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Bachelor's Dream

<h3 id="id00424" style="margin-top: 3em">CHAPTER VI.</h3> Doctor Brudenell realized very often the fact that the life of a London medical man, however large his practice and solvent his patients, is not by any means an enviable one. Once upon a time, when a red lamp had been a novelty, and the power to write "M. D." after his ordinary signature a delicious dignity, a patient had been to him a prodigy, something precious for its rarity, even if it called him away from his dinner or ruthlessly rang him up in the middle of the night. But that was a long time ago, in the days of his impecunious youth; and now, in his prosperous middle-age, he would often have willingly bartered a good many patients for a little more leisure. This was particularly the case upon a hot, oppressive night a week later, a night such as London generally experiences in August. It was Saturday, and certainly it was not pleasant, after a week of fatiguing work, to be summoned as soon as he had got into his bedroom, at considerably past eleven o'clock at night, to attend a patient who resided somewhere in the wilds of Holloway. However, there was no help for it; and the Doctor, philosophically resigning himself, and taking care to be sure that his latch-key was in his pocket, spoke a word to Mrs. Jessop, as a precaution against that worthy woman's putting up the chain of the hall door before she went to bed, and let himself out. It was a fine night, hot as it was, with a large bright moon hardly beginning to wane, and myriads of stars. Doctor Brudenell, as good and quick a walker now as he had been twenty years before, thought lightly of the distance between his own house and that of his patient, and soon reached his destination. It was little that he could do—in fact, he had been sent for without real need—and it was not much after twelve o'clock when he reached the railway-arch which spans the Holloway Road. He stopped for a moment, and looked up, thinking what a black bar it seemed in the yellow moonlight, and how oddly quiet the streets were, which all day long were teeming with noisy life. Most of the shops were closed, and only a few straggling foot-passengers were to be seen. Only for a moment did he thus glance about him, taking his hat off to push the damp hair from his forehead, for his quick walk had made him warm. Then he walked on under the arch, to stop before it was half traversed, for a hand suddenly placed upon his shoulders brought him to a halt. "Your pardon, sir," said a voice in his ear. "You are a doctor, I believe?" "I am!" The Doctor tried in the gloom of the arch to make out the face of the inquirer, but in vain. He could only tell that it was a young man by his voice and gestures, and he saw that he was considerably taller than himself. "Doctor Brudenell, I think?" "I am Doctor Brudenell. What is wanted?" "Yourself, sir, if you please. A person—my—brother—is ill—almost dying, it is feared. Will you accompany me to him? There is no time to be lost." "What is the matter with him?" asked the Doctor. "Sir, you will know when you see him. I"—with a deprecatory shrug of the shoulders—"can I tell?" "But is it a fit, a fever, an accident? What is it?" asked Doctor Brudenell impatiently. "You must know that." "Sir, it cannot be a fever, since an hour ago he was well. Pray, sir, will you come? He is very ill. Delay is dangerous." The man moved on as he spoke, and the Doctor moved with him, for his arm was still clasped by the stranger's strong supple fingers. But outside the archway he stopped. "Stay! Why do you come to me? Have you no regular medical attendant?" "We have not, sir. As to why I come to you—I have heard of you, that is all. I reached your house almost as you left it, and have followed you, and waited. Pray come, sir, I entreat you. There is a carriage waiting here." A carriage was standing just outside the arch—an ordinary-looking close carriage, drawn by a light-colored horse, and driven by a coachman who was singularly muffled up, considering the heat of the night. The Doctor mechanically noticed that there were no lamps to the carriage, as, in obedience to the eager pressure of his companion's hand, he got in. The other followed, shutting the door smartly behind him, and the vehicle started instantly. Doctor Brudenell, leaning back in his corner, looked curiously—as well as the dimness of the carriage would let him—with the keen eyes of a man accustomed to weigh and observe, at his companion, who, with his hands in his pockets and his hat pulled down over his brows, appeared to be half asleep. He was a very handsome man, that was certain—face dark and clear cut, complexion swarthy, figure at once lithe and muscular, and some years under thirty. There was a turn of the throat, a trick of movement, when he presently changed his position restlessly, that perplexed the watcher. The Doctor fancied that he must have seen this man before, but he could not remember where. "Is it far?" he asked suddenly. It must be, he thought. They had been in the carriage at least a quarter of an hour; the horse had been going at a swift trot, and now there was no sign of slackening speed. The young man started, and opened his eyes. "It is not now, sir. We shall soon be there—in time, I hope." He stamped twice upon the floor of the carriage impatiently, as though in anxiety; but the sound seemed to act as a signal, for the driver instantly whipped up the horse, and the speed was increased—almost doubled. The curtains of the windows were down, and the Doctor drew one of them aside and peered out. They were in a street he did not know, badly paved, badly lighted, squalid, flanked by rows of high mean houses, half of which seemed empty, for hardly a light shone from their windows. He looked round. "Where are we?" "We are close there, sir." "But what street is this? I don't know it in the least." "Sir, I do not know it; but I know that in a moment we shall be there." The Doctor sank back into his corner again resignedly. He was fatigued, sleepy, put out. Just then he most heartily wished that this young man had found some one else to attend to the wants of his brother. He must be crazy—to have gone all that distance after a doctor, and then to follow and accost one in the street! It was as queer a thing in its way as his twenty years in the profession had brought to his knowledge. Thinking over this his eyelids drooped; he no longer saw the dim figure of his companion and was startled when presently the carriage stopped with a jerk. In a moment the young man had opened the door, sprung out, and was saying: "We are here. Alight, sir, if you please." Doctor Brudenell, confused and sleepy still, did so, looking about him. He was in a narrow paved court, entirely unlighted, closed in at the lower end by what seemed to be a huge deserted stack of warehouses and fenced upon the farther side by the blank walls and regular rows of narrow windows of what had evidently been a manufactory; but the windows were broken; a door hung swinging upon its hinges; it was evident that this place was unused and deserted too. Upon the side where he stood were a couple of old houses, bare and desolate, with broken windows, broken railings—dark, silent—the most dismal houses the Doctor had ever seen. At the door of the first of these, where a faint light was visible in one of the lower windows as the carriage stopped, the young man tapped cautiously with his hand three times. In another moment the door was softly opened, the figure of the opener being lost in the gloom within. On the broken door-step the Doctor hesitated; he was not a timid man, but this all seemed very strange. However, he obeyed the pressure of the hand laid upon his arm, and entered; glancing behind him as he did so, he saw that the carriage had disappeared. The door was gently closed; and he stood in absolute darkness, hesitating, wondering. He fancied he heard cautious feet stealing across the bare floor of the hall; but not another sound broke the oppressive brooding silence of the close, musty-smelling old house. In another moment he would have spoken, have demanded the meaning of all this, when a faint gleam of light appeared at the end of the hall, and from the lower stairs a man's hand and arm became visible, holding a lamp. A hand was laid upon his arm at the same moment, and the voice of his summoner spoke quietly in his ear: "Your patient is ready, sir. Come, if you please." The speaker went toward the stairs, and the light was withdrawn. The Doctor followed him for a few paces, then stopped abruptly. "Down-stairs!" he said incredulously. "Sir, he was too bad to be moved." "I see. Go before, if you please." The light glimmered faintly at the foot of the staircase again, and the Doctor followed his conductor down, noting that the steps were dirty and bare, that the stone passage-way at the bottom was also dirty and bare, that, for all the indications that there were to the contrary, this was an absolutely unfurnished house. As he reached the last stair he looked keenly at the man who held the lamp—a middle-aged man, loose-jointed and loosely dressed, with iron-gray hair and a scar upon his cheek. He spoke with a slightly foreign accent, and, with a bow, moved aside from the doorway in which he stood. "You are welcome, sir; I thank you. Enter, if you please." Doctor Brudenell did so, then started and stopped involuntarily. A sick man, a man on the point of dying—were they mad enough to keep him in a room such as this? A room? A sty, rather! The door was stone, with a few sacks spread upon it; the windows were secured by crazy shutters, the only table was formed by boards laid upon two old barrels, and the two or three chairs were broken. The only other piece of furniture or semblance of furniture was an old couch, the horse-hair covering tattered, straggling pieces of the stuffing hanging down. Lying upon it was the figure of a man, with some roughly-applied bandages about his head and face. Strange as it all was, the sight of this man, the cause of his being there, restored to the Doctor his professional coolness and self-possession. He was a medical man—this was his patient. He advanced, and with rapid deft fingers removed the bandages, laying bare a face so horribly disfigured that, practiced as he was, he felt his own turn pale. He spoke quickly and aloud, knowing that the sick man was insensible, and looking at the other two. "What's this? What has happened to this man? He is burnt!" "As you say, sir." The gray-haired man, still holding the lamp, bowed. "Most horribly burnt—and with chemicals. Is it not so?" "It is, sir." "There has been an explosion. He was trying to do something with them—probably combine them—he made a mistake in his method or calculations, and they exploded," said the Doctor rapidly. "Again you are right, sir." The two men exchanged swift glances of mingled admiration and contempt—admiration of the Doctor's quickness and lucidity, contempt of him for being there. He did not see them; he was continuing his examination of the insensible man. The injuries to the head and face were the worst, but the throat, chest, and arms were also burned severely. Doctor Brudenell rose from the knee upon which he had sunk down to pursue his examination. "You should have told me what the case was," he said sternly, looking at the young man. "You bring me here in ignorance, and I am absolutely helpless. I have no materials for treating injuries such as these. I require lint, oil, bandages." "They are here," said the gray-haired man quietly; and as his companion, in obedience to a motion of his hand, left the room, he looked at the Doctor, and asked anxiously, "Sir, can you save his life?" "I don't know—it depends upon his constitution—of which I know nothing—and the care that is bestowed upon him. But"—with a glance round the wretched apartment—"he will not live if he stays here." "He will not stay here." The Doctor said no more, for the young man came back with bandages, lint, and oil. All three had evidently been purchased in anticipation of their being wanted. The Doctor applied them as well as he could, by the dim light of the lamp. The patient moved and moaned, but he did not open his eyes or show any signs of consciousness; the other two did not speak once. His task concluded, the Doctor turned to them abruptly. "He had better be moved at once; he cannot pass the night here—indeed, he should have been got up-stairs at the first. If there is any assistance that you can call it will be as well. He is utterly helpless. He must be carried." "Good!" said the elder man quietly, and with the suspicion of a mocking smile at the corners of his mouth. "Explain, sir, if you please. Carried where?" "Up-stairs, of course!" "Up-stairs!" Both men laughed, but only the elder echoed the word. "Impossible, sir!" he said coolly. "But I tell you he must be moved!" exclaimed the Doctor impatiently. "You have risked his life already by your delay." "Reassure yourself, sir," said the other, in the same tone as before. "He shall be moved—I have said it!" "Then where, if not up-stairs?" "Out of the house." "Out of the house—in this condition? You must be out of your mind! It will kill him!" Doctor Brudenell was excited. He rebelled against this treatment of his patient—as his patient. As merely a man he would not have cared. "Kill him—so be it!" The speaker shrugged his shoulders, with a smile that expanded the scar on his cheek, and the Doctor involuntarily moderated his tone. He instinctively recognized that he had spoken too bluntly, too hastily to this man, who looked impenetrable. "You must really understand," he urged, "the great risk of what you are about to do. This man's condition is dangerous now; the shock to the system may be so great that even with the best of care he will not recover. By doing what you propose you seriously jeopardize what chance he has of life. When do you intend to move him?" "Sir, at once!" "What—now—in the middle of the night?" "Exactly, sir." "Preposterous!" the Doctor cried excitedly. "It shall not be done!" "Indeed. And who, sir, will prevent it?" "If necessary, I will." The man put down the lamp upon the boards that served as a table, put his hands to his sides, and laughed. Not loudly or heartily, but with intense mocking enjoyment, as at something too grotesquely absurd for speech. Then suddenly, exerting a surprising amount of strength for so old a man, he put his two hands upon the shoulders of the slightly-built Doctor, and, holding him so, stood looking down at him tauntingly, laughing still. "You will—you will prevent! Monsieur the Doctor, you are a hero. You are alone, you don't know where, with you don't know whom; it is one o'clock in the morning, no one in your household knows where to find you, and yet you will prevent! You stand in a house where your body might remain undiscovered for years; but still you defy, you threaten! By Heaven, my noble physician, you are brave!" He loosened his hold and leaned against the improvised table, laughing still in the same suppressed manner, and glancing at the young man, who replied to this dreadful mirth with a sarcastic smile. George Brudenell, almost staggering as the strong hands released him, was stupefied for the moment. He was no coward, but he suddenly realized the utter helplessness of his position. Where was he? He did not know. Who were these men, who met alone in this deserted house at midnight? He did not know. He was a weaker man than either; and how many more of them might there not be hidden within hearing distance now? If they chose to do him violence—to murder him, in short—he would be totally incapable of offering any adequate resistance. He was trapped, and he felt it; for the moment the knowledge appalled him, but he strove to regain both his wits an courage. "You have the advantage, sir," he said, addressing the elder man; "and you use your superiority of numbers well. As for this man, you take the responsibility if you move him. It is none of mine! I have done what I can, and all I can. Show me to the door." "A moment, sir, if you please!" The younger man looked at the elder with a glance of remonstrance, as though he thought his companion in his last speech and action had gone too far. "You are forgetting an important item, sir—your fee." "I want no fee, and will take none! Show me to the door, I say!" He turned toward the doorway. By himself he would have stumbled up the stairs down which he had been enticed; but the elder man seized him by the shoulder. He spoke now in a tone almost as courteous as that which he had just used had been insulting. "Your pardon! A moment, sir, if you please. You were called here——" "Trapped here!" interposed the Doctor angrily. "Well, well"—the other spoke blandly, soothingly, as though to a restive child—"trapped here, if you will. A word—what does it matter? Permit me to finish. There are two things to do, sir, and you have done but one." "I will do nothing more!" George Brudenell was thoroughly master of himself again now, and he flung off the hand upon his shoulder. The young man moved and stood between him and the door, and the elder resumed coolly: "A difficult thing, since it has something like death to answer for"—with a glance at the senseless disfigured form upon the couch; "but an easy thing—a mere bagatelle to a man such as you—a skillful chemist, a practiced handler of chemicals. Monsieur, you will do what yonder bungler failed to do—you will, if you please, combine these chemicals." "I will not!" The Doctor's temper was roused; the thought that he had been so tricked made him forget the danger he was in. He spoke without any signs of fear now, and faced the pair. Comprehension he had not, but suspicion he had, and he spoke it out hardily. "I will not!" he repeated. "Whatever villainy it is that you perpetrate here, I will have no hand in it. To whatever atrocious use it is that you design to put the things you speak of, I say that I am glad that they have turned upon one scoundrel at least. It is useless to put these chemicals before me—I swear that I will not touch them! I would sooner cut off my right hand!" "Ma foi, monsieur"—again the elder man smiled!—"you are likely, if you remain obstinate, to lose more than that! Come—consider, sir,—reflect. You are helpless, and we are impatient; your summer nights are short, and we have much to do. Come, then—speak!" "Ah," cried the younger man suddenly, but in the suppressed tones which both seemed to use habitually—"Hush!" Doctor Brudenell had heard nothing—could hear nothing, although he listened eagerly; but it seemed that the sound, whatever it might have been, had alarmed the two men. It was evidently repeated, for the lamp was put out instantly, and he felt himself forcibly thrust into what seemed to be a cupboard and heard the key turned in the lock. For a few moments George Brudenell was dazed again—stupefied. He was so utterly amazed that he could hardly believe that it was not all a dream. Was this the latter half of the nineteenth century….was he in the heart of London? Then suddenly he realized his position, tried to suppress his very breathing and the beating of his heart, for there was a sound of footsteps upon the creaking stairs, some one else entered the room, there was the scratching of a match, and a pale thread of light crept under the door of his prison, showing that the lamp had been relighted. He listened intently, jealously, straining every nerve to hear and to understand. Voices whispered; he could distinguish the tones of the two men, but not their words, the muffled muttering was too low; then there came a cry, followed by a rapid movement toward the door which shut him from these strange whisperers—more, a hand was even laid upon the lock and the key was partly turned. Then there came a scuffle, almost a struggle, a sound of something being dragged along the bare boards, and the voice of the elder man muttering fiercely, threateningly. The Doctor, as the footsteps retreated and the savage, repressed sounds died away into a distant murmur, leaned against the damp wall of his prison, and fought with a fresh perplexity. The new-comer into that gloomy house of wickedness and mystery was a woman! He had heard the sweep of heavy skirts as his door was approached, and that one shrill, hardly-stifled cry had surely been in a woman's voice! Then the pale thread of light was withdrawn, the sound of footsteps moved toward the door, and a horrible fear assailed him. Was he to be left there to break his way out into light or to die in darkness? The notion was horrible; his self-control failed him; and with his clenched hands he hammered upon the panels of the door, calling out loudly that he would not be left there, trapped like a rat, and appealing to them to let him out. There was a pause, more hurried, unintelligible whispering, then footsteps drew near the door, and outside a voice spoke—the elder man's. "Be silent, and no harm will be done you. Be patient, sir, and you shall be released." "When?" demanded Doctor Brudenell. "When we have done what we have to do. Until then, silence!" Again the footsteps and the light withdrew, and the Doctor was left in absolute silence and complete darkness, to fight as well as he could with his sense of utter helplessness and the violent beating of his heart. The struggle lasted only for a short time as he found out afterward, but in the passing it seemed an age. Then the pale gleam of light crept again beneath the door, and there came the sound of footsteps; the two men had returned. He could hear that they were raising a heavy body with painful difficulty, for there were low moans and one deep groan—they were moving the almost dying man. Another and longer interval of profound darkness, of brooding silence followed, until the footsteps again returned, the door was thrown open, and he stepped out, dazed by the light, feeble as it was. The lamp was held by the man with the scar on his cheek, the couch upon which the wounded man had lain was empty; a faint trace of light shone through the chinks of the crazy shutters—it was almost morning. "You are free, sir," said his captor calmly and in a tone of perfect indifference, cutting short the useless words of wrath and indignation which fell from the Doctor's lips. "Go, and hasten, if you please; the night is nearly over! The carriage in which you came waits." "I shall not use it; I will go alone, and on foot." He stepped toward the door, anxious just then for nothing except to get free of the detested house, but, as before, the man's hand was brought down upon his shoulder. "Your pardon, sir—you will go as you came, and with the same companion. You need not fear—no harm of any kind will be done you. I have pledged my word that you shall depart as you came, and I will keep it. Good! Depart then, if you please." Realizing the utter futility of lingering or speaking, Doctor Brudenell was prudent. He obeyed without remonstrance or delay. He mounted the stairs, crossed the bare hall, and left the house. In a moment his arm was seized by the younger man, he was hustled into the carriage which had brought him, and driven off at a pace so swift that he had the sense at once to abandon the design of leaping out which he had hastily formed. But that would have been impossible had the vehicle moved slowly, for the eyes of his companion were keenly on the alert, as he could not fail to see. Not a word upon either side had been spoken when, some half an hour later, the carriage suddenly stopped, he was thrust out as strongly and roughly as he had been hustled in; and, as he stood, dazed by the events of this extraordinary night and the rush of fresh sweet air, the coachman drove rapidly away. George Brudenell looked about him like one bereft of reason. He had no idea of the route by which he had been driven, and it was only after looking for some time at the houses about him that he discovered where he was, for he felt as perplexed and confused as though he had been voyaging through the air in a balloon. Slowly he recognized his surroundings—he was close upon the confines of Victoria Park. Not a sound broke the silence, not a form was visible, the dawn was brightening rosily in the east. He drew out his watch; it was just three o'clock on Sunday morning. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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