Chapter VI: Contains a Problem

It was just past ten o’clock one bitterly cold night about ten days later.

Owen Odd was in his narrow, stuffy little surgery, bending over a memorandum-book in which he was making some notes with his fountain-pen. For four mortal hours—ever since six o’clock indeed—his waiting-room had been crowded by lower-class patients, many of them in receipt of medical relief from the parish of Hammersmith; others club patients, mothers with peevish babies, and honest working men suffering from various ills.

Now, however, he had dismissed the last one, washed his hands, and was putting down certain addresses to add to his visits next morning, prior to eating his lonely evening meal in the shabby dining-room upstairs.

The surgery was reached by a basement door at the side, over which burned the red lamp. Dr. Maureward, his principal, lived over at Chiswick, where he had another practice, while Odd occupied that small and poky house in the centre of a street in which nearly every window bore the legend “Apartments.”

Owen was an indefatigable worker. He loved his profession, even though the work among the poor was terribly fagging, and his daily visits extended over a wide and populous area from the Hammersmith infirmary over at Wormwood Scrubbs, away to private patients at West Kensington and Barnes Common.

He closed his book with a sigh, and was about to turn down the gas when an elderly maidservant entered, saying:

“You’re wanted, sir.”

“Good Heavens!” he exclaimed irritably. “Am I never to have a moment’s peace? Who is it now?”

“A young woman, sir.”

“Well, show her in; and, Margaret, keep my dinner warm—it may be nothing.”

The next minute a tidily dressed maidservant was ushered into the surgery. Her white apron and cuffs showing beneath the jacket she was wearing, and her hat somewhat awry, gave evidence of the haste with which she had come.

“Good-evening,” said Owen, rising. “What can I do for you, pray?”

“Would you come at once, the missus says; the master has been taken bad again very sudden.”

“Ah! What’s the matter? And where does your master live?”

“’Eart, I fancy it is. He went queer like all on a sudden, and can’t get his wind. And our flat’s No. 2, Plevna Gardens, Shepherd’s Bush, and will you come at once, please?”

“Heart, is it? Well, I’ll come,” said Owen with a sigh, as the thought of his delayed, and probably spoilt, dinner flashed across his mind. “Tell your mistress I’ll be there almost as soon as you are,” opening the surgery door for the girl. “By the bye, what is your master’s name?”

“Major Gordon, please, sir.”

“All right; I’ll come.” And, shutting the door, he turned to the shelves that lined the surgery, and selected two or three phials containing the drugs applicable to cases of “heart,” and placed them in the brown leather hand-bag which so often accompanied him on his professional rounds; and then, as he wrapped a comforter round his throat and put on his thick overcoat, he called out some further directions to Margaret anent his dinner, and left the house.

He knew Plevna Gardens, a turning out of the Shepherd’s Bush Road, though he never had had a patient there previously. The houses had originally been private dwellings, but of recent years had been altered into flats; and though the neighbourhood could not be regarded as exactly aristocratic, they, in their new guise, had found a very good class of tenants to whom the question of rent was of importance.

No. 2 lay on the north side of the street, and entering the hall, he found by the board that “Major Gordon” occupied the second floor. In answer to his knock the door was opened instantly, as though someone had been awaiting his advent.

“Oh, doctor, how good of you to come so quickly! And yet I somehow felt you would. Please come in. My father seems a little better now, I am happy to say, but I’m very uneasy about him.”

For a moment Owen found a difficulty in replying. He was startled out of speech by the vision of beauty that stood before him. It was no servant that had opened the door, but a lady whose right to the designation was written on every line of her gloriously moulded features. Never before had such a vision of radiant beauty dazzled him and compelled him to silence.

A wealth of light-brown hair, now somewhat in disorder, hung low over a broad forehead, and the ripples and waves seemed to catch and imprison the gleams that fell from the overhanging electric lamp. Her dark blue eyes, gazing into his own, appeared unnaturally large owing to the anxiety that pervaded them, and this same anxiety was indicated in the lines of the little mouth, which struck Owen as being a perfect representation of Cupid’s bow.

“I’m delighted to hear it, Miss—Miss——” stammered Owen, for once shaken out of his professional sang-froid.

“Gordon,” replied the girl, for she was little more. “It is my father who is ill.”

“So I understood from your servant. May I ask is he liable to these seizures?”

“No; I can hardly say that, but he has had one before, more than a year ago, and they always make me so nervous.”

“Naturally—naturally,” said Owen, stepping into the small hall, and rapidly recovering his professional air. “Perhaps I had better see him at once, when I may be able to afford him some relief.”

“Oh, yes; please come this way,” and the doctor, having removed his wrap and coat, followed the girl to a bedroom situated at the end of a rather narrow passage. There, lying on a couch, he found his patient, a man of some fifty years of age, whose handsome face was white and drawn with pain. His eyes were closed, and he was breathing heavily.

“Father, here is Doctor Odd. Isn’t it good of him to have come so quickly? Mary had hardly got back before he was here. We are both most grateful to him, I am sure.”

A faint smile flickered round the sick man’s mouth, and, opening his eyes, he held out his hand to Owen, saying:

“I’m much obliged to you, doctor, and am sorry to have had to give you the trouble.”

“Don’t mention it, major. We doctors don’t regard it as trouble when we can be of use. I’m glad to hear you’re already feeling a little better.”

“Thank you, yes. The sharpness of the pain has decreased. Amy, my child, leave us for a little. We will call you if anything is wanted.”

“Very well, papa. Now, mind and be a good patient,” with an attempt at a smile. And then, turning to Owen, “I shall be in the next room, doctor, and shall hear you if you call. You will see me before you leave?” And as she spoke the anxious look took the place of the smile.

Alone with the major, Owen made a thorough examination of his patient, at the same time asking such questions as might help him in diagnosing the case, and even as this was in progress he could mark a rapid improvement. In the end he came to a conclusion in his own mind which he had no hesitation in imparting to his patient.

“Well, major,” he said, “I’m delighted to be able to tell you I don’t think there is anything seriously amiss. Your heart is weak, certainly, and you will have to be careful; but, beyond this, there is no organic disease, and there is no reason why you should not be as strong as ever again. You’ve been in India, I understood you to say?”

“Yes, for some years.”

“Ah! That terrible climate plays Old Harry with a good many men, and, besides that, I fancy you have been worrying about something or other lately. Eh?”

At these words the major turned his head sharply, scanning Owen’s face intently; and then, in a tone affecting indifference, “Well, perhaps I have. We all have our little worries, doctor, don’t we?”

“Oh, we do; but the less we make of them the better it is for us.”

“Excellent advice, which we cannot always follow. However, in this case I’m _going_ to follow it.” And the words were spoken with an air of decision that struck Owen as peculiar.

“Well, major,” he replied, “I’ll run in and see you again to-morrow, and in the meantime will send you round some medicine. Get to bed early, and don’t get up till I’ve seen you to-morrow morning. My report to Miss Gordon, I’m sure, will give her satisfaction. I’ll see her as I go out, and give her one or two small directions, and now, good-night—and, above all, don’t worry.”

“Good-night, doctor, and many thanks. I’m going to obey you. You’ll find Amy in the dining-room. Good-night.”

As Owen left the room Miss Gordon was waiting in the passage for him. Silently she drew him into the dining-room, and it was not till the door was shut that she uttered the one word, “Well?”

“Miss Gordon, I am delighted to be able to say it _is_ well—or nearly so. I mean there is nothing seriously amiss with your father beyond a weakness of the heart, from which so many business men and others suffer.”

“Thank God for that, doctor. You don’t know what your words mean to me.” And her eyes were brimming over with tears, the result of the sudden relaxation of the strain she had undergone. And she laid her hands on Owen’s arm as she continued: “I shall never be able to thank you enough for what you have done for my father.”

“Really, Miss Gordon, you are making far too much of my poor services. I have done nothing. You must thank Nature and a good constitution; but now it lies with you to help them both by taking care of your father and keeping him from worrying—at any rate for a time.” But while he was belittling his services Owen found the thanks of this lovely girl very pleasant to his ears.

“You may be sure, doctor, I shall do all in my power to carry out your instructions.” But as she uttered these words her companion fancied he could detect a tone of doubt that belied the assertion, which caused him to continue:

“Of course, Miss Gordon, I do not wish to appear inquisitive, but is there anything that you know of that has been troubling your father of late?”

He put the question in as casual a way as he was capable of, but he did not fail to detect the hesitance with which the girl answered “N-o, nothing particular,” and, feeling that he was perhaps trespassing on delicate ground, he continued:

“Well, I prophesy that to-morrow will show a great improvement in our patient.” It was a pleasure to make use of the word “our”; it seemed to couple his companion and himself together in a way that he had perhaps no right to do more openly.

“So, doctor,” and a bright smile lit up the face before him, “you, too, venture to prophesy at times?”

“Certainly. But why do you say that?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Only doctors are generally supposed to be so matter-of-fact.” And the smile was still there.

“Not always, Miss Gordon. They are only men, after all, and must relax at times. But before I entirely lose my character, let me give you one or two directions regarding your father and his diet.” And then, in the most matter-of-fact way, Dr. Owen Odd proceeded to lay down certain rules and regulations with regard to the patient, while Miss Gordon, seated at a side table, made notes on a little tablet.

At length he concluded with the words: “There, I think that is all I have to say—nothing very appalling, is it?”

“No, doctor. You may rely on your directions being carried out, at any rate as long as I am here.”

“Here? Then don’t you live here? Excuse me asking.”

“Oh, yes, I live here, but I’m out a good deal; still, if it were necessary I _would_ remain at home while my father was unwell.”

The idea of this lovely girl going out to earn her living came rather as a shock to Owen. It had not occurred to him that such could be the case. The room he was in, and, indeed, the flat generally, so far as he had seen, was furnished luxuriously, and gave no indication of lack of means in the possessors. He glanced across at her, and there was something in his look that caused her to burst into a merry laugh, as she said:

“I’m afraid, doctor, you take me for one of the butterflies that neither work nor spin. If so, you’re quite wrong.”

“I beg your pardon, Miss Gordon; I did not presume to think anything of the kind—that would only be impertinence on my part.”

“Not at all, doctor. Let me confess at once I earn my own living and, in a measure, that of my father as well.”

“And every credit is due to you, I’m sure. If more women only did the same it would be a bad thing for the fashionable doctors. But in—excuse me, I was forgetting myself.”

“Don’t mention it, pray. You would say how do I earn it? I look at hands.”

“Ah! A manicurist?”

“No. Not a manicurist. Something better than that.” And the eyes that were regarding him were sparkling with fun.

“Then, Miss Gordon, I confess I’m quite at sea.”

“I wonder if you’ll be horrified when I tell you, for I hold with the saying that one should be quite open with one’s lawyer and doctor.”

“There could not be a truer saying, and whatever you may choose to tell me, Miss Gordon, you may be quite sure will go no farther.”

“Then, Doctor Odd, you see before you Madame Juliette!”