“I shall be very pleased to see him, if you think he would care for it,” I said rather eagerly, I believe, if the truth were told.
She seemed undecided. When a person is in the habit of being attended by one medical man, a fresh one is always at a disadvantage. People have such faith in their “own doctor,” a faith that is almost a religion, often misplaced, and sometimes fatal. The old-fashioned family doctor with his out-of-date methods, his white waistcoat, and his cultivated gravity still flourishes, even in these enlightened days of serums and light cures. And in order to impress their patients, they sometimes prescribe unheard of medicines that are not to be found even in “Squire.”
“Dr. Whitworth has attended my brother for several years, and has taken a great interest in his case,” she said reflectively.
“What is his ailment?” I inquired.
“An internal one. All the doctors he has seen appear to disagree as to its actual cause. He suffers great pain at times. It is because he is worse that I have come here.”
“Perhaps I can prescribe something to relieve it,” I suggested. “Would you like me to see him? I am entirely at your disposal.”
“You are extremely kind, doctor,” she replied. “But we live rather a long way off, and I am afraid at this time of night——”
“Oh, the hour is nothing, I assure you,” I laughed, interrupting her. “If I can do anything to make your brother more comfortable, I’ll do so.”
She was still undecided. Somehow I could not help thinking that she regarded me with a strange fixed look—a glance which indeed surprised me. Having regard to the strange dénouement of the interview, I now recollect every detail of it, and can follow accurately the working of her mind.
“Well,” she said at last, rather reluctantly it seemed, “if you are quite sure the distance is not too far, it would be most kind of you to come. I’m sure you could give Frank something to allay his pain. We live at Dartmouth Hill, Blackheath.”