The Rosary
Chapter XVIII
The Napoleon Of The Moors
On the bear-skin rug, with his back to the fire, stood Dr. Robert Mackenzie,
known to his friends as "Dr. Rob" or "Old Robbie," according to their degrees of
intimacy.
Jane's first impression was of a short, stout man, in a sealskin waistcoat
which had seen better days, a light box-cloth overcoat three sizes too large for
him, a Napoleonic attitude, — little spindle legs planted far apart, arms
folded on chest, shoulders hunched up, — which led one to expect, as the eye
travelled upwards, an ivory-white complexion, a Roman nose, masterful jaw, and
thin lips folded in a line of conscious power. Instead of which one found a red,
freckled face, a nose which turned cheerfully skyward, a fat pink chin, and
drooping sandy moustache. The only striking feature of the face was a pair of
keen blue eyes, which, when turned upon any one intently, almost disappeared
beneath bushy red eyebrows and became little points of turquoise light.
Jane had not been in his presence two minutes before she perceived that, when
his mind was working, he was entirely unconscious of his body, which was apt to
do most peculiar things automatically; so that his friends had passed round the
remark: "Robbie chews up dozens of good pen-holders, while Dr. Mackenzie is
thinking out excellent prescriptions."
When Jane entered, his eyes were fixed upon an open letter, which she
instinctively knew to be Deryck's, and he did not look up at once. When he did
look up, she saw his unmistakable start of surprise. He opened his mouth to
speak, and Jane was irresistibly reminded of a tame goldfish at Overdene, which
used to rise to the surface when the duchess dropped crumbs. He closed it
without uttering a word, and turned again to Deryck's letter; and Jane felt
herself to be the crumb, or rather the camel, which he was finding it difficult
to swallow.
She waited in respectful silence, and Deryck's words passed with calming
effect through the palpitating suspense of her brain. "The Gaelic mind works
slowly, though it works exceeding sure. He will be exceeding sure that I am a
verra poor judge o' women."
At last the little man on the hearth-rug lifted his eyes again to Jane's;
and, alas, how high he had to lift them!
"Nurse — er?" he said inquiringly, and Jane thought his searching eyes
looked like little bits of broken blue china in a hay-stack.
"Rosemary Gray," replied Jane meekly, with a curtsey in her voice; feeling as
if they were rehearsing amateur theatricals at Overdene, and the next minute the
duchess's cane would rap the floor and they would be told to speak up and not be
so slow.
"Ah," said Dr. Robert Mackenzie, "I see."
He stared hard at the carpet in a distant corner of the room, then walked
across and picked up a spline broken from a bass broom; brought it back to the
hearth-rug; examined it with minute attention; then put one end between his
teeth and began to chew it.
Jane wondered what was the correct thing to do at this sort of interview,
when a doctor neither sat down himself nor suggested that the nurse should do
so. She wished she had asked Deryck. But he could not possibly have enlightened
her, because the first thing he always said to a nurse was: "My dear Nurse
SO-AND-SO, pray sit down. People who have much unavoidable standing to do should
cultivate the habit of seating themselves comfortably at every possible
opportunity."
But the stout little person on the hearth-rug was not Deryck. So Jane stood
at attention, and watched the stiff bit of bass wag up and down, and shorten,
inch by inch. When it had finally disappeared, Dr. Robert Mackenzie spoke again.
"So you have arrived, Nurse Gray," he said.
"Truly the mind of a Scotchman works slowly," thought Jane, but she was
thankful to detect the complete acceptance of herself in his tone. Deryck was
right; and oh the relief of not having to take this unspeakable little man into
her confidence in this matter of the deception to be practised on Garth.
"Yes, sir, I have arrived," she said.
Another period of silence. A fragment of the bass broom reappeared and
vanished once more, before Dr. Mackenzie spoke again.
"I am glad you have arrived, Nurse Gray," he said.
"I am glad TO have arrived, sir," said Jane gravely, almost expecting to hear
the duchess's delighted "Ha, ha!" from the wings. The little comedy was
progressing.
Then suddenly she became aware that during the last few minutes Dr.
Mackenzie's mind had been concentrated upon something else. She had not filled
it at all. The next moment it was turned upon her and two swift turquoise gleams
from under the shaggy brows swept over her, with the rapidity and brightness of
search-lights. Dr. Mackenzie commenced speaking quickly, with a wonderful
rolling of r's.
"I understand, Miss Gray, you have come to minister to the patient's mind
rather than to his body. You need not trouble to explain. I have it from Sir
Deryck Brand, who prescribed a nurse-companion for the patient, and engaged you.
I fully agreed with his prescription; and, allow me to say, I admire its
ingredients."
Jane bowed, and realised how the duchess would be chuckling. What an
insufferable little person! Jane had time to think this, while he walked across
to the table-cloth, bent over it, and examined an ancient spot of ink. Finding a
drop of candle grease near it, he removed it with his thumb nail; brought it
carefully to the fire, and laid it on the coals. He watched it melt, fizzle, and
flare, with an intense concentration of interest; then jumped round on Jane, and
caught her look of fury.
"And I think there remains very little for me to say to you about the
treatment, Miss Gray," he finished calmly. "You will have received minute
instructions from Sir Deryck himself. The great thing now is to help the patient
to take an interest in the outer world. The temptation to persons who suddenly
become totally blind, is to form a habit of living entirely in a world within; a
world of recollection, retrospection, and imagination; the only world, in fact,
in which they can see."
Jane made a quick movement of appreciation and interest. After all she might
learn something useful from this eccentric little Scotchman. Oh to keep his
attention off rubbish on the carpet, and grease spots on the table-cloth!
"Yes?" she said. "Do tell me more."
"This," continued Dr. Mackenzie, "is our present difficulty with Mr. Dalmain.
There seems to be no possibility of arousing his interest in the outside world.
He refuses to receive visitors; he declines to hear his letters. Hours pass
without a word being spoken by him. Unless you hear him speak to me or to his
valet, you will easily suppose yourself to have a patient who has lost the power
of speech as well as the gift of sight. Should he express a wish to speak to me
alone when we are with him, do not leave the room. Walk over to the fireplace
and remain there. I desire that you should hear, that when he chooses to rouse
and make an effort, he is perfectly well able to do so. The most important part
of your duties, Nurse Gray, will be the aiding him day by day to resume life, —
the life of a blind man, it is true; but not therefore necessarily an inactive
life. Now that all danger of inflammation from the wounds has subsided, he may
get up, move about, learn to find his way by sound and touch. He was an artist
by profession. He will never paint again. But there are other gifts which may
form reasonable outlets to an artistic nature."
He paused suddenly, having apparently caught sight of another grease spot,
and walked over to the table; but the next instant jumped round on Jane, quick
as lightning, with a question.
"Does he play?" said Dr. Rob.
But Jane was on her guard, even against accidental surprises.
"Sir Deryck did not happen to mention to me, Dr. Mackenzie, whether Mr.
Dalmain is musical or not."
"Ah, well," said the little doctor, resuming his Napoleonic attitude in the
centre of the hearth-rug; "you must make it your business to find out. And, by
the way, Nurse, do you play yourself?"
"A little," said Jane.
"Ah," said Dr. Rob. "And I dare say you sing a little, too?"
Jane acquiesced.
"In that case, my dear lady, I leave most explicit orders that you neither
sing a little nor play a little to Mr. Dalmain. We, who have our sight, can just
endure while people who 'play a little' show us how little they can play;
because we are able to look round about us and think of other things. But to a
blind man, with an artist's sensitive soul, the experience might culminate in
madness. We must not risk it. I regret to appear uncomplimentary, but a
patient's welfare must take precedence of all other considerations."
Jane smiled. She was beginning to like Dr. Rob.
"I will be most careful," she said, "neither to play nor to sing to Mr.
Dalmain."
"Good," said Dr. Mackenzie. "But now let me tell you what you most certainly
may do, by-and-by. Lead him to the piano. Place him there upon a seat where he
will feel secure; none of your twirly, rickety stools. Make a little notch on
the key-board by which he can easily find middle C. Then let him relieve his
pent-up soul by the painting of sound-pictures. You will find this will soon
keep him happy for hours. And, if he is already something of a musician, — as
that huge grand piano, with no knick-knacks on it indicates, — he may begin
that sort of thing at once, before he is ready to be worried with the Braille
system, or any other method of instructing the blind. But contrive an easy way
— a little notch in the wood-work below the note — by means of which, without
hesitation or irritation, he can locate himself instantly at middle C. Never
mind the other notes. It is all the SEEING he will require when once he is at
the piano. Ha, ha! Not bad for a Scotchman, eh, Nurse Gray?"
But Jane could not laugh; though somewhere in her mental background she
seemed to hear laughter and applause from the duchess. This was no comedy to
Jane, — her blind Garth at the piano, his dear beautiful head bent over the
keys, his fingers feeling for that pathetic little notch, to be made by herself,
below middle C. She loathed this individual who could make a pun on the subject
of Garth's blindness, and, in the back of her mind, Tommy seemed to join the
duchess, flapping up and down on his perch and shrieking: "Kick him out! Stop
his jaw!"
"And now," said Dr. Mackenzie unexpectedly, "the next thing to be done, Nurse
Gray, is to introduce you to the patient."
Jane felt the blood slowly leave her face and concentrate in a terrible
pounding at her heart. But she stood her ground, and waited silently.
Dr. Mackenzie rang the bell. Simpson appeared.
"A decanter of sherry, a wine-glass, and a couple of biscuits," said Dr. Rob.
Simpson vanished.
"Little beast!" thought Jane. "At eleven o'clock in the morning!".
Dr. Rob stood, and waited; tugging spitefully at his red moustache, and
looking intently out of the window.
Simpson reappeared, placed a small tray on the table, and went quietly out,
closing the door behind him.
Dr. Rob poured out a glass of sherry, drew up a chair to the table, and said:
"Now, Nurse, sit down and drink that, and take a biscuit with it."
Jane protested. "But, indeed, doctor, I never — "
"I have no doubt you 'never,'" said Dr. Rob, "especially at eleven o'clock in
the morning. But you will to-day; so do not waste any time in discussion. You
have had a long night journey; you are going upstairs to a very sad sight
indeed, a strain on the nerves and sensibilities. You have come through a trying
interview with me, and you are praising Heaven it is over. But you will praise
Heaven with more fervency when you have drunk the sherry. Also you have been
standing during twenty-three minutes and a half. I always stand to speak myself,
and I prefer folk should stand to listen. I can never talk to people while they
loll around. But you will walk upstairs all the more steadily, Nurse Rosemary
Gray, if you sit down now for five minutes at this table."
Jane obeyed, touched and humbled. So, after all, it was a kind, comprehending
heart under that old sealskin waistcoat; and a shrewd understanding of men and
matters, in spite of the erratic, somewhat objectionable exterior. While she
drank the wine and finished the biscuits, he found busy occupation on the other
side of the room, polishing the window with his silk pocket-handkerchief; making
a queer humming noise all the time, like a bee buzzing up the pane. He seemed to
have forgotten her presence; but, just as she put down the empty glass, he
turned and, walking straight across the room, laid his hand upon her shoulder.
"Now, Nurse," he said, "follow me upstairs, and, just at first, speak as
little as possible. Remember, every fresh voice intruding into the still depths
of that utter blackness, causes an agony of bewilderment and disquietude to the
patient. Speak little and speak low, and may God Almighty give you tact and
wisdom."
There was a dignity of conscious knowledge and power in the small quaint
figure which preceded Jane up the staircase. As she followed, she became aware
that her spirit leaned on his and felt sustained and strengthened. The
unexpected conclusion of his sentence, old- fashioned in its wording, yet almost
a prayer, gave her fresh courage. "May God Almighty give you tact and wisdom,"
he had said, little guessing how greatly she needed them. And now another voice,
echoing through memory's arches to organ-music, took up the strain: "Where Thou
art Guide, no ill can come." And with firm though noiseless step, Jane followed
Dr. Mackenzie into the roam where Garth was lying, helpless, sightless, and
disfigured.