Next morning Dr Rider rose mightily vexed with himself, as was to be
supposed. He was half an hour late for breakfast: he had a headache, his
hand shook, and his temper was "awful." Before he was dressed, ominous
knocks came to the door; and all feverish and troubled as he was, you
may imagine that the prospect of the day's work before him did not improve
his feelings, and that self-reproach, direst of tormentors, did not mend
the matter. Two ladies were waiting for him, he was told when he went
down-stairs--not to say sundry notes and messages in the ordinary way
of business--two ladies who had brought two boxes with them, and asked
leave to put them in the hall till they could see Dr Rider. The sight
of this luggage in his little hall startled the doctor. Patients do not
generally carry such things about with them. What did it mean? What
could two ladies want with him? The young man felt his face burn with
painful anticipations, a little shame, and much impatience. Probably the
sister who adored Fred, and never could learn to believe that he was not
unfortunate and a victim. This would be a climax to the occupation of
his house.
As the poor doctor gloomily approached the door of the room in which he
had spent last evening, he heard a little rustle and commotion not quite
consistent with his expectations--a hum of voices and soft stir such as
youthful womankind only makes. Then a voice entirely strange to him
uttered an exclamation. Involuntarily he started and changed his aspect.
He did not know the voice, but it was young, sweet, peculiar. The cloud
lightened a little upon the doctor's face. Notwithstanding Bessie
Christian, he was still young enough to feel a little flutter of curiosity
when he heard such a voice sounding out of his room. Hark! what did she
say? It was a profoundly prosaic speech.
"What an intolerable smell of smoke! I shouldn't wonder a bit--indeed,
I rather think he must be, or he wouldn't live in a place like this--if
he were exactly such another as Fred."
"Poor Fred!" said a plaintive voice, "if we only can learn where he is.
Hush, there is a footstep! Ah, it is not my poor fellow's footstep!
Nettie, hark!"
"No, indeed! twenty thousand times sharper, and more like a man," said
the other, in hurried breathless accents. "Hark! here he is."
The entire bewilderment, the amaze, apprehension, confusion with which
Dr Rider entered the room from which this scrap of conversation reached
him, is indescribable. A dreadful sense that something was about to
happen seized the young man's mind with an indescribable curiosity. He
paused an instant to recover himself, and then went boldly and silently
into the room which had become mysterious through its new inmates. They
both turned round upon him as he entered. Two young women: one who had
been sitting at the table, looking faded, plaintive, and anxious, rose
up suddenly, and, clasping her hands, as if in entreaty, fixed two
bright but sunken eyes upon his face. The other, a younger, lighter
figure, all action and haste, interposed between him and her companion.
She put up one hand in warning to the petitioner behind her, and one to
call the attention of the bewildered stranger before. Evidently the one
thing which alarmed this young lady was that somebody would speak before
her, and the conduct of the _situation_ be taken out of her hands. She
was little, very slight, very pretty, but her prettiness was peculiar.
The young doctor, accustomed to the fair Saxon version of beauty given by
Bessie Christian, did not at the first glance believe that the wonderful
little person before him possessed any; for she was not only slender,
but _thin_, dark, eager, impetuous, with blazing black eyes and
red lips, and nothing else notable about her. So he thought, gazing
fascinated, yet not altogether attracted--scarcely sure that he was not
repelled--unable, however, to withdraw his eyes from that hurried,
eager little figure. Nothing in the least like her had ever yet appeared
before Dr Rider's eyes.
"We want to inquire about your brother," said the little stranger; "we
know this was to be his address, and we want to know whether he is living
here. His letters were to be sent to your care; but my sister has not
heard from him now for a year."
"Never mind that!--never mind telling that, Nettie," cried the other
behind her. "Oh, sir! only tell me where my poor Fred is?"
"So she began to fear he was ill," resumed the younger of the two,
undauntedly; "though Susan will do nothing but praise him, he has
behaved to her very shamefully. Do you happen to know, sir, where he
is?"
"Did you say Fred--my brother Fred?" cried the poor young doctor in
utter dismay; "and may I ask who it is that expresses so much interest
in him?"
There was a momentary pause; the two women exchanged looks. "I told you
so," cried the eager little spokeswoman. "He never has let his friends
know; he was afraid of that. I told you how it was. This," she continued,
with a little tragic air, stretching out her arm to her sister, and
facing the doctor--"this is Mrs Frederick Rider, or rather Mrs Rider,
I should say, as he is the eldest of the family! Now will you please
to tell us where he is?"
The doctor made no immediate answer. He gazed past the speaker to the
faded woman behind, and exclaimed, with a kind of groan, "Fred's wife!"
"Yes, Fred's wife," cried the poor creature, rushing forward to him;
"and oh! where is he? I've come thousands of miles to hear. Is he ill?
has anything happened to him? Where is Fred?"
"Susan, you are not able to manage this; leave it to me," said her
sister, drawing her back peremptorily. "Dr Rider, please to answer us.
We know you well enough, though you don't seem ever to have heard of us.
It was you that my brother-in-law gave up his business to before he
came out to the colony. Oh, we know all about it! To keep him separate
from his wife cannot do you any benefit, Dr Edward. Yes, I know your
name, and all about it; and I don't mean indeed to suffer my sister to
be injured and kept from her husband. I have come all this way with her
to take care of her. I mean to stay with her to take care of her. I have
not parted with my money, though she gave all hers away; and I mean to
see her have her rights."
"Oh, Nettie, Nettie, how you talk!" cried the unfortunate wife. "You
keep him from answering me. All this time I cannot hear--where is Fred?"
"Be seated, please," said the doctor, with dreadful civility, "and
compose yourselves. Fred is well enough; as well as he ever is. I don't
know," added poor Rider, with irrestrainable bitterness, "whether he is
quite presentable to ladies; but I presume, madam, if you're his wife,
you're acquainted with his habits. Excuse me for being quite unprepared
for such a visit. I have not much leisure for anything out of my
profession. I can scarcely spare these minutes, that is the truth; but if
you will favour me with a few particulars, I will have the news conveyed
to my brother. I--I beg your pardon. When a man finds he has new
relations he never dreamed of, it naturally embarrasses him at the
moment. May I ask if you ladies have come from Australia alone?"
"Oh, not alone; the children are at the hotel. Nettie said it was no use
coming unless we all came," said his new sister-in-law, with a half-sob.
"The children!" Dr Rider's gasp of dismay was silent, and made no sound.
He stood staring blankly at those wonderful invaders of his bachelor
house, marvelling what was to be done with them in the first place. Was
he to bring Fred down all slovenly and half-awakened? was he to leave
them in possession of his private sanctuary? The precious morning
moments were passing while he pondered, and his little groom fidgeted
outside with a message for the doctor. While he stood irresolute, the
indefatigable Nettie once more darted forward.
"Give me Fred's address, please," said this managing woman. "I'll see
him, and prepare him for meeting Susan. He can say what he pleases to
me; _I_ don't mind it in the very least; but Susan of course must be
taken care of. Now, look here, Dr Edward; Susan is your sister-in-law,
and I am her sister. We don't want to occupy your time. I can manage
everything; but it is quite necessary in the first place that you should
confide in me."
"Confide!" cried the bewildered man. "Fred is not under my authority.
He is here in my house much against my will. He is in bed, and not fit
to be awakened; and I am obliged to tell you simply, ladies," said the
unfortunate doctor, "that my house has no accommodation for a family. If
you will go back to the hotel where you left the children"--and here the
speaker gave another gasp of horror--"I'll have him roused and sent to
you. It is the only thing I can do."
"Susan can go," said the prompt Nettie; "I'll stay here until Fred is
ready, and take him to see them. It is necessary he should be prepared,
you know. Don't talk nonsense, Susan--I shall stay here, and Dr Rider,
of course, will call a cab for you."
"But Nettie, Nettie dear, it isn't proper. I can't leave you all by
yourself in a strange house," remonstrated her sister.
"Don't talk such stuff; I am perfectly well able to take care of myself;
I am not a London young lady," said the courageous Nettie. "It is
perfectly unnecessary to say another word to me--I know my duty--I shall
stay here."
With which speech she seated herself resolutely in that same easy-chair
which Fred had lolled in last night, took off her bonnet, for hats were
not in these days, and shed off from her face, with two tiny hands,
exquisite in shape if a little brown in colour, the great braids of
dark-brown silky hair which encumbered her little head. The gesture
mollified Dr Rider in the most unaccountable way in spite of himself.
The intolerable idea of leaving these two in his house became less
intolerable, he could not tell how. And the little groom outside fairly
knocked at the door in that softening moment with a message which could
be delayed no longer. The doctor put his head out to receive the call,
and looked in again perplexed and uncertain. Nettie had quite established
herself in the easy-chair. She sat there looking with her bright eyes
into the vacant air before her, in a pretty attitude of determination
and readiness, beating her little foot on the carpet. Something whimsical,
odd, and embarrassing about her position made it all the more piquant
to the troubled eyes which, in spite of all their worldly wisdom, were
still the eyes of a young man. He could not tell in the world what to
say to her. To order that creature out of his house was simply impossible;
to remain there was equally so; to leave them in possession of the
field--what could the unfortunate young doctor do? One thing was certain,
the impatient patient could no longer be neglected; and after a few
minutes longer of bewildered uncertainty, Dr Rider went off in the
wildest confusion of mind, leaving his brother's unknown family
triumphant in his invaded house.
To describe the feelings with which the unfortunate doctor went fasting
about his day's work--the manner in which that scene returned to him
after every visit he made--the continual succession in which wrath,
dismay, alarm, bitter disgust with the falsehood of the brother who, no
further gone than last night, had pretended to confide in him, but never
breathed a syllable of this biggest unconcealable secret, swept through
the mind of the victim; all culminating, however, in the softening of
that moment, in the tiny figure, indomitable elf or fairy, shedding back
with dainty fingers those soft abundant locks--would be impossible. The
young man got through his work somehow, in a maze of confusion and
excitement--angry excitement, indignant confusion, determination to
yield nothing further, but to defend himself and his house once for all
from the inroads of what he angrily pronounced in his own mind "another
man's family"--yet, withal, of curiosity and interest which gave zest
greater than usual to the idea of going home. When he was able at last
to turn his horse's head towards his own dwelling, it was with feelings
very different from the usual unexpecting blank of sullen displeasure.
What he should find there, was a curious, exciting, alarming question;
perhaps an entire nursery with Nettie in charge; perhaps a recusant
husband with Nettie mounting guard over him; perhaps a thrilling scene
of family explanation and reconciliation. The day had been a specially
long and hard one. He had been obliged to snatch a hurried lunch at one
of his patients' houses, and to postpone his hard-earned dinner to the
most fashionable of hours. It was indeed quite evening, almost twilight,
when he made his way home at last. As he neared the scene of action,
the tired man condoled with himself over the untimely excitement that
awaited him. He said to himself with pathetic self-pity that it was hard
indeed for a man who had earned a little repose to go in upon all the
troubles of another man's family. He had denied himself--he had not
undertaken upon his own shoulders that pleasing burden; and now what
was he to be saddled with?--the burden without the consolation--the
responsibility without the companionship. All this Dr Rider represented
to himself very pathetically as he wended his homeward way. Yet it is
astonishing, notwithstanding, with what alacrity he hastened upon that
path, and how much the curiosity, the excitement, the dramatic stir and
commotion made in his monotonous life by this entirely new unexpected
incident, occupied his mind. With expectations highly roused, he drew
up once more before his own house. It was surprising to him to see
how exactly it looked like itself. The blinds half-drawn down in the
genteelest calm as they always were--no faces peeping at the windows--no
marks of an arrival on the pavement, or in the composed countenance of
Mary, who stood holding the door open for him. He went in with a little
thrill of curiosity; the house was very quiet--dead-quiet in comparison
with the commotion of his thoughts; so was the sitting-room where he had
left Nettie resolutely planted in the easy-chair; there was nobody there
now; the boxes were out of the hall, not a sound was to be heard in the
house. He turned rather blankly upon Mary, who was going away quite
composedly, as if there was nothing which she wanted to tell or he to
hear.
"Where is my brother and the ladies?" said the amazed doctor.
"They all went off to the 'otel, sir, as soon as Mr Rider came
down-stairs," said Mary, complacently. "I assured Miss as it was the
best thing she could do, sir, for that I was 'most sure you'd never have
the children here,--as to be sure there wasn't no room neither," said
the doctor's factotum. "As soon as Mr Frederick came down, she called a
cab, did Miss, and took 'em both away."
"Oh! so they're gone, are they?" said the doctor.
"Hours and hours ago," answered Mary; "dinner'll be up in two minutes.
But I wouldn't say much for the potatoes, sir. When a gentleman's
irreg'lar, it's hard laws on the poor servants--nothink will keep, going
on for two hours, and not take no harm; but all's quiet and comfortable
in your room."
And with this assurance, which she evidently thought a very grateful
one, Mary went off to get the doctor's dinner. He walked to the end of
the room, and then back again, with solemnity--then threw himself into
that easy-chair. "Blessed riddance!" said the doctor; but somehow he
looked glum, wonderfully glum. There was no accounting for those blank
looks of his; he who had been condoling with himself over the exciting
scene he expected, so uncomfortable a conclusion to a long day's labour,
how was it he did not look relieved when that scene was spared him? To
tell the truth, when one has been expecting something to happen, of
whatever description, and has been preparing one's courage, one's
temper, one's fortitude, in anticipatory rehearsals--when one has placed
one's self in the attitude of a martyr, and prepared to meet with fiery
trials--it is mortifying, to say the least, when one finds all the
necessities of the case disappear, and the mildest calm replace that
tragical anticipation: the quiet falls blank upon the excited fancy. Of
course Dr Rider was relieved; but it was with something mightily like
disappointment that he leant back in his chair and knitted his brows at
the opposite wall. Not for the world would he have acknowledged himself
to be disappointed; but the calm was wonderfully monotonous after all
those expectations. He was never so bored and sick of a night by
himself. He tried to read, but reading did not occupy his mind. He grew
furious over his charred chops and sodden potatoes. As for the tea Mary
brought, he would have gladly pitched it at her by way of diversifying
that blank evening with an incident. The contrast between what he had
looked for and what he had, was wonderful. How delicious this stillness
should have been, this consciousness of having his house to himself, and
nobody to interrupt his brief repose! But somehow it appears that human
nature takes best with not having its wishes granted. It is indescribable
how Dr Rider yawned--how dull he found his newspaper--how few books
worth reading there were in the house--how slow the minutes ran on.
If somebody had chosen to be ill that night, of all nights the best
for such a purpose, the doctor would not have objected to such an
interruption. Failing that, he went to bed early, dreadfully tired of
his own society. Such were the wonderful results of that invasion so
much dreaded, and that retreat so much hoped for. Perhaps his own
society had never in his life been so distasteful to him before.