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Finger Posts on the Way of Life

T >> T. S. Arthur >> Finger Posts on the Way of Life




"Do not mistake the case, doctor, for we are very much concerned,"
said Mr. Marvel.

"I do assure you, sir, that I understand the case precisely; and you
must believe me, when I tell you that no patient was ever in a
better way than your little boy."

Next morning, among other charges made by Dr. Elton, were two
against Mr. Marvel, as follows: _To four visits to son,_ $4. _To one
night-visit to son,_ $5.

"Not a bad customer!" said the doctor, with a smile, as he ran up
the whole account, and then closed the book.

In the constant habit of sending for the doctor on every trifling
occasion, whether it occurred at noonday or midnight, it is not to
be wondered at that a pretty large bill should find its way to Mr.
Marvel at the end of the year. And this was not the worst of it; the
health of his whole family suffered in no slight degree from the
fact of each individual being so frequently under the influence of
medicine. Poor Charley was victimized almost every week; and,
instead of being a fresh, hearty boy, began to show a pale, thin
face, and every indication of a weakened vital action. This
appearance only increased the evil, for both parents, growing more
anxious in consequence, were more urgent to have him placed under
treatment. Dr. Elton sometimes remonstrated with them, but to no
purpose; and yielding to their ignorance and their anxiety, became a
party in the destruction of the boy's health.

"What is that, my dear?" asked Mrs. Marvel of her husband, some ten
months after their introduction to the reader, as the latter
regarded, with no pleasant countenance, a small piece of paper which
he held in his hand.

"Why, it's Dr. Elton's bill."

"Indeed! How much is it?"

"One hundred and fifty dollars!"

"Oh, husband!"

"Did you ever hear of such a thing?"

"One hundred and fifty dollars, did you say?"

"Yes, one hundred and fifty dollars. A'n't it outrageous?"

"It's scandalous! It's downright swindling! I'd never pay it in the
world! Who ever heard of such a thing! One hundred and fifty dollars
for one year's attendance! Good gracious!"--and Mrs. Marvel held up
her hands, and lifted her eyes in profound astonishment.

"I can't understand it!" said Mr. Marvel. "Why, nobody's had a spell
of sickness in the family for the whole year. Charley's been a
little sick once or twice; but nothing of much consequence. There
must be something wrong about it. I'll go right off and see him, and
have an understanding about it at once."

Carrying out his resolution on the instant, Mr. Marvel left the
house and proceeded with rapid steps toward the office of Dr. Elton.
He found that individual in.

"Good morning Mr. Marvel! How do you do to-day?" said the doctor,
who understood from his countenance that something was wrong, and
had an instinctive perception of its nature.

"Good morning, doctor! I got your bill to-day."

"Yes, sir; I sent it out."

"But a'n't there something wrong about it, doctor?"

"No, I presume not. I make my charges carefully, and draw off my
bills in exact accordance with them."

"But there must be, doctor. How in the world could you make a bill
of one hundred and fifty dollars against me? I've had no serious
sickness in my family."

"And yet, Mr. Marvel, I have been called in almost every week, and
sometimes three or four times in as many days."

"Impossible!"

"I'll show you my ledger, if that will satisfy you, where every
visit is entered."

"No, it's no use to do that. I know that you have been called in
pretty often, but not frequently enough to make a bill like this."

"How many night-visits do you suppose I have made to your family,
during the year?"

"I'm sure I don't know. Not more than three or four."

"I've made ten!"

"You must be mistaken, doctor."

"Do you remember that I was called in last February, when you
thought Charley had the croup?"

"Yes."

"And the night after?"

"Yes. That's but two."

"And the night you thought he had the measles?"

"Yes."

"And the night after?"

"Yes. But that's only four."

"And the three times he fell out of bed?"

"Not three times, doctor!"

"Yes, it was three times. Don't you recollect the knob on his head?"

"Yes, indeed!"

"And the sprained finger?"

"Yes."

"And the bruised cheek?"

"Well, I believe you are right about that, doctor. But that don't
make ten times."

"You have not forgotten, of course, the night he told you he had
swallowed a pin?"

"No, indeed," said the father, turning pale. "Do you think there is
any danger to be apprehended from its working its way into the
heart, doctor?"

"None at, all, I should think. And you remember"--

"Never mind, doctor, I suppose you are right about that. But how can
ten visits make one hundred and fifty dollars?"

"They will make fifty, though, and that is one-third of the bill."

"You don't pretend to charge five dollars a visit, though, doctor?"

"For all visits after ten o'clock at night, we are allowed by law to
charge five dollars."

"Outrageous!"

"Would you get up out of your warm bed after midnight, turn out in a
December storm, and walk half a mile for five dollars?"

"I can't say that I would. But then it's your business."

"Of course it is, and I must be paid for it."

"Any how, doctor, that don't account for the whole of this
exorbitant bill."

"But one hundred day and evening visits here on my ledger will,
though."

"You don't pretend to say you have paid my family a hundred visits,
certainly?"

"I will give you day and date for them, if necessary."

"No, it's no use to do that," said Mr. Marvel, whose memory began to
be a little more active. "I'll give you a hundred dollars, and say
no more about it; that is enough, in all conscience."

"I can't do any such thing, Mr. Marvel. I have charged you what was
right, and can take nothing off. What would you think of a man who
had made a bill at your store of one hundred and fifty dollars, if
he were to offer you one hundred when he came to pay, and ask for a
receipt in full?"

"But that a'n't to the point."

"A'n't it, though? I should like to hear of a case more applicable.
But it's no use to multiply words about the matter. My bill is
correct, and I cannot take a dollar off of it."

"It's the last bill you ever make out of me, remember that, doctor!"
said Mr. Marvel, rising, and leaving the office in a state of angry
excitement.

"Well, what does he say?" asked Mrs. Marvel, who had waited for her
husband's return with some interest.

"He tried to beat me down that the bill was all right; but I'm too
old a child for that. Why, would you believe it?--he has charged
five dollars for every night-visit."

"That's no better than highway robbery."

"Not a bit. But it's the last money he ever gets out of me."

"I'd never call him in, I know. He must think we're made of money."

"Oh, I suppose we're the first family he's had who wasn't poor, and
he wanted to dig as deep as possible. I hate such swindling, and if
it wasn't for having a fuss I'd never pay him a dollar."

"He's charged us for every poor family in the neighbourhood, I
suppose."

"No doubt of it. I've heard of these tricks before; but it's the
last time I'll submit to have them played off upon me."

The visit of Mr. Marvel somewhat discomposed the feelings of Dr.
Elton, and he had begun to moralize upon the unthankful position he
held in the community, when he was aroused from his reverie by the
entrance of a servant from one of the principal hotels, with a
summons to attend immediately a young lady who was thought to be
exceedingly ill.

"Who is she?" asked the doctor.

"She is the daughter of Mr. Smith, a merchant from the East."

"Is any one with her?"

"Yes, her father."

"Tell him I will be there immediately."

In the course of fifteen minutes Dr. Elton's carriage drove up to
the door of the hotel. He found his patient to be a young lady of
about seventeen, accompanied by her father, a middle-aged man, whose
feelings were much, and anxiously excited.

At a glance, his practised eye detected symptoms of a serious
nature, and a closer examination of the case convinced him that all
his skill would be called into requisition. With a hot, dry skin,
slightly flushed face, parched lips, and slimy, furred tongue, there
was a dejection, languor, and slight indication of delirium--and
much apparent confusion of mind. Prescribing as he thought the case
required, he left the room, accompanied with the father.

"Well, doctor, what do you think of her?" said Mr. Smith, with a
heavy, oppressed expiration.

"She is ill, sir, and will require attention."

"But, doctor, you don't think my child dangerous, do you?" said the
father with an alarmed manner.

"It is right that you should know, sir, that your daughter is, to
all appearance, threatened with the typhus fever. But I don't think
there is any cause for alarm, only for great care in her physician
and attendants."

"O doctor, can I trust her in your hands? But I am foolish; I know
that there is no one in this city of more acknowledged skill than
yourself. You must pardon a father's fears. Spare no attentions,
doctor--visit her at least twice every day, and you shall be well
paid for your attentions. Save my child for me, and I will owe you
eternal gratitude."

"All that I can do for her, shall be done, sir," said Dr. Elton.

Just relieved from the care of a dangerous case, in its healthy
change, Dr. Elton's mind had relaxed from the anxiety which too
frequently burdened it; for a physician's mind is always oppressed
while the issue, of life or death hangs upon his power to subdue a
disease, which may be too deeply seated to yield to the influence of
medicine. Now, all the oppressive sense of responsibility, the care,
the anxiety, were to be renewed, and felt with even a keener
concern.

In the evening he called in, but there was no perceptible change,
except a slight aggravation of all the symptoms. The medicine had
produced no visible salutary effect. During the second day, there
was exhibited little alteration, but on the morning of the third
day, symptoms of a more decided character had supervened--such as
suffused and injected eyes, painful deglutition, an oppression in
the chest, accompanied with a short, dry cough, pains in the back,
loins, and extremities; and a soreness throughout the whole body.
These had not escaped the father's observation, and with the most
painful anxiety did he watch the countenance of the physician while
he examined the case in its new presentation. Much as he tried to
control the expression of his face, he found it impossible. He felt
too deeply concerned, and was too conscious of the frequent
impotence of medicine, when administered with the most experienced
skill.

In the afternoon he called again, and found the father, as usual, by
the bedside. His patient seemed to be in a narcotic sleep, and when
roused from it, complained of much giddiness, and soon sunk down
again into a state of torpor.

"What do you think of her now, doctor?" asked the father, in a
hoarse whisper, on the physician's leaving the chamber of his
patient.

"It is impossible to form any correct idea respecting a case like
this. I have seen many much worse recover, and have no doubt, as far
as human calculation will go, that your daughter will get well. But
the fever is a tedious one, usually defying all attempts at breaking
it. It must run its course, which is usually some ten or fifteen
days. All we can do is to palliate, and then assist nature, when the
disease has abated its violence."

It is not necessary to trace the progress of the disease from day to
day, until it reached its climax. When the fever did break, and a
soft, gentle moisture penetrated the skin, the patient had but a
spark of life remaining.

At the close of the fifteenth day, when every symptom indicated that
convalescence or death would soon ensue, no one but a physician can
imagine the painful, restless anxiety, which was felt by Dr. Elton.
He took but little food, and slept hardly any during the whole
night, frequently starting from his brief periods of troubled
slumber, in consequence of great nervous excitement.

Early in the morning he called at the room of his patient,
trembling, lest a first glance should dash every hope to the ground.
He entered softly, and perceived the father bending over her with a
pale anxious face. She was asleep. He took her hand, but let it drop
instantly.

"What is the matter?" asked the father in an alarmed whisper, his
face growing paler.

"She is safe?" responded the doctor, in a low whisper, every pulse
thrilling with pleasant excitement.

The father clasped his hands, looked upward a moment, and then burst
into tears.

"How can I ever repay you for your skill in saving my child!" he
said, after his feelings had grown calmer.

It was nearly a month before the daughter was well enough to return
home, during most of which time Dr. Elton was in attendance. For
fifteen days he had attended twice a day regularly, and for nearly
as long a period once a day.

While sitting in his office one day about three o'clock, waiting for
his carriage to come up to the door, Mr. Smith entered, and asked
for his bill, as he was about to leave. On examining his
account-book, Dr. Elton found that he had made about fifty visits,
and accordingly he made out his bill fifty dollars.

"How much is this, doctor?" said Mr. Smith, eyeing the bill with
something of doubt in the expression of his countenance.

"Fifty dollars, sir."

"Fifty dollars! Why, surely, doctor, you are not going to take
advantage of me in that way?"

"I don't understand you, sir."

"Why, I never heard of such an extravagant bill in my life. I have
my whole family attended at home for fifty dollars a year, and you
have not been visiting one of them much over a month."

"Such as the bill is, you will have to pay it, sir. It is just, and
I shall not abate one dollar," responded Dr. Elton, considerably
irritated.

Mr. Smith drew out his pocket-book slowly, selected a fifty-dollar
bill from a large package, handed it to the doctor, took his
receipt, and rising to his feet, said emphatically--

"I am a stranger, and you have taken advantage of me. But remember,
the gains of dishonesty will never prosper!" and turning upon his
heel, left the office.

"Who would be a doctor?" murmured Dr. Elton, forcing the unpleasant
thoughts occasioned by the incident from his mind, and endeavouring
to fix it upon a case of more than usual interest which he had been
called to that day.

A word to the wise is sufficient; it is therefore needless to
multiply scenes illustrative of the manner in which too many people
pay the doctor.

When any one is sick, the doctor is sent for, and the family are all
impatient until he arrives. If the case is a bad one, he is looked
upon as a ministering angel; the patient's eye brightens when he
comes, and all in the house feel more cheerful for hours after. Amid
all kinds of weather, at all hours in the day or night, he obeys the
summons, and brings all his skill, acquired by long study, and by
much laborious practice, to bear upon the disease. But when the sick
person gets well, the doctor is forgotten; and when the bill
appears, complaint at its amount is almost always made; and too
frequently, unless he proceed to legal measures, it is entirely
withheld from him. These things ought not so to be. Of course, there
are many honourable exceptions; but every physician can
exclaim--"Would that their number was greater!"






THE LITTLE BOUND-BOY.





IN a miserable old house, in Commerce street, north of Pratt street
Baltimore,--there are fine stores there now--lived a shoemaker,
whose wife took a particular fancy to me as a doctor, (I never felt
much flattered by the preference,) and would send for me whenever
she was sick. I could do no less than attend her ladyship. For a
time I tried, by pretty heavy bills, to get rid of the honour; but
it wouldn't do. Old Maxwell, the husband, grumbled terribly, but
managed to keep out of my debt. He was the reputed master of his
house; but I saw enough to satisfy me that if he were master, his
wife was mistress of the master.

Maxwell had three or four apprentices, out of whom he managed to get
a good deal of work at a small cost. Among these was a little
fellow, whose peculiarly delicate appearance often attracted my
attention. He seemed out of place among the stout, vulgar-looking
boys, who stitched and hammered away from morning until night in
their master's dirty shop.

"Where did you get that child?" I asked of the shoemaker one day.

"Whom do you mean? Bill?"

"Yes, the little fellow you call Bill."

"I took him out of pure charity. His mother died about a year and a
half ago, and if I hadn't taken him in, he would have gone to the
poor house as like as not."

"Who was his mother?"

"She was a poor woman, who sewed for the slopshops for a living--but
their pay won't keep soul and body together."

"And so she died?"

"Yes, she died, and I took her child out of pure charity, as I have
said."

"Is he bound to you?"

"Oh yes. I never take a boy without having him bound."

"What was his mother's name?"

"I believe they called her Mrs. Miller."

"Did you ever meet with her?"

"No: but my wife knew her very well. She was a strange kind of
woman--feeling something above her condition, I should think. She
was always low-spirited, my wife says, but never complained about
any thing. Bill was her only child, and he used to go for her work,
and carry it home when it was finished. She sent him out, too, to
buy every thing. I don't believe she would have stirred beyond her
own door if she had starved to death."

"Why not?"

"Pride, I reckon."

"Pride? Why should she be proud?"

"Dear knows! Maybe she once belonged to the bettermost class of
people, and was afraid of meeting some of them in the street."

This brief conversation awoke an interest in my mind for the lad. As
I left the shop, I met him at the door with a large bucket of water
in his hand--too heavy for his strength. I looked at him more
narrowly than I had ever done before. There was a feminine delicacy
about every feature of his face, unusual in boys who ordinarily
belong to the station he was filling. His eyes, too, had a softer
expression, and his brow was broader and fairer. The intentness with
which I looked at him, caused him to look at me as intently. What
thoughts were awakened in his mind I could not tell. I put my hand
upon his head, involuntarily; but did not speak to him; and then
passed on. I could not help turning to take another glance at the
boy. He had turned also. I saw that there were tears in his eyes.

"Poor fellow!" I murmured, "he is out of his place." I did, not go
back to speak to him, as I wished afterward that I had done, but
kept on my way.

Not having occasion to visit the shoemaker's wife again for some
months, this boy did not, during the time, fall under my notice. It
was midwinter when I next saw him.

I was preparing to go out one stormy morning in February, when a lad
came into my office. He was drenched to the skin by the rain, that
was driving fiercely along under the pressure of a strong
northeaster, and shivering with cold. His teeth chattered so that it
was some time before he could make known his errand. I noticed that
he was clad in a much worn suit of common corduroy, the cracks in
which, here and there, showed the red skin beneath, and proved
clearly enough that this was all that protected him from the bitter
cold. One of his shoes gaped widely at the toe; and the other was
run down at the heel so badly, that part of his foot and old ragged
stocking touched the floor. A common sealskin cap, with the front
part nearly torn off, was in his hand. He had removed this from his
head on entering, and stood, with his eyes now resting on mine, and
now dropping beneath my gaze, waiting for me to ask his errand. I
did not recognise him.

"Well, my little man," I said, "is any one sick?"

"Please sir, Mr. Maxwell wants you to come down and see Johnny."

"Mr. Maxwell! Do you live with Mr. Maxwell?"

"Yes, sir."

I now recognized the lad. He was a good deal changed since I last
saw him, and changed for the worse.

"What is the matter with Johnny?" I asked.

"I believe he's got the croup."

"Indeed! Is he very sick?"

"Yes, sir. He can't hardly breathe at all, and goes all the time
just so--" Imitating the wheezing sound attendant upon constricted
respiration.

"Very well, my boy, I will be there in a little while, But, bless
me! you will get the croup as well as Johnny, if you go out in such
weather as this and have on no warmer clothing than covers you now.
Come up to the stove and warm yourself--you are shivering all over.
Why did not you bring an umbrella?"

"Mr. Maxwell never lets me take the umbreller," said the boy
innocently.

"He doesn't? But he sends you out in the rain?"

"Oh yes--always. Sometimes I am wet all day."

"Doesn't it make you sick?"

"I feel bad, and ache all over sometimes after I have been wet; and
sometimes my face swells up and pains me so I can't sleep."

"Do not your feet get very cold? Have you no better shoes than
these?"

"I've got a better pair of shoes: but they hurt my feet so I can't
wear them. Thomas, one of the boys, gave me these old ones."

"Why do they hurt your feet? Are they too small?"

"No, sir, I don't think they are. But my feet are sore."

I feared as much as this. "What is the matter with your feet?" I
asked.

"I don't know, sir. The boys say that nothing's the matter with
them, only they're a little snow-burnt."

"How do they feel?"

"They burn and itch, and are so tender I can hardly touch them. I
can't sleep at nights sometimes for the burning and itching."

I examined the boy's feet, and found them red, shining and tumefied,
with other indications of a severe attack of chilblains.

"What have you done for your feet?" I asked. "Does Mr. Maxwell know
they are so bad?"

"I showed them to him, and he said it was only a snow-burn, and that
I must put my feet in snow and let it draw the cold out."

"Did you do so?"

"Yes, sir, as long as I could bear it; but it hurt dreadful bad. Mr.
Maxwell said I didn't keep them in half long enough."

"Were they better afterward?"

"Yes, sir, I think they were; but I go out so much in the snow, and
get them wet so often, that they can't get well."

"What is your name?" I asked.

"William."

"What else?"

"William Miller."

"Is your mother alive?"

The tone and manner of the boy, when he gave a half inarticulate
negative, made me regret having asked the question. It was a
needless one, for already knew that his mother was dead. It was
meant, however, as a preliminary inquiry, and, having been made, I
proceeded to question him, in order to learn something, briefly, of
his history.

"Were you born in Baltimore?" I continued.

"Yes, sir."

"Have you any relatives here?"

"Mr. P----W----is my uncle."

"Mr. W----?" I said, in surprise.

"Yes, sir--mother said he was my uncle."

"Is he your mother's brother?"

"Yes, sir."

"Did he ever come to see your mother?"

"No, sir, he never came near us, and mother never went to see him."

"What was the reason?"

"I don't know, sir."

The child continued to look intently in my face, but I questioned
him no further. I knew Mr. W----very well, and settled it at once in
my mind that I would call and see him about the lad. I stood musing
for some moments after the boy's last reply, and then said--

"Tell Mr. Maxwell, that I will call down in about half an hour: Run
home as quickly as you can, and try and keep out of the rain."

The sad, rebuking earnestness with which the boy looked at me, when
I said this, touched my feelings. He had, evidently, expected more
than a mere expression of sympathy; but I did not think it right to
create any false hopes in his mind. I meant to do all I could to
relieve his wretched condition; but did not know how far I would be
successful.

I found, on visiting the child of Maxwell, that I had quite a severe
case of croup on my hands. His respiration was very difficult, and
sounded as if the air were forced through a metallic tube. There was
a good deal of fever, and other unfavourable symptoms. The
albuminous secretion was large, and the formation of the false
membrane so rapid as to threaten suffocation. I resorted to the
usual treatment in such cases, and, happily, succeeded in producing
a healthy change in the course of a few hours. So urgent had been
the case, that, in attending to it, my mind had lost sight of the
little boy on my first and second visits. As I was leaving the house
on the morning succeeding the day on which I had been called in, I
met him coming along the passage with an armful of wood. The look he
gave me, as he passed, rebuked my forgetfulness, and forced me to
turn back and speak to his master.

"Look here, Maxwell," I said, speaking decidedly, but in a voice so
low that my words could not be heard distinctly by others in the
room--"you must take better care of that boy Bill, or you will get
into trouble."

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