These few words—much from Lord Oldborough—and which he took care to say when they could be heard by numbers, were quickly circulated. The physicians and surgeons who had given in their report were zealous in maintaining the truth; medical and political parties were interested in the affair; the name of Dr. Percy was joined with the first names in the medical world, and repeated by the first people in the great world, so that with surprising celerity he became known and fashionable. And thus the very circumstance that threatened his ruin was, by his civil courage and decided judgment, converted into the means of his rising into eminence.
Late one night, after a busy and fatiguing day, just as Erasmus had got into bed, and was settling himself comfortably to sleep, he heard a loud knock at the door.
“Mr. Henry, sir, from Mr. Panton’s in the city, wishes to speak with you.”
“Show him in.—So, old Panton, I suppose—some indigestion has brought him to reason?”
“Oh! no such thing,” interrupted Mr. Henry—“I would not have disturbed you at this time of night for any such trifle; but our excellent friend, Mr. Gresham—”
“What of him?” cried Erasmus, starting up in bed.
“Is ill,—but whether dangerously or not, I cannot tell you. An express from his house in the country has just arrived; I heard the letter read, but could not get it to bring to you. It was written to old Panton from Mr. Gresham’s housekeeper, without her master’s knowledge, as he has no opinion of physicians, she said, except of a young Dr. Percy, and did not like to send for him for such a trifle as a sore throat, lest it should hurt his practice to leave town at this season.”
Erasmus stayed to hear no more, but ordered horses instantly, set out, and travelled with all possible expedition. He had reason to rejoice that he had not made a moment’s delay. He found Mr. Gresham actually suffocating from a quinsy. A surgeon had been sent for from the next town, but was not at home. Erasmus, the instant he saw Mr. Gresham, perceiving the danger, without saying one syllable, sprang to the bed, lanced the throat, and saved the life of his valuable friend. The surgeon, who came the next day, said that Dr. Percy ought to have waited for his arrival, and that a physician might be severely blamed for performing a surgical operation—that it was a very indelicate thing.
But Mr. Gresham, who had fallen into a comfortable sleep, did not hear him; nor did Dr. Percy, who was writing the following letter to his father:
“... You will sympathize with me, my dear father, and all my friends at home will sympathize in the joy I feel at seeing this excellent man, this kind friend, recovering under my care. These are some of the happy moments which, in my profession, repay us for years of toil, disappointment, and sufferings—yes, sufferings—for we must suffer with those that suffer: we must daily and hourly behold every form of pain, acute or lingering; numbers, every year of our lives, we must see perish, the victims of incurable disease. We are doomed to hear the groans of the dying, and the lamentations, sometimes the reproaches, of surviving friends; often and often must the candid and humane physician deplore the insufficiency of his art. But there are successful, gloriously successful moments, which reward us for all the painful duties, all the unavailing regrets of our profession.