Edward Berdoe
St. Bernard's: The Romance of a Medical Student
CHAPTER XXXVII.
MILDRED LEE
Grief should be
Like joy, majestic, equable, sedate;
Confirming, cleansing, raising, making free;
Strong to consume small troubles; to commend
Great thoughts, grave thoughts, thoughts lasting to the end.
– Aubrey de Vere.
Mildred Lee, at the time of our story, was twenty-eight. She early lost her mother, and now, by the recent death of her father, was left to her own devices. She was fortunate in the devoted attachment of her maiden aunt, Janet, who shared her tastes, and whose views on things in general were, with some important differences, which gave a zest to their discussion, pretty much her own.
Aunt Janet was studious and intellectual, and had exercised a great influence in the development of her niece’s mind. It was she who had formed her tastes, and in a great measure moulded her intellect, while it was yet plastic, on her own exalted pattern. Mildred’s father had been but too glad to confide his only child to her care, and the event proved his wisdom and her salvation, for the devotion of Aunt Janet’s life had found its reward in the beautiful flower of Mildred’s intellectual and moral life, which seemed a reflex of her own. Blessed with Nature’s best endowment at starting, a robust and healthy frame, which often implies a vigorous and healthy mind, Aunt Janet had the initial impetus within her from childhood which kept her always aiming after the noblest and best standard of the good and true. A tendency of phthisis is not the sole cause and stimulus of the religious sentiment, and the strumous diathesis is not the only reason why children take instinctively to books instead of athletics, as some maintain. Certainly none of these things were the causes of Aunt Janet’s devotion to letters, and her constant desire to do something to advance the interests of mankind. The vigour of her thinking capacity, her rapidity in grasping the idea of a subject, her instinctive apprehension of the right way to the essence of things, was equalled by the physical capacity for continued work, and the strain which her system could bear without breaking down or depressing her industry. She was witty, and superabounding in good humour; never dull, never – like so many brilliant leaders of society – the subject of reaction after unusual efforts to amuse and enjoy; but so even, so constant in mental, as in physical health, that all her friends sought her in seasons of depression and mental discomfort, feeling that some subtle healing power for their minds would restore and reinvigorate them. Her niece could have had no better training than the mere daily contact with so normal a mind. Subject of late to fits of melancholy, musing despondently on what she called her unsatisfied longings for a higher life, she was yet daily growing, though she knew it not, into the perfect woman, nourished by all the elements necessary to build up a capacity for a great world’s-work.
Their method was to lose no more time over the small society frivolities, or even its conventional demands, than was absolutely necessary; and when these things were cut down to their lowest convenient point, they found they had time enough to devote to their philanthropic projects and their intellectual pursuits. Aunt Janet had never found time to be in love; she used to say this in a joking manner, but it was perfectly true. Books, and the study of almost everything practicable for her, occupied her whole thoughts from morning till night. Love, she thought, might some day be taken up, when philosophy, botany, and the higher mathematics failed to absorb her; but it was always hidden away in the dim distance, and was as likely to be seriously entertained as a journey to the sources of the Nile. Of the two rather less likely, for distant foreign travel was quite in her line; and as she had more than once packed up and shipped herself off to Eastern climes, for better acquaintance with their history, she might be moved to undertake Central Africa in default of anything better to do. When she undertook the care of her niece, and the superintendence and development of her mind, she found abundant employment, and was busier than ever, so that love and Equatorial Africa receded still farther into distance, and she settled down perfectly contented to be an old maid for life.
Now the influence of such a preceptress on a clever, thoughtful girl like Mildred was just this. She gave herself up to her aunt to learn all she wanted to teach her, and imbibed so much of her spirit and mode of looking at things that she was ashamed to talk, or even think of love, in face of the supreme indifference, if not quite contempt, with which Aunt Janet viewed the tender passion. Her father acquiesced in this state of things. He was too unwilling to part with Mildred, and only hoped the men would keep away from his treasure as long as he wanted it all to himself. Her aunt, for her part, thought her niece much too good to be sacrificed in marriage. It was not the selfishness which animated Dr. Lee that made her wish to keep her niece single, but a real conviction that if a woman could in any way avoid it, marriage was not the best state for her, whatever the world might say to the contrary. As, therefore, she was in no want of a position, what better thing was there for her to do than keep single, be the light of her father’s home, and help her – dear, philanthropic old maid as she was! – in her humanitarian and intellectual schemes – projects which could only be successfully worked out by women, and women who had no husbands, babies, and family ties to engross them, and make them callous to the wants of the great world outside a nursery? If a young woman wants to shield herself from the arrows of Cupid, there is no better defence for her than a wall of books, a science or two, some ologies, and a taste for writing. Behind these bulwarks her pretty face, her figure, her youth, her grace, and her accomplishments are comparatively safe. So Mildred seemed likely to be a second edition of her aunt; and if truth must be told the prospect did not in the least alarm her.
While this calm and uneventful life went on, unbroken by a single disturbing element, each of these happy, pure, and useful women making the world around them better and happier for her presence in it, and reaping in calm contentment the fruits of the good deeds they scattered lavishly, the sad calamity of Sir Martin Lee’s death suddenly fell upon them. Had their lives been hitherto spent in selfish enjoyment of the pleasures of the hour, the blow would have been heavier than it was; but though they were unfamiliar with great troubles of their own, their loving work amongst the poor, the friendless, and the sick had familiarized them with suffering in others, and they knew how to bow the head in meek submission when the storm passed over them, and scattered their hopes in its path. Resignation was now the virtue to be practised, and Mildred did not fail in the hour of trial. A few months after Sir Martin’s death her aunt took her for a long tour through scenes of travel which she was anxious to unfold to her. They had often talked of them, and it was soon resolved to take the St. Gothard route to Italy, and return home by Spain. From Naples they went to Sicily, and made a rather long stay at Taormina, under Etna. It was not till they reached this magnificent spot (perhaps, as has been said, the loveliest on the earth), that Mildred began to recover somewhat from her bereavement. On that lofty height, surrounded by mountain peaks, up which rock-hewn steps led to ancient cities and old-world castles and fortresses, with the great snow-covered volcano rearing its lofty head above the clouds, with the Straits of Messina dividing their shores from those of Calabria, whose purple mountains melted away into the dim distance, she could read the lines which Cardinal Newman wrote amid those scenes with a sweet conviction of their truth.
“Say, hast thou tracked a traveller’s round,
Nor visions met thee there,
Thou could’st but marvel to have found
This blighted world so fair?
And feel an awe within thee rise,
That sinful man should see
Glories far worthier seraphs’ eyes
Than to be shared by thee?
Store them in heart, thou shalt not faint
’Mid coming pains and fears,
As the third heaven once nerved a saint
For fourteen trial years.”
And so from one world-famous spot to another in that panorama of Southern loveliness, they made the tour of Sicily, and at Palermo took the steamer for Malaga. It was a sight to lift up any sorrowful spirit when Mildred went on deck in the early September morning, as the steamer lay at anchor before the beautiful white city, glowing in the roseate hues of the rising sun. High above them the cathedral seemed to stand as the protector of the town, surrounded by palaces, and as its guard, still higher,
“On a lofty hill the castle of Gibralfaro
Seemed to watch the town and bay.”
The harbour, crowded with vessels of all nations, and the busy quays, gave signs of wealth and activity which the travellers had scarcely expected to find in benighted Spain. The blessed Mediterranean it is which would have given trade and wealth wherever its waves touched the shores, had man known how to preserve its gifts. It has given Malaga more than wealth; for it is one of the great health resorts of the South. It must be confessed, however, that what these blissful spots gain in climate, they, by the ignorance and indolence of their inhabitants, lose by neglect of the simplest elements of sanitary science.
Aunt Janet had been a little doubtful of Spain; she feared they would have to “rough it” rather too much, having taken her impressions from Mr. Ford’s books, which, however accurate in some particulars, are too prejudiced against the cosas de España in general to deal fairly with the manners and customs of this intensely interesting land.
“Now for rancid oil, and garlic, and bull beef!” said she. “No more French cookery.”
“Well, aunt, it can’t be worse than Sicily; and we have done fairly well there.”
“I don’t know, dear. I fear we shall be devoured alive by the ‘light infantry’ of the country, unless we are poisoned straight off by their cooks. Besides, we don’t know any Spanish!”
“Why, aunt, the courier declares I speak it very well indeed, and for the rest I expect French will serve us perfectly.”
Their hotel was situated in the Alameda, and a glimpse of that pleasant resort revealed so much of the beauty of the Spanish ladies, of which they had heard with a little scepticism after their illusions had been dispelled as to the charms of the Italian fair sex, that they agreed the reports had not been exaggerated. The next day they started for Granada, which they reached two hours late, thus early making their acquaintance with the dilatoriness of Spanish railways. Mr. Crowe and Dr. Graves met them at the station, and welcomed them to their abode in the grounds of the Fairy Halls of Alhambra.
It was scarcely light when Mildred rose to visit the palace of her childhood’s dream. It seemed almost wicked to sleep with such delights awaiting her. Aunt Janet was much less in a hurry to leave her couch; still, as she was not less imbued with the spirit of the enchanting place, she soon followed her niece into the grounds. When we have longed all our lives to visit some celebrated scene, the first impression, on finding our hopes at length realized, is often one of disappointment. The imagination in some minds paints in colours of such “rainbow substance” that reality can never equal; but it has often been remarked that no one has been disappointed in his expectations of the Alhambra. Here he is in the scenery of the Thousand and One Nights itself, and if he is of the least romantic order of intellect, will be filled with more poetic reflections than can be supplied by any other place in Europe. Long before the gates were opened for visitors, the ladies had walked round the venerable walls, had visited Charles V.’s incongruous palace, and drunk in some of the inspiration of the lovely scene. When they returned to the hotel to breakfast, they found the doctors awaiting them with tickets for the Generalife, which they were to visit after the Alhambra.
What a day was this to Mildred! How she wished she could have some of her English friends with her, as she imbibed such stores of beautiful recollections! Mr. Crowe was very attentive, and was full of learned lore about the builders of the place. He praised the Moors so much that he seemed to lament that they had been expelled from Spain, and it required all Dr. Graves’ chivalrous devotion to the memory of Isabella to defend the conquest.
“But you must not forget, Crowe, that your beloved Moors were in their decadence when their expulsion came; their luxury and over-refinement had drawn attendant evils in their train, and these brought about their ruin when attacked by a people like the Spaniards – then, as you must admit, in every way superior to their foes, or they could never have united all Spain under their sovereigns Ferdinand and Isabella.”
But Mr. Crowe could not forgive the Spaniards for having too much religion and too little science; and maintained that in both respects they were considerably the inferiors of the Moors whom they had dispossessed.
Of course Mr. Crowe and Dr. Graves thoroughly acquainted themselves with the mysteries of the Bull Ring. They wished to take the ladies to a bull fight, declaring that one could not really say he had seen Spain without a visit to the national sports. As neither of the ladies had any desire to say she had “seen Spain,” they deprived themselves of this particular item of their education, and astonished the hotel proprietor by their forbearance. He protested that all the English ladies went to the fights, though they all declared it was a disgrace to Spain to tolerate such cruelty; and he laughed at what he evidently considered our national hypocrisy. To the credit of the Spanish nation, ladies do not attend the bull fights nearly so frequently as formerly. It is beginning to be unfashionable to do so.
Did Mr. Crowe enjoy the sport? Strange to say, he strongly disapproved of it! He thought it a degrading and cruel spectacle; most demoralizing to the people, and a quite useless waste of life, which could have been devoted to the progress of humanity. So do our minds refract the light that comes from the actions of our fellow-men! Dr. Graves did not scruple to say, “a bull fight was just the grandest sight on all this planet!”
They visited the cathedral together, and descended to the vault where Isabella and her husband lie in their leaden coffins side by side.
Dr. Graves could forgive the great queen all her bigotry for having offered to pawn her jewels to send Columbus on his voyage of discovery. Nothing would satisfy him but that he must make a pilgrimage to the old bridge where the messenger overtook the heavy-hearted navigator, and brought him back to the noble queen.
“So like an impulsive, generous woman, ready to sacrifice everything for an idea!” said Dr. Graves.
“A very substantial idea,” replied Mr. Crowe, who detested Isabella for being a good Catholic but could not help admiring her devotion to exploration and experiment. “The acquisition of a new world to the crown of Leon and Castile was worth a few jewels.”
“Don’t you think,” asked Aunt Janet, “that she was actuated by far worthier reasons than those?”
Mildred was almost as much in love with Isabella as Dr. Graves, and declared “that she was moved in all her conquests and expeditions by a passionate desire to win souls for God and His Church.”
“By roasting their bodies at the stake,” added Mr. Crowe.
Mildred said, in her quiet, arch manner, —
“We may roast people alive in the coming age of science for much less important reasons, if physiologists have their way!”
This was a particularly nasty cut, as it was well known Mr. Crowe had often lamented to his class that criminals under sentence of death could not be used for scientific purposes.
“We should not burn people alive, I hope,” said he.
“I am not so sure of that. I have read somewhere of one of your profession boasting that he took particular delight in inflicting ‘atrocious pain’ on dogs.”
Aunt Janet interposed, as the discussion was getting rather acrid, and philosophically attempted an apology for the persecutions of the dark ages.
Having paid a visit to the Cartuja Convent, they returned to the hotel for luncheon, and afterwards wandered about the delicious gardens of the Generalife till it was time for dinner. As the night was moonlight, they obtained permission to enter the Alhambra again, and saw it with all the glamour and witchery of the midnight hour.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
UNEARTHED
The circumstance of circumstance is timing and placing. When a man meets his accurate mate, society begins, and life is delicious.
– Emerson.
Be not amazed at life; ’tis still
The mode of God with His elect
Their hopes exactly to fulfil
In times and ways they least expect.
Coventry Patmore.
The romance of the novelist and the startling incident of melodrama are colourless and insignificant in comparison with the events of real life. Every day things happen around us which would appear far-fetched and absurd if transferred to the pages of a novel. We go to our peaceful slumbers at night little reckoning of the letter lying at the post-office close by which at breakfast-time will have destroyed the work of our lives, and given us a heart wound no time can heal. We sit down to dinner in weariness with the common-place monotony of our existence which the telegraph boy, already on his way to us, will startle into most unseemly agitation. We wander along Cheapside, Fleet Street, and the Strand, wondering why the stream of life in the world’s chief artery so little affects our pulses, and we meet the man who with a word changes the current of our existence in an instant.
Mildred Lee went to her bed full of thought, and wondered how she was to carry out the purposes which she had often pondered, with only half-opened eyes seeing the great work which lay before her, little dreaming that before another bedtime she would have had all her fluid purposes cast in the mould of fate, or rather set, by the hand of Providence, in a sharply defined form which was to make her name high and honourable amongst men. She went to rest that Granada night a purposeless dreamer of unbodied hopes. Next day was to introduce her to a higher phase of thought. Hopes to-night, dreams to-night; to-morrow an opening in the mist, as one sees from a high mountain in a rift of the fog, the panorama sun-bathed at one’s feet.
It was a bright and glorious morning when she opened her window, the birds in the elms singing to the ever-rushing streams, and the breeze rustling amongst the leaves hinted a delicious coolness inviting to a ramble. She met Mr. Crowe strolling in front of the hotel smoking his early cigarette. Throwing this away, he advanced to meet her, and, in his most gracious manner, invited her to inspect the restoration of some Moorish baths which were going on close by.
“These Moors,” said he, “value fresh air and water far more than their Christian successors. The old Eastern religions and the Professors of White Magic insisted on the most scrupulous cleanliness, while the Inquisition made the use of the bath a mark of heresy.”
Mildred thought of some new bath experiments which her father had tried to prevent at St. Bernard’s; and could not help saying, with a tinge of maliciousness, “There are some uses of the bath which I think heretical, and would punish as severely as ever did Philip the Second.”
Mr. Crowe remembered his old battle with her father on this question, but prudently declined to discuss medical treatment with any one but a doctor. Mildred, seeing he was getting huffy, did not press her point further. The physiologist was very severe on the old and cherished institutions of Catholic Spain, and did only partial justice to the authors of so many mistakes, whilst he was quite blind to the horrors being perpetrated in the name of Science now, and which a more civilized age, let us hope, will brand with equal infamy.
“How long do you propose to stay here?” asked Mr. Crowe.
“Really, I find it hard to leave; but we must not extend our visit beyond another day or two. What have we still to explore?”
“You don’t want to make any ascent of the Sierra Nevada, do you?”
“Oh, no; I fear it is too fatiguing. My aunt is not equal to camping out in the snow for a night, and I should not like to leave her. But we must visit the gipsy quarter; I am told it was much more interesting than that at Seville.”
“I have not explored it, but shall be glad to do so. Shall we go to-day? I saw Rico, the gipsy king, yesterday, and he was anxious to do the honours of the colony, and make our visit pleasant.”
“Very well, then. My aunt is anxious to go, I know. Will you arrange it all for us?”
“Certainly. They say there is some risk of annoyance; but if you are not very fastidious, I dare say it is nothing very serious.”
Mildred declared that she wanted to see everything that was Spanish, and had not crossed the Pyrenees to be stopped by trifles. So an expedition to the Sacro Monte was arranged for the next day, and the party, with a trustworthy guide, took a carriage for the trip.
* * * * *
The hill of the Albayzin was steep, and the horses not being equal to their work, they made the rest of the ascent on foot, and soon reached the singular region of the Zincali. It was strangely unlike anything else in Europe, and the ladies being anxious to acquaint themselves with the mode of life peculiar to this tribe, went into many of the open grottoes, of course accompanied by the guide. This being one of the show places of the city, the inhabitants are used to visitors, but they often rob and sometimes behave very badly to them. Wandering down the alleys and maze-like turnings amongst the hills, observing the curious trades followed by the bronzed cave-dwellers, they became separated from their guide, who was engaged with the gentlemen in a distant cavern, explaining some of the methods adopted by the gipsies when they want to improve the appearance of a horse they have to sell. Suddenly they were surrounded by a crowd of half-naked, vociferating children, handsome as those of Murillo’s pictures, but rather alarming in their boisterous behaviour, tugging at their dresses, cutting wild and unpleasant capers, and demanding money on every hand. Missing the turning by which they had entered the labyrinth, they were nervous and annoyed with themselves for slipping away from their friends, when suddenly the noisy rabble melted away as if by magic, as a tall young man in Spanish dress came into the lane, and called angrily to the little imps in their own lingo. The young scaramouches at once made off, and the Englishman, apologising with an easy grace for the rudeness of the children, volunteered to escort the ladies to their party. The shortest way was through a patch of garden, and the walk gave the ladies the opportunity of thanking their protector, who soon found the gentlemen and their guide.
Mildred felt certain that she had met the young man before, though it seemed very improbable; but when they reached Mr. Crowe, he at once exclaimed, “Mr. Elsworth, I declare!” As Mr. Crowe had been Elsworth’s physiological teacher at the hospital, it was natural he should easily recognise him. The ladies, of course, had not the same intimate knowledge of him, though they knew of his mysterious disappearance from London. Mildred had not seen him since the day they had first met at a picnic which her father gave to his students at their country place on the Surrey Downs. They had been introduced some months previously; but on that occasion, while showing him the points of interest round the house and grounds, she had been favourably impressed by the earnestness of his interest in many things in which she delighted, and had often confessed to herself that if she should ever be weak enough to bother herself about man in the concrete, it would be somebody very much like Elsworth who would interest her. He knew all her favourite books, and her tastes in poetry coincided with his own. He was something of a Shelley and a Browning enthusiast; and held by Ruskin and Emerson, proving by his criticism of their works how deep a hold their ideas had taken of him. They had talked much that day of these things, and she recalled, as she now met him again after his long absence, the time when they had so long discussed themes congenial to them both. When he disappeared she had been painfully anxious to learn the causes which could have driven so promising a young man from his work and friends, and had speculated deeply as to what could have befallen him. She had never ceased to hope that one day he might turn up again. And here he was, and she had discovered him! Their eyes met, in an instant each recognised the other, and in that glance each told the other that the meeting was of moment to him and her.
“Mr. Elsworth, I was sure!” she exclaimed.
“And Miss Lee, of course!” said he.
Aunt Janet had met, but did not recall the handsome man who had just done them so grateful a service. She was soon enlightened however.
“Auntie dear, you remember Mr. Elsworth who used to visit us, and who alarmed us all so much by going away and leaving no address, making us all wonder what could have become of him?”
Auntie remembered all in a moment; and as quickly reflected with a woman’s instinct that perhaps their kind friend would not thank them for thus unearthing him, which they had literally done by drawing him from the gipsies’ cave. “Mr. Elsworth will, I am sure, forgive us,” she said, without embarrassment, “for inadvertently trespassing upon his retirement, and he may rest assured we will not break the secret we have unwittingly discovered.”
“Oh, for that matter,” said he, as they turned into a field planted thickly with prickly pears, and shaded by olives, “you have but precipitated what would have come to pass very soon, for I had resolved to return.” He had noticed Mildred’s deep mourning, but he had no knowledge of her father’s death. He had immediately, on recognising her, remarked a great alteration in her features. True, it was six years since they had last met; but he had not forgotten, amid the hosts of beautiful faces which he had since seen, those bright eyes and the face free from all anxiety or trace of melancholy which had fixed themselves upon his memory. She was more beautiful now, but there was not the sparkling playfulness of the eye, nor the light-hearted glow in the features; she was more like our Lady of Sorrows whom he had seen above so many Spanish altars, than the merry, laughing maiden of his student days. “You are not quite the Miss Lee of the picnic, if you will forgive me saying so. Have you not passed through some great anxiety or trial?”
“Did you not know I had lost my father? Do you get no English newspapers here?”
“I do not see them often. I have so much to occupy me here that I am unpatriotic enough to confess that I have lost much of my interest in the affairs of my own country.”
“We must hear your story, Mr. Elsworth,” said Aunt Janet, “for there must be a most romantic one to tell, I am thinking. You are more Spanish now than English, and we anticipate quite a revelation of the real life of the people we mix with, but do not in the least understand.”
“Here are the carriages,” said Dr. Graves, who had walked on with Mr. Crowe a little in advance.
Dr. Graves and Mr. Crowe expressed their regret for neglecting the ladies. It was, in fact, a risky neighbourhood; and as they had been warned that they might suffer annoyance if they got away from their guide, they could only blame themselves.
Mr. Crowe was not very cordial in his manner towards Elsworth. Dr. Graves was courteous enough in a formal sort of way. He had known his father; and with a fashionable physician’s worldly wisdom made it a rule never to make an enemy of anybody if he could help it, but to be on his best behaviour to all the world.
“You have dropped from the clouds, Mr. Elsworth,” said he.
“Or sprung from the earth, rather,” said Mr. Crowe.
Elsworth knew Crowe did not like him. They had never quite got on together since he neglected to attend his experimental physiology class which met at church time on Sunday mornings in his own private laboratory – the chamber of horrors it was called. He could never bring himself to do so.
“Neither a fall nor a rise,” rejoined Elsworth, quietly; “nothing but a very matter-of-fact story of disgust with the noisy world of men, and a relish for a sojourn in the wilderness for study and meditation. Not quite without precedent in the history of civilisation, eh, Mr. Crowe?”
“Well, friend, I always said that a man who refused to learn practical physiology was a ‘heathen man and a publican,’ so I am surprised at nothing that has happened to you.”
“Is the evisceration of a living cat the passport to all the Beatitudes with you, Mr. Crowe?” asked Miss Lee, in a rather contemptuous manner.
“Symbolically, for a medical man, yes,” said he, “as implying the true scientific mind.”
The ladies had now re-entered their carriage, and warmly thanking Elsworth for his assistance, and expressing their delight at having discovered him, like Stanley finding Livingstone, they ended by begging that he would join them at dinner that day at their hotel. He declared his readiness to do so, and bowing with all the dignity and grace of a real Spaniard, he turned and left them.
The guide who had taken the party to the gipsy quarter knew and saluted Elsworth, and when he had taken his place beside the coachman, turning to the party, said, “That gentleman is the friend of all the poor in Granada. The gipsies call him their English king; he has lived here several years. When the people are sick he attends them, for he is a clever doctor; he takes no money from anybody, but he gives away a great deal to the poor. He can go amongst the worst people unmolested. Where the priest goes, he can go – to brigands, to thieves, to all the gipsies everywhere. He can travel alone over the mountains where none of us could go safely without an escort. He is a good man – a saint I ought to have said.”
