The Healing Season (23 page)

He continued reading, drawing strength and solace from the words, and finding peace at last. The fear receded to the edges of the room, and he sat in the circle of light, filled with the power of the words.

Was the Lord calling him home? Was his labor on this earth finished? These thoughts no longer wrenched at him. There was still so much work to be done, and he felt he had only touched the surface, not only in his medical practice, but as a servant of God. How many souls had he won into the kingdom?

Was it too late? Would he stand before the Lord someday having little to show with the talents he’d been given? Ian prayed, seeking the Lord for the answers. Had he strayed in some way that the Lord was displeased with him and must now cut short the length of his days?

His thoughts turned again to Eleanor Neville. Had these months of lusting after her finally reaped this de
struction in his life? He cried out the words of David. “Oh, God, cast me not away from Thy presence; and take not Thy Holy Spirit from me.”

“D
r. Elliot, you must have something more effective than that tonic you gave me last week,” Eleanor said peevishly, eyeing the offending bottle as if it contained arsenic.

“But, madam, Salvator Winter’s Elixir Vitae is the best restorative available today. It says here plainly.” He took the bottle from her and read through the half-moons of his spectacles. “‘An excellent Life-Preserving Remedy, so speedy a Reviver of the Spirits and Restorer of Decayed Nature.’” He looked at her as if it was her fault the tonic had done nothing for her.

“Well, give me something stronger. I’m not sleeping at night, my nerves are delicate.”

“In that case we shall try Rose’s Balsamic Elixir. It will sweeten the blood and correct all imperfections of
the digestion. You shall see, your bloom will return in no time at all.”

She glanced dubiously at the new bottle he held out to her. She took off the stopper and sniffed. It had an agreeable odor, more like a cordial than a medicine. “Very well, I shall try it. And some sleeping powders.”

“Of course, Mrs. Neville.” Quickly he wrote out a prescription. “I shall leave you a sample here, and you can get more at the apothecary’s.”

She took it, only somewhat satisfied. The man was certainly charging her enough; the least he could do was leave her a sufficient dose to get her through the week.

“You should have called me when you first fell ill.” The physician recommenced the scolding he’d begun after he walked in. “There are too many quacks about nowadays. I can’t say you are looking at all the thing. I would also recommend Godbold’s Vegetable Balsam and Vandour’s Nervous Pills.”

“Very well. Write them down.” She handed the prescription back to him. The top of her vanity was already full of bottles and pillboxes, but there was always the possibility she hadn’t found the right one yet.

After her physician had left, Eleanor paced the length of her sitting room. It was too cold and dreary to go out on this January day. She jerked to a stop every time she heard a carriage go by. Perhaps today she’d hear if she’d
gotten the part in Moncrieff’s new production of
Don Giovanni
at the Olympic.

She smiled, momentarily distracted by the thought of the new show. In this one, the part of Don Giovanni was going to a female. Madame Vestris was already a hit in a similar production at the Sans Pareil.

Eleanor held her breath as a coach rumbled down the street. She glanced toward it and recognized d’Alvergny’s gold-and-blue crest decorating the door panel. She sighed wearily. At least he would distract her. He’d resumed his frequent visits since she’d recovered from the fever.

“Good afternoon, Eleanor,” he said, bending over her hand after he’d been shown into her sitting room.

“Are you here to amuse me? Because I warn you, I am in dire need of amusement,” she told him.

“I shall endeavor my best. Shall I tell you the latest
on dits
from court?”

“Court sounds like a dreary place since Princess Charlotte died.”

“There is still amusement to be had if one knows the right people.”

“I wish you knew some of the right theater people,” she said as she turned away from him with a bored sigh.

“Perhaps I do.”

“Robert Elliston?”

“I know him.”

“I’m trying out for the don’s part in Moncrieff’s new production at the Olympic.”

“Ah,” he said with a smooth smile. “From Leporello to the don.”

“I think it would be amusing to play Don Giovanni this time. In this production, he comes back from the dead and ends up in London. It’s called
Giovanni in London, or the Libertine Reclaimed.
” She laughed. “Tell me, have you ever seen a libertine reclaimed?”

He answered with an enigmatic smile. “Why not try out instead for
A New Way to Pay Old Debts?
They are reviving Philip Massinger’s old play at the Drury Lane.”

She made a doubtful face. “If I could get an audition.”

“Kemble is manager.” He shrugged. “I’m on their committee. Say the word and I’ll arrange an audition.”

“You do, and I’ll be your slave for life,” she half joked.

“Would you? That’s a very attractive offer.”

Her smile evaporated as she realized he was deadly serious. Leaning back in her chair, she considered. “I don’t like the term ‘slave.’”

“What term would you prefer?” he asked smoothly.

She returned his look steadily. Although she’d been stringing him along nicely for several months, she’d never seriously considered him for a lover. But now circumstances had changed. Drastically so. “Can you guarantee me a leading role at the Drury?”

“I can guarantee you an audition for a leading part. Your talent will do the rest.”

She assumed a nonchalant air, although she was feeling far from calm. “Fair enough. But I owe you nothing unless I land the part.”

He inclined his head in assent. “Naturally not.”

“And if I do land the part—” She left the sentence for him to finish.

“I think you know what I want…have been wanting for a long time.”

“A liaison?”

He bowed his head in reply.

She said nothing for a moment, feeling as if her life hung in a balance. One word and her destiny would be forever altered. “If I got a plum role, and that’s still an
if,
I would expect more in return for my…favor.”

He made a careless motion with his hand. “Name it.”

She moistened her lips. “A Mayfair address.”

“Naturally.”

She looked down at her manicured nails, wondering at how easily that had been accomplished. She met his gaze again, this time naming a yearly stipend. It wouldn’t hurt to continue investing in the three-percents for the day she would no longer find acting work.

He shrugged. “A trifle.”

She sat back and let out the breath she hadn’t real
ized she’d been holding. “Well, let us see how that audition goes.”

He smiled. “I am all anticipation.”

After he’d left, she considered what she’d done. What matter if he used her body? It had been used before and survived. He could never have her heart; there was certainly no danger of that. Her body was merely a tool, available for whatever advancement she could procure from its use. Her time was running out; she couldn’t afford to wait any longer.

A week went by and Ian felt himself growing worse, but he confided in no one. Like a boat bobbing against the tide, he didn’t know what his secrecy would accomplish, but he couldn’t bring himself to let anyone know his condition. Was it because there was no sorrier sight than a sick physician? He thought of the proverb Jesus had quoted—“Physician, heal thyself.”

Well, he hadn’t the power to do so.

He lived in terror lest he lose consciousness again. What if it happened during an operation?

He swallowed, pushing the terror back down his throat, knowing the effort was only momentary, dependent on the strength of his will.

Even if he managed to stay on his feet during surgery, could he get his hands to obey him? Would a spasm
strike him and prevent him from holding the surgical instruments in his hands? And what of his eyesight?

He remembered the words of the eminent surgeon, Astley Cooper of Guy’s Hospital: “A surgeon must have the eye of an eagle, heart of a lion, hand of a woman, and mind of a scholar.”

Was he losing two of these critical faculties—his sight and steadiness of his hand?

He had told his uncle nothing. The previous week he had asked him for a powder to take for his headache. His uncle had asked him if he was suffering any other symptoms, but Ian had brushed him off with something about feeling mental fatigue. His uncle had said no more but given him a bolus to be swallowed when he felt the pain coming on. He hadn’t dared ask for any more, afraid to arouse his astute uncle’s suspicions that something was worse.

It was during his weekly rounds at the mission that he stumbled as he was going from one patient’s bed to another. Althea, who was following behind him, grasped his elbow.

“Are you all right?” she asked in concern.

He shoved her hand away. “I’m fine,” he snapped.

“Forgive me.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, immediately contrite. “Just clumsy, that’s all.”

She gave him a close look but said nothing more.

After he had finished his rounds and gone into the small alcove used as his office when he was there, he busied himself cleaning and putting away his instruments. Thankfully, he’d felt nothing more than a momentary loss of control.

But he felt weary. He let the instruments drop onto the table and collapsed into the wooden chair behind him. Resting his head in his hand, he felt despair overwhelm him.

He started up as he heard a soft knock on the partially opened door. Althea stood in the doorway. “I’m sorry, Ian. I didn’t mean to disturb you.” He expected her to excuse herself and leave him, but she remained there. “May I come in?” she asked when he said nothing.

“Yes, of course,” he finally replied, straightening.

She brought up another chair close to his. “Ian, is there nothing I can do to help?”

He looked at her gentle eyes, debating what to say or not say, but finally the need to unburden himself became greater than he could bear. He felt a sense of relief as he nodded. “Yes, something is very wrong.”

“What is it?” she asked when he didn’t continue.

He swallowed and looked away, not knowing how or where to begin. He rubbed his hand over his eyes. “Oh, Althea…Althea…I’m in trouble, and there’s nothing you or anyone can do.”

She leaned closer, grasping his hand. “Tell me what’s wrong, Ian. It can’t be as hopeless as you make it sound.”

“I’m dying.”

Her hand stilled on his. “Tell me,” she repeated quietly.

He removed his hand from hers and bowed his head in his hands, resting his elbows on his knees. Slowly, he began to speak, describing his symptoms and how long he’d had them. She had been a nurse long enough to understand his medical rundown.

When he’d finished speaking, the room was still.

“Let me pray for you.”

He glanced up at her from under his brows. “What? So God can heal me of this? Or so He’ll give me peace to leave this life gracefully?”

“So that He may heal you,” she answered simply.

He laughed sadly. “Oh, Althea, the day of miracles is over.”

“Is it?”

She had such a calm look in her eye that it made him feel a spark of hope. It was gone as quickly as it had come, his rational mind firmly in control.

“I appreciate your wanting to help me, but I’m afraid I’ve seen too many others fall to this kind of cancerous growth to doubt my end.”

“‘But unto you that fear my name shall the Sun of righteousness arise with healing in His wings,’” she quoted softly.

“Will some Scriptures change what is growing inside me?”

“For ‘the Word of God is quick and powerful and sharper than any two-edged sword,’” she replied.

“What about the little girl you were nursing? Didn’t she succumb to her malady?” he asked, referring to the private patient she had cared for the previous autumn.

She looked down at her hands. “She did. It doesn’t change the fact that God is our healer and that His Son purchased our healing for us through the cross.”

The words stirred him. He remembered the preacher who had preached a similar thing a few months back.

“The Scriptures say Jesus bore our sins in His own body on the tree so that ‘we being dead to sins, should live unto righteousness, by whose stripes we were healed.’”

He wanted to believe, but he didn’t dare. He knew his prognosis better than anyone.

Instead of saying anything more, Althea stood and gently laid her hands on his head, covering his forehead with one and placing the other one atop his head. For a brief second, his thoughts went to Eleanor, remembering the touch of her hands.

He squelched those thoughts. What was wrong with him? That blunder of his life was over. Soon, his whole life would be over.

Gradually Althea’s words penetrated his understanding. The prayer was composed more of Scripture than of her own words, and he marveled at how well versed she was in God’s Word. Scripture after Scripture dealing
with healing washed over him, and he felt revived. When she said the final “amen,” he was able to smile at her and say a heartfelt thank-you.

“I will continue praying for you,” she replied, then pressed her lips together as if preparing to say more. He waited as she clasped her hands together. “I felt in my spirit as I prayed that God
has
healed you—”

He couldn’t help the hope that arose in him.

“But,” she continued, looking at him earnestly out of her grayish-green eyes—so different from the shade of gray of Eleanor’s, “now it’s a matter of walking in faith.”

Faith. The word resounded in the stillness. Did he know what faith was? He’d been hearing the word for as long as he could remember. He’d grown up with the concept, heard his father and many an eminent preacher preach about it, but did he know what it was? “How do I do that?” he asked, feeling humbled at the prospect.

Once again she quoted Scripture. “‘Faith comes by hearing and hearing by the Word of God.’”

“In other words, I must apply myself to hearing God’s Word?”

She nodded. “Consider it an apprenticeship in faith.”

“My experience with apprenticeships is that they are long and arduous.”

“Patience is a virtue,” she replied.

“I don’t know if I have been given the luxury of time.”

“Then use what you have to the fullest.” She took his
hands in both of her smaller ones. “No one can rob you of your life. Only God can take it when you have finished your course on this earth.”

When he left her, he felt he had a new purpose. That night, he began to pore over the Scriptures, with his
Cruden’s Concordance
at his side, looking up every Scripture dealing with sickness and health. Those Scriptures led to others, and as gray began to tinge the skies, he had filled a sheaf of papers with notations.

Eleanor stood with Edmund Kean and the line of lesser actors on the forestage and took the final bow. The pit went wild, standing and applauding them. Her eyes roamed the circle of boxes above the crowd. A more illustrious crowd sat in them, and they applauded more sedately, yet nevertheless enthusiastically.