Part 32 (2/2)
”Madam,” began Dr. Benton very gravely, ”have you never seen your husband using a little instrument like this?” and he produced from his pocket a hypodermic syringe.
”Never,” was the perplexed and troubled reply.
The physician smiled a little satirically, and remarked, in a low aside, ”I hope the drug has not affected the whole family. It's next to impossible to get at the truth in these cases.”
”Do you think he will die?” was her agonized query.
”No, madam, we can soon bring him around, I think, and indeed he would probably have come out of this excess unaided; but he had better die than continue his excessive use of morphia. I can scarcely conceive how you could have remained ignorant of the habit.”
Mildred bowed her head in her hands with a low, despairing cry, for a flash of lurid light now revealed and explained all that had been so strange and unaccountable. The terrible secret was now revealed, as far as she was able to comprehend it--her father was an opium inebriate, and this was but the stupor of a debauch! The thought of his death had been terrible, but was not this worse? She lifted her face in a swift glance at Roger, and saw him looking at her with an expression, that was full of the strongest sympathy, and something more. She coldly averted her eyes, and a slow, deep flush of shame rose to her face, ”Never shall I endure a humiliation but he will witness it, and be a part of it,” was her bitter thought.
The physicians meanwhile changed their treatment, and were busy with professional nonchalance. Mrs. Jocelyn was at first too bewildered by their words and manner to do more than look at them, with hands clasping and unclasping in nervous apprehension, and with eyes full of deep and troubled perplexity. Then, as the truth grew clearer, that a reflection had been made upon her own and her husband's truth, she rose unsteadily to her feet, and said, with a pathetic attempt at dignity, ”I scarcely understand you, and fear that you as little understand my husband's condition. He never concealed anything from me. He has been unfortunate and in failing health for months, and that is all. I fear, from your cruel and unjust surmises, that you do not know what you are doing, and that you are destroying his slender chances for life.”
”Do you wish to discharge us, then?” was Dr. Benton's brusque response. He was a man of unusual skill, but blunt and unsympathetic, especially in cases wherein he suspected deception--an element almost inseparable from the morphia habit. The victim is almost invariably untruthful, and the family not unfrequently hide the whole truth in the desire to s.h.i.+eld the disgraceful weakness. Dr.
Benton was too familiar with these facts to be easily moved, but when the sad-hearted wife clasped her hands and cried, in tones that would touch the coldest heart, ”I wish him to live, for his death would be far worse than death to us all,” the physician said kindly, ”There, there, Mrs. Jocelyn, I have seen many cases like this. Your husband will live, and will soon be able to speak to you.
If you then can induce him to leave morphia alone, he may become as sound a man as ever.”
Mildred put her arm around her mother and drew her into her room, closing the door.
A few moments later Roger heard the wife's pa.s.sionate protest, ”I do not believe it--I will never believe it.” Then Dr. Benton said to him, ”Here, young man, run to my house for an electric battery.”
When he returned Mr. Jocelyn was coming slowly out of his deep coma, and his appearance was changing rapidly for the better. There was a deep, indignant flush on Mrs. Jocelyn's face, and she took Roger aside and said earnestly, ”Never believe the lies you have heard here to-night. I know that you will never repeat them.”
”Never, Mrs. Jocelyn.”
But Mildred was pale and almost stony in her cold, calm aspect; her heart, in her desperation, was hard toward every one. Belle had not comprehended the truth at all, having been too much overwhelmed by her emotions to heed the earlier remarks of the physicians, and Mildred had said to them significantly and almost sternly, ”There is no need of giving your diagnosis any further publicity.”
Dr. Benton had then looked at her more attentively, and muttered, ”An unusual girl; more's the pity.”
”Mr. Atwood,” Mildred began, a few moments after his entrance, ”we thank you for your aid in this painful emergency, but we need trouble you no further. Papa is rallying fast. I will thank you to inform me of all the expense which you have incurred in our behalf at your earliest convenience.”
”Mildred,” interposed Mrs. Jocelyn, suddenly appearing from beside her husband's couch, the unwonted fire still burning in her usually gentle eyes, ”I cannot permit Mr. Atwood to be dismissed so coldly.
He has been a true friend in the most terrible emergency of our lives. I must have a strong, kind hand to sustain me now that my husband, my life, has been foully slandered in his own home.”
Belle, in even greater terror of being left alone, clung to his arm, and said, ”He cannot leave us--he has made me a promise this night which will keep him here.”
With a troubled and deprecating look at Mildred, Roger replied, ”I will not fail you, Mrs. Jocelyn, nor you, Belle; but there is no further need of my intruding on your privacy. I shall be within call all night.”
”He can stay in my room,” said Mrs. Wheaton, who, although aiding the physicians, could not help overhearing the conversation.
”No, he shall stay here,” cried Belle pa.s.sionately; ”I'm so unnerved that I'm almost beside myself, and he quiets me and makes me feel safer. Millie has no right to show her prejudice at such a time.”
Mildred, white and faint, sank into a chair by the table and buried her face in her arms, leaving the young fellow in sore perplexity as to what course he ought to take. He believed the physicians were right, and yet Mrs. Jocelyn had taken it for granted that he shared her faith in her husband's truth, and he knew she would banish him from her presence instantly should he betray a doubt as to the correctness of her view. At the same time the expression of his face had shown Mildred that he understood her father's condition even better than she did. It seemed impossible to perform the difficult and delicate part required of him, but with love's loyalty he determined to do what he imagined the young girl would wish, and he said firmly, ”Belle, I again a.s.sure you that you can depend upon my promise to the utmost. Mrs Jocelyn, my respect for you is unbounded, and the privilege of serving you is the best reward I crave. At the same time I feel that it is neither right nor delicate for me to witness sorrows that are so sacred. My part is to help, and not look on, and I can help just as well if within call all the time. Belle,” he whispered, ”dear Belle, I know you are unnerved by weeks of overwork as well as by this great trouble, but be a brave little woman once more, and all may soon be well,” and he was about to withdraw when Dr. Benton appeared and said:
”Mrs. Jocelyn, your husband is now out of all immediate danger, but everything depends upon his future treatment. I wish this young man to remain a little longer, for you must now decide upon what course you will take. We have been called in an emergency. There is no need that I should remain any longer, for the physician who accompanied him here is now amply competent to attend to the case.
You have, however, expressed lack of confidence in us, and may wish to send for your own physician. If so, this young man can go for him at once. I can prove to you in two minutes that I am right, and I intend to do so; then my responsibility ceases. Everything depends on your intelligent and firm co-operation with whatever physician has charge of the case, and it is no kindness to leave you under a delusion that does your heart more credit than your head or eyes.”
He stepped back through the curtained doorway, and returned with her husband's vest, from an inner pocket of which he took a hypodermic syringe, a bottle of Magendie's solution, and also another vial of the sulphate of morphia.
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