Cassell's Family Magazine/A Missing Witness/Chapter 12

E sat—mother, Elsie and I—in the theatre of St. Andrew's Hospital. Dr. Andrew Watson—whose name, I think, I mentioned in the beginning of my narrative—was with us; for it was through his influence that we were permitted to be present (for this was an irregular privilege), and he had promised Philip to look after us and “scuttle us out if we didn't behave ourselves”—in other words, if the operation we were to witness, and the result, were to overcome our endurance. Several students with note-books were seated below us; the semicircular space beyond the seats was vacant save for an attendant, who was adjusting some straps upon the long operating-table. I could hear my heart beating in those dreadful moments of suspense; it seemed to stop altogether as the green baize door at the back opened and some gentlemen came in. I found little mother's hand, and we locked them together for mutual assurance, while Dr. Watson, bending forward, scanned our faces critically through his glasses, and gave me a nod of encouragement and a kind smile when our eyes met.

I recognised Lord Lindhurst—Philip's uncle—amongst the first who entered, for he had come to see us and express his interest in our welfare. He was talking earnestly to a tall gentleman with a long pale face and dark eyes.

“The Home Secretary,” whispered Dr. Watson behind his hand, leaning forward.

Oh, we were glad to see him: knowing that it was in his power to release my dear father. He was intimately related to Lord Lindhurst, who had used every endeavour, Philip told us, to persuade him to be present at this operation. With them were half a dozen other gentlemen whose names we did not care to know, and two attendants carrying cases and apparatus. Then our dear Philip appeared, wearing a long apron and with his shirt-cuffs turned back; and, finally, the poor fellow William Yates was led in, and we knew him well enough for he had been staying with us for nearly a week, under Philip's constant care and ministration. His head was shaved, and he looked about him vacantly, and at the people standing on the further side of the table with mute curiosity. But he seemed to recognise Philip, and at his bidding submitted to be laid upon the table and strapped down with an idiotic smile.

Philip took a bright little cylindrical instrument from a case, and, after examining it critically, he placed himself at the head of the table and laying one hand kindly on the patient's shoulder, he said, in a low, clear voice, addressing the Home Secretary:

“The operation I am about to perform is one well known in surgery. It may be described simply as the removal of a portion of bone from the skull which has been depressed upon the surface of the brain. The result of a depression upon that part of the brain where this happens to be is the temporary destruction of its function; and the removal of that depressing bone leads in many cases to an immediate restoration of the lost function, so that the brain, even after a long absence of time, takes up the thread of action at the very point where it was broken off. In illustration of this fact, I may state the case of an experiment which was made at the Sorbonne only three weeks since. A terrier in pursuit of a cat was run over by a passing vehicle and picked up for dead. The proprietor, however, detecting signs of vitality, took the animal to his friend, the celebrated Doctor Charcot. Monsieur Charcot found that the dog was not killed, but its animation suspended by a fracture of the skull. The dog was kept alive by artificial means for a week, and then this operation was performed at the hospital, Charcot prognosticating that the moment the animal recovered consciousness it would take up the pursuit of the cat. That forecast was verified, for almost immediately after trephining, the dog leapt from the table and went sniffing round the théâtre for the lost cat. Now, sir, this poor fellow, William Yates, was presumably struck with the sledge-hammer at the instant he was discovered to have been a witness of the murder of Joseph Pettigrew, and if our conclusions are just, he will, as soon as we have removed this portion of bone and he recovers consciousness from the administration of chloroform, pursue the train of volition that was stopped by that blow.”

He turned and spoke to the assistant doctors, who then proceeded to chloroform Yates; and as soon as they perceived by the patient's eye that the desired effect was produced, Philip made the operation. At another time the removal of the scalp and the cutting of the bone would have sickened me, but now every feeling was swallowed up in awful anticipation of the result.

I cannot tell how long the operation lasted—surely not so long as that period of intense suspense seemed to us; but in the end, the straps were quickly unbuckled, and William Yates was raised into a sitting position upon the edge of the table. For a moment he looked about him dizzily; then, suddenly starting to his feet and freeing himself from the hands that held him, he staggered forward crying at the top of his voice—

“Help! help! Heatherly! some of you—help! Jim Redmond's murdered the governor with the sledge—help! help!”

The case was tried again, and now James Redmond was in the dock for the murder of Joseph Pettigrew, and convicted upon the unswerving and circumstantial evidence of William Yates.

I do not care to dwell longer upon the hideous side of this narrative. The cloud was dispelled, and a flood of uninterrupted light and happiness poured down upon us. Who can depict the glory of the sun as we see it when the leaden pall of winter is swept from the sky? Who can convey the sense of joy that floods the heart when doubt and fear, grief and despair, are banished, and not a shade of the past desolation is left to dim the glow of gratitude? Not I.

When my dear father came home again to us—his innocence vindicated, his honesty proved in the sight of God and man, it seemed to me that our measure of joy was full, and yet more happiness flowed in. For soon after this Elsie was married to Philip, and there was fresh rejoicing in our home. They left us for a little while, but came back in time to spend Christmas and the New Year at Farleigh. And when that genial season was past, they began to think of settling down seriously, taking example from the rooks, Phil said, who were already busy in the elms getting their nests in order.

Philip, I think, would have been content with a simple practice in Farleigh—providing it gave him scope for plenty of trout-fishing with father; but Elsie, and I think all of us, were more ambitious, and wished him to enjoy a larger life than a remote provincial town could afford. Lord Lindhurst, too, had very strong views on this subject, and, urging Philip to take advantage of the publicity and fame brought by his operation upon Yates, bought the practice of an eminent London surgeon, and furnished a fine house in Harley Street magnificently for his nephew and niece.

And now to tell of my own happiness and good fortune. When Elsie and Philip came home they brought Dr. Watson with them, and he was easily induced to spend Christmas with us, and in our long walks through the beautiful frosted woods and across the moors he became my constant companion, for Elsie and her husband were still lovers, and so preferred their own company to any other.

Dr. Watson was fond of botany; he knew the names and habits of every little plant whose beauty or singularity attracted observation, and I was eager to learn all that concerned the beautiful country in which we were living; so this community of tastes led to endless conversations. Indeed, in many things we discovered a wonderful affinity of disposition; and somehow my admiration for his wide knowledge, his generous feeling and tender kindness grew day by day greater and greater, so that when he went away my heart was heavy with a sense of bereavement that I could not account for. Because I had still my father and mother, and both were loving and kind—both ever ready to ramble in the woods with me and share the study of botany that I had undertaken. But the plants seemed to have lost their charm, and the books that told about them were now dry and wordy and uninteresting. I knew every nook and corner that I had explored with Dr. Watson, but instead of recalling pleasant reminiscences, they filled me with an indescribable feeling of desolation and regret; so I avoided them, and for the same reason ceased to seek for the things that had once interested me so keenly.

We made the acquaintance of an old lady in the village—a sweet, delicate, gentlewoman with soft dark eyes that were full of pathos. She had no companion save a few household pets, for she was an old maid, and one day it struck me that in the time to come I must live quite alone as she did, and the thought that I should have nothing but a goldfinch and a sleepy cat to love me, wrung my heart with inexpressible pain.

“There are about three women to every two men,” thought I, “and it is unreasonable to suppose that all can marry and have dear little children to love them; some of us must be old maids.” And so I tried my hardest to resign myself to my fate.

But at Easter Dr. Watson came to spend a week with us, and before he went away, he said to me—

“I've been trying to cheat myself into the belief that a student ought not to marry, and that there's no estate in life so free from care and anxiety as a bachelor's. But I've found out that it is a cheat, Dorothy, and that a man must have special qualities that I don't possess to be a jolly old bachelor; and so I intend to marry, if the one I ask will have me.”

“I—I hope she will,” I said, a sincere wish for his happiness overcoming the first impression of jealous dislike to the proposed wife; “and I hope she will be very nice.”

“Why, so do I; but I mean to put her to the test at once. Will you be my wife, sweet, gentle Dorothy?”

And now we are married, and even yet there seems greater and greater happiness in store for me. We don't live in Harley Street like Phil, but not far from them, and Phil has proposed that my husband and he shall become partners. Already they fill each other's place when Elsie and Phil or my dear Andrew and I run down into Yorkshire to spend a few days with father and our happy little mother.