The Earl's promise

Between them, Drs. Murney and Connelley devised some plan of treatment designed to comfort Dr. Girvan, to provide the inmates of Bayview with an ideal occupation, and to impress Grace with the conviction that nothing which could be done to save her father was being left undone.

True to his determination, Dr. Girvan, spite of all entreaties to the contrary, broke the news of Mr. Moffat’s danger to his daughter, accusing himself, at the same time, with having been the cause of that danger.

“Ye trusted me,” he said, in that homely Irish accent which is never so sweet as when the speaker is in trouble and breathes a pathetic tone with every word,—“Ye trusted me, and this is how I’ve recompensed ye; and all because of my own hatred—God forgive me!—and my own conceit. Had it been Dr. Murney or Connelley that said I was wrong, I’d have listened to either of them; but as it is, my heart is breaking to think about you and him.”

Into the old, honest face, puckered with emotion, into the eyes that had looked at her with a kindly light in them so often, Grace gazed for a minute. She was not so besotted with her own grief that she failed to see the bitterer grief of another, that she could note unmoved the anguish of repentance that had rendered this old man who made his tremulous confession almost beside himself with remorse; and though tears lay too high for her to trust herself to answer him verbally, she took his hand in both of hers, with a pitying gesture, more eloquent than any form of speech.

Had Doctor Girvan been the most consummate diplomatist, instead of an honest, well-meaning, behind-the-age old man, he could not have hit on a plan better calculated to retain Grace’s kindly feeling than that of a free and open confession.

After all, it is never what a person tells of himself, but what others say of him, that damages him materially. The frank plea of guilty takes the worst of the sting out of many a social as well as legal crime.

It may not be the highest nature which is ready to confess to man, but it is nevertheless the sort of nature man likes best; and whereas, had Dr. Girvan failed to take the whole of the blame on his own shoulders, she would have retained an exceeding bitter remembrance of his determined rejection of Mr. Hanlon’s opinion, she never, as matters now stood, thought in the future of her father’s life sacrificed as it was to old tradition, without at the same time recalling the picture of an aged man’s anguished face while he in the same breath entreated her forgiveness and blamed himself for having caused her such misery.

Further, Drs. Murney and Connelley, shocked at so open a display of professional insufficiency, lack of reticence, and disregard of medical etiquette, deeming it best to make out as good a case for their fellow-practitioner as his imbecile and indiscreet revelations left possible, took immediate opportunity to efface as far as might be the impression such a direful abuse of common discretion was calculated to produce.

Between them they succeeded in sketching and filling in a very creditable series of facts founded on fiction; that is to say, the general conclusion at which they arrived was right, though the premises on which those conclusions were founded were wrong.

The case, they assured her, was a most obscure one. How far Dr. Girvan had been right in his course of treatment they could not tell, owing to the length of time which elapsed between Mr. Moffat’s attack and their own arrival; but there was no doubt he had medical precedent of the highest authority for all he did, and if he erred, it was from no lack of skill or prudence, but simply because nature had chosen to clothe the complaint in a dress similar to that worn by a totally distinct disease; Mr. Hanlon’s diagnosis of the case might not really have been one whit more correct than Dr. Girvan’s; and finally they assured Miss Moffat that everything which could be done had been done, and should be done. “If skill and attention can save him,” said Dr. Murney, “he will be spared to you.” And they left Grace, thinking they had glossed over the little error in judgment very neatly.

Mr. Hanlon lingered behind them for a moment. He had all a young man’s enthusiasm for truth being always presented as a nude figure, and his public experiences of stating unpleasant facts without the slightest atom of clothing veiling their deformity tended undoubtedly to encourage this outspoken frankness on disagreeable topics.

For his life he could not see what good purpose the doctors proposed to effect by mystifying Miss Moffat as to her father’s state.

“They are raising false hopes,” he thought, and so waited to hear what remark Grace might have to make.

Doctor Murney’s last words, which Dr. Connelley ratified with an approving smile, had been, “If skill and attention can save him, he will be spared to you.”

“And what do you say, Mr. Hanlon?” she asked.

“You have heard what Dr. Murney’s opinion is,” he answered.

“Yes, and I think I know what it is worth. The promise contained in his words will be kept to the ear and broken to the heart. Be frank with me, Mr. Hanlon; it is so, is it not?”

“I do not like to answer you,” he said.

“But what is the use of deceiving me?” she asked.

“None,” was his answer.

“You believe, then, there is no hope?”

“I believe nothing can save him,” he said slowly. “But we will all do our best, you may be sure of that, Miss Moffat.”

“Thank you,” she answered. The words were nothing, but the tone in which she spoke them went straight to the surgeon’s heart.

“I wish that idiot Girvan had been dead and buried rather than he should have meddled in the case,” thought the surgeon. “And yet, perhaps, it is as well. A few years might have been added to this man’s life, but how could he have found enjoyment in them, with the dread of THIS dogging his path? Better as it is,” decided Mr. Hanlon philosophically. Like many other social reformers, his ideas about the value of life were extremely lax. The nation, the race, the world, posterity, these were the objects he desired to benefit.

What did a few or many lives matter, providing the grand result were obtained? What mattered it whether thousands died brokenhearted, if by the travail of their souls millions yet unborn tasted the delights of perfect equality of (this was a telling platform phrase, perhaps because there is no country—unless, indeed, it may be Scotland, where there is less uncovering, except amongst the beggars, than in Ireland)—“doffing their hats to no man.”

Mr. Hanlon said, and doubtless thought he spoke the truth, he would cheerfully lay down his life to emancipate Ireland.

There is a considerable difference, however, between abstract propositions and actual practice. When the time came that Mr. Hanlon’s chances of existence seemed jeopardized, he proved himself as solicitous to extend his days as the veriest aristocrat might have been.

Nevertheless his theories on the subject being that as a man had to die some time, it did not much matter when he died, he began after a time to consider that perhaps it was quite as well Mr. Moffat should not recover.

He had been a negative quantity ever since his arrival in Ireland. He had not done any harm, but he had not done any good. He occupied the place where a better man might stand, or which no man might advantageously fail to occupy.

A woman with money, a willing heart, an open hand, was of ten times more use in her generation than a man. Perhaps he had in his mind the old saying, “When women reign—men rule.”

At any rate, he thought he could find a use for much of Miss Moffat’s income, not a use so far as he personally was concerned; he was not mercenary; good things he desired, but those it was beyond the power of gold to purchase. No, he would relieve the poor, he would advance the cause, he would drive the wedge destined to split up “the dynasty of oppression,” and Grace’s money would help him to these ends.

She could not well now refuse to recognize him as a friend. His knowledge of society was so slight, he had not the faintest idea two such alien barks as his and hers might come nigh together, and have for a few hours a common interest and then part, “like a dream on the wide deep.” He railed against society; but of its ideas, customs, habits of thought, modes of action, he was ignorant as a child.

Already he had sketched out a course of action for Grace and himself—arranged the pecuniary part she was to play in the drama, and the various modes in which her money would enable him better to enact the character he had elected to fill.

His interest, professionally, in Mr. Moffat had departed. He could do nothing for him—no one could do anything for him. He had even in the course of his limited experience beheld nature achieve triumphs of medical skill, which set science and all previous calculations utterly at nought, but his conviction was, that in this case nature meant to let matters take their course.

“She has been meddled with and thwarted,” he considered; “but for Doctor Girvan perhaps she might have had a chance, at all events we should have been left time in which to try our treatment. As matters are he is doomed. A few hours more and the master of Bayview will be wiser than the wisest man on earth. He will know more than any of us.”

Which really might be considered an almost reluctant admission on the part of Mr. Hanlon’s mind, not because his theology was defective, but because his self-conceit was so great, it actually touched his vanity to think a man like Mr. Moffat would know more in the next world than he knew in this.

“I have done all I could in the matter, that is certain,” he said as a finish to his reflections; and Grace being in the sick room, he went downstairs to join Drs. Murney and Connelley at breakfast.

Let death be ever so active in one place, life will be equally active in another, and the fact that the master of the house could never again welcome a guest nor issue a command did not in the smallest degree affect the appetites of the men who had come so far to strive and save him.

Doctor Girvan, indeed, saying it would choke him to “take bite or sup,” had hurried home to secure a few hours’ quiet before the business of the day began; but the night air and the long drive and ride, and the sharp morning air which blew crisp and cold over Bayview, sharpened the relish with which the two strange doctors looked on the well-laden table that gladdened their eyes when they entered the dining-room after their interview with Grace.

As for Mr. Hanlon, he was young; he dined early; he never supped; he did not often treat himself to the luxury of sitting up all night—in a word, breakfast was still breakfast to him, let who could not help it die, let who would live.

“A most capital cut of beef!” remarked Dr. Murney, returning from the sideboard with his plate replenished for the third time; “Connelley, let me persuade you.”

“Remember I am not a sea-bird like you, and fish fresh out of the water is a treat to me. Ah! poor Moffat, how particular he used to be about the fish that came to his table!”

And the speaker shook his head and helped himself to another slice of broiled salmon.

“That was a sad mistake of Girvan’s!” said Dr. Murney, looking round the room, to make sure the respectable servant who had been told they “would see to themselves” was nowhere within earshot.

“Never kept himself up with the times,” explained Dr. Connelley.

“But, gentlemen,” interrupted Mr. Hanlon, “if nature is always changing her diseases with the times, how is a doctor to keep himself posted up with regard to her latest ailment?”

“Nature does not change. Her diseases may be modified or extended by circumstances,” said Dr. Murney, “but her laws are immutable. Science, however, finds out that diseases once classed under the same head may be separated; may be—must be; and a medical man ought to keep himself abreast of science. For instance, no doubt hundreds and thousands of persons suffering like Mr. Moffat have been treated up to quite recent times for apoplexy, and died under that treatment.”

“Pleasant!” ejaculated Mr. Hanlon.

“Inevitable,” said Dr. Connelley, with philosophical composure. And after all he was right; the knowledge of those days would be deemed ignorance now.

“I will drive over to-morrow,” remarked Dr. Murney, who, having finished his breakfast, was drawing on his gloves preparatory to that return journey which was to be made once again in Mr. Moffat’s tax-cart, with one of Mr. Moffat’s horses. “Although indeed—” the pause was as significant as the words.

“And I will come too, if I can,” added Dr. Connelley; “but I am afraid—” once again an ellipsis, which Mr. Hanlon filled up at his discretion.

“I suppose you will watch the case?” suggested Dr. Murney.

“With Girvan? yes. He and I had a quarrel last night, but I will not desert the poor old fellow now.”

“Ah, well, you need not fear having to wait long for the end,” observed Dr. Connelley. “It is a question of hours. He may be alive when we come to-morrow—but I think myself he cannot last out the day.”

“He will go with the first or second ebb tide, I should say,” corrected Dr. Murney; “most likely the second. Certainly I should say not the third.”

There was one question Mr. Hanlon wanted to ask before they left.

“No doubt,” he began, “Miss Moffat will wish to send for the rector; if she does, what am I to say?”

Dr. Murney took a pinch of snuff and looked at Dr. Connelley. Dr. Connelley looked out of the window and made no sign.

“I think,” answered the former uneasily, “I should let her send for the rector, and explain the position to him.”

“Precisely. But what is the position? He will never be conscious again.”

“In this world,” amended Dr. Connelley.

“In this world,” repeated Dr. Murney, taking off his hat as if he were in a church.

There was a moment’s respectful silence. Then said Dr. Murney, as if he conceived affairs which strictly speaking belonged to the clergy had been encroached upon by him,—

“Of course, Mr. Hanlon, had Dr. Connelley and I considered there was the remotest chance of a restoration to consciousness, we should at once have advised Miss Moffat to send for her father’s attorney.”

With which utterance Dr. Murney took his leave.

“So it is,” thought Mr. Hanlon, after he had seen Dr. Connelley mounted and answered his farewell wave of the hand; “So it is; the law first—God after.”

Till the great assize is over, who may tell how these apparent incongruities shall be settled; how the toil and trouble a man often entails on those who are to come after is quite compatible with a quiet death-bed and the rules of eternal justice!

To me it has always seemed that the person who, having time and inclination to make his peace with Heaven, as the not inappropriate phrase has it, makes that peace, and leaves mundane affairs to conduct themselves, must have failed in his worldly trust, must have neglected to put out at interest some of those talents with which he was entrusted.

In my poor opinion the doctors were right, and Mr. Hanlon wrong. A man, to all ordinary ways of thinking, ought not to be able to turn his eyes with a steady gaze heavenward so long as there is anything on earth demanding his attention, and yet it may be that when the supreme moment has arrived, and this world is vanishing, and another opening, it may be then, I say, that not merely do the most important projects of this life dwarf into insignificance, but that a glimpse is caught of that perfect faith which enables its possessor to leave the welfare of the nearest and dearest to him in higher hands than those of man.

Upon no other supposition does it appear to me possible to account for the supine selfishness with which those who have worldly goods to leave sometimes fold their hands and remain tranquil, whilst five minutes devoted to temporal matters might save miseries and heartburnings untold.

Mr. Hanlon’s speech, however, was prompted quite as much by the spirit of opposition as of religion. Had the other doctors suggested sending for a clergyman, he would most probably have mentally sneered at “old women who believed in the efficacy of a death-bed repentance.”

“Show me how a man lived, and I will tell you how he died,” was one of his favourite quotations; and yet now, when he came face to face with a death which allowed no instant of preparation, he could not help admitting—he was not the advanced Republican of these times, recollect—there must be something in the almost universal desire human beings feel to be permitted to linger, if only for a few minutes, on the shores of that mighty ocean which washes on the one side the fair land of life, and on the other the hidden mysteries of eternity.

So far as Mr. Moffat’s temporal affairs were concerned, he had left nothing to be settled in a hurry at the last hour of his existence. In the methodical, self-contained life he had led there was no sign to indicate the manner of death he should die. Probably he himself never imagined for a moment he should be called upon to leave this world except in the most orderly and usual manner.

Nevertheless his affairs were in perfect order. All the attorneys and accountants in Ireland could not have put them in more intelligible shape.

Concerning other matters, who could tell? Himself and his Maker alone knew how far the peremptory summons found him ready to leave a world which had always been a pleasant one to the owner of Bayview.

The clergyman was sent for and came, but it all turned out as Dr. Murney had predicted.

The tide ebbed, and the tide flowed; when it ebbed again his soul set forth on a longer and more awful voyage than mortal mariner ever undertook.

Little more than thirty hours had passed since Grace walked slowly homeward from the Lone Rock, and yet the whole current and colour of her life was changed. The sunbeams danced merrily on the waters, the sea rippled in once more upon the shore, the trees and shrubs shook out their green foliage, and the air was almost heavy with the rich perfumes of summer. In the distance the hills seemed almost to melt into the soft blue of the sky. Everywhere there was beauty, and gladness, and sunshine, but Grace saw nothing of the beauty, felt nothing of the gladness. Over the house there brooded the shadow of mighty wings, for the angel of death had paused in his flight; one whose voice had been so suddenly stilled lay silent within; he who had been master there might dwell in that pleasant abode—never more.