The Coward Behind the Curtain

CHAPTER XXIII

THE SURGEON AND THE LAWYER

A room in a house not a hundred miles from Newcaster. In it Mr and Mrs Vernon, looking as if they were somewhat in doubt as to what they were doing there; their son, Jim, who was manifestly enjoying himself much more than he had any notion of; their daughter Frances, who, obviously, had no doubt whatever that this was an occasion on which she was a young lady of importance. Also present, Dorothy Gilbert-very white, very anxious, and much prettier than she suspected. Miss Gilbert was Miss Vernon's especial and particular charge-it was that fact which made her conscious that she was a person of importance. She kept quite close to her, as if desirous of giving her the comfort and assurance of her near neighbourhood; sometimes holding her hand, sometimes with her arm about her waist-and in that position a pleasanter picture than those two girls presented it would not be easy to imagine. There also was the Earl of Strathmoira, in a dark grey suit, which became him; and with that calm air of positively graceful assurance, which became him even better. And Mr Leonard Arnecliffe was there, offering such a complete contrast to the handsome earl-carelessly dressed; with about him such an appearance of having been buffeted by life's tempests; and with, on his queer face, that humorous, tender something which made it almost beautiful.

These are the persons of our drama, with whom we already are familiar; but there were still two other persons in that room, whose acquaintance we have yet to make. One was Sir Derwent Dewsnap, whose surgical fame, one hardly need remark, was world-wide. Few men have performed more operations than Derwent Dewsnap; few have done more cutting and carving on the outside and inside of the human frame-and, as a cynic once observed, he looked it. But, while his knowledge and experience of general surgery was great, his skill in dealing with the human cranium, and especially that part we call the brain, it has been stated, was almost superhuman. Nowadays every great surgeon is a specialist, and Dewsnap's speciality was brain. Not, of course, in a mental sense; he was not a mental pathologist at all; but in operations on the brain he was facile princeps.

He was shortly going to perform one of the most delicate operations on the cranium which even he had ever undertaken; and these persons were gathered together to receive from him an expression of opinion as to his probabilities of success.

The other person to whom we have yet to be introduced was Plashett-Alexander Plashett; a name which has only to be mentioned in order to conjure up a vision of one of the greatest criminologists who ever made a practical study of the law. What Plashett did not know about crime and criminals was not worth knowing. He had caused so many scoundrels to reap the just reward of their ill-doings, and so many more to get off scot free, that it was actually whispered, where those things are whispered, that on whichever side Plashett was the gentlemen of the jury were. Of course that was not a whisper which was to be taken precisely at the foot of the letter; but it undoubtedly was a fact that counsel would rather be briefed by Plashett than against him.

He was there in that room to represent the interests of certain persons who might find themselves in a very uncomfortable position indeed if there was an unfortunate termination to the operation on which Sir Derwent was so shortly to be engaged. Thus, while no one cared a button for the person on whom the operation was about to be performed, everybody hoped that he would come well out of it-which seeming paradox is explained by the fact that the person in question was Mr George Emmett; and that if he died in Sir Derwent Dewsnap's hands one of the individuals in that room would quite possibly be hanged for him. Therefore, when the Earl of Strathmoira put a question to the great surgeon his reply was anxiously awaited.

"So it seems, Sir Derwent, that, to perpetrate what sounds like a bull, the odds are even?"

Sir Derwent was a precisian even in words, as he immediately made plain.

"Odds, my lord, are never even; nor does a wise surgeon express a positive opinion as to the result of even the simplest operation: so many considerations enter into the matter of which a layman has no idea. As regards the case of Mr Emmett, I have only to mention that the operation which I am about to attempt has, so far as I am aware, never hitherto been performed to show how worse than futile, and also, how unprofessional, it would be for me to pose as a prophet."

"Hear, hear! Exactly."

This encouragement came from Mr Plashett, to whom the word "unprofessional" apparently appealed. Thus supported, Sir Derwent went on, with that pedagogic air for which he was renowned:

"I should not wish, on such an occasion, and before such an audience, to enter into those details which could only be properly touched on in an operating theatre; but I may remind you that the subject has already been twice given over as dead, and I can assure you that that is not so strange as to the lay mind it may seem. The conditions were all compatible with death: the motionless pulse and heart; the absence of any movement of the lungs, of any signs of respiration. But it so happens that, in the course of my wide experience, once, and only once, I encountered a similar case, and the knowledge I obtained then I was able to apply now. It was the case of a man who, falling from a fourth-floor window on to the pavement below, fractured the cranial bones almost precisely as Mr Emmett's had been fractured." There were those among his auditors who were disposed to feel that, in spite of what he had said, he was entering into details which were a trifle too technical. But Sir Derwent, having warmed to the subject, went heedlessly on: "In that case also the patient was pronounced to be dead, and he was actually placed in his coffin before it was learned that he wasn't. To put it shortly and popularly, pressure on the medulla oblongata, caused by contact of a minute fraction of bone with one of the cranial arteries, had produced that extraordinary simulation of death. Had that state of things been discovered in time an operation might have been possible; but it wasn't. The coffin was placed in the hearse, and the hearse was on the road to the cemetery, when one of the undertaker's men, who was walking beside it, heard a sound proceeding from within, which so startled him that the hearse was driven straight back to the house, and the coffin opened, when it was found that its occupant had turned right over on his side, and had killed himself in doing so. There was no mistake about his being dead that time; and it was only dissection which showed what the cause of death had been, and how he might possibly have been saved. So you see how nearly on all fours the two cases are: Emmett pronounced dead, and, as was supposed, really killing himself by a fall off a table. Found, after all, to be alive, I am now about to attempt the operation which might have been attempted in what I will call Case No. 1. Under such circumstances I can hardly be expected to offer a confident prognostication either on its success or failure. I will, however, go so far as to say that, if it fails, Mr Emmett will hardly be any worse off than he is already; while, if it succeeds, he may be restored not only to life, but to long life, and almost, in a degree, to his primal vigour. Beyond that purposely vague statement I must beg you, my lord, not to press me to go."

No one did press him. It was possibly felt that he had said quite enough, without pressure; and that, if they were not heedful of their ways, he might pile horror on to horror. The earl transferred his attention to the lawyer.

"And if Sir Derwent meets with the success which we all anticipate, knowing his superlative skill, how will the matter stand then, Mr Plashett? That is, should George Emmett be restored to the health which he doesn't deserve, what action will the police be able to take against anyone with whom he may have had, say, a little difference of opinion?"

"I should say none. With Emmett dead, or nearly dead, then the police, representing the Crown, are compelled to act. But with Emmett alive and kicking, then the onus lies with him; it is only on his initiative that action can be taken, since it is only on his sworn statement that it can be alleged that an offence has been committed. If a man has his head broken, say, for argument's sake, with a bottle, he may have reasons of his own for not wishing to say anything at all about it; and there is no power vested in the police to make him say anything if he doesn't want to. Emmett dead is to be feared; but alive, not at all-that is, if I apprehend the statements which have been made to me correctly. I know something of the gentleman, and I am quite sure-I am not often sure of anything, but I am quite sure of what I am about to say-I repeat that I am quite sure that he will not be disposed to go into the witness-box and complain to a magistrate, or to a judge, that his head was broken under the circumstances under which it was broken; since, if he were so foolish, the verdict would undoubtedly be-And serve you right!"

CHAPTER XXIV

TIDINGS

There was a garden to that house. Jim Vernon and Dorothy Gilbert were walking side by side down one of the paths. Sir Derwent Dewsnap had gone over to Newcaster, to perform that operation; and Mr Plashett had gone with him, in order that he might be close at hand, and ready for any eventuality. It was an hour which seemed big with fate to Dorothy; and the youth would whistle. She bore with the sound till it could be borne no longer. Had he been an observant youth he would have seen what she was suffering; but observation of that kind was not his strongest point. So at last she was constrained to drop him a hint.

"I should be so much obliged if you wouldn't make that noise."

"Noise? What noise?"

"I suppose you call it whistling."

"Suppose I call it whistling? It is whistling, isn't it?"

"Then, if it is, please don't. If you only knew how I keep thinking of what that man is doing."

"What man?"

"Sir Derwent Dewsnap."

"Isn't he a freak? My hat, I shouldn't care to have him cut chunks off me; it gave me the creeps only to hear him chatter."

"If his hand were to slip; if anything were to happen; if he were to make the least mistake; life would be all over for me; and I'm only just beginning to understand what it means."

"Tuppence!"

She looked at him in righteous indignation.

"Pray what do you mean by saying that?"

"That's about the value of the remark you made; if it's worth as much. It won't make one farthing's worth of difference to you if Dewsnap cuts him into six good-sized pieces. Why should it?"

"You don't understand."

"That's where you're wrong-you don't understand; I do. The only person it might affect is Arnecliffe-and I wouldn't mind getting three months myself if I had a chance of doing what he did."

"I am sorry to hear you talk like this."

"You're not-really? Why, robbing a bank is nothing compared to what Emmett did. He stole a nice, clean, simple little girl; all because of her money-and, all because of her money, he tried to jockey her into marrying him-and all he got for it was a crack on the head with a bottle. If he chooses to croak in consequence that's his fault, nobody else's. Don't you see that yourself?"

"I certainly do not see what you pretend to."

"I say, are you liverish?"

"Not that I'm aware of."

"Then, take my tip, and don't feign a vice if you haven't got it. Strikes me that you take yourself, and every other jolly thing, too seriously. You mayn't guess it, but I'm betting that in about five years' time you'll be looking back at this episode as if it were a regular rare old spree. People do have so few real adventures nowadays. Look at me! I haven't had one in the whole of my life-and you've had one already! – a tip-topper, too! It's an asset-mind you, it's an asset; something you can put in the bank and draw upon. Why, I consider that little tiddley-bit, when you were behind the curtain, and saw the whole jolly show, was worth no end."

"It only proves that you haven't the least idea what you're talking about."

"That remark only proves that you don't know where you are. Why, you're only-I don't know what your age is."

"Never mind my age."

"Well, there can't be much of it to mind. I believe Frances is older than you, and she's only a kid."

"Mr Vernon-"

"You needn't call me Mr Vernon; you can call me Jim."

"Thank you; I prefer to call you Mr Vernon."

"Very well, Miss Gilbert. I was about to observe, when you interrupted me, that, already, at your age, you're set up with a stock of A1 stories which will last you the rest of your life; you'll only be able to appreciate what that means when you arrive at years of discretion. When you've married-if you ever do marry; and a girl with your money is pretty nearly sure to find someone who'll have her-you'll be able to tell your grandchildren-"

"My grandchildren!"

"Or someone else's, it makes no odds-you'll be able to tell them tale after tale, and they'll love you for it; children always love grandmothers who tell them stories; and yours needn't be lies either, because they're such first-class ones in themselves that they'll need no embroidering. What an advantage that will be in your declining years you've no conception, or you'd be more truly grateful for what has lately happened to you than at present you are."

"I think you're the most ridiculous person I ever met; and the rudest. Are all boys like you?"

"Boys? Well! You're younger that I am."

"I shouldn't have thought it possible that anyone could be that."

"My dear Miss Gilbert, in knowledge of the world, compared to you, I'm a grandfather. You ought to treat me with respect."

"Ought I? Do the other boys with whom you associate?"

"Miss Gilbert, you misunderstand the situation. I am at the university; and so are most of the men of my acquaintance."

"Is that so? I didn't know they took them so young."

He looked at her as if he could have said a great deal; but he said nothing-he drew a long breath instead. Presently he began again to whistle. She bore it in silence for a second or two; then she asked innocently:

"Do all the other boys you know make a noise like that, and call it whistling?"

He looked at her again, but he attempted no reply; he continued to whistle. Presently Frances came towards them, down one of the side paths. Dorothy waited for her; Jim strolled on, whistling as he went. When she came to Dorothy, Frances glanced at his back, as he went whistling on.

"Has Jim been entertaining you?"

"Very much-more even than he meant."

"Isn't he droll?"

"Extremely-I never thought anyone could have been so droll."

Frances surveyed her friend with doubt in her eye.

"Have you and he been having a discussion?"

"I don't know that it can be called a discussion; he's so droll. Frances, are all boys like Jim?"

Frances looked round as if she were afraid of eavesdroppers; then said, in lowered tones, as if she were delivering herself of an announcement of the most mysterious and amazing significance:

"Dorothy, I'm beginning to think that they are."

"How odd! and at the convent we used to think that they were such heroes."

"I'm inclined to think that they assume more heroic proportions when they're at a distance."

"But when do they cease to be boys?"

"I'm commencing to wonder. None of Jim's friends are as old as that."

"Your cousin's not a boy."

Frances glanced at Dorothy; but Dorothy happened at that moment to be looking in an entirely different direction, so their glances didn't meet.

"You mean Strathmoira? No, he's a dear."

"What do you mean by 'he's a dear'?"

"Well-hasn't he been a dear to you?"

"If you mean that he's been kind, no one could have been kinder. What would have happened to me if it hadn't been for him I dare not think. I don't know how I ever shall repay him."

"Oh, you'll find it easy, with all that money. Fancy your being a millionairess after all!"

"I'm not a millionairess."

"You've got heaps and heaps of money-because Mr Arnecliffe as good as told me so; and as he really and truly is your guardian he ought to know."

"I suppose your cousin's very rich."

"Lord Strathmoira, my dear, is my mother's cousin; not mine. He's not poor; but then earls, my dear, are not like common people. You need such a deal of money if you want to play the part properly, if you are an earl; and I shouldn't be a bit surprised if he could do with more. Is Mr Arnecliffe rich?"

"I haven't a notion."

"There's been a story in his life."

"How do you know?"

"I can see it in his face."

"Oh! How can you see it in his face?"

"Dorothy?"

"Yes."

"How are you going to repay him?"

"He doesn't want repaying."

"Doesn't he?"

"He's not that kind."

"Isn't he? He seems to have done a good deal for your family."

"Oh yes; a good deal."

"I wonder how old he is. He must be pretty old if he was your mother's friend. His hair is turning grey."

"He doesn't seem old to me. I like hair-that shade."

There was silence for some seconds; then Frances said:

"Do you know, Dorothy, I've come to the conclusion that you're going to be a beautiful woman."

"Frances! How can you be so absurd? Please don't be silly!"

"And do you know, at the convent I never even guessed you were going to be pretty. It never dawned on me till that morning when I saw you standing on our lawn. Then I said to myself: 'I do believe that girl's going to be beautiful'; and now I'm sure of it."

"If I'm going to be-I notice you use the future tense-pray what are you now?"

"Oh, I'm pretty; I know exactly what I am; I've no delusions. I once heard mother say to an aunt of mine-she didn't know I heard, but I did-'Frances is the sort of girl to make a good man happy'-and that's exactly what I am: prettiness of my kind runs in the family; Jim's a pretty boy. But you-yours is going to be the kind of beauty men rave about; and I don't call it fair."

"I never imagined you could be so ridiculous. What don't you call fair?"

"That a girl should have both beauty and gold. One or the other, but not both. Think of the quantities of quite respectable girls who have neither. Why, I myself know heaps-plain and penniless. Dorothy, it's tragic for a girl to be like that; you mayn't know it, but it is. Fortune ought to share out her gifts with a more equal hand: she shouldn't give one person so much more than her proper share."