RGL e-Book Cover 2018©
RGL e-Book Cover 2018©
Ladbroke (Lionel Day) Black (1877-1940) was an English writer and journalist who also wrote under the pseudonym Paul Urquhart. His life and career are summarised in the following entry in Steve Holland's Bear Alley blog:
Black, born in Burley-in-Wharfdale, Yorkshire, on 21 June 1877, was educated in Ireland and at Cambridge where he earned a B.A. He became assistant editor of The Phoenix in 1897 before moving to London in 1899 where he joined The Morning Herald as assistant editor in 1900. He later became assistant editor of the Echo in 1901, joint editor of Today, 1904-05, and special writer on the Weekly Dispatch, 1905-11. After a forgettable first novel, "A Muddied Oaf" (1902), co-written with Francis Rutter, Black collaborated on the collection "The Mantle of the Emperor" (1906) with Robert Lynd, later literary editor of the News Chronicle. He then produced a series of novels in collaboration with [Thomas] Meech under the name Paul Urquhart, beginning with "The Eagles" (1906). Black also wrote for various magazines and newspapers, sometimes using the pen-name Lionel Day. His books ranged from romances to Sexton Blake detective yarns. His recreations included sports (boxing and rugby), reading and long walks. He lived in Wendover, Bucks, for many years and was Chairman of the Mid-Bucks Liberal Party in 1922-24. He died on 27 July 1940, aged 63, survived by his wife (Margaret, née Ambrose), two sons and two daughters."
MY name is Nurse Sorrell. I have been many years in my profession, and can truly say that in my time I have met all sorts and conditions of men, women, and children; Above all things I like best nursing children, and there never was a child who so completely took my fancy as little Peter Laurence—Peterkins, as most people called him.
He was the only child of a doctor who had for many years given up practice, and who lived in a large house in Portman Place. The child was suffering from a strange complaint—a certain form of haemorrhage; which occurred at intervals, rendering him weaker and weaker, and causing a good deal of anxiety to the family physician, Dr. Ernest Paul.
Dr. Paul was a slow, fat old gentleman, who had attended the Laurence family for years and knew Peter's constitution, as he expressed it, just as though it were an open map. But even Dr. Paul could not account for the haemorrhage.
'As far as l can tell,' he said, 'the lungs are healthy. Under the stethoscope I can detect nothing wrong. The heart is weak and irregular, beyond doubt, but that is naturally accounted for by the excessive loss of blood. I must confess that I am puzzled over the case.'
NOW there never was a sweeter child than Peter. He was about seven years of
age, and particularly bright, intelligent, and patient. He suffered no pain,
only weakness, which grew more and more excessive. His father seemed devoted
to him, and had constituted himself at an nearly stage in the illness as the
boys night nurse.
'No,' he said, to Dr. Paul, 'I will not have a second nurse. I prefer looking after the little fellow myself during the hours, when Nurse Sorrell must rest. He is happier with me than with anyone else, and as I am comparatively an idle man, there, is no reason why I should not stay awake to see to his comforts. Eh, Peterkins, my boy? Will you have me or a stranger to look after you by night?'
The little man replied in that low, faint voice which grew fainter day by day that he would rather, far rather, have daddy than anyone else, and it never occurred to Dr. Paul to interfere.
There has been a great deal written and thought from time to time with regard to the importance of a nurse's work. I have myself heard doctors say: 'It is true that I give my orders, but she carries them out.'
Now to a certain extent this is true, but not altogether, for, beyond doubt, if I had had the complete control of little Peter Laurence I would have had a night as well as a day nurse for him, and I would have called in someone else to see him besides that rather drony old person, Dr. Paul.
Still, to feel dissatisfied does not give a nurse any sense of power, and all that really happened might never have been discovered but for an accident.
ON one very hot afternoon in August I had been sitting with my little
patient for some time. The thermometer had risen to about eighty-five in the
shade, and it was with great difficulty I could keep the room, even in that
great house, cool enough for the child.
With the aid of ice, however, and electric fans, I had managed to soothe the little fellow off to sleep. He had had a very bad attack of haemorrhage the night before, and looked so weak and shadowy as he lay softly breathing out what I felt sure was his very life that my heart was in my mouth as I watched him.
Suddenly a great resolution took possession of me, I would step out of my province as nurse and urge Dr. Paul to call in further medical advice without a moment's delay. Little Peter, when quite well, was attended by a very faithful old servant, whom he called Nana. In all the world, he loved Nana next best to his father, and it occurred to me now that I might safely leave the sleeping boy in her care for a short time while I put on my bonnet and cloak and went to see Dr. Paul, giving the woman explicit directions what to do in case the child awakened. I left the room on tip-toe, dressed quickly, and went out of the house.
Dr. Paul was a great man in his way. I have nothing whatever to say against him . He was simply, in my opinion, a little past his work. There were younger men who had superseded him in thought and knowledge, and it was one of these I should now like to call to little Peter Laurence's bedside. It seemed to me simply, outrageous that the. cause of the haemorrhage was not discovered—discovered, and, of course, put a stop to.
I arrived at the doctor's house, a big one in Harley Street, and to my inquiry if Dr, Paul were within was answered in the affirmative.
'He is very busy with his patients, just now,' said the man who opened the door for me—and he knew me quite well, for I happened to be one of Dr. Paul's favourite nurses—'but if you will step into the little ante-chamber just off the waiting-room, I will let him know as soon as possible that you have arrived.'
'I shall be greatly obliged to you, Michael,' I answered, 'for I naturally want to get back to my patient as soon as possible.'
The man nodded and smiled, and showed me into a small room, which was scantily furnished, and was evidently little used. A door, however, from this room led into the dining-room, where Dr. Paul's patients usually awaited their turn to go to see him. I noticed now that the door was slightly ajar.
I was about to rise and shut it, for I have a great dislike even to appear to eavesdrop, when, to my, astonishment, it was opened, and two people entered the little room where I was waiting for the doctor. There was a screen between me and the door, and, scarcely knowing why I did so, I stepped behind it, for the people in question were Dr. Laurence and a lady of about thirty years of age.
I had an unaccountable and strong aversion to Dr. Laurence. Knowing that I was taking the initiative with regard to the child's case, and also something which I could not define at the moment, but which I now believe to have been the prompting of Providence, caused me to take shelter behind the screen. Dr. Laurence, thinking himself alone, shut the door, and then turned to the lady.
I had caught a glimpse of her face, which was handsome after a certain sort. She was dressed almost as a girl, in white embroidered muslin, and she wore tied loosely round her throat a cloak of pink Liberty satin. On her head she had a little toque or very small hat; composed entirely of pink roses. Her dress was very elegant, and I saw at once that she was the sort of woman whom a man might easily lose his heart to. It had never occurred to me up to that moment that Dr. Laurence was thinking of marrying again but when I saw this lady I immediately perceived that such was the case, and that; in short, she was the person, on whom he had set his heart.
'Well,' she said, in an impatient voice, 'have you any news for me .
'No good news,' he replied. 'The child grows weaker daily.'
She; gave an impatient, sigh. Then she said, with a queer laugh which caused my blood to run cold in my veins:
'You are still his night nurse, aren't you, Walter?'
'Yes,' he said, abruptly. Then he added: 'The boy gets every care. No one could possibly be a more attentive day nurse than the woman Sorrell, and I naturally take care of my own child at night.'
'He is not your, own child,' she said, and at these words I nearly jumped; 'he is only your stepson.'
'Yes, yes,' he replied; 'yes, yes, but I love him as my own. When my dear wife died, she left him in my care. I have been a father to him. But let us change the subject, Sybil. You will keep to your word, you will marry me, won't you?'
How I did long to get out of that room, but I was caught now like a mouse in a trap. My own prayer was that Michael should not find me hiding behind the screen, and Dr. Laurence and the woman he called Sybil making love to each other in another part of the room.
'You will marry me—you will be true to your promise?' he repeated.
'You know the conditions,' she said. 'I will marry no poor man.'
What his answer was was altogether too low for me to hear, and a minute or two later, to my infinite relief, the pair returned to the general waiting-room.
I had now changed my mind. I immediately slipped out of the room where I had overhead remarks which gave me a clue to an awful possibility.
Little Peter Laurence was in reality; therefore, only Dr. Laurence's stepson. His name could not be Laurence at all. What was his name? What had this woman, Sybil, to do with the matter? I hated her face for all its beauty. I hated her appearance for all its elegance.
There was an honest, indignant heart within me, and I hurried, back to Portman Place with the, fiercest of all resolves. Come what would, I would save that innocent child. The child was in danger.
'You look hot, nurse,' said old Nana, when I entered the pleasant room, cool now, for the sun had gone off it, where the child was lying, supported by pillows and playing feebly with some toy horses which Dr. Laurence had brought him the day before.
There was never a day that Dr. Laurence did not give the child a fresh toy, and the sweet expression of his pretty eyes and the gentle, low tones of his voice when he said, 'Oh, tank oo, daddy,' recurred now to my memory.
He smiled when he saw me, and I went up to him and kissed him.
'Better, Peterkins?' I said.
'Oh, yes,' he answered only so seepy.'
'Poor lamb,' said old Nana. 'He wouldn't touchy his tea, although I coaxed him all I could to eat.'
'Not hungry,' said Peterkins; and he began to play with his horses, putting them in one position and then in another; then suddenly pushing them away as though they tired him.
'Nana,' I said, suddenly, 'will you come with me for a minute into the dressing-room?'
She obeyed at once, gathering up her knitting and glancing back at the boy and smiling.
When we got into the dressing room I closed the door between that and the one occupied by my little patient.
'I want to ask you a question,' I said. 'You are devoted to little Peter, aren't you?'
'I have had him from birth,' she replied, and tears came into her old eyes.
'What sort of a woman was his mother?' was my next remark.
'An angel; no less. God took her when the boy was three years old.'
'What was her name before she married Dr. Laurence?'
Old Nana looked queer. 'Before she married Dr. Laurence?' she remarked. 'Her maiden name, do you mean?'
'No, the name of her first husband.
'Oh, then,' said Nana, 'you have found that out?'
'Yes,' I said. 'Why was it ever kept from me? Dr. Laurence is the boy's stepfather. What was his father's name?'
'I was told not to tell,' said old Nana. 'I never could guess why, but I was warned not to gossip. The child's name is Roscoe. He will be a very rich man if he lives. The money is all his. Bless you, Dr. Laurence couldn't keep up this house and these servants. Everything is held in trust for the child, for Dr. Laurence is the trustee. My mistress thought no end of him. I think she married him poor dear, just to get someone to protect her boy.'
'And if the boy should die, Nana,' I said, 'to whom would the money belong then?'
Nana gave me a queer look. 'I don't like it,' she said. 'I have dreamt of it at nights; I have thought of it by day. It is wicked for me to say my thoughts.'
'No, no; it isn't, it isn't,' I said 'You and I have something to do between us. Now just tell me the truth. If little Peter dies, to whom will the money go?'
'To Dr. Laurence himself; unconditionally, to do what he likes with; and it's a big fortune.'
I sank down on the nearest chair. Events. were developing with rapidity. I felt my heart in my mouth. Nana kept looking at me out of her blinking old eyes. After a time she rose, came up to me in a tottering fashion, and touched me on the shoulder.
'What is up, Nurse Sorrell?' she said. 'What is up?'
After a pause, I said: 'As far as I can say, there is only one thing up at present, and that is that I watch the boy at night and. you will help me in the daytime.'
'But the doctor,' said the old woman; 'he's the most splendid nurse, and he loves the child like anything. I have seen him—I have watched him when my missis was dying, and I have watched him since. He is wrapped up in the child, he is—fairly wrapped up in him.'
'Still,' I answered, slowly, 'the money goes to Dr. Laurence if the child dies; and, the child is very ill now. Listen, Nana. You and I don't want his money to go to the doctor, do we?'
'No, no,' she said.
'Then our business is to keep Peterkins alive.'
'Oh yes,' she said. 'But I don't like his look.'
'Never mind about his look,' I interrupted. 'Our object is to watch him day and night. Do you understand? Day and night; and I shall force Dr. Paul to get fresh advice. Now tell me something else, and then you may go upstairs and lie down, for you are none too strong yourself. Why, you are shaking all over this minute.'
'It's the hot weather,' she said, in a pathetic sort of way, 'and the look in the child's eyes. I didn't like the look in his eyes when he woke from his sleep this afternoon. They reminded me somehow of my poor missis.'
'Nana,' I said, 'you are faithful—you won't breathe to a soul anything I say to you?'
'Not I,' she answered . 'I am close,' she added —'I am close as wax.' She pressed her hand to her old heart.
'That is what I thought; I felt somehow that I could trust you. Now then I want to ask you, a question. Have you ever heard of a lady whom your master calls Sybil?'
'That was the Lady Sybil Grey,' she replied at once.
'Ah, perhaps so,' I replied. 'And who is Lady Sybil Grey?'
'She is a young lady who used to come here, a good bit in the spring with her mother when the doctor was recovering from typhoid fever.'
'Oh! Dr. Laurence had typhoid fever in the spring, had he?'
'Yes, and very near death he were for days; they gave him up altogether. But he pulled round wonderfully, and lots of people say he owed his recovery in a great measure to Lady Sybil, for she and her mother used to come every day and have tea with him and he took such a sight of trouble getting the place in order for her and having the nicest and most dainty tea you can imagine that, as Dr. Paul said, it gave him a fresh lease of life. I don't know the hang of the words myself, but I know that was the expression. Dear little Peterkins didn't do him half the good Lady Sybil did, I although the child was that devoted and miserable while he was so ill.'
'Thank you, I answered. 'It never, occurred to you, did it, that your master might —might—marry Lady Sybil Grey?'
The old woman laughed. 'She wouldn't be likely to take him. Why, my master has no money at all, except what he gets through little Peterkins. Why, he couldn't settle a penny on her, and it's my shrewd opinion that, for she was so pretty and taking, she had an eye to the main chance.'
'Right you are there, Nana,' I said, almost joyfully. 'And now just keep everything I have said to yourself, only be ready to help me with your services at any moment I may require them.'
'That I will, my dear—that I will. And it's an ease to my mind to have talked to you, Nurse Sorrell, for I don't like the look of the child at all.'
IT was impossible for me to sleep that night—how could I, knowing what
I did?' There was the father—the stepfather—the handsome, quiet,
dignified-looking man, who yet was a devil within. I knew it, I knew it
well—it was entirely to his interest that the little boy should die.
How was it possible, therefore, for me to sleep?
In the dead of night I rose very softly, put on some soft woollen socks over my shoes, and went downstairs. The boy's room was on the first floor—a large and spacious chamber. I had on purpose oiled the door the night before, and opened it so softly that not a sound was audible. There was a screen shadowing the door, in case any draught should reach the child . The child was lying on his back, supported by many pillows.
Dr. Ernest Paul had given directions that the child was to take a certain medicine, which was to act upon the constantly recurring haemorrhage, every two hours. During the day he had the medicine, and in consequence scarcely ever suffered from haemorrhage. I, carefully watching, noted that the attacks came on as a rule at night.
I stood, trembling not a little, behind the screen. If the doctor by any chance left the room he would see me, and then all would be up.
I prayed as I had never prayed before. I knew the exact hour when the child was to have his next dose of medicine. From where I stood I could see the little clock on the mantelpiece. The boy was wide awake—I heard him moaning. I heard his father bend over him and say, 'After you've had your medicine you'll be better, little man.'
At last the hour struck when he was to have it. If the father had gone by the doctor's directions the last dose was given at midnight, the next would be due at two o'clock.
The moment the hour struck the child said something in a faint, failing voice. The father said, 'All right, Peterkins, all right.'
He then carefully poured out a dose of medicine from the bottle into a small medicine glass; he held the glass up between himself and the light, then he walked across the room. Both of the large windows were wide open, for it was summer, and the boy wanted as much fresh air as possible.
I clasped my hands. I saw Dr. Laurence cross the room to the window—the boy could not see his action—and fling the contents of the glass out of the window; he then rinsed it carefully in water, filled up the same amount of cold water in the medicine glass, mixed it with a little sugar, and brought it to the child.
'Ah, that's right, isn't it, my little man?' he said.
The child was, thirsty—he sipped eagerly at the 'medicine.'
'I like it, fader,' he said. 'I like your medicines—they're much nicer than nurse's medicines.'
'They're the same, my darling,' said the man.
The boy paused and looked fixedly at him.
'They don't taste the same,' he said.
'Listen, Peter.'
'Yes, fader.'
'You're never to say to nurse that they don't taste the same.'
'No, fader, 'course not. Besides, I like 'em best—your ones. I mean.'
'That's right, my boy.'
It was my custom to give the child, immediately after his medicine, a very strong dose of beef tea. The man prepared it just as I would have done, and flung it also out of the window. He gave the boy a very little milk and water.
My very heart stood still. I waited until four o'clock struck. The same scene was repeated —the medicine was poured out of the bottle and flung out of the window: the child was given sugar and water, the beef-tea was substituted by a weak concoction of milk and water.
I went upstairs. Now the case was clear, I could wait no longer.
EARLY the next morning I went down to the child's room. He looked like death
itself.
'Ah, nurse,' said Dr. Laurence, who was lying back in a chair, half dozing. 'I'm afraid we've had rather a bad night of it; not much haemorrhage, that's one good thing, but I shall be glad to lie down.'
'You look tired,' I answered.
I was anxious to get him out of the room. The moment he had gone I gave the child a dose of medicine, which was to stop the haemorrhage, and also a strong cup of beef-tea. The little fellow revived.
'How I love you, nurse!' he said, and he slipped his dear little hand into mine.
About seven o'clock I went downstairs to old Nana.
'Nana,' I said. 'I want to go out as soon as possible, but I shan't be very long. No, don't question me, because I can't tell you what I know. No, I won't be very long. Go up and watch him, don't leave him alone with his father.'
Nana promised all too eagerly.
'I'll save him, Nana, I'll save him,' I said.
She shook her head, repeating the words which she had said so often before. 'Ah, me! I don't like the look in his eyes.'
Then I went straight to see Dr. Ernest Paul.
'Why, nurse!' he exclaimed, 'what's the matter? Anything fresh? I must tell you that I wasn't quite satisfied with the state of little Peter Laurence yesterday.'
'Nor was I, doctor, and I have good reason not to be satisfied. And now will you listen to me, for I have something to tell you.'
I then, without a moment's hesitation, related what had occurred on the previous day, the interview between Lady Sybil Grey and Dr. Laurence, which I had overheard in the doctor's own waiting-room, and also what had occurred during the night. The medicine flung out of the window, instead of being given to the child, the beef-tea thrown away, and the little boy kept alive by a drop of milk and water and sugar. The doctor's eyes flashed fire.
'Are you certain of your words? Do you know what a terrible accusation you are bringing against that man?'
'I am prepared to go into any Court of Justice in the land,' replied I, 'and to repeat it. Do you know that on that child's death depends Dr. Laurence's future? Do you know that every penny that little child possesses will go to the doctor should he die? The doctor is in love with Lady Sybil Grey. Oh! there's motive enough.'
'I shall go there immediately,' said Dr. Paul, 'and bring with me fresh advice. There's the great Sir Robert Barnes. I'll give him a hint beforehand, and he'll recommend what is to be done.'
DR. LAURENCE was present when, about eleven o'clock that day, Dr. Ernest
Paul, accompanied by the great specialist, entered the child's room.
Laurence turned pale when he saw the other doctor.
'Why have you brought a fresh opinion without letting me know?' he said.
'I didn't like the child's case yesterday, and thought it well to do so,' was the doctor's remark. 'Will you kindly now, sir, leave the room and allow Sir Robert and myself to examine the child? The nurse, of course, remains.'
The examination was brief, and the two doctors afterwards went into the dressing-room, beckoning me to follow them.
Sir Robert said: 'I in every respect agree with Dr. Paul. The child's lungs are healthy, I detect nothing wrong under the stethoscope. But this constant haemorrhage will kill the little fellow in the end, the excessive loss of blood is affecting the heart most considerably. Now I intend to send in a nurse of my own—her name is Sister Mary—she will take the charge of the child at night.
'Yes,' said. Dr. Paul, 'that is quite settled, and we give up the case unless the father agrees.'
Dr. Laurence. certainly looked annoyed when he heard that Sister Mary was to come as night nurse, but after a minute he smiled, and said cheerfully. 'Ah, I have indeed to thank you both, my good friends, for your interest in my little man—of course you can well imagine how I value, his precious life.'
Sister Mary arrived about nine o'clock that evening. I took her to my own room, and gave her a hint of what was going on. I could not possibly tell her all, but I besought of her to be careful, and not on any account whatsoever to leave the child. She promised faithfully, and I went to my room to try and sleep. The boy had been, on the whole, better during the day. I lay down on my bed, my heart was beating irregularly, and I found that, tired as I was, sleep would not visit me.
ABOUT two o'clock slipped downstairs, just as I had done the night before. I
opened the door carefully and peeped in. There I saw the nurse, the great
nurse, Sister Mary, fast asleep in her chair! The doctor was bending over the
boy and giving him a dose of medicine, I heard his little weak voice say:
'Not that, daddy —I hate that, daddy, not that, daddy!'
'Take it,' said the doctor, in a gruff voice, 'take it.'
The child swallowed it. Almost immediately afterwards there was a violent attack of haemorrhage.
The doctor went to the bell and rang it furiously, the nurse awoke. In the confusion I managed to slip the bottle out of which the doctor had taken the medicine into my pocket. Sister Mary and I did our best for the child. I sent a servant from the house to fetch Dr. Paul at once. He arrived very soon. The little fellow to all appearances was dying fast.
'What can be wrong?' said Dr. Paul. 'And is it possible, Sister Mary, that you fell asleep?'
'I can never forgive myself,' she replied. Tears filled her eyes, poor girl. "I was sitting beside the bedside, feeling so comfortable, when the doctor came in. He spoke to me about the boy most affectionately, and then he said: 'I will give you something which will keep you awake all night. 'He gave me a cup of coffee—of course, it was drugged—a moment or two afterwards I became intolerably drowsy, and then I fell asleep.'
'And I have something to say,' I said. 'Doctor Paul, will you kindly analyse the contents of this bottle? I saw Dr. Laurence give a dose to the child while the nurse was asleep.'
Dr. Paul's face was very white. He went straight back to his own house; he returned in about two hours; he asked to see Dr. Laurence. A moment later a bell was rung, and I was asked to go down to Dr. Laurence's room on the ground floor.
'Nurse,' said Dr. Paul, 'I have analysed the contents of this bottle. It contains a drug which I need not mention to you, but which we doctors well know; it is given in particular cases to encourage, when it is necessary to life, haemorrhage, and, therefore, in the case of the boy, was practically akin to murder. Now, sir, I don't know what your motive was—but I can make this extremely unpleasant for you. I intend to-day to remove this little boy to my own house. I believe that with Nurse Sorrell's care and my own we can save his life. Things are very black against you, Dr. Laurence. You can have your liberty if you don't object to the boy going.'
'Oh, let him go, let him go!' said Dr. Laurence. 'The horrible things that are said of a man who has devoted his whole life to his boy!'
'Doctor,' I said, 'I have been suspecting you for some time. I saw you throw the medicine ordered by Dr. Paul out of the window. I saw you also throw away the beef-tea.'
'You—cat!' he said.
'I was watching you behind the screen,' was my remark, 'and when you were attending to that dreadful attack of haemorrhage, I took the bottle out of which you had just given the child a dose. I was determined that you should not escape.'
A few hours later, with the utmost care, the little fellow was removed to Dr. Paul's luxurious house, where he was nursed back to life, and, further, Dr. Paul, at the request of the lawyers, became little Peter's guardian. He is now quite well, and as strong as a boy need be.
As to Dr. Laurence, he thought it best to leave the country, for the story, in spite of all precautions, got more or less abroad, and certainly Lady Sybil Grey refused to have anything to do with him.