 290 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 many indeed of the older one, have learned wisdom 
 and prudence in the management of land since the 
 abolition of slavery. The doctor, however, and the 
 few left like him, will be land-killers of the genial 
 good old sort till they lie under the once generous sod 
 they have so ruthlessly treated. 
 
 The doctor's first care was of necessity his patients; 
 but there is no doubt, I think, that his real affections 
 were divided between his farm and his fox-hounds. 
 That he did his duty by the former was amply testified 
 to by the popularity he enjoyed. That he signally 
 failed in the treatment of his lands was quite as evi- 
 dent. For while he healed the sores and the wounds of 
 his patients, the sores, the wounds, the storm-rent gtil- 
 lies, the bare galls in his hillsides, grew worse and 
 worse. The maize-stalks grew thinner, the tobacco 
 lighter, the wheat-yield poorer, year by year. One has 
 heard of famous painters, who perversely fancied 
 themselves rather as musicians — of established authors 
 who yearned rather to be praised as artists. So the 
 doctor, who certainly had no local rival in his own pro- 
 fession, seemed to covet fame rather as the champion 
 and exponent of a happily departing school of South- 
 ern agriculturists. In this case, the income derived 
 from the profession just sufficed to make good the 
 losses on the farm. So, though the doctor, in spite of 
 his household expenses being almost nil, could never 
 by any chance lay his hand on a five-dollar bill, he 
 managed to keep upon the whole pretty free from 
 debt. With a scattered practice, and an agricultural 
 hobby extending over one thousand acres, including 
 woods and old fields "turned out" to recover, it may 
 be a matter of surprise that our old friend had leisure 
 for a third indulgence, especially one like fox-hunting, 
 which is connected in the British mind with such a 
 large consumption of time. Nevertheless, the doctor, 
 like most of his compeers, was passionately fond of 
 the chase, and in spite of the war and altered times, 
 had kept hounds round him almost without a break
 
 AN OLD VIRGINIA FOX HUNTER. 291 
 
 since he was a boy. It will be seen, however, that fox- 
 hunting, as understood and followed by the doctor, was 
 by no means incompatible with his more serious avo- 
 cations. 
 
 Now, if the fashion in which the doctor pursued 
 the wily fox was not orthodox from a Leicestershire 
 point of view, it was for all that none the less, perhaps 
 indeed so much the more, genuine. Around New York 
 and Philadelphia, it is true, the sport is pursued by 
 fashionable bankers, brokers, and lawyers in a style 
 the most approved. All the bravery and the glitter, 
 ay, and much of the horsemanship of the British hunt- 
 ing-field, is there. But, like polo and coaching, it is 
 there as a mere exotic, transplanted but yesterday, to 
 the amazement and occasionally indignation of the 
 Long Island rustics and the delight of the society pa- 
 pers. Everything is there— hounds, huntsmen, whips, 
 red coats, tops, splendidly mounted hard-riding ladies 
 and gentlemen, sherry-flasks, sandwich-boxes, etc., etc., 
 —everything, in short, but the fox. So far, however, 
 as I can learn, such an omission is of no great import- 
 ance under the modern conception of hunting. That 
 wouldn't be the doctor's way of thinking at all,though; 
 for I must here remark, that that worthy sportsman's 
 love of hunting is entirely on hereditary principles and 
 of native growth. Fox-hunting for two centuries has 
 been the natural pastime of the Virginia gentry. They 
 imported the chase of the fox and its customs from 
 the mother country at a period when such things were 
 conducted in a very different style from what they 
 are now. 
 
 The hunting of the fox, as carried on in England 
 early in the last century, let us say, offered, I take it, 
 a very different spectacle from that seen in the elab- 
 orate and gorgeous cavalcades and the rushing fleet- 
 footed hounds that race today over the trim, well- 
 trained turf of the shires. No foxes were killed in 
 those days in twenty-five minutes, I'll warrant. Men 
 started their fox at daybreak and pottered along, ab-
 
 292 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 sorbed in the performance of their slow hounds, over 
 the rushy, soppy, heathy country, from wood to wood, 
 for hours and hours. They were lucky then, no doubt, 
 if Reynard succumbed in time to admit of their punc- 
 tual appearance at that tremendous three o 'clock orgie, 
 which the poet Thomson has so graphically laid before 
 us. 
 
 Amid the glitter, the show, the dash, the swagger of 
 modern fox-hunting, Englishmen who are not masters 
 of hounds or huntsmen are apt to lose sight of the orig- 
 inal ends and aims, the craft, and the science of the 
 sport. It seems to me that fox-hunting nowadays, with 
 the vast mass of its devotees, is simply steeplechasing 
 over an unknown course. This is unquestionably a 
 manly and a fine amusement, and far be it from me 
 to breathe a word against it. I only wish to anticipate 
 the sneers of your sporting stock-broker if he were to 
 catch sight of the doctor and his hounds upon a hunt- 
 ing morning. 
 
 With the average Nimrod of modern days, I venture 
 then to assert that fox-hunting is only a modified form 
 of steeplechasing. AYith the Virginian, who is simply 
 a survival of other days, it is nothing of the kind. The 
 doctor knew nothing of bullfinches or double ditches, 
 of post and rails or five-barred gates, in a sporting 
 sense ; but what he did not know about a fox was not 
 worth knowing at all. As for his hounds, he could tell 
 the note of each at a distance when the music of a 
 whole pack was scarcely audible to the ordinary ear. 
 
 As far as I remember, the doctor used generally to 
 keep about five couple of hounds. It is needless to say 
 he always swore they were the ' ' best stock of fox-dogs 
 in the State." Jim Pendleton, his cousin across the 
 hill, and Judge Massey, on the north side of the county, 
 who also kept hounds, were quite prepared to take an 
 affidavit of the same kind with regard to their own re- 
 spective packs. The doctor's hounds lived as members 
 of the family. A kind of effort was spasmodically 
 made to keep them from appropriating the parlor, and
 
 AN OLD VIRGINIA FOX HUNTER. 293 
 
 so long as the weather was mild, they were fairly con- 
 tent to lie in the front porch, or in one of the many 
 passages which let the air circulate freely through the 
 Patton homestead. 
 
 If the w^eather was cold, however, and the doctor had 
 a fire in the parlor, the older and more knowing dogs 
 seldom failed eventually to gain a lodgment. By per- 
 sistently coming in at one door, and when kicked out 
 by the long-suffering M. F. H., slowly going round the 
 house and slyly entering at the other, they invariably 
 conquered in the long run, and established themselves 
 on the warm bricks of the hearth before the great 
 white-oak logs which blazed on the bright brass and- 
 irons. 
 
 Of course it was not often that the doctor and his 
 hounds were all at home together on a winter's day. 
 If the latter were not hunting with him, they were out 
 upon their own account, for, be it noted, they were ab- 
 solutely their own masters, as is the way with Virginia 
 fox-hounds. If the doctor chose to accompany them 
 and do a great deal of tooting and some hallooing, I 
 have no doubt a certain amount of satisfaction ani- 
 mated the breasts of the pack. But it made no differ- 
 ence whatever to the sporting arrangements they had 
 planned among themselves, or to their general pro- 
 gramme. Whatever happened, they were bound to 
 have their hunt. As the doctor's pride and joy was 
 not in his own performance in the pigskin — for he 
 never attempted any— but in the achievements of his 
 dogs, this want of discipline and respect was no draw- 
 back whatever to his satisfaction. 
 
 I have said the doctor could combine his favorite 
 sport with the exercise of his profession. That is to 
 say, if he were going out in any likely direction, he 
 would manage to keep his hounds around him till he 
 had despatched his lamp-light breakfast, and they 
 would all start together. The pack, moreover, was 
 easily increased, for the doctor had only to step around 
 to the back porch, which looked across the valley to
 
 294 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 Cousin Jim Pendleton's place, and to blow lustily on 
 his tremendous cow-horn. 
 
 A very little of this music was sufficient to bring the 
 greater part of the rival pack scrambling in a half- 
 guilty way over the garden fence. After a little 
 growling and snarling and snapping, the strangers 
 would settle down among the doctor's hounds as if 
 they had been raised on the place. 
 
 See the doctor attired for the chase emerging with 
 his hounds from that awful front gate of his, which is 
 being held up and open by the combined efforts of two 
 stalwart negroes. It is a mild and soft February morn- 
 ing, at about the hour when the sun would be seen 
 mounting over the leafless woodlands to the east of 
 the house, if it were not for the dark banks of clouds 
 chasing one another in continuous succession from the 
 southwest. The doctor is not quite such a scarecrow 
 today. The weather is mild, and he has left the coils 
 of straw behind, having his stout legs encased in grey 
 homespun overalls, which he calls leggings. The long 
 Bull's Run spur is on his left heel. The black cloak 
 with the red lining is on his back. The slouch hat 
 upon his head, and spectacles upon his nose. A high 
 standup collar of antique build and a black stock give 
 the finishing touch to a picture whose " old-timiness, " 
 as the Americans say, would have thrown a Boston 
 novelist into convulsions of ecstasy. 
 
 The doctor this morning is combining business with 
 pleasure. He has to visit the widow Gubbins, who fell 
 down the cornhouse steps the week before, and broke 
 her leg. But he has had word sent to him that there 
 is a red fox in the pine wood behind the parsonage, 
 hard by the Gubbins domicile. I need not say the sad- 
 dle-bags and the medicine bottles are there; but, be- 
 sides these, there is a great big cow-horn which the 
 doctor carries slung round him, and blows long blasts 
 upon as he goes "titupping" down the muddy lane. 
 These blasts are rather with a view of personal solace 
 than for any, definite aims. .The doctor loves the horn
 
 AN OLD VIRGINIA FOX HUNTER. 295 
 
 for its associations, and ^oes toot-tooting down the 
 soft red road, and waking the echoes of the woods and 
 fields solely for his own personal benefit and refresh- 
 ment. Hector and Rambler, Fairfax and Dainty, and 
 the rest— little wiry, lean fellows of about two-and- 
 twenty inches— hop over the big mudholes, or creep 
 around the dry fence corners waiting for the first bit 
 of unfenced woodland to trot over and commence the 
 day's operations. 
 
 The doctor, however, is determined, if possible, to 
 keep them in hand till they reach the haunt of that 
 aforesaid red fox which is said to be lurking in the 
 parson's wood. He hopes to be able to exercise au- 
 thority sufficient to keep these independent dogs of his 
 from getting on the trail of a ringing, skulking grey 
 fox in the first ivy thicket or open bit of forest they 
 come to. It is no manner of use, however. The rutty, 
 soppy road, soon after it leaves the doctor's estate, 
 straggles unfenced through half a mile of mazy wood- 
 land. Though it is a historic turnpike of old coaching 
 fame — a road the memory of whose once bustling 
 gaiety well-nigh brings tears to the eyes of the old in- 
 habitants—it is scarcely visible to the rare wagoner or 
 horseman in these degenerate times, from the wealth 
 of autumn leaves that hide its rugged face. Into the 
 wood plunge the eager and undisciplined hounds, the 
 dry leaves crackling and rustling under their joyous 
 feet as they scamper and race amid the tall oak and 
 poplar trunks, and one by one disappear beyond the 
 very limited horizon. The doctor toots and toots till 
 not only tlie forest but the hills and valleys beyond 
 echo to the appeals of the familiar cow-horn. Mighty 
 little, however, care the dogs for such tooting. They 
 look upon it as a harmless sign of encouragement, a 
 pleasant accompaniment to the preliminaries until the 
 more serious work begins. Nor do they care in the 
 least when the doctor drops his horn and begins to 
 halloo and shout and storm— not they. He might as 
 well shout and storm at the wind. The doctor gets
 
 296 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 very mad. He doesn't swear— Virginians of his class 
 and kind very seldom do— but he uses all the forms of 
 violent exhortation that his conscience admits of, and 
 that belongs to the local vernacular. He calls the 
 whole pack "grand scoundrels and villains." In a 
 voice grown husky with exertion, he inquires of their 
 fast-fading forms if they know "what in thunder he 
 feeds them for?" He roars out to little Blazer, the 
 only one left within good speaking distance that he'll 
 * * whale the life out of him ; ' ' whereupon little Blazer 
 disappears after the rest. So he finally confides to the 
 sorrel mare, which is ambling along under him at the 
 regulation five-mile-an-hour gait of the Southern road- 
 ster, that these dogs of Cousin Jeems' (the doctor says 
 " Jeems," not because he doesn't know any better, but 
 because it is a good old Virginia way of pronouncing 
 the name) are the hardest-headed lot of fox-dogs 
 south of the Potomac River. 
 
 But hark ! There is a boom from the pine wood, the 
 deep green of whose fringe can be seen far away 
 through the naked stems and leafless branches of the 
 oaks. The doctor pulls up; he "concludes he'll wait 
 awhile and see what it amounts to, any way." The 
 scoundrels are probably fooling after a rabbit, or, at 
 the best, have struck the trail of a grey fox (the most 
 common native breed, that won't face the open or run 
 straight). The doctor draws rein at the edge of the 
 wood, where the straggling forest road once more be- 
 comes a highway, fenced in from fields of young 
 wheat, pasture and red fallow. He thinks the widow 
 Gubbins can wait a bit, and that old red fox at the 
 parson's can lay over for another day. i 
 
 "That's old Powhatan, cert 'n and sure; and that's 
 a fox of some sort, I'll sw'ar," remarks our old friend 
 to the sorrel mare, which pricks up her ears as another 
 deep note comes echoing from the valley below. , 
 
 It is late in February ; and though February in Vir- 
 ginia is practically the same dead, colorless, leafless, 
 budless, harsh winter month it is with us, yet there
 
 AN OLD VIRGINIA FOX HUNTER. 237 
 
 are sometimes days before it closes that seem to breathe 
 of a yet distant spring with more witching treachery 
 than the greatest effort that period can make in our 
 more methodical clime. And this is one of them. The 
 soft and balmy air is laden, it is true, with no scent of 
 blossoms or opening buds. The odor of smouldering 
 heaps of burning brush and weeds, or of tardily burnt 
 tobacco-plant beds, is all that as yet scents the breeze. 
 But after a month of frost and rain and snow and 
 clouds, the breath is the breath of spring, and the glow 
 of the sun, now bursting through the clouds, seems no 
 longer the sickly glare of winter. The soft Virginia 
 landscape, swelling in gentle waves of forest, field, and 
 fallow to the great mountains that lie piled up far 
 away against the western sky, is naked still and bare, 
 save for the splashes of green pine woods here and 
 there upon the land. But there is a light in the sky 
 and a feel in the air that seems almost to chide the 
 earth for its slow response. The blood courses quicker 
 through the veins of even easy-going Virginia farmers 
 at the thoughts of seeding- time. The negro's head 
 comes up from under his shoulders and his hands from 
 his pockets, where they have each respectively spent 
 most of the winter, and the air becomes laden with 
 those peculiar dirges that mark the Ethiopian's con- 
 tentment of mind at the prospect of warm weather 
 and of his limbs once more becoming "souple." The 
 soft breeze begins to coat the tops of the damp furrows 
 with a thin, powdery crust that in a few days' time 
 will be converted into that March dust so universally 
 beloved of farmers. The young wheat, smitten and 
 scorched and beaten almost out of recognition, lifts its 
 head once again and spreads a carpet of tender green 
 to the sun. The early lambs, beginning to think that 
 after all they were not sent into the world to shiver be- 
 hind strawstacks, frisk and gambol in the fields. The 
 blacksmiths' shops at the cross roads and the court- 
 house villages are thronged with colored laborers and 
 tenants, whose masters, now seeding-time is upon them,
 
 298 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 have suddenly remembered that every plow in the 
 place is out of fix, and not a harrow has its full com- 
 plement of teeth. The light breezes from the south- 
 west moans softly in the pines ; but among the decid- 
 uous trees not a withered shred of foliage is left for it 
 to stir, and the silence is complete. The freshly awak- 
 ened sunlight streams softly down between the leafless 
 branches and the rugged trunks of oak and chestnut, 
 hickory and poplar, and plays upon the golden carpet 
 of wasted leaves that hides the earth beneath them. 
 
 The doctor, as he stands at the edge of the forest, 
 would ordinarily upon such a day be deep in agricul- 
 tural reveries of a most sanguine nature. But he is 
 now waiting for one more note of evidence that there 
 is a prospect of what he would call "a chase"— hes- 
 itating as to the widow Gubbins. 
 
 Suddenly there is a great commotion in the wooded 
 valley beneath, and in a few seconds you might be in 
 Leicestershire spinny, so busy and joyful are the little 
 pack with their tongues. "That's a fox, any way," 
 says the doctor to the sorrel mare, ' ' and, likely as not, 
 a red." Two small farmers, jogging down the road, 
 pull up their horses and yell with the peculiar shrill 
 scream that is traditionally as much a part of Virginia 
 fox-hunting as the familiar cries of the British hunt- 
 ing-field are with us. The doctor, though his voice is 
 not what it was thirty years ago, catches the infection, 
 and standing up in his wooden, leather-capped stir- 
 rups, halloos at his hounds in what he would call 
 "real old Virginia fashion." • 
 
 "By G— d! it's a red," says one of the small farm- 
 ers, who had perched himself on the top of the fence, 
 so as to look down over the sloping tree-tops on to the 
 opposite hill. 
 
 "The dogs are out of the wood, and are streakin' it 
 up the broom-sedge field yonder— dawg my skin if 
 they ain't!" 
 
 This is too much for the doctor. 
 
 "Pull down the fence, gentlemen, for God's sake I
 
 AN OLD VIRGINIA FOX HUNTER. 299 
 
 and we'll push on up to the old Matthews graveyard 
 on top of the hill. We shall see right smart of the 
 chase from there, I know that old fos; he'll go 
 straight to the pines on Squire Harrison's quarter 
 place." 
 
 The four or five top rails are tossed off the snake 
 fence; but the doctor can't wait for the remaining 
 six. The long spur is applied to the flank of the sorrel 
 mare, the apple switch to her shoulder. Amid a crash- 
 ing and scattering of rotten chestnut-rails, the doctor, 
 cloak, and spectacles, saddle-bags, pills, medicine-bot- 
 tles, and overalls, lands safely in the corn-stalk field 
 upon the other side. The two farmers follow through 
 the fearful breach he has made, and they may soon 
 all be heard upon the opposite hill cheering and yell- 
 ing to the hounds, which by this time are well out of 
 reach of such encouraging sounds. Neither the coun- 
 try, nor the horse, nor the doctor is adapted for rid- 
 ing to hounds; nor, as I have before intimated, has 
 the latter any idea of doing so. The good man wants 
 to hear as much as possible— of the chase ; but when 
 he neither sees nor hears a great deal— which, when 
 a strong red fox goes straight away, is generally the 
 ease— he will still take much delight in collecting the 
 details from other sources. 
 
 If his hounds eventually, kill their fox half-way 
 across the county, friends and neighbors, who became 
 accidental witnesses of various stages of the chase, 
 and each of whom did their share of hallooing and 
 cheering, will send round word to the "old doctor," 
 or "call by" the next time they pass his house, and 
 cheer his heart with praises of his dogs. The doctor 
 will probably have bandaged Mrs. Gubbins's leg, and 
 be half-way home by the time the death-scene takes 
 place, in some laurel thicket possibly miles and miles 
 away from the corner where we left our friend burst- 
 ing through the fence. Not more than half a dozen, 
 probably, of the fourteen or fifteen hounds with 
 which the doctor started, will assist at the finish. Two 
 or three of the puppies will have dropped out early
 
 300 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 in the day, and come home hunting rabbits all the 
 way. Three or four more are perhaps just over dis- 
 temper, and will fall in their tracks, to come limping 
 and crawling home at noon. Rambler and Fairfax, 
 however, having assisted at the finish, and being per- 
 haps the most knowing old dogs of the lot, will have 
 trotted round to old Colonel Peyton's close by. They 
 are mighty hungry— for Virginia hounds won't touch 
 foxes' flesh— and they succeed in slipping into the 
 log kitchen in the yard, while ]\Ielindy, the cook, is 
 outside collecting chips, and abstracting from the top 
 of the stove an entire ham. The said ham was Just 
 prepared for the colonel's supper; but in fox-hunting 
 all is forgiven. So after a little burst of wrath he 
 reckons they are the old doctor's dogs, shuts them up 
 in the granary, and gives them a cake of corn-bread 
 apiece. The following day is Saturday, and the col- 
 onel's son, home from school for a holiday, thinks 
 it an opportunity for a rabbit-hunt in the pines be- 
 hind the house not to be missed. So Rambler and 
 Fairfax are introduced to the proposed scene of ac- 
 tion in the morning. After condescending to an hour 
 of this amusement, they hold a canine consultation, 
 and start for home, where they finally ai'rive about 
 sundown, to be made much of by the doctor, who has 
 already heard of the finish from a negro who was 
 splitting rails close by. 
 
 The doctor's satisfaction is quite as great as if he 
 had cut down a whole Leicestershire field in the fastest 
 thing of the season. His heart warms towards those 
 undersized, harsh-coated, slab-sided little friends of 
 his as he stands watching the negro woman breaking 
 up their supper of hot corn-bread with buttermilk 
 as a treat, on the back porch. They have all come in 
 by this time, and scuffle and growi and snap around 
 the board as the food is thrown to them. 
 
 The knowing ones take advantage of such an even- 
 ing as this to assert, with more than usual assurance, 
 their right of entry to the house. The doctor has had 
 his supper, and hopes that no ominous shout from
 
 AN OLD VIRGINIA FOX HUNTER. 301 
 
 the darkness will, for this night at any rate, call him 
 to some distant sick-bed. He has drawn up his one- 
 armed rocking-chair to the parlor fire, and by the 
 kerosene lamp is poring over the last oration on free 
 trade by that grand old Virginia gentleman and sen- 
 ator, Mr. Jefferson Randolph Beverly Page. Con- 
 scious, as it were, that some extra indulgence is de- 
 served on this night, the dogs begin to crawl in. One 
 by one, beginning with the oldest and wiliest and 
 ending with the timidest puppy, they steal into the 
 room and become grouped in the order of their audac- 
 ity from the glowing bricks of the hearth outward 
 to the door. 
 
 Nor to-night has the doctor kicks or cuffs or an- 
 athemas for the very worst of them. 
 
 The great oak logs blaze and crackle and roar in the 
 wide chimney, and the light of the flames flickers over 
 the quaint, low-ceilinged room with its whitewashed 
 walls, black wainscotting, and homely decorations; 
 over the antlers on the door, that recall some early 
 exploit of the doctor's in West Virginia wilds; over 
 the odds and ends of old silver on the sideboard, that 
 have been saved from the wreck of the Patton grand- 
 eur; over the big oil-painting of the famous jurist, 
 and the dimmer, smokier visages of less distinguished 
 but remoter ancestors, who believed in the divine right 
 of kings and knew nothing of republics and universal 
 suffrage. Here, however, surrounded by his dogs, 
 we must take leave of the doctor. There are few like 
 him left now in Virginia, and fewer still who have 
 clung to the good and bad of a departed era with the 
 same uncompromising tenacity as our old friend. 
 They were a fine race— deny it who will— these old 
 Virginia squires; provincial and prejudiced perhaps, 
 but full of originality and manly independence. 
 Their ideas, it is true, are not those of the latter half 
 of the nineteenth century, but the men themselves 
 are passing rapidly away, and their ideas with them. 
 Those who have known them can only regret that a 
 strong, picturesque, and admirable type of Anglo- 
 Saxon has disappeared forever from the ranks of our 
 great family, unpainted by a single master-hand of 
 contemporary date. 
 
 A. G. Bradley.
 
 XX 
 
 THE DOCTOR'S FRONT YARD. 
 
 T ALL began with the tap of a gavel— an 
 imposing white gavel adorned with a yellow 
 bow and resounding like the crack of doom. 
 Behind it, under a nodding purple ostrich feather, 
 sat Mrs. Bunker; before it the eight awe-struck mem- 
 bers of the Village Improvement Society; enveloping 
 us all in its cold, judicial atmosphere was room No. 10 
 of the new toAvn building, maintained as a meeting 
 place in order to give dignity to our association, and 
 its rent representing just so many entertainments and 
 strawberry-festivals per annum. 
 
 Mrs. Bunker is the "progressive woman" of West 
 Hedgeworth. She lives in that large, white house with 
 the terraces and box borders and a fountain, just 
 W'here you turn into Main street. She goes to Boston 
 twice each season to get clothes and ideas upon which 
 she feeds our little social circle through the medium 
 of clubs and afternoon teas. The clothes are remark- 
 able, the ideas equally up to date ; we look upon her 
 mth reverence and obey her slightest mandate. 
 
 I believe I am the only one who now and then rebels 
 inwardly. Why, for example, I should have been 
 considered eligible for the V. I. S., a girl of twenty- 
 three, with not the slightest pretensions to domestic 
 talent or judgment, except that I have had to take 
 care of father and the boys for the last few years, I 
 couldn't see, — nor could any one else; but Mrs. Bunk- 
 er had ordained that I should go into it, and I had 
 no choice. 
 
 "You are a very clever girl, Irene," she explained 
 severely, as if this were a situation to be^ deprecated, 
 
 (302)
 
 THE DOCTOR'S FRONT YARD. 303 
 
 but could be atoned for by penance of some sort, "and 
 it would be extremely unfortunate for- you to bave no 
 outlet for your talents. People sbould take up the 
 work that best suits them." 
 
 I withdrew all objections, of course. If Mrs. Bun- 
 ker pronounces one clever, no matter how wretched 
 one may be under the verdict, there is never any ap- 
 peal from it. But as the progressive woman is always 
 ready to shoulder the responsibility of her friends' 
 cleverness, I haven't found mine a very great burden. 
 So far as the duties of membership in the Village Im- 
 provement Society are concerned, they only consist 
 in doing as one is bid. The gavel roused me from a 
 study of bonnets. Mrs. Suter, the wife of our good 
 druggist, and Mrs. Pitman, the postmaster's lady, al- 
 ways faithfully advertise the village milliner in 
 familiar blaek-laee-covered frames, the one adorned 
 with aggressive bunches of buttercups, the other 
 trailed over by a hairy-leaved poppy. Mrs. Cope, the 
 Episcopal clergyman's wife, has the parish down upon 
 her for appearing in unmistakable French headgear, 
 simple, but beyond imitation ; it does not justify her 
 •in their eyes that the hats come from a rich relative, 
 andthepoor soul is credited with proud and haughty 
 aspirations, of which she is as innocent as a babe. Miss 
 Maria Withers' strong point is not fashion; so the 
 little parched, limp, black bonnet which she has found 
 satisfactory for eight years, stiU perches above her 
 gray curls. I was absorbed in working out a series of 
 arguments on the effect of dress upon character, when 
 the white gavel descended and the Society came to 
 order with a start. 
 
 We are nothing if not parliamentary. The latest 
 manual lies at Mrs. Bunker 's right hand. Miss Scrap- 
 son, of the academy, makes an excellent secretary, and 
 her minutes -are comprehensive. Miss Witliers, as 
 treasurer, is somewhat rambling and uncertain. Her 
 reports are subject to pauses, silent mental calcula- 
 tions and ejaculations of "Dear me,— no, that wasn't
 
 304 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 it— just wait a minute," and excursious into a little 
 black bag which she carries, after missing items on 
 stray scraps of paper. Mrs. Bunker bears this with self- 
 control, as Miss Llaria has valuable qualities. Miss 
 Scrapson and Mrs. Cope play into her hands most 
 cleverly in a discussion over a motion or a point of 
 order. We manage to have a little unfinished business 
 on the carpet, usually, to give style to the meeting, 
 and altogether maintain an air of importance Which is 
 quite remarkable for a small village club. But on this 
 particular day, a May morning, I saw in our presi- 
 dent's eye that there was sometliing new and exciting 
 to be taken up. 
 
 "Ladies," she announced at last, "our Spring cam- 
 paign is opening with opportunities of no mean order. 
 The village of West Hedgeworth is menaced with a 
 disgrace which so far outdoes in horror even the pea- 
 nut shells on the postoffice floor and the loose papers 
 on the common that words almost fail me as I men- 
 tion it. Give me your close attention, please." 
 
 Ever since the meeting when Mrs. Bunker took Mrs. 
 Pitman to task for the condition of her ash barrels, 
 \ve have been subject to a weak-kneed and guilty sen- 
 sation when she gives us an introduction of this sort. 
 
 "You probably know," she continued in more col- 
 loquial style, "the small house with pointed gables and 
 a piazza, fronting the common next the old Benjamin 
 place. You are aware how neatly it has always been 
 kept by former occupants. That house is just rented 
 by a doctor who has come here with his wife, I am 
 told, from New York. They moved in a week ago, and 
 in that short space of time,— owe week, ladies, — they 
 have made the premises a blot upon the scutcheon of 
 our lovely village. Their packing-cases were unloaded 
 on the piazza in a high -wind, and bits of paper, ex- 
 celsior and what not are scattered from end to end of 
 the yard ; boxes, planks, tin cans and other refuse are 
 piled at one side; the whole appearance of the estab- 
 lishment is enough to make one of ws,"— impressively
 
 THE DOCTOR'S FRONT YARD 305 
 
 —"avert her head in passing it. And still the scan- 
 dal goes on, unabated, from day to day. It is a mo- 
 ment for immediate action, a moment to be seized by 
 patriotic and public-spirited women, and the disturb- 
 ers of our peace of mind made to feel the necessity of 
 taking immediate steps towards reform. I lay the ease 
 before you, ladies, for suggestions as to prompt ag- 
 gression. ' ' 
 
 There was a suitable pause. Then Miss Withers' 
 gentle voice piped up. "This is really a dreadful 
 state of things, ' ' she began mildly. ' ' I hadn 't noticed 
 it myself, I suppose because"— 
 
 "Hadn't noticed it!" ejaculated the president, in 
 tones of thunder. 
 
 ' ' I was going to say, ' ' fluttered Miss Maria hurried- 
 ly, ' ' because I haven 't passed there in two weeks. If 
 I had, no doubt I should have been very much an- 
 noyed about it." 
 
 '^ Annoyed!" exclaimed Mrs. Bunker again, sav- 
 agely. "Annoyance is altogether too personal a term. 
 It arouses all my loyalty to the society; that's the way 
 it impresses me." 
 
 Of course this brought forth many protestations of 
 the same sentiment from the rest of us. Then Mrs. 
 Pitman ventured to ask if Mrs. Bunker didn't think it 
 would be well to send a committee to the doctor and 
 ask him to "clear up a little." 
 
 "The chair has no thoughts, Mrs. Pitman," an- 
 swered that body loftily. ' ' I await a motion. ' ' 
 
 I always second everybody else's motion, but have 
 never made one yet, in the meetings. Miss Scrapson, 
 however, came to the fore, and it was presently de- 
 cided that the president should appoint a committee 
 to visit the doctor and his lady and reprove them, 
 
 "If that is really the pleasure of the Association," 
 said Mrs. Bunker, with a wave of her purple ostrich 
 plume, "I will appoint Miss Allison" (that is ray 
 name), "a committee of one to call at the doctor's 
 house for this purpose. As you are one of the young 
 
 2-20
 
 306 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 ladies of the place, Irene, it would be in the way of 
 your social duty at any rate. You can mingl'e busi- 
 ness with pleasure." 
 
 "Yes,— but Mrs. Bunker, I never could mingle 
 things! Don't ask me to go," I implored. "I'm sure 
 I shall make a failure of it. I don't want to offend 
 them, you know,— they may be nice people." 
 
 ''Nice people!" Mrs. Bunker compressed her lips 
 into that peculiar stiff smile which means scorn, and 
 closed her eyes slowly with her head tilted back. 
 
 "They certainly must be lax," murmured Miss 
 Scrapson,— "very lax." Nobody, however, came to 
 my rescue. I was evidently doomed to be the unhappy 
 instrument of the Society's revenge. I gave in and 
 took my instructions as meekly as t could, 
 
 "The wife has an extremely youthful and inexper- 
 ienced air, ' ' said my mentor, * ' and undoubtedly needs 
 a little judicious instruction. It will alarm her less 
 to be confronted by a person of her owti age. Our 
 work is largely educational, you know, so do not an- 
 tagonize her. Simply say to her something of this 
 kind in gentle but firm tones: 'My dear madam, do 
 you not appreciate the beauty of this peaceful little 
 village, and will you not bear your part henceforward 
 in the maintenance of its order and symmetry ? ' Such 
 a method of speech would be better than to alarm her. 
 And yet don't fail to impress upon her that disorder 
 simply cannot 6e." 
 
 I acquiesced, with a slightly strangling sound, which 
 the president did not notice, fortunately. It resulted 
 from physical distress of a kind which is sometimes on 
 these occasions, beyond control. It was with me yet, 
 in a milder form, as I ascended the doctor's steps that 
 afternoon, card-case in hand, which last appendage 
 seemed the most despicable mockery. 
 
 The house was a neat, smart little affair in its way, 
 inartistic, but not aggressively ugly, and well arranged 
 for professional purposes. The sign, Dr. M. E. Rich- 
 mond, was tacked up beside the door. There certainly
 
 THE DOCTOR'S FRONT YARD. 307 
 
 were evidences of an upheaval, however, in plain sight. 
 The front yard was, as Mrs. Bunker had described it, 
 littered with papers and excelsior, the piazza floor as 
 bad. At the side of the house was a pile of tin cans, 
 boxes, broken china and other unsightly abominations. 
 Somehow one could not help feeling that a woman's 
 eye and touch were wanting, and I found myself stiff- 
 ening against the wife who could allow such a state of 
 affairs to go on. My primmest expression was ready, 
 as the door flew open, swung hospitably wide by a big 
 young man with a short brown beard and gray eyes. 
 The moment I saw him it occurred to me to wonder 
 what he would take me for— patient, caller, or perhaps 
 an agent! Horrible thought, that last,— I found a cer- 
 tain timidity threatening my assurance. 
 
 "Might I," I began, putting myself into the latter 
 category at once by my mode of address, "might I 
 see the lady of the house, please ? ' ' 
 
 "Walk in, won't you?" said the doctor affably, ush- 
 ering me into what happened to be his office. Ah,— 
 one knew now a little better where one was. What- 
 ever its exterior shortcomings, this must be the home 
 of thoroughly cultivated people. Their furniture was 
 solid, their pictures were fine, and their few decora- 
 tions faultless. 
 
 As to their books, filling all available space, no li- 
 brary critic could find the selection wanting in true 
 literary discrimination. I felt the courage of my mis- 
 sion diminishing as I slid into a leather covered arm 
 chair opposite the easy, amused looking doctor. 
 
 " I 'm so very sorry, ' ' he observed, ' ' that she isn 't at 
 home. She went away by the early train this morn- 
 ing ; but perhaps you could leave a message with me 
 if it's a matter of importance." 
 
 There was a short but awkward pause. No help for 
 it,— I might as well make the plunge. The more Bun- 
 kerish I could be, the better, if any stern message 
 was to be sent to the wife by this good-natured per- 
 sonage.
 
 308 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 ''I wanted to see Mrs. Richmond," I explained 
 stiffly, "on a little matter of business connected with, 
 the work of the Village Improvement Society. It was 
 reported at our last meeting that the condition of your 
 front yard is very bad. ' ' 
 
 "My front yard! I see." The doctor looked quiz- 
 zical but serene, and glanced out over his shoulder to 
 the lawn. 
 
 "Our Association," I continued bravely, "aims to 
 incite the pride of householders in the appearance of 
 the village as well as in their own homes; and your 
 place here is conspicuous, facing the common as it 
 does. We thought that might not have occurred to 
 you." 
 
 "It really hadn't," smiled my host. "This is very 
 kind of you, however. Do I understand that your 
 Society orders me, through you, to clear up the yard ? 
 In that case, do they provide cleaners and so forth,— 
 or will they perhaps come and take charge of it them- 
 selves?" 
 
 "Not at all," I exclaimed angrily. "You are ex- 
 pected to attend to it." 
 
 "What should you do," he inquired suavely, "if I 
 left it in disorder? I ask from curiosity, naturally, 
 as I should never have the temerity to defy so august 
 a body. Would the law be obliged to take its course ? ' ' 
 
 "You are probably aware that we have no law what- 
 ever behind us," I said with all the dignity I could as- 
 sume, "though the selectmen are very good about 
 backing us up in flagrant cases. But I should imagine 
 a doctor just settling in a town would be sufficiently 
 alive to his own interests to see the propriety of mak- 
 ing a good impression by the appearance of his house 
 and grounds." 
 
 ' ' Ah ! ' ' He nodded slowly, smiling in a way which 
 maddened me. "Now I see. This is a special kindness 
 on your part. How grateful I am to you. Your sug- 
 gestion may really result in my winning the hearts 
 of the West Hedgeworth people ; and I shall begin at
 
 THE DOCTOR'S FRONT YARD. 309 
 
 once. The propriety of making a good impression by 
 the appearance of my house and grounds!— it is a 
 noble sentiment. My colored boy who is my only ser- 
 vant, shall attend to the matter, and the Village Im- 
 provement Society shall see a change indeed. Are 
 there any other little touches,— extra touches, you 
 know,— that occur to you?" 
 
 I glanced at the big, low table with its littering of 
 attractive books and magazines, a great ivory club of 
 a paper knife lying across an uncut review. I was 
 as much at home among those things as he. Why had 
 I been forced into the attitude of an impertinent vil- 
 lage miss, to be laughed over with his wife again in 
 the way he was laughing now ? The idea was distress- 
 ing ; but I had no defence. 
 
 ''I think you are quite capable of arranging your 
 own yard," I said curtly. "You will very soon find 
 out what the village people like. All that our Asso- 
 ciation requires is cleanliness and good order;"— with 
 which I moved towards the door, murmuring a regret 
 that I had not seen Mrs. Eichmond. 
 
 "This is so good of you"— and now the doctor ac- 
 tually showed a shade of embarrassment himself,— 
 "that I am really overwhelmed with shame to be 
 obliged to disappoint you about my wife. It would 
 be so pleasant for her to know you ladies and to"— he 
 coughed slightly— "to come under your helpful in- 
 fluence. But the fact is, she isn't— she doesn't— there 
 never has— in short, there isn't any Mrs. Richmond. 
 My sister came with me to help me settle things. She 
 is a college girl somewhat younger than I and with 
 no experience whatever. I hope you will be willing to 
 welcome her when she comes back in July,— that is, 
 of course, if we are tidy enough to be recognized by 
 the villagers." Still the blandest expression about 
 his mouth, but a twinkle in the gray eyes which made 
 me grind my teeth. And he had calmly sat there, 
 letting me call on him! 
 
 I attempted to "sweep" across the piazza with dig-
 
 310 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 nity, but only swept up little bits of excelsior on the 
 hem of my gown. But I did make him feel the ar- 
 rows of a dignified wrath, I think;— not that he 
 evinced any such sensation at the time. To Mrs. Bun- 
 ker, who had asked for a prompt report, I flew. She 
 took the affair with unsympathetic calmness. 
 
 ' ' You did your duty, Irene, ' ' was her gracious com- 
 mendation, ''and it was not your fault that the girl 
 —who certainly was there, for I satv her— should be 
 his sister and not his wife. You said precisely the 
 right thing, and I trust he will profit by it and earn 
 the respect of the village. I am glad he is a young 
 man of taste," 
 
 He got on, whether possessed of taste or not. It 
 annoyed me to see the way he made friends with 
 everybody who crossed his path, man, woman or child. 
 They were rather slow to consult him professionally ; 
 but Doctor Bell, the old physician who had all the 
 practice round here, lives at Hedgeworth Centre, three 
 miles away, so when Miss Phoebe Withers, Miss 
 Maria's older sister, had an attack of heart failure one 
 day, they sent for Doctor Richmond, and took a tre- 
 mendous fancy to him. I kept out of his way; to my 
 mind he was the most thoroughly disagreeable man I 
 ever met. 
 
 The front yard, meanwhile, had been cleared up. 
 Nick, the black imp who drove, cooked and gardened 
 for the doctor, was known to be mysteriously occupied 
 behind the house for hours at a time, after the rub- 
 bish was removed. Mrs. Benjamin saw it all from 
 her back windows, and reported it at the sewing so- 
 ciety. He spent hours pottering among paint-cans, 
 starting seeds and what not; and shortly after, the 
 front fence appeared painted grass green, the gate 
 picked out wdth white cross-bars, and the lamp-post 
 similarly decorated, bearing a brand-new reflector. 
 Then clam-shell borders to the gravel-walk cropped 
 out, and two round clam-edged beds of geraniums 
 stared from the lawn, while a "rockery" of red and
 
 THE DOCTOR'S FRONT YARD. 311 
 
 blue boulders, with ferns, reared itself where the piles 
 of tin cans had been. 
 
 ''Do you like that sort of thing, I want to know?" I 
 inquired wrathfully of Mrs. Bunker at our next Vil- 
 lage Improvement meeting. 
 
 "Well, it looks perfectly neat," she answered, "and 
 it is in the style of most of the best kept yards here. 
 I can't say that I should not prefer quieter colors; 
 but he is a young man yet, you know. ' ' 
 
 I was silenced. "What right had I, any way, to feel 
 as if there were a sort of practical joke on me, per- 
 sonally, in all this ? The day after, a new ornament 
 appeared;— a pair of andirons, painted scarlet, and 
 a hollowed out log across them filled with yellow nas- 
 turtiums. Mrs, Pitman pointed it out to me delight- 
 edly. 
 
 "Just like a real fire!" she said. "Do you see, 
 Irene? The doctor is quite a landscape gardener, 
 isn 't he ? " I made no reply. 
 
 Another decoration was set forth next, on the op- 
 posite side of the yard;— this time a crane, also of 
 scarlet hue, and a swinging pot, with money-wort bub- 
 bling in it and dribbling down the sides. By ill luck 
 I was passing at the moment when Nick put it there, 
 turning round with a grin for the approval of his mas- 
 ter, who stood in the window. 
 
 "Very good, indeed, Nick," I heard the doctor call 
 out. "You're a regular Village Improvement Society 
 in yourself, boy." I wondered if it were possible, by 
 Delsartian methods, to throw scorn into the expres- 
 sion of one's back. The attempt ended weakly in one 
 of those little conscious adjustments of drapery to 
 which one resorts involuntarily at such junctures. 
 Somehow I felt that those gray eyes were upon me. I 
 had occasionally caught the expression of them before, 
 always with the inevitable twinkle, when we met in 
 public. 
 
 He grew into the habit of dropping in at the Bun- 
 kers', to my disgust, as it spoiled my own intimacy
 
 312 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 there. ]\Ir. B., a shadowy figure in the background of 
 the family stage, had been cured, or imagined he had, 
 of rheumatism by the new physician, and took a great 
 fancy to him. Emily, the daughter, who is so fearful- 
 ly quiet that most people never make any attempt to 
 rouse her, was actually known to chat Avith him quite 
 naturally and easily; and our beloved president sub- 
 mitted to cruel thrusts from him with a good grace. 
 
 "Mrs. Bunker," he said one evening as we were all 
 sitting on the piazza in a June twilight, "you've 
 never told me yet how you liked the arrangement of 
 my front yard. Have you seen the new garden seat I 
 had put out this week? It's one of the latest fads in 
 outdoor decoration, made of the head-board and frame 
 of an antique bedstead— a very choice thing. I got 
 the idea from a farmhouse up on the north road. 
 
 ' * I haven 't noticed it, ' ' she answered somewhat cau- 
 tiously, "but I observe, doctor, that you have an idea 
 of falling in with the taste of the people." 
 
 "My dear madam," he clasped his hand round one 
 knee and looked off dreamily into space,— "a doctor 
 just settling down in a tovm. should be sufficiently 
 alive to his own interests to see the propriety of mak- 
 ing a good impression by the appearance of his house 
 and grounds." 
 
 How dared he mock me to my very face in this fash- 
 ion ? I was thankful for the little back gate leading 
 out of the Bunkers' grounds, by which I could get a 
 short cut home, leaving my good-byes with Emily 
 Bunker. "When we met accidentally at the postoffice 
 next morning, I turned my back on him to stamp some 
 letters, and never looked up till he was gone, after 
 telling Alice Cobb, one of the village belles, who stood 
 there, that he was going away in the afternoon to his 
 sister's Commencement and would bring her back 
 with him. 
 
 The week seemed very peaceful, and I enjoyed go- 
 ing about without the dread of further shafts of ridi- 
 cule. I was always planning some way to give his im-
 
 THE DOCTOR'S FRONT YARD. 313 
 
 pertinence a decided snub, but never found the 
 chance. The afternoon of his return, I was sitting 
 with my work in Mrs. Benjamin's parlor as the buggy 
 drove up, Nick having been left to walk home from 
 the station. When he helped the sister out,— a mani- 
 festly high bred, charming little blonde,— I couldn't 
 help watching for the effect upon her of those painted 
 monstrosities. She wouldn't tolerate them a moment, 
 I felt sure. But oh, stab after stab ! She gave one 
 glance at them and turned to her brother with an 
 expression of such utter merriment that I knew at 
 once the thing was a joke already understood between 
 the two. I decided that Amy Richmond would not 
 become a friend of mine. Yet curiously enough she 
 actually sought me out, at an academy reception the 
 next night. Emily Bunker introduced her, and she 
 began at once : " I 've been so anxious to meet you, Miss 
 Allison. Morris tells me so much about you, and he's 
 sure we shall be congenial." 
 
 I stiffened. Another back-handed thrust, probably, 
 lay underneath this. 
 
 ''He thinks I shall learn an immense amount from 
 you, too," she pursued,— "don't you Morris?"— to 
 the doctor, who was unexpectedly standing behind me. 
 
 " I 've told my sister, ' ' he answered, ' ' that she must 
 persuade you to give her some hints about household 
 matters. She hasn't had even as much experience yet 
 as Nick and I." 
 
 I tried to be very ungracious, as dark suspicions 
 flew through my mind ; but Miss Richmond looked ab- 
 solutely guileless, and furthermore she wouldn't let 
 me alone ; there was no use trying to avoid her. And 
 it did seem good to have a friend of her sort. The 
 West Hedgeworth girls are bright and pretty, and 
 some of them intellectual, but we had all been village 
 comrades too long to get up much enthusiasm over one 
 another's society. Doctor Richmond's brotherly de- 
 votion caused him to lend his sister the buggy and 
 spirited little Tiorse for her own use now and then.
 
 314 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 besides the drives she took with him; so we two en- 
 joyed long excursions through the country roads, 
 steeped in July sunshine and finding our mutual in- 
 terest deeper with every day. Once I went to tea with 
 them, and on that occasion the doctor seemed quite 
 like other people, except just as I was leaving under 
 the escort of my younger brother, which I had pur- 
 posely arranged, the temptation to give me a parting 
 thrust was too strong for him, and he remarked as we 
 descended the front steps: "Miss Allison, I am so 
 glad to have -had you get a glimpse of our clam-shells 
 in the moonlight." 
 
 Amy went off to the seashore a day or two later, and 
 I felt really sorry for him, but it was much the easiest 
 way to avoid him altogether, and I never asked him 
 to come to our house, nor crossed his path if I could 
 help it. As for the nasturtiums and geraniums, 
 scorching on his lawn in the midsummer heat, I want- 
 ed no sight of them. By and by I went away myself, 
 and came back in September to a taste of the unpleas- 
 antnesses of life. My two brothers left home, one to a 
 business position in Boston, the other to college. 
 Father, meanwhile, who for eight years since mother's 
 death had been lost in melancholy and required my 
 constant offices as consoler, divulged the fact that a 
 buxom widow in Hedgeworth Centre had succeeded in 
 resurrecting his buried affections; an individual as 
 utterly unlike— well, there was a sting about it all 
 that made things look pretty black for awhile, and 
 since they desired the engagement "kept quiet," I 
 locked up my woes and could only wonder now and 
 then whether anybody felt any sympathy, while par- 
 rying the usual village questions «bout father's fre- 
 quent drives to the Centre, The Bunkers went abroad 
 for the winter, thank Heaven!— -and the V, I, S. was 
 suspended for the time being. Mercifully I had a 
 chance to do -something for somebody else. Aunt 
 Abby, my mother's sister, who had lived alone with 
 her servants in a big house fronting the common, a
 
 THE DOCTOR'S FRONT YARD. 315 
 
 rather morose and unmanageable old maiden lady, 
 was breaking down. My other aunt, who lives in Cal- 
 ifornia, could not come east at once, so I was the only 
 member of the family to nurse her, and with father 
 and the boys provided for I had time to go to her 
 whenever she needed me. 
 
 Dr. BeU fell ill and Dr. Richmond was called. His 
 appearance in the sick-room seemed likely to destroy 
 the only comfort I had there ; but, strange to say, I 
 laid down my weapons before three visits were over. 
 His management of her was absolutely perfect; 
 thoughtful, gentle, cheery, and so patient with her 
 whims and imaginings, poor old soul, that his coming 
 grew to be the one bright spot in her life, and I fan- 
 cied she would give herself up to complete invalidism 
 for the sake of them. But he looked grave one day 
 over her, and informed me she must have a nurse. 
 
 "Do you think me incapable?" I asked rather 
 sharply. 
 
 "No, but you couldn't hold out to do all there is to 
 be done. Your aunt is going to be worse, Miss Allison, 
 and I doubt if we can pull her through. You'll want 
 somebody for night work." 
 
 Mrs. Smith, the village nurse, is the dreariest of her 
 kind, and brings an atmosphere of melancholy with 
 her. My services were needed as cheerer-up from this 
 time on, for poor Aunt Abby grew visibly weaker, and 
 finally one stormy night the end seemed near, so I did 
 not go home. Dr. Richmond came in about nine o'clock 
 and found me in the cold, lofty parlor with its straight 
 backed furniture and grim family portraits. 
 
 * ' See here, ' ' he remarked as he returned from the 
 sick-room, "mightn't you be a little more comfortable 
 somehow ? You can 't sit up all night on the edge of a 
 slippery sofa like that. Why don't you doze, and let 
 the nurse call if she wants you ? ' ' 
 
 I had unconsciously taken the attitude of my child- 
 hood's years, when sent to call on Aunt Abby and 
 charged not to let my feet touch the furniture, my
 
 316 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 hands crossed in my lap, and spine rigid. But I 
 couldn 't have slept at any rate, I told him, and should 
 manage all right. 
 
 He opened the front door to depart, then came back. 
 A West Indian tornado was tearing at the house and 
 lashing the trees with howls of fury, the chimneys 
 moaning and blinds rattling. He looked at me irreso- 
 lutely, I sitting motionless. What did a mere storm 
 matter,— a tumult of nature which would be over by 
 morning? He might object to it, with nothing worse 
 to worry about ; it made no difference to me. 
 
 "I must be on hand every hour, anyway," he said 
 slowly, ''to watch your aunt's pulse. Neither you nor 
 the nurse would understand it. If you don't mind, 
 I '11 stay here, instead of coming back and forth across 
 the common in such a gale as this. And meanwhile let 
 me show you a better way to rest." 
 
 Poor Aunt Abby ! It was fortunate that she could 
 not see her plush sofa moved around cornerwise and 
 its end filled with pillows, nor the logs which the doc- 
 tor brought from the cellar piled across her beauti- 
 fully polished, unused andirons. Had I any business 
 to sink back luxuriously and enjoy the sparkle and 
 warmth of a fire, with that unconscious figure in the 
 next room ? I sprang up again and tiptoed in to ask 
 the nurse if I might not take her place. 
 
 ''No," said Mrs. Smith dolorously but firmly, ''you 
 ain't experienced enough to watch out her last hours. 
 Miss Abby's been good to me in ways I sha'n't say 
 nothin' about, and I'm a-goin' to see her through. All 
 I want you for is to call if I need you, and so long as 
 I ain 't all alone I shall stay up till the last. ' ' 
 
 I crept back, feeling incompetent and useless, and 
 with some of the diminished nerve which results from 
 the nearness and certainty of death— that hour we are 
 never ready for. 
 
 "Lie against the cushions, please," commanded the 
 doctor quietly. ' ' Now I 'm going to be here and watch 
 every symptom. You won't have to keep anything on
 
 THE DOCTOR'S FRONT YARD. 317 
 
 your mind,— and your aunt may rally, remember, 
 perhaps even return to consciousness again. Just put 
 the responsibility entirely on Mrs. Smith and me, and 
 try to rest as much as you can. ' ' 
 
 There was no resisting this ; he should not see, how- 
 ever, that my eyes grew moist under the unwonted 
 sensation of being looked out for. I turned my head 
 away to pull my forces together, but he had gone back 
 to Aunt Abby's bedside. When he came out, in about 
 five minutes, he told me that all was going well, and 
 then sitting down began to speak of everyday matters. 
 Before very long a better footing Avas established be- 
 tween us than ever before, and for a couple of hours 
 we talked, only interrupted by visits to the sick-room. 
 I forgot my secret smart at having been ridiculed, in 
 hearing Morris Richmond tell delightful bits of his 
 own experiences and life interest. Not being enough 
 of a woman of the world to resist the delicate flattery 
 which such a recital implies, I didn't suspect him 
 either of adroitness enough to use his autobiography 
 for that purpose. But about twelve o'clock he looked 
 at his watch, then at me, and frowned. 
 
 "You're horribly tired," he said, "and I've no busi- 
 ness to keep you up when it isn't necessary. Please 
 go upstairs to bed, and sleep till four o'clock. I shall 
 be here till then, and there will be absolutely nothing 
 for you to do. If your aunt is improving, you needn't 
 be called till seven, for you can take Mrs. Smith's 
 place tomorrow, and Mrs. Benjamin will come over to 
 help you if you need her." 
 
 Evidently he himself was tired of talking so long. 
 I didn't give him credit for any especially disinter- 
 ested motives in sending me off, but went with some 
 resentment, since he so plainly wished me to go. I 
 didn't sleep, however. The mirror on the wall of the 
 barren guest room moved from some hidden draught 
 or jar, the old willow whipped its twigs against the 
 window panes, and I lay watching them with a strange 
 tumult in my heart, a whirlwind of whys and conjee-
 
 318 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 tures, a creeping nervousness as to the outcome of the 
 next few hours, a lonely dread of the after months 
 when Aunt Abby should be gone and my home life 
 changed,— and yet, through it all, an odd new satis- 
 faction which I tried to push away, and a tendency to 
 go over word for word the talk of that evening and 
 the looks on Morris Richmond's face. There was a 
 faint dawn in the room before I knew it, and then it 
 occurred to me that the doctor ought to have a little 
 breakfast after his long vigil. The servants were 
 asleep, but the kitchen fire had been left "in," and I 
 knew where everj^thing was kept. I freshened myself 
 up and stole down the back stairs to cook coffee and 
 eggs and hot toast. In the midst of it the door opened 
 behind me, and I started guiltily. 
 
 "What are you doing now?" he demanded. 
 
 "How did you know?" I faltered. 
 
 "The smell of that coffee going all through the 
 house is enough to wake anybody. So this is the way 
 you obey orders ! Miss TV est is better, and I am just 
 going. You might perfectly well have slept on." 
 
 "But I couldn't," I insisted, "and you will stay 
 and drink the coffee now that I have cooked it." 
 
 He consented if I would have some too, and we ate 
 our impromptu meal in the dark dining-room, warm- 
 ing up over it and chatting most familiarly. It was 
 growing light when the doctor took his hat in the hall. 
 
 "Thank you for being so good to me," he said. "I 
 appreciate it. Now please don't overdo. I sha'n't be 
 in again probably until noon, unless you send for 
 me;"— and he opened the door, where we both stood 
 looking out. We were just opposite his house. The 
 storm was abating, but the havoc it had made was vis- 
 ible everywhere. A big elm had been uprooted on the 
 common, and lay prone, with hundreds of scattered 
 twigs about it. And the doctor 's front yard ? Alas ! 
 Mrs. Benjamin's old buttonwood tree, which had been 
 dying all summer, was crashed over, burying in its 
 prostrate branches the crane, the andirons, the gay
 
 THE DOCTOR'S FRONT YARD. 319 
 
 beds and all. Nature itself had swept away the last 
 barriers now, I reflected triumphantly, to what might 
 be a good satisfactory friendship. Better days were 
 coming. But— 
 
 ' ' Whew ! ' ' said my companion lightly. ' 'Look over 
 there. Dear me— I must hurry home and set Nick at 
 work. It will take us a whole week to get square with 
 the Village Improvement Society!" 
 
 Aunt Abby lived nearly a month longer. Her sis- 
 ter came on from California and took charge in the 
 sick-room with an energy which left very little for 
 others to do. After the funeral she went away again. 
 The property had been left to her, the house to me, 
 with just enough income to live, economically, in it. 
 Father and his affianced bride were well satisfied with 
 this arrangement, and made preparations to be mar- 
 ried at Thanksgiving, at which time I was to move into 
 my new abode. I felt it to be following indeed in 
 Aunt Abby's footsteps, and could see myself in imag- 
 ination going on year after year with my one servant, 
 growing older and grimmer, brooding over past days, 
 finally slipping out of life wdthout a friend in the 
 world. It was rather a new thing for me to take this 
 morbid view, but one always finds a fresh idea inter- 
 esting, and I hugged it for a time with all the vehem- 
 ence of my nature. The doctor I had seen now and 
 then, and we had managed to remain pretty well on 
 our new basis of easy and even confidential acquaint- 
 anceship. But I could not forget the old grudge ; he 
 would not keep up that spirit of mockery which 
 cropped out so often unless he regarded me still as a 
 village nonenity. Yet why need I care? 
 
 One November afternoon I started out to walk off 
 the blues. It was gray and windy, but with occasional 
 gleams of sunshine,— a good day for a hilltop. I went 
 by the Bunkers' shut up mansion, waved to Miss 
 Maria at her little corner sitting-room window, shook 
 my head to resist Mrs. Benjamin's beckoning hand as 
 I passed her •door, and glanced at the doctor's yard.
 
 320 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 It was in order again indeed. The mutilated crane 
 and andirons had been removed, and the beds emptied 
 and raked over; but a new horror had been perpetra- 
 ted in the shape of two brilliant globular lawn-reflect- 
 ors on pedestals, one blue-gray, the other yellow, which 
 gave a miniature distorted panorama of all passing 
 objects and showed me a waddling image of myself, 
 with flattened, wrathful countenance. It was the last 
 straw, and I walked fiercely away, resolved that if my 
 future dwelling must be opposite this man's, its front 
 blinds should be lowered forever. 
 
 As that walk registered just about the lowest point 
 my mental and spiritual barometer has ever reached, 
 I can hardly forget it. I climbed over Hart 's hill, and 
 from its summit looked off westward over level fields, 
 bounded by a horizon of tossing gray clouds and slits 
 of pale, yellow light. The old graveyard lay to the 
 right, smooth bare maple boughs tossed above me. The 
 road ran straight ahead, and I stood undecided wheth- 
 er to go on down or not. If it had been in a story, I 
 reflected bitterly, the man I hated yet longed to see 
 would appear then and there ; in real life such things 
 never happen at the right juncture. I should simply 
 go back, give father his tea, and see him depart as 
 usual for the evening, then sit alone. 
 
 But, after all, this is a story, or I shouldn't be tell- 
 ing it. A buggy turned out of the farm-yard half way 
 down the hill, and came toward me. I knew the horse 
 and occupant, and turned my feet resolutely home- 
 ward, with a confusion in my brain which I thought 
 was anger. A rapid trot sounded behind me, and then 
 the doctor's ''Whoa!" I did not look up till I heard 
 him say: "Miss Allison, would you please let me drive 
 you home 1 ' ' 
 
 ' ' I came out for a walk, ' ' I answered. 
 
 **Yes, but you've had the walk. And besides that, 
 you are more by yourself nowadays than is good for 
 you." What business was it of his?— ''Then, best of 
 all, I have a letter from Amy to read you."
 
 I 
 
 THE DOCTOR'S FRONT YARD. 321 
 
 ''Oh, I don't suppose it matters," said I, climbing 
 wearily in beside him, "only please have the goodness 
 not to drive me past your house. The prospect of look- 
 ing at it morning, noon and night hereafter is bad 
 enough since this latest infliction." 
 
 "Infliction ! do you really think so?" he asked, with 
 the old merriment in his voice. "But I had to put 
 something there, you know, to brighten it up a little. 
 You certainly would have me sufficiently alive to my 
 own interests as a physician, wouldn't you, to see the 
 propriety — " 
 
 "Stop!" I burst out, my cheeks one flame and the 
 hot tears of tired-out nerves and pent-up anger spring- 
 ing to my eyes. "Be kind enough to understand that 
 for your interests as a physician I don't care one 
 straw ! ' ' 
 
 The Doctor turned and laid his hand gently on mine, 
 looking down at me with a smile which levelled all my 
 fortifications. 
 
 "Of course you don't," he said, "But as a man— 
 you surely must have seen by this time how badly I 
 need a wife! Won't you come home and take com- 
 mand of my front yard?" 
 
 Ruth Huntington Sessions. 
 
 2—21
 
 XXI 
 
 A GENTLE MANIAC 
 
 a stttdy in love and insanitt. 
 characters. 
 
 Mr. Valdingam. 
 
 Henry Van Hyde, M. D. 
 
 Susan Valdingam. 
 
 Rose. 
 
 Richard, a servant. 
 
 Time : Present. 
 
 Place: Mr. Valdingam 's country place near New- 
 York. 
 Scene: Library in Mr. Valdingam's house. At the 
 right of the stage, there is a large window opening 
 upon a veranda and garden; moonlight effect. At 
 the left there is an exit to other parts of the house. 
 Mr. Valdingam (who is pacing the room restlessly) : 
 Dr. Van Hyde is extremely inconsiderate— extremely 
 inconsiderate. He promised to be here at six-thirty 
 sharp. A physician should keep his word at all haz- 
 ards. (Me goes to his desk at right and rings a hell.) 
 
 (Enter Richard from left.) 
 
 Richard: You rang, sir? 
 
 Mr. Valdingam (testily) : When does the next train 
 leave for New York ? 
 
 Richard : In a half hour, sir. 
 
 Mr. Valdingam: Good. If Dr. Van Hyde does 
 not arrive Avithin that time, you will take the train and 
 fetch him. Do you understand ? 
 
 Richard : Yes, sir. 
 
 Mr. Valdingam : Meanwhile, tell my sister that I 
 
 (322)
 
 A GENTLE MANIAC. 323 
 
 want to speak with her, (Exit Richaed, l.) Now I'll 
 surprise that excellent woman ; excellent, that is to say, 
 if she possessed an ounce of brains. If she could have 
 her way, Rose would soon be in a lunatic asylum. 
 
 (Enter Susan, l.) 
 
 Susan (curtly) : You have something to say to me ? 
 
 IVIr. Valdestgam (sharply) : Get ready a supper for 
 two— for tivo— do you hear? 
 
 Susan : For two ? 
 
 Mr. Valdingam : And you can serve it in this room. 
 
 Susan : You are expecting a friend ? 
 
 Mr. Valdingam : Yes, a friend ; or, rather a physi- 
 cian—a physician . , . for Rose. 
 
 Susan (aside): The same old delusion (To Mr. 
 Valdingam.) But, brother, Rose is quite well. 
 
 Mr. Valdingam : Well! You say we iL^ . . 
 It's none of your business, however. Do as I bid. 
 
 Susan (aside): It's useless to argue with him. (To 
 Mr. Valdingam.) When do you expect your— friend ? 
 
 Mr. Valdingam : By the train that was due several 
 minutes ago. Late, as usual. 
 
 (Enter Richard, h.) 
 Richard : The doctor has just arrived, sir. 
 Mr. Valdingam : Good. Bring the lamps, and then 
 show the doctor in. 
 
 Susan (aside) : That doctor may be useful, after all. 
 
 (Exeunt Richard and Susan.^ 
 
 Mr. Valdingam ( exultingly ) : Ha! I've gained ray 
 point, in spite of them. Rose shall be saved. 
 (Enter, l., Richard, luith iivo lighted lamps. After 
 
 placing them, he retires, leaving Dr. Van Hyde in 
 
 the hackground.) 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde : This is Mr. Valdingam ? 
 
 Mr. Valdingam : And this Dr. Van Hyde ? How 
 delighted I am to meet you at last 1 But it is disgrace- 
 ful that you should have been so long delayed. I shall 
 see to it that the officers of the road are severely cen- 
 sured.
 
 324 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde: Pray do not worry over such a 
 trifle. 
 
 Me. Valdingam : That is very nicely said, sir. . . 
 . . As I informed you by letter, the ease which you 
 are about to treat is a very serious one — a very com- 
 plicated one. It may even baffle you. . . . But 
 before I add anything, permit me to see my sister for 
 an instant. She is preparing a little supper for us, 
 and, if you don't object, we shall eat it here, tete-a- 
 tete. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde: With the greatest pleasure. Mr. 
 Valdingam. 
 
 Mr. Valdingam: Then kindly make yourself at 
 home. The house is yours while you are in it. (Exit 
 Mr. Valdingam, l.) 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde (throwing himself into an easy- 
 chair) : A comfortable place, certainly. That fellow, 
 Valdingam, however, is an odd chap. Restless and ex- 
 citable, I take it; but very agreeable, otherwise. I 
 wonder what sort of a little creature the patient is, by 
 the way. A stupid thing, I suppose. . . . (After 
 a moment of reflection.) Strange !— I wonder if I am 
 losing my own mind. For three days I've been in a 
 state which is positively abnormal. I am haunted by a 
 face, and I can't rid my memory of it. And what a 
 face ! Who could forget it after having once looked up- 
 on it ? I am in love with it. I am still more in love 
 w'ith its owner. That smile, like a glimpse of paradise ! 
 That mouth, like a dissected strawberry ! That blush, 
 like the stolen red of a rose ! Oh, shall I ever see her 
 again ? 
 
 (Enter Mr. Valdingam, h.) 
 
 Mr. Valdingam: You must be hungry, Dr. Van 
 Hyde, and I fear that I can offer you little to appease 
 a healthy appetite— a bowl of broth, a tender bit of 
 broiled chicken, and some of the finest Burgundy in 
 the world to w^ash it down. We homely folk of the 
 country stick to the ancient fashions, you know,— a 
 noonday lunch, and all that.
 
 A GENTLE MANIAC. 325 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde : I like your ancient fashions, as you 
 call them, Mr. Valdingam. (Enter Richard, who sets 
 a small table for tivo and serves supper.) 
 
 Mr. Valdingam : Then let us sit down without cer- 
 emony. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde : Your Burgundy is indeed delicious, 
 Mr. Valdingam. 
 
 Mr. Valdingam : I flatter myself that it is. It dis- 
 solves the cobwebs from one's brains, so to speak. It 
 is the elixir of happiness ; and alas ! I am not a happy 
 man, Dr. Van Hyde. . . (To Richard.^ Leave us 
 alone, Richard. (Exit Richard.^ 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde : Perhaps you exaggerate your mis- 
 fortunes, my dear sir. 
 
 Mr. Valdingam : Far from it— far from it. . . . 
 Imagine a father, a doting father, like myself, whose 
 only child is on the verge of insanity. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde : It is a pitiful case, truly. 
 
 Mr. Valdingam : It is pitiful, and it is strange ; 
 strange because my daughter Rose is, to all outward 
 appearances, as sane as you or I. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde : But there are symptoms—' 
 
 Mr. Valdingam: Symptoms which my keen sight 
 discovered long ago. (Mysteriously.) My daughter 
 is morally irresponsible in her social relations with 
 men. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde : You astonish me ! 
 
 Mr. Valdingam : Prepare yourself for still greater 
 astonishment. Accustomed though you are to dealings 
 with the insane, I venture to say that Rose will deceive 
 you at first as she has deceived others. . . . How- 
 ever, you are now on your guard. If you will permit 
 me to do so, I will indicate to you the line of inquiry 
 which you may adopt in your preliminary examination 
 of my daughter. 
 (As this conversation progresses the door at l. is 
 
 opened slightly, and Susan is seen to he listening. 
 
 Later she closes the door softly and disappears.) 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde : With pleasure, sir.
 
 326 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 Mr. Valdingam: Here is the point, then. My 
 daughter appears to fall in love with every young man 
 that strikes her fancy. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde : Keally— 
 
 Mr. Valdingam : She may even fall in love with 
 yoH. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde : Extraordinary ! 
 
 Mr. Valdingam : Your course, therefore, will be to 
 draw from her some decisive manifestation of this ab- 
 normal amativeness. You will not be slow to discover 
 how deep-rooted the disease is. . . . By the way, 
 would you object to meeting my daughter this even- 
 ing ? I shall not allow you to return to New York to- 
 night, you know. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde : I am wholly at your service. 
 
 Mr. Valdingam (ringing for Richard j : So much 
 the better. (E^iter Richard, who removes the dining 
 table.) Now, if you will join me in a cigar and a stroll 
 in the garden, we can talk more at our ease on this 
 painful subject. (They light their cigars and pass out 
 into the garden. Enter from l. at the same time Su- 
 s.ysr, followed l>y Rose.J 
 
 Susan : Well, what do you think of that ? 
 
 Rose (laugliingly) : I am very sorry for poor Dr. 
 Van Hyde. Suppose I should be attacked with a ten- 
 der passion for him, after all. 
 
 Susan: Don't be ridiculous, Rose. Between you 
 and me, however, it seems to me that this mad-doctor 
 here, who is said to be so very clever, might be turned 
 to some good purpose. I begin to think that your fath- 
 er needs looking after. 
 
 Rose: Oh, papa is harmless. At any rate, wait 
 awhile. At present, you must remember, I am Dr. Van 
 Hyde's patient. 
 
 Susan : Nonsense ! 
 
 Rose: I intend that he shall practise on me, cer- 
 tainly, especially if, as you assert, he is young and 
 handsome. Or, let us say, I will experiment on him. 
 
 Susan : You are out of your senses.
 
 A GENTLE MANIAC. 327 
 
 Rose : Not a bit. Plas not Dr. Van Hyde come all 
 the way up here to see me, to examine mef Shall I 
 disappoint this luminary of the medical profession? 
 . . . Never ! . . . Now, Aunt Susan, you must 
 let me have my own way this time. No harm shall 
 come of it, I promise you. And who knows? Per- 
 haps I may be able to give Dr. Van Hyde points for 
 his next clinic. 
 
 Susan : Well, do as you please. But I fear the 
 worst. More than one sane creature has been clapped 
 into a lunatic asylum by some fool of a doctor. 
 
 Rose : Tell me something more about this Dr. Van 
 Hyde. 
 
 Susan : I 've told you all I know . . . young, 
 handsome, and, I doubt not, a gentleman ; very pleas- 
 ant mannered, so far as I could see. 
 
 Rose (musingly) : Young, handsome, pleasant man- 
 nered. Not the traditional doctor, evidently; just 
 such a doctor as I might naturally fall in love with 
 
 Susan : Rose, you amaze me ! 
 
 Rose : But I am not going to fall in love with him. 
 . . . (After a pause, and mischievously.) Indeed, 
 I have some one else in my thought at this moment. 
 
 Susan : What do you mean ? 
 
 Rose : Don 't blame me if I am a little human. Have 
 you never met a man. Aunt Susan, who pleased you as 
 no other man had ever pleased you before ? 
 
 Susan: Perhaps I have; but it was mighty long 
 
 ago. 
 
 Rose : Call me foolish if you will ; I, too, have met 
 such a man. 
 
 Susan: You! Where? 
 
 Rose: You won't be cross if I confide in you? 
 Besides, it's not likely that I shall meet my Romeo 
 again— for he was a Romeo, Aunt Susan, 
 
 Susan : There are no Romeos nowadays. 
 
 Rose: Oh, yes, there are— in trousers. Now, let 
 me tell you my experience with him. It was not a bit 
 romantic. Last Monday, as you remember, I was
 
 328 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 shopping in New York. To-day is Friday. (With 
 mock gravity.) An eternity from then till now. 
 Well, as I was rushing through a quiet side 
 street, in haste to catch a car, suddenly I slipped and 
 fell. My parasol went in one direction, my fan in 
 another, my purse in still another, and three parcels 
 I was carrying in three others. To make matters 
 worse, I had sprained my ankle slightly, and was 
 ready to cry with pain and mortification. Imagine 
 the situation, Aunt Susan. There I sat in a heap on 
 the pavement, surrounded by my possessions. 
 
 Susan {grimly) : I hope you didn't sit there long? 
 Rose : How unsympathetic you are ! . . . No, 
 I did not sit there long. For a second I was paralyzed. 
 Afterward, as I prepared to rise with proper dignity, 
 I heard a man's voice— a particularly agreeable man's 
 voice— close at my side. It said: ''Permit me to as- 
 sist you, madam." Before I could reply, the owner of 
 the voice lifted me to my feet. Oh, he did his part 
 gallantly ! I was, of course, too confused to thank him 
 at once. But he did not stop for thanks. He simply 
 picked up my purse, my parasol, and my parcels, and 
 after placing them in my hands, and inquiring very 
 gently whether I was hurt, lifted his hat courteously 
 and passed on. Only for a single— a single instant. 
 Aunt Susan, our eyes met. 
 
 Susan : What then, pray ? 
 
 Rose: Nothing. I limped to the car. That's all. 
 
 Susan : And this stranger is your Romeo ! Rose, 
 you are a goose. Put him out of your head. 
 
 Rose : How can I put him out when he persists in 
 staying in? There, now you have my story. 
 
 Susan {starting at the sound of footsteps) : Hush ! 
 I think your father and the doctor are coming back. 
 {Susan busies herself ivith one of the lamps at l., atid 
 
 Bose takes up a hook and pretends to read. Her 
 
 face is turned aivay from the right entrance. Enter 
 
 Mr. Valdingam and Dr. Van Hyde.) 
 
 Mr. Valdingam : Doctor, I rely upon you now with
 
 A GENTLE MANIAC. 329 
 
 the utmost confidence. What a knowledge is yours! 
 How vast, how intricate a subject is this of insanity ! 
 I marvel that you should have learned so much in so 
 few years. I'll wager that you have not passed your 
 thirty-fifth birthday. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde : You have made a nearly correct 
 guess, Mr. Valdingam. I am in my thirty-sixth year. 
 But I have enjoyed unusual experience. 
 {At the sound of Dr. Van Hyde's voice, Rose half- 
 
 rises, then hides her face with her hook.) 
 
 Rose (aside): Good gracious! I have hoard tha/t 
 voice before. {She glances over the edge of the hook 
 toward the two men.) It is he. {She slips out of her 
 chair, and joins Susan. The hacks of the two women 
 are turned to the men, ivho are conversing sotto voce.) 
 Aunt Susan ! 
 
 Susan (starting) : What's the matter? 
 
 Rose : It is he. 
 
 Susan: He? Who's he? 
 
 Rose : The same. 
 
 Susan: Who's the same? 
 
 Rose : The doctor. 
 
 Susan: What of the doctor? 
 
 Rose : The doctor is— Romeo 1 
 
 Susan (dropping the hook which Rose had passed 
 to her) : Lord ! 
 {At the sound of the hook falling, Mr. Valdingam 
 
 turns and perceives the two women. Then he catches 
 
 De. Van Hyde hy the arm.) 
 
 Mr. Valdingam (to the doctor) : She is here. Pre-- 
 pare yourself. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde (glancing at the hacks of the wom- 
 en) : Your daughter? 
 
 Mr. Valdingam : Yes, my daughter. A splendid 
 opportunity for you, doctor. I will see to it that you 
 are left alone with her. Talk to her. Watch her 
 closely. Discover all you can. But first, I will intro- 
 duce you to her. (He goes over to l., while Dr. Van 
 Hyde stays quietly at r. He approaches his daughter.) 
 Rose!
 
 330 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 Rose (turning toward Mr. Valdingam) : Yes, papa. 
 
 Mr. Valdingam : May I introduce to you a dear, a 
 very old friend of mine ? 
 
 Rose (aside) : A very old friend ! (To Mr. Val- 
 DiNGAM.j Certainly, papa. 
 (She advances toward center of stage. Susan glares 
 
 at Mr. Valdingam, liut does not come forward.) 
 
 Mr. Valdingam (to Dr. Van Hyde) : Doctor ! 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde (advancing toward Rose) : At your 
 service, Mr. Valdingam. 
 
 Mr. Valdingam : May I introduce— 
 (At this instant, Dr. Van Hyde ohtains a full view 
 
 of Rose, who regards him demurely. He stumMes 
 
 hack in amazement.) 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde: This— this— is your daughter? 
 
 Mr. Valdingam : You appear surprised? (Aside.) 
 I knew it. I knew it. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde : Not surprised— but— 
 
 'Mr. Valdingam : I understand thoroughly. (Aside 
 to the doctor.) Didn't I tell you so? (To Rose.) 
 Rose, this is my friend, Dr. Van Hyde. For certain 
 reasons, my child, he is anxious to have a little chat 
 with you. 
 
 Rose (innocently): With me, papa? 
 
 Mr. Valdingam : That is to say . . . Well, no 
 matter, I will explain later. (Turning to Susan.) 
 Susan! (Susan advances toward center very stiffly.) 
 Dr. Van Hyde, this is my sister, Miss Valdingam. 
 (Dr. Van Hyde hows to Susan in an embarrassed 
 
 manner.) 
 
 Susan: Glad to know you, sir. 
 (She retires to l., accompanied hy Rose. Mr. Val- 
 
 dingham rejoins Dr. Van Hyde ai r. ) 
 
 Mr. Valdingam (to Dr. Van Hyde) : Did I not 
 manage that skilfully? 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde (dryly): Most skilfully. 
 
 Mr. Valdingam: The reet is simple enough. Re- 
 main where you are, and I will retire with Susan. 
 Then you will have the field to yourself. Do you 
 agree with me ?
 
 A GENTLE MANIAC. 331 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde: Perfectly. 
 (Mr, Valdingam goes over to h., consults in an un- 
 dertone with Susan, and then exeunt Mr. Valding- 
 am and Susan at l. Dr. Van Hyde and Rose 
 
 are thus left alone. Their hacks are turned to each 
 
 other. 
 
 Rose (aside) : He recognized me. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde (aside) : I wonder if she recognized 
 me. 
 
 Rose (aside) : What shall I do— play the mad wom- 
 an? 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde (aside): This, then, is the end of 
 my dream. I have fallen in love with a lunatic. 
 
 Rose (aside): I suppose, to carry out papa's 
 wishes, that I ought to make love to him. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde (aside): How did she come to be 
 alone in the city last Monday ? She must have escaped 
 somehow. She is guarded with too little caution. 
 
 Rose (aside) : Why doesn't he speak? 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde (aside) : She is more enchanting 
 than ever. How can so sweet a creature be condemned 
 to such misery? {He turns and confronts Rose.) Miss 
 Valdingam ! 
 
 Rose (without moving): Yes? 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde (more softly) : Miss Valdingam ! 
 
 Rose (turning slowly, and half looking at him): 
 Dr. Van Hyde ! 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde : Will you not sit down ? 
 
 Rose: Thank you, I will. (She seats herself at h.) 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde (still standing, and speaking grave- 
 ly) : Now— 
 
 Rose (carelessly) : Oh, you may as well take a chair 
 yourself. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde (seating himself at l.) : With your 
 permission. 
 
 Rose: Well? 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde : I was saying— 
 
 Rose: Were you? I didn't hear it. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde : I was, rather, about to say—
 
 332 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 Rose (laughing) : This is very odd, is it not ? 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde : What, may I ask, is odd ? 
 
 Rose: This tete-a-tete. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde : Professionally speaking — 
 
 Rose : As a rule, you know, it takes two old friends 
 to make a tete-a-tete. Now, it must be admitted that 
 we are not old friends, are we ? 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde : I trust that we shall be very good 
 friends soon. 
 
 Rose : Oh, my father has recommended you, and I 
 may accept you on that basis. Are you from New 
 York? 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde: Yes. 
 
 Rose : And you are a physician ? 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde : I practice a little. 
 
 Rose : I suppose papa is to be one of your patients. 
 He has not been strong. How is he, doctor ? 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde (aside): She is very insistent. 
 
 Rose: Why don't you answer me? Is there some 
 serious complication? 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde (hurriedly) : Nothing serious, I as- 
 sure you. . . In fact, I have had no conversation 
 with Mr. Valdingam about his health. 
 
 Rose: Then what about? . . . Oh, I forgot. 
 You are very old friends. 
 
 De. Van Hyde : Very old friends. (Aside.) There 
 is a strange gleam in her eyes. Poor thing! Poor 
 thing ! 
 
 Rose: It is singular that he had never spoken of 
 you before to-night. . . (After a pause of reflec- 
 tion.) Do you know, I feel that you called to see me, 
 as well as papa. Am I right ? 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde : Partly right, Miss Valdingam. . . 
 And I am very glad to have met you at last. I have 
 heard so much about you. 
 
 Rose : Still, you had never seen me until this even- 
 ing? 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde (\taken hy surprise) : Oh, I had . 
 i . (Aside.) What a silly business I am making
 
 A GENTLE MANIAC. 333 
 
 of this! She looks so perfectly sane and charming 
 that I am tempted to forget my mission. (To Rose.) 
 It seemed to me almost, I mean, that I had met you— 
 I don't know where. 
 
 Rose (aside): This is delicious. I must punish 
 him. (Advancing toward him with an air of anger.) 
 Sir, I perceive that you wish to mislead me. Your 
 presence here has a professional object. Do not deny 
 it. 
 
 De. Van Hyde : I— I— do not deny it. 
 
 Rose (tragically): Connected with myself ? 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde (aside) : Suspicious of a stranger ! 
 Restless under medical observation! These are 
 symptoms ! . . . I must try to divert her thoughts. 
 
 Rose : I repeat, sir— connected with myself ? 
 
 De. Van Hyde : Pray, Miss Valdingam, do not ex- 
 cite yourself. 
 
 Rose : Conceal nothing ! I am wretched, annoyed, 
 persecuted. I am under a wicked surveillance. Do 
 you imagine that I 'm blind ? I understand their plot. 
 (Pointing to door at l.) And you, too, are in the 
 plot. But I shall prove to you— at once, at owce- that 
 I am as rational as they, as you. (In a quieter tone.) 
 Now, have you any questions to ask me ? 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde (somewhat confused) : Do not take 
 the matter so seriously, Miss Valdingam. Even a ra- 
 tional person— not excepting myself— may have the- 
 ories, hallucinations, dreams — 
 
 Rose (wildly) : Dreams ! I have astonishing 
 dreams, doctor. They come to me when I am awake, 
 when I seem to be awake. Strange noises then rattle 
 in my brain, and I grow dizzy. In any other person, 
 these dreams might be ideas. . . .At other times, 
 the world of my fancy is crowded with men, myriads 
 of men. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde (aside): Her father was not mis- 
 taken. 
 
 Rose: Yes, young men; graceful men; men who 
 flatter and adore me ! . . . Totally unlike the men 
 I see when I escape to New York.
 
 334 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde : Ah, she escapes ! 
 
 Rose: Then, too, I have visions of matrimony. I 
 feel a wild desire to propose to every man I meet. 
 Have you ever proposed, doctor ? 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde : Never. 
 
 Rose: Why don't you? You can not have lacked 
 opportunity. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde : I fear that I have. 
 
 Rose : You are young, rich, good-looking, and suc- 
 cessful. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde (aside) : Heavens ! 
 
 Rose : You should marry. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde : I have not the time— 
 
 Rose : There is no time like the present. . . We 
 are alone. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde (nervously) : Alone? 
 
 Rose: Yes; papa and Aunt Susan were discreet 
 enough to retire. Do not be afraid. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde: Afraid of what? 
 
 Rose : Of proposing to me. If you are, I will pro- 
 pose to you. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde (aside) : I must humor her. But it 
 is distressing to do so. (To Rose.) You would marry 
 me? 
 
 Rose : Oh, yes ! 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde : You like me well enough for that ? 
 
 Rose : I liked you at first sight. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde : But you have barely an acquaint- 
 ance with me. 
 
 Rose: So much the better. If my acquaintance 
 with you were more intimate, I might not be willing 
 to marry you. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde: You can't love me, however; and 
 what is marriage without love? 
 
 Rose: Why can't I love you? 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde: Love, my dear child, love is the 
 tenderest passion of our nature. It is the flower of 
 life. It is the affinity of souls. It is— 
 
 Rose (passionately) : It is— it is.
 
 A GENTLE MANIAC. 335 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde (aside) : If I could only believe that 
 she might learn to love me— that she had not loved 
 forty other men— that she was not a monster in the 
 guise of a siren ! Yet I will do my duty, cruel as it is 
 to me. (To Rose.) But your father? 
 
 Rose : Papa has never objected to my loving any- 
 body. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde: Then you have loved somebody 
 else? 
 
 Rose: Yes, indeed. Eighteen. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde : Eighteen ! 
 
 Rose: Eighteen lost opportunities. You are the 
 nineteenth. If you refuse to take me, I shall have to 
 look out for my twentieth. Perhaps you can intro- 
 duce me to one of your friends. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde: Suppose— suppose— I consent to 
 marry you; that is to say, suppose you consent to 
 marry me. How can I be sure that you won't fall in 
 love with your twentieth— as you call him— to-morrow. 
 
 Rose : You can 't be sure. Love has wings like a 
 bird. Its natural action is flight. How can one help 
 loving ? 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde (tenderly): I should not wish to 
 share your love with another man. 
 
 Rose: I don't understand you. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde (aside) : This is the most remarka- 
 ble case in my experience. The girl is clean daft on 
 one subject. And yet, somehow, I am half inclined to 
 take her at her word. I might succeed in curing her 
 of her mania; I might transform her, create a new 
 woman in this unhappy spirit ; I can not abandon her 
 to a wretched fate. (To Rose.) You say you do not 
 understand me? 
 
 Rose : I can't understand why I should not be al- 
 lowed to love whomever I please. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde: The law declares that you must 
 love but one husband. 
 
 Rose : As I could only have one husband at a time. 
 I might still love some one who was not my husband.
 
 336 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde (crossing to r. and seating himself 
 next to Rose) : Don't you think you could love one 
 man, whose devotion to you would be tireless, whose 
 life would be your life, whose thought would be always 
 for your welfare and happiness ; don 't you think you 
 could love this man, and this man alone ? 
 
 Rose (moving away from him): I never thought 
 of that. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde (moving toward her again): Try, 
 try, my dear child, to see things with my eyes. 
 
 Rose : I have a pair of my own, thank you. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde (losing himself in his passion) : Lis- 
 ten to me. I do love you, and I want you to love me— 
 but not as you love other men. I am anxious to be 
 your friend, your very best friend. I want you to look 
 to me as you would look to no one else. I want— 
 
 Rose (changing her manner and laughing): You 
 play your part admirably. Dr. Van Hyde. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde (in astonishment) : Play my part ! 
 
 Rose : You have just asked me to love you ? 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde : Yes. 
 
 Rose : To accept you as my very best friend ? 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde : Yes. 
 
 Rose : Then I wish to tell you, sir, that you have 
 been trifling with me. Your love-making is purely 
 professional. It is a kind of medicine. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde (aside) : This is a hopeless case. 
 
 Rose : Furthermore, I have convicted you of false- 
 hood. You never met my father until tonight. You 
 did meet me last Monday afternoon, in New York, at 
 2:25 p. m. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde : Miss Valdingam ! 
 
 Rose (courtesying to him): Permit me to thank 
 you, dear doctor, for your kindness in picking up my 
 parcels, my parasol, my purse, and myself. I did not 
 have a chance to thank you while you were perform- 
 ing that unpleasant duty. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde : Then you remember 1 
 
 Rose : How could I forget so fascinating an adven-
 
 A GENTLE MANIAC. 337 
 
 ture, although, to be sure, we crazy women are apt to 
 have defective memories. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde (aside) : Have I been a fool ? (To 
 Rose.) I may as well confess that, when I saw you for 
 the first time here tonight, I recognized you. But I 
 did not suppose that you recognized me. 
 
 Rose : Which proves that you are not so wise a doc- 
 tor as you ought to be. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde : Reallj^, Miss Valdingam— 
 
 Rose: Really, Dr. Van Hyde— 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde : I— I do not know what to say. 
 
 Rose: I repeat— you have played your part admir- 
 ably. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde : How can you accuse me of playing 
 apart? 
 
 Rose : Sweet duplicity ! Did you not come here to 
 minister to my mind 's disease ? 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde: To meet you— to learn to know 
 you. 
 
 Rose : Of course. Meanwhile, by way of illustrat- 
 ing my mania, you made love to me. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde : That is— 
 
 Rose : That is— you played a part. And you were so 
 successful that, a few minutes ago, you thought I had 
 fallen in love with you. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde: You embarrass me. Miss Val- 
 dingam. 
 
 Rose : A doctor should never be embarrassed. He 
 should keep a cool head. His nerves should be steady ; 
 his hand determined. Now, let us be entirely frank. 
 You wanted to diagnose me— to analyze me— perhaps 
 to hypnotize me. Have I been a good subject ? 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde (awJcivardly) : An admirable sub- 
 ject. 
 
 Rose : And, honestly, what do you think of my ma- 
 nia now? 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde (still more hewildered): It is a 
 very gentle mania. 
 
 Rose : A very gentle mania ? Nothing worse than 
 that? 
 
 3-32
 
 338 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde : Nothing worse ; I am convinced. 
 
 Rose : You reassure me. But let me tell you, in re- 
 turn, that I have reason to be grateful to you. Dr. Van 
 Hyde. It may be that I am matrimonially mad. Many 
 persons are. Nearly all girls are. But at least I feel 
 certain that I shall never be confined in an asylum. 
 You would not let them send me to an asylum, would 
 you? 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde : No ! No ! 
 
 Rose : Then we can afford to be good f riend*. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde : The best of friends. 
 
 Rose : We need not talk of love again ? 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde (hesitatingly ) : No. 
 
 Rose : Because, you see, though you are a man, you 
 are also my doctor ; and a patient could not fall in love 
 with her doctor, could she ? 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde : Well, it's not usual. 
 
 Rose: Then, let me ask you a question. Do you 
 think my malady— it is a terrible malady, I suppose— 
 can be cured? 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde : I am sure it can be. 
 
 Rose : Ah ! you give me hope. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde : But you must follow my instruc- 
 tions carefully. These I will explain to you later. In 
 the first place, however, you should try to exercise a 
 certain amount of will power. When you meet a per- 
 son—that is, a man — 
 
 Rose : I should hate and despise him. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde : Oh, not so bad as that. You should 
 avoid him. 
 
 Rose : Avoid him, I see. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde : Then you could hardly fall in love 
 with him. 
 
 Rose : Nor marry him. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde : Of course you need amusement. 
 
 Rose : Of course. . 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde : Get as much of it as you can. 
 
 Rose (aside) : I 'm getting it. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde : Meanwhile, I will have a talk with 
 your father.
 
 A GENTLE MANIAC. 339 
 
 Rose : Papa will do anything for me. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde: Then we have little to fear. . . 
 Now (he turns to upper l. ) I know you must be tired. 
 This long talk has fatigued you. I will call Mr. Val- 
 dingam. (He is about to open the door.) 
 
 Rose (suddenly) : One moment, please. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde (turning to her) : Yes ? 
 
 Rose : Pardon me, I am not in the least fatigued. I 
 have— something more to say. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde : Indeed ? 
 
 Rose : Before you see papa again . . . Please 
 sit down. (He seats himself at r. She stands leaning 
 against table at l.) We have had quite an important 
 little chat, after all, have we not ? 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde (gravely) : I think it has been im- 
 portant. 
 
 Rose : For me T 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde : For you, I hope. 
 
 Rose : And during this conversation, have I had— 
 any lucid intervals ? 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde : Well, candidly, and though I am 
 what is called a specialist in brain diseases, I should 
 regard your mind as perfectly normal and healthy, 
 except— 
 
 Rose : Except on the subject of matrimony. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde : Ye-s. 
 
 Rose : Now, suppose I should assure you that I am 
 not in the least bit insane. Would that be characteris- 
 tic of insanity? 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde : Few persons with a mania suspect 
 their affliction. 
 
 Rose : I understand. But suppose— suppose— you 
 had been deceived ? 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde (jumping to his feet) : Is it possi- 
 ble? 
 
 Rose : Physicians are deceived sometimes, are they 
 not? 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde (seating himself): They are only 
 human.
 
 340 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 Rose (slyly) : And you are very human. 
 
 De. Van Hyde (confxisedly) : I confess it— tonight. 
 
 EoSE : That is why, then, you have been so easily 
 deceived — tonight ? 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde (jumping to his feet again): You 
 mean?— 
 
 Rose: That you have actually been deceived. I 
 have no mania — not even a mania to wed all the young 
 men I meet. (Laughing merrily.) But, of course, you 
 won't believe me. My denial is only a symptom of ray 
 dementia. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde : What can I think ? Your father 
 told me— 
 
 Rose : Yes, poor papa told you a great many things. 
 You took it for granted that what he said was said with 
 reason. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde (moving toward her eagerly): And 
 I have been— 
 
 Rose : As patient as a saint with the mad-cap teas- 
 ing of a foolish girl, and gently considerate of an old 
 man's whims. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde (joyfully): Can it be true? Oh, 
 Miss Valdingam, I begin to look upon myself as the 
 most ridiculous as well as the happiest of men. 
 
 Rose : But I could not resist teasing you. And still, 
 in spite of this confession, I have one mania— only 
 one. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde : A gentle mama ? 
 
 Rose: Very gentle, as you have said. It is love— 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde (advancing) : Love ! 
 
 Rose (mischievously ) : For my father. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde (disappointedly) : Oh ! 
 
 Rose : He is a good, kind father. Since my moth- 
 er's death I have been his closest companion. Oh, doc- 
 tor, I am so happy that you have come to our house. 
 It is my father who needs your help, your sympathy. 
 You will give both, I know. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde : It is your father, then — 
 
 Rose: Who is partially insane. He has been in
 
 A GENTLE MANIAC. 341 
 
 this condition for years. His chief delusion is that I 
 am insane. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde : What a fool I have been ! 
 
 Rose: Do not blame yourself. Have I not done 
 what I could to convince you that papa had told you 
 the truth. . . . Can you forgive me? 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde: Forgive you! Can you forgive 
 me? 
 
 Rose : Let us forgive each other, then. 
 
 (Walkhig to the ivindow at r. and looking out.) 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde (following her) : Miss Valdingam— 
 I- 
 
 RosE (turning and regarding him archly) : Be care- 
 ful, sir ! Perhaps you are even now mistaken. Re- 
 member how cunning we maniacs are ! 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde (aside): I am more than ever in 
 love with her. How beautiful she is. Sane or insane, 
 it would be a blessing to possess her. (To Rose, nerv- 
 ously.) Miss Valdingam, may I ask you a question? 
 
 Rose (gently): Yes. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde : You remember that when— when — 
 I thought you were not quite— 
 
 Rose : Balanced. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde: I had the hardihood— well— to 
 speak to you of love. 
 
 Rose : Certainly. You spoke professionally. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde : I did not speak professionally. 
 
 Rose (looking out of the windoiv) : Oh, indeed ? 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde: I spoke with sincerity— from my 
 heart. 
 
 Rose (ivith mock dignity): Sir! 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde : I must tell you the truth. Since 
 that day — 
 
 Rose (smiling) : Monday at 2 :25 p. m. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde: Don't laugh at me. I was in ear- 
 nest a few moments ago— I am in earnest now. . . . 
 I love you ! 
 
 Rose (ivith agitation) : You love me ! 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde: With all my soul. (He seizes her 
 hand and kisses it.)
 
 342 THE DOCTOR'S RED LAMP. 
 
 Rose (drawing her hand away quickly) : Hush ! 
 Some one is coming. 
 
 Mr. Valdingam (from behind the door): Can we 
 come in, doctor? 
 
 Rose (in a whisper to the doctor): Pretend that 
 you do not know the truth, that you are able to cure 
 me. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde (in a whisper) : That I have taken 
 the case? 
 
 Rose : Yes. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde : For life ? 
 
 Rose : We shall see. But speak to him. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde (turning to l.) : Is that you, Mr. 
 Valdingam ? Please come in. (Enter Mr. Valdingam 
 and Susan.) 
 
 Mr. Valdingam (eagerly and secretly, to Dr. Van 
 Hyde): Well? 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde (gravely) : I am glad to be able to 
 assure you, Mr. Valdingam, that my preliminary ex- 
 amination of your daughter has been entirely satis- 
 factory. 
 
 Mr. Valdingam: Sir, I am overwhelmed with de- 
 light. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde: While your daughter is, without 
 doubt, suffering from certain delusions— 
 
 Mr. Valdingam (turning to Susan) : Do you hear 
 that, sister? 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde : Her trouble is not far enough ad- 
 vanced to occasion anxiety. 
 
 jMr. Valdingam : Heaven be praised ! 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde : In fact, I promise you that within 
 one month her mind will be as clear and vigorous as 
 your own. 
 
 Mr. Valdingam (grasping the doctor's hands): Sir, 
 I regard you as our benefactor. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde : But you must be very patient and 
 kind ; and, with your permission, I will take charge of 
 her. My plan is to visit her, here at your house, twice, 
 or perhaps three or four times a week. You will notice 
 an improvement in her condition very soon.
 
 A GENTLE MANIAC. 343 
 
 Mr. Valdingam : Have your way, doctor. So long 
 as my child is saved to me, that is everything. (Turn- 
 ing to EosE.) Rose, my pet, I hear that the doctor and 
 you have become fast friends already, (Rose joi7is 
 them at l. c, and Mr. Valdingam kisses and fondles 
 her.) 
 
 Rose : Oh, yes, papa, Dr. Van Hyde and I are now 
 very good friends. 
 
 Mr. Valdingam: That's right— that's right. Put 
 your trust in him, my child. He has your interest at 
 heart. 
 (Mr. Valdingam turns gleefully to Susan, and ih» 
 
 two converse.) 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde (to Rose) : You hear? He places 
 you in my care. 
 
 Rose : I share his confidence. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde : And— may I not hope to be— your 
 nineteenth ? 
 
 Rose : There has not yet been— a first. 
 
 Dr. Van Hyde : Shall Ave unite then in a study of 
 agreeable possibilities ? 
 
 Rose (archly) : Won't you walk with me in the gar- 
 den ? See how bright and beautiful the night is ! . . . 
 Come. Perhaps I may find you— a rose. 
 (Rose and Dr. Van Hyde exeunt at l. as the curtain 
 
 falls.) 
 
 George Edgar Montgomery.
 
 /
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
 Los Angeles 
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