Chapter XXIV Jim Catches a Train
When old Dr Mortimer received Jim’s Christmas card, his face hardened into stone, and his first impulse was to throw the little photograph into the fire. After Jim’s final and crowning sin, the Doctor had decided that he would have nothing more to do with his grandson, whose hospital career had been one long escapade, punctuated, at rare intervals, with fits of steady reading.
Jim owed his qualification to his natural genius rather than to these bursts of study. A certain amount of book-work he had been obliged to do, and he did it. Practical work he had revelled in, for action suited his mercurial, restless disposition, and his practical work had saved him. He was by head and shoulders the finest operator Matt’s had turned out for many a year, and the examining board knew it.
Throughout his student’s career he had been by turns the pride and despair of his grandfather. Dr Mortimer had sent him angry letters when he was in town, and delivered stern reproofs when he came down to Threeways. Jim had promised reformation, only to fall away from the narrow path of rectitude at the first opportunity that presented itself. At last came the paragraph in the local paper anent Jim’s doings at the Exhibition, and this had used up the last scrap of his grandfather’s patience. Everybody read the paragraph, and everybody laughed at it. Overcome with rage, the Doctor had sat down at his desk and penned the letter which changed the whole course of Jim’s existence.
So the old doctor put Jim out of his life—thrust him forth to get his bread—or starve. But he could not put his grandson out of his heart, and, as he sat by his lonely fireside during the following weeks and months, his thoughts had often wandered to the wayward lad, and he had often wondered how Jim was faring—had wondered even, indeed, whether he were alive or dead.
The photograph of his surgery which Jim sent to his grandfather served to allay the old man’s misgivings. He had fancied at one time that Jim had gone clean to the bad, and that Sir Savile and other old friends who knew both grandfather and grandson were loth to inform him of the lad’s downfall. But it appeared from the photograph—and the particulars on the back of it—that Jim was earning his living. His practice did not appear to embrace an aristocratic quarter, but that did not matter very much. Jim was working, and probably amassing much useful experience.
The old doctor felt relieved. His first impulse—to tear up the little picture—soon departed. He turned Jim’s card over several times, and finally, wondering somewhat at his unusual weakness propped it up against one of the massive bronze candlesticks which stood upon his dining-room mantelpiece. It was the only card Dr Mortimer received, and it looked curiously small and forlorn stuck up on that spacious, dignified mantelpiece all by itself.
There, however, the Doctor put it, and there it stayed. The servants examined it and read the message it bore on its little back, and so they too came to learn where “Mr James” was, as did Hughes and the other attendants over at the asylum, not to mention the gardeners, the coachman, and the stable hands. So the kitchen drank a bumper on Christmas night; the butler gave the toast “Mr James—his health!” and with right honest warmth was it drunk. “Bless his handsome face and kind heart!” added the cook, wiping her motherly eyes—and thus Jim, knowing nothing of it, was remembered.
And it is just possible that the proud old man in the dining-room drank a silent toast to the lad he had expelled—without acknowledging to himself that he did so.
Christmas passed away, and January was drawing to a close, when not only the county of Eastfolk but the whole country was distressed by news to the effect that Lord Lingfield, the eminent statesman—one of the few prominent politicians of the day reputed to speak and vote according to the dictates of conscience—had been laid low by a dangerous and distressing internal malady. The illness had been threatening for some months; indeed, it had first manifested itself on the day when Lady Lingfield, having driven over to consult Dr Mortimer, encountered Jim in the act of crossing the high road in his dressing-gown.
Since that day old Dr Mortimer had paid frequent visits to his distinguished patient, who had at first made light of his complaint, and who did not really realise that his life was in jeopardy until a sudden change in the weather gave him a chill and brought matters to a head. A provincial specialist had been summoned to consult with Dr Mortimer, and Jim, glancing through his morning paper on 25th January—the eve of Dora’s wedding day—lighted on a paragraph announcing that Sir Savile Smart was also in attendance at the invalid’s bedside. The three doctors had issued the following bulletin on the previous evening:—
The Earl of Lingfield is in a critical condition. Should no improvement take place during the next twelve hours, an operation will be rendered imperative.
(Signed) SAVILE SMART, F.R.C.S. E. A. M’IVER, M.D.
JOHN MORTIMER, M.D.
Jim smiled affectionately at the sight of his grandfather’s familiar name thus figuring in the public press. He was turning to another item of news, when there came a thundering rat-tat at No. 9’s front door, and next moment Mary entered with a telegram, which she handed to Jim. He tore open the envelope. The message it contained was addressed from “Carhall,” Lord Lingfield’s country seat near Threeways, and ran:—
Come by first train. Most urgent.—SAVILE SMART.
Jim stared in amaze at the summons. This was, indeed, a strange turn of fortune’s wheel. He—Jim Mortimer—was evidently required to assist in an operation in which his grandfather would also be participating! He had helped Sir Savile in this very operation a score of times, and had performed it by himself at Matt’s with the great specialist looking on. For Jim had guessed the nature of the operation when Sir Savile was sent for.
“And so he wants me to lend a hand. Good man!”
In a few moments Jim had looked up a train. There was an express leaving for Threeways in half an hour. Just time! Mary flew for a cab, Jim got into his hat and coat, and was away before the Maybury family had fully grasped the reason of his haste or the exalted nature of his destination.
“Half-a-sovereign if you catch the 9.30 at Liverpool Street,” said Jim to the cabman.
“Right, sir!” said the cabby, joyously.
But the roads were slippery, and travelling was bad. Horses steamed and plunged, drivers lashed and swore—and Jim’s cab made slow progress.
At last the cabby found an opening and dashed forward. But, alas! he had just got up speed, when his horse stumbled and fell, and could not regain its feet, despite its frantic struggles.
Jim leapt out nimbly. “Hard luck, cabby!” he said. “Here’s your half-sov.”
“You’re a gentleman, sir,” returned the driver, touching his hat as he went to undo the prostrate nag’s harness.
Jim took a fresh cab, and caught his train with a minute to spare. He welcomed this journey, for the rapid motion suited him to a nicety. This was better than brooding in his surgery—this was action, life, excitement. The country was anxiously awaiting news of the great statesman’s illness—and Jim was to help in the drama. The operation would not be performed, Jim knew, until he arrived at Lord Lingfield’s residence... and the train whirled on, and Jim, though sore at heart—for was not Dora to be married on the morrow?—derived great comfort from Sir Savile’s call.
The train sped on, and Jim’s thoughts raced along with it. His brain and the mighty engine kept stride for stride.
“To-morrow! To-morrow!” sang the whirling wheels.
As the meadows, streams, and woods came into view and as quickly passed out again, so the events of the last few months presented themselves panorama-wise to Jim’s mind. The tea-shop—the dainty girl with the fairest face in the world—he in raptures, with Koko soberly listening—the vacation—the return—the introduction—the fight at the Exhibition—his grandfather’s letter—No. 9—the surgery in Mount Street—and... that night in the Crescent! Ah, that one kiss!...
Meadows, streams, woods flashed into view and out again as the express flew eastwards. London was left farther and farther behind, and Dora with it. Jim’s heart telegraphed her a farewell. To-morrow she was to be married—to-morrow! So good-bye, little Dora—good-bye!...
“THREEWAYS! THREEWAYS!”
Here he was at last! A tall footman was on the platform. Evidently he had received a description of Jim, for he advanced directly the latter stepped out of the train, and in another half-minute Jim was rolling along a road very dear and familiar to his eyes.
It was four miles to Lord Lingfield’s residence—and the earl’s fine bays made a mouthful of the journey.
“Sir Savile wishes to see you at once, sir,” said the butler, as Jim entered the lofty hall of the great house.
Jim followed the servant into the library. Sir Savile was leaning back in a big easy-chair, and Jim noted with some concern that the specialist’s right arm was in a sling. By his side stood Jim’s grandfather. The third doctor was in the sick-room.
Sir Savile, without rising, put out his left hand.
“My dear Mortimer, this is splendid of you! You have not lost a moment!”
They shook hands. Jim turned to his grandfather. “How do you do, sir?” he said, flushing a little.
Dr Mortimer bent his head slightly, but did not speak.
“I suppose you were surprised to receive my message?” said Sir Savile. “The fact is, I’ve had an accident. I was coming downstairs this morning, when I fell and dislocated my shoulder. That being the case, I wired to you——”
“I shall be pleased to assist in any way I can,” said Jim.
The specialist smiled. “You haven’t got to assist, Mortimer—you’ve got to operate yourself.”
“I, sir!” cried Jim.
“Yes, you! You’re the best man in England after me, as I have reason to know. So, when I found myself out of the running, I sent for you. I shall direct you, and you will receive assistance from my colleagues, but the success or failure of the operation will rest entirely in your hands. If you succeed, you’re a made man; if you fail——”
“I shall not fail,” said Jim quietly.
“I know you won’t, my boy,” said Sir Savile; “for, if I had had any doubt of you, I shouldn’t have sent for you... and now we will go upstairs.”