"Well, Mr Oldroyd, and what do you think? Pray, tell me frankly. You
have found out what is the matter with him?"
"Yes, ma'am, I think I have."
"Then, pray, speak."
Mrs Alleyne leaned forward with every curve in her face as well as her
eyes contradicting the form of her words. "Pray speak," sounded and
looked like a command to speak at once under pain of the lady's
displeasure. She was a woman of over fifty, with white hair and high
clear forehead; but what would have been a handsome face was detracted
from by a pinched, care-worn expression, as if there was some great
trouble upon her mind; and this trouble had soured her disposition, and
made her imperious and harsh. Her cold and rather repellent manner was
not softened by her formal white cap or her dress, which was a stiff,
black silk, that in its old age appeared to have doubts as to whether it
ought not to be a brown, save where it was relieved by white cuffs and a
plain muslin kerchief, such as is seen in old pictures, loosely crossed
over the breast, and secured behind.
Neither did the room and its furnishings tend to soften matters, for,
though good, everything looked worn and faded, notably the ancient
Turkey carpet, and the stiff maroon curtains that had turned from red
into drab, and hung limp and long beside the two tall gaunt windows,
looking out upon a clump of desolate Scotch firs.
The rest of the furniture was depressing, and did not suggest comfort.
The solid mahogany chairs were stiff, and the worn horse-hair coverings
would have been places of torture to a child; the great dining-table was
highly polished and full of reflections, but it had nothing pleasant to
reflect, and whoever looked, longed to see it draped with some warm,
rich cloth. While the great high-backed sideboard stood out like a
polished mahogany sarcophagus upon which someone had placed a bronze
funereal urn, though really inside that tomb-like structure there was a
cellarette with a decanter or two of generous wine; and the bronze urn
contained no ashes, merely an iron heater to make it hiss when it was
used for tea.
The blank, drab-painted walls seemed to ask appealingly for something to
ameliorate their chilling aspect; but there was no mirror, no bracket
bearing bust or clock; only opposite to the windows had the appeal been
heard. There, in the very worst light for the purpose, a large picture
had been hung, whose old gilt frame was tarnished and chipped, and the
gloomy canvas, with its cracked varnish, had been covered by some genius
of the Martin type with hundreds of figures in every conceivable posture
of misery and despair. Fire was issuing from the earth, and lightnings
were angularly veining the clouds, the tableau being supposed to
represent the end of the world; and the consequence was that, as far as
the walls were concerned, the aspect of the room was not improved.
Now, in every good dining-room, the fireside is, or should be, the most
cheerful part. Prior to the days of the Georges, people knew this, and
bright tiles and carvings and solid pillars gave a cheery look and
countenance to the fire; and this style, thanks to the most sensible
modern aesthetes, has come again into vogue, with handsome overmantels,
kerbs, and dogs; but Mrs Alleyne's fireside was chilly, the fender and
fire-irons were well-polished, but attenuated and of skewery form as to
the latter, sharp edge as to the former, while the narrow drab shelf
that formed the mantelpiece had for ornaments two obelisks that appeared
to have been cast in that objectionable meat-jelly known as brawn.
It only needed the yellowish roller blinds to be drawn half-way down to
make the very atmosphere seem oppressive. And this had been done, so
that, as the lady of The Firs sat opposite Philip Oldroyd, the young
doctor, who was patiently trying to solve that medical problem known as
making a practice in an extremely healthy district, could not help
thinking to himself that the place was enough to drive a susceptible
person melancholy mad.
Oldroyd did not answer for a few moments, but sat thinking, and Mrs
Alleyne watched him intently, scanning his great head, and somewhat
plain, but intelligent features with his deep, brown, thoughtful eyes,
and closely shaven face. The latter was a sacrifice to Mrs Grundy, so
that no objection should be made to his appearance by the more critical
inhabitants of a narrow-minded country district, the result having been
the destruction of a fine and flowing beard at the cost of much nicking
of the skin, and the discomfort of shaving regularly, fine weather or
foul.
"I think, Mrs Alleyne, that I know exactly what is the matter with your
son."
"Yes, yes," said the lady, impatiently. "Mr Oldroyd, you torture me."
"Then, now I will relieve you, madam," he said with a pleasant smile.
"He has really no physical complaint whatever."
"I do not understand you," she said coldly.
"I will be more plain then. He has no disease at all."
"Mr Oldroyd!" said the lady in a disappointed tone, that to the young
doctor's ears seemed to say as well:--"How foolish of me to call in this
inexperienced country practitioner, who, beyond a little general idea of
his profession, knows next to nothing at all."
"Oh, yes, my dear madam, you think he is very ill, and--pray excuse my
plainness--in your motherly eyes he appears to be wasting away."
Mrs Alleyne did not reply, but gazed at the speaker haughtily, and
looked as cold and repellent as the room.
"Your son, I repeat, has no organic disease; he has a marvellously fine
physique, great mental powers, and needs no doctor at all, unless it is
to give him good advice."
"I presumed, Mr Oldroyd, that it was the doctor's duty to give advice."
"Exactly, my dear madam; but pray be patient with me if I talk to you a
little differently from what you expected. You were prepared for me to
look solemn, shake my head and say that the symptoms were rather
serious, but not exactly grave; that we must hope for the best; that I
was very glad you sent for me when you did; and that I would send in
some medicine, and look in again to-morrow. Now, you said, `Be frank
with me;' I say the same to you. Did you not expect something of this
kind?"
"Well," said Mrs Alleyne, with something that looked like--not the
dawning of a smile, but the ghost of an old one, called up to flit for a
moment about her lips, "yes, I did expect something of the kind."
"Exactly," said Oldroyd, smiling genially, and as if he enjoyed this
verbal encounter. "Now, kindly listen to me. As I say, your son has a
fine physique, but what does he do with it? Does he take plenty of
active out-door exercise?"
Mrs Alleyne shook her head.
"Does he partake of his meals regularly?"
"No, Mr Oldroyd," said Mrs Alleyne, with a sigh.
"Does he sleep sufficiently and well?"
"Alas! No."
"Of course he does not, my dear madam. Here is a man who never employs
his muscles; never takes the slightest recreation; disappoints nature
when she asks for food; and turns night into day as he performs long
vigils watching the stars, and burning the midnight oil. How, in the
name of all that is sensible, can such a man expect to enjoy good
health? Why, nature revolts against it and steals it all away, to
distribute among people who obey her laws."
Mrs Alleyne sighed, and thought better of the doctor than she did
before.
"It is impossible for such a man to be well, Mrs Alleyne; the wonder is
that he has any health at all."
"But he is really ill, now, Mr Oldroyd."
"A little touched in the digestion, that is all."
"And you will prescribe something for that?"
"Yes, ma'am, I'll prescribe turpentine."
"Turpentine!" cried Mrs Alleyne, aghast.
"Yes, madam, out of nature's own pharmacopaeia. Let him go and climb
the hills every day, and inhale it when the sun is on the fir woods.
Let him get a horse and ride amongst the firs, or let him take a spade
and dig the ground about this house, and turn it into a pleasant garden,
surrounded by fir trees. That is all he wants."
"Oh, doctor, is that all?" said Mrs Alleyne more warmly; and she laid
her thin, white hand upon her visitor's arm.
"Well, not quite," he said, with a smile. "He is a great student; no
one admires his work more than I, or the wonderful capacity of his mind,
but he must be taken out of it a little--a man cannot always be studying
the stars."
"No, no; he does too much," said Mrs Alleyne. "You are quite right.
But what would you recommend?"
"Nature again, madam. Something to give him an interest in this world,
as well as in the other worlds he makes his study. In short, Mrs
Alleyne, it would be the saving of your son if he fell in love."
"Doctor!"
"And took to himself some sweet good girl as a wife."
"Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!"
The doctor started, and looked for the source of the gush of mirth.
A sweet ringing silvery laugh, that sounded like bell music in the
gloomy room, for Lucy Alleyne had entered unheard, to catch the doctor's
last words, and burst into this girlish fit of merriment.
"Lucy!" exclaimed Mrs Alleyne with an angry glance, as she rose from her
chair.
"Oh, I am so sorry, mamma. I beg your pardon, Mr Oldroyd, but it did
seem so droll."
She laughed again so merrily that it seemed infectious, and the young
doctor would have joined in had not Mrs Alleyne been there; besides, as
this was a professional call, he felt the necessity for some show of
dignity.
"May I ask, Lucy, what is the meaning of this extremely unseemly mirth,"
said Mrs Alleyne, with a good deal of annoyance in her tone.
"Don't be angry with me, mamma dear, but it did seem so comical; the
idea of Moray falling in love and being married."
"I fail to see the ridiculous side of the matter," said Mrs Alleyne,
"especially at a time when Mr Oldroyd has been consulted by me upon the
question of your brother's health."
"Oh, but you don't think he is really ill, Mr Oldroyd, do you?" cried
Lucy, anxiously.
"Indeed, I do not, Miss Alleyne. He requires nothing but plenty of
open-air exercise, with more food and regular sleep."
"And a wife," said Lucy, with a mirthful look.
"And a wife," said Oldroyd, gravely; and he gazed so intently at Lucy
that her merry look passed away, and she coloured slightly, and glanced
hastily at her mother.
"We must make Moray go out more, mamma dear," she said hurriedly. "I'll
coax him to have walks with me, and I'll teach him botany; Major Day
would be delighted if he'd come with him--I mean go with him; and--oh, I
say, mamma, isn't dinner nearly ready? I am so hungry."
"Lucy!" cried Mrs Alleyne, with a reproachful look, as Oldroyd rose.
"It is an enviable sensation, Miss Alleyne," he said, as a diversion to
the elder lady's annoyance; "one of nature's greatest boons. As I was
saying, Mrs Alleyne, _a propos_ of your son, he neglects his health in
his scientific pursuits, and the beautifully complicated machine of his
system grows rusty. Why, the commonest piece of mechanism will not go
well if it is not properly cared for, so how can we expect it of
ourselves."
"Quite true, Mr Oldroyd. Did you ride over? Is your horse waiting?"
"Oh, no, I walked. Lovely weather, Miss Alleyne. Good-day, madam,
good-day."
"But you have not taken any refreshment, Mr Oldroyd. Allow me to--"
"Why, dinner must be ready, mamma," said Lucy. "Will not Mr Oldroyd
stop?"
"Of course, yes, I had forgotten," said Mrs Alleyne, with a slight
colour in her cheek, and a peculiar hesitancy in her voice. "We--er--
dine early--if you would join us, we should be very glad."
"With great pleasure, madam," said the young doctor, frankly; "it will
save me a five miles' walk, for I must go across the common this
afternoon to Lindham."
"To see poor old Mrs Wattley?" cried Lucy eagerly, as Mrs Alleyne tried
to hide by a smile, her annoyance at her invitation being accepted.
"Yes; to see poor old Mrs Wattley," said Oldroyd, nodding.
"Is she very ill?" said Lucy sympathetically.
"Stricken with a fatal disease, my dear young lady," he replied.
"Oh!" ejaculated Lucy.
"One, however, that gives neither pain nor trouble. She will not suffer
in the least."
"I'm glad of that," cried Lucy, "for I like the poor old lady. What is
her complaint?"
"Senility," said Oldroyd, smiling. "Why, my dear Miss Alleyne, she is
ninety-five."
"Will you come with me, Lucy," said Mrs Alleyne, who had been vainly
trying to catch her daughter's eye, and then--"perhaps Mr Oldroyd will
excuse us."
"Not if you are going to make any additions to the meal on my account,
madam," said the doctor, hastily. "I am the plainest of plain men--a
bachelor who lives on chops and steaks, and it needs a sharp-edged
appetite to manage these country cuts."
Mrs Alleyne smiled again, and the visitor was left alone.
"Old lady didn't like my staying," he said to himself. "Shouldn't have
asked me, then. I am hungry, but--Oh! what a pretty, natural, clever
little witch it is. I wish I'd a good practice; I should try my luck if
I had, and I don't think there is any one in the way."
"Humph! End of the world," he said, rising and crossing to look at the
picture. "What a ghastly daub!"
"What a wilderness; why don't they have the garden done up?" he
continued, going to one of the windows, and looking at the depressing,
neglected place without. "Ugh! what a home for such a bright little
blossom. It must be something awful on a wet, wintry day."
"Sorry I stopped," he said, soon after.
"No, I'm not; I'm glad. Now, I'll be bound to say there's boiled mutton
and turnips for dinner, and plain rice pudding. It's just the sort of
meal one would expect in a house like this. Mum!"
He gave his lips a significant tap, for the door opened, and Lucy
entered, accompanied by a sour-looking maid with a clayey skin and dull
grey eyes, bearing a tray.
"Be as quick as you can, Eliza," said Lucy. "You won't mind my helping,
Mr Oldroyd, will you?" she continued. "We only keep one servant now."
"Mind? Not I," he replied cheerily. "Let me help too. I'll lay the
knives and forks."
"No, no, no!" cried Lucy, as she wondered what Mrs Alleyne would have
said if she had heard her allusion to "one servant now."
"Oh, but I shall," he said; and the maid looked less grim as she saw the
doctor begin to help. "Let's see," he said, "knives right, forks left.
Won't do to turn the table round if you place them wrong, as the
Irishman did."
Just then the maid--Eliza--left the room to fetch some addition to the
table.
"I am glad you are going to stay, Mr Oldroyd," said Lucy naively.
"Are you?" he said, watching her intently as the busy little hands
produced cruets and glasses from the sideboard cupboard.
"Oh yes, for it is so dull here."
"Do you find it so?"
"Oh, no, I don't. I was thinking of Moray. It will be someone for him
to talk to. Mamma fidgets about him so; but I felt as sure as could be
that he only looked ill because he works so terribly hard."
A step was heard outside, and the young doctor started from the table,
where he was arranging a couple of spoons on either side of a
salt-cellar, with so guilty a look that Lucy turned away her head to
conceal a smile.
Oldroyd saw it though, and was annoyed at being so weak and boyish; but
he felt that, after all, he was right, for it would have looked
extremely undignified in Mrs Alleyne's eyes if he had been caught
playing so domestic a part in a strange house.
"I wish she had not laughed at me, though," he said to himself; and then
he tried to pass the matter off as Mrs Alleyne came back, bland and
dignified, trying to conceal the fact that she had been out to make a
few preparations that would help to hide the poverty of the land.
"You will excuse our meal being very simple, Mr Oldroyd," she said
quietly; "I did not expect company."
"If you would kindly treat me as if I were not company, Mrs Alleyne, I
should be greatly obliged," replied Oldroyd; and then there was an
interchange of bows--that on the lady's part being of a very dignified
but gracious kind, one that suggested tolerance, and an absolute refusal
to accept the doctor as anything else than a visitor.
Oldroyd felt rather uncomfortable, but there was comfort in Lucy's
presence, as, utterly wanting in her mother's reserve, she busied
herself in trying to make everything pleasant and attractive for their
guest, in so natural and homely a manner, that while the doctor had felt
one moment that he wished he had not stayed, the next he was quite
reconciled to his fate.
"I feel as sure as can be that I am right," thought Oldroyd, as at the
end of a few minutes, Eliza entered with a large dish, whose contents
were hidden by a battered and blackened cover, placed it upon the table,
retreated, came back with a couple of vegetable dishes, retreated once
more and came back with four dinner-plates, whose edges were chipped and
stained from long usage.
Oldroyd glanced at Lucy, and saw her pretty forehead wrinkled up,
reading accurately enough that she was troubled at the shabbiness of the
table's furnishings; and, as if she felt that he was gazing at her, she
looked up quickly, caught his eye, and coloured with vexation, feeling
certain as she did that he had read her thoughts.
"Will you excuse me a moment, Mr Oldroyd?" said Mrs Alleyne, with
dignity. "We do not use a dinner-bell, the noise disturbs my son. I
always fetch him from the observatory myself."
Oldroyd bowed again, and crossed the room to open the door for his
hostess to pass out.
"What a nuisance all this formality is," he thought to himself, "I hate
it;" but all the same, he felt constrained to follow Mrs Alleyne's lead,
and he was beginning once more to regret his stay when he turned to
encounter the fresh, natural, girlish look of the daughter of the house.
"Mamma makes a regular habit of fetching my brother to meals, Mr
Oldroyd," said Lucy; "I don't believe he would come unless she went.
But while she is away, do tell me once again you don't think Moray is
going to be seriously ill?"
"But I do think so," he replied.
"Oh, Mr Oldroyd!"
The young doctor gazed at the pretty sympathetic face with no little
pleasure, as he saw its troubled look, and the tears rising in the eyes.
"How nice," he thought, "to be anyone she cares for like this," and then
he hugged himself upon his knowledge, which in this case was power--the
power of being able to change that troubled face to one full of smiles.
"I think he is going to be very seriously ill--if he does not alter his
way of life."
"He could avoid the illness, then?" cried Lucy, with the change coming.
"Certainly he could. He has only to take proper rest and out-door
exercise to be as well as you are."
"Then pray advise him, Mr Oldroyd," said Lucy, who was beaming now. "Do
try and get him to be sensible. It is of no use to send him medicine--
he would not take a drop. Hush! here he is."
At that moment there were slow, deliberate steps in the hall, and then
the door opened, and Mrs Alleyne, with a smile full of pride upon her
calm, stern face, entered, leaning upon the arm of a tall, grave,
thoughtful-looking man, whose large dark-grey eyes seemed to be gazing
straight before him, through everything, into the depths of space, while
his mind was busy with that which he sought to see.
He was apparently about three or four-and-thirty, well-built and
muscular; but his muscles looked soft and rounded. There was an
appearance of relaxation, even in his walk; and, though his eyes were
wide open, he gave one the idea of being in a dream. He was dressed in
a loose, easy-fitting suit of tweeds, but they had been put on anyhow,
and the natural curls of his dark-brown hair and beard made it very
evident that the time he spent at the toilet-table was short.
What struck the visitor most was the veneration given to the student by
his mother and sister, the former full of pride in her offspring, as she
drew back his chair, and waited until he had seated himself, before she
took her own place at the head of the table, and signed to her guest to
follow her example.
It was a reversal of the ordinary arrangements at a board, for Oldroyd
found himself opposite Moray Alleyne, with Mrs Alleyne and her daughter
at the head and foot. In fact, it soon became evident that Mrs
Alleyne's son took no interest whatever in matters terrestrial of a
domestic nature, his mind being generally far away.
Mrs Alleyne had announced to him, as they came towards the dining-room,
that Mr Oldroyd would join them at the meal; but the scrap of social
information was covered by a film of nebular theory, till the astronomer
took his place at the table, when he seemed to start out of a fit of
celestial dreaming, and to come back to earth.
"Ah, Mr Oldroyd," he said, with his face lighting up and becoming quite
transformed. "I had forgotten that you were to join us. Pray forgive
my rudeness. I get so lost in my calculations."
"Don't mention it," said Oldroyd, nodding; and then he looked hard at
his _vis-a-vis_, marvelling at the change, and the tones of his deep
mellow voice, and thinking what a man this would be if he had become
statesman, orator, or the like, concluding by saying mentally, "What a
physique for a West End physician! Why, that presence--a little more
grey, and that soft, winning, confidential voice, would be a fortune to
him. But he would have to dress."
"I am sorry we have only plain boiled mutton to offer you, Mr Oldroyd,"
said Mrs Alleyne, as the covers were removed.
"I knew it was," thought Oldroyd, glancing at the livid, steaming leg of
mutton. Then aloud: "One of the joints I most appreciate, madam--with
its appropriate trimmings, Miss Alleyne," he added smiling at Lucy.
"I'm afraid the potatoes are not good," said Lucy, colouring with
vexation; "and the turnips seem very hard and stringy."
"Don't prejudge them, my dear," said Mrs Alleyne with dignity. "We have
great difficulty in getting good vegetables, Mr Oldroyd," she continued,
"though we are in the country. We--er--we do not keep a gardener."
"And the cottage people don't care to sell," said Oldroyd. "I have
found that out. But you have a large garden here, Mrs Alleyne."
"Yes," said the lady, coldly.
"Ah," said Oldroyd, looking across at Moray Alleyne. "Now, there's your
opportunity. Why not take to gardening?"
"Take to gardening?" said Alleyne, shaking off the dreamy air that had
come upon him as he mechanically ate what his mother had carefully
placed upon his plate, that lady selecting everything, and her son
taking it without question, as a furnace fire might swallow so much
coal.
"Yes; take to gardening, my good sir," said Oldroyd. "It is a very
ancient occupation, and amply rewards its votaries."
"I am well rewarded by much higher studies," said Alleyne, smiling; and
Oldroyd was more than ever impressed by his voice and manner.
"Exactly, but you must have change."
Alleyne shook his head.
"I do not feel the want of change," he said.
"But your body does," replied Oldroyd, "and it is crying out in revolt
against the burden your mind is putting upon it."
"Why, doctor," said Alleyne, with his face lighting up more and more, "I
thought you had stayed to dinner. This is quite a professional visit."
"My dear sir, pray don't call it so," said Oldroyd. "I only want to
give you good advice. I want you to give me better vegetables than
these--from your own garden," he added, merrily, as he turned to Lucy,
who was eagerly watching her brother's face.
"Thank you, doctor," replied Alleyne shaking his head; "but I have no
time."
Oldroyd hesitated for a moment or two, as he went on with his repast of
very badly cooked, exceedingly tough mutton; but a glance at his hostess
and Lucy showed him that his words found favour with them, and he
persevered in a pleasant, half-bantering strain that had, however, a
solid basis of sound shrewd sense beneath its playful tone.
"Hark at him!" he said. "Has not time! Now, look here, my dear Mr
Alleyne--pray excuse my familiarity, for though we have been neighbours
these past five years, we have not been intimate--I say, look here, my
dear sir--potatoes! Thank you, Miss Alleyne. That one will do. I like
them waxey. Now look here, my dear sir, you are an astronomer."
"Only a very humble student of a great science, Mr Oldroyd," said the
other, meekly.
"Ah, well, we will not discuss that. At all events you are a
mathematician, and deal in algebraic quantities, and differential
calculus, and logarithms, and all that sort of thing."
"Yes--yes," said Alleyne, going on eating in his mechanical way as if he
diligently took to heart the epigrammatic teaching of the old
philosopher--"Live not to eat, but eat to live."
"Well then, my dear sir, I'll give you a calculation to make."
"Not now, doctor, pray," said Mrs Alleyne, quickly. "My son's digestion
is very weak."
"This won't hurt his digestion, madam," said Oldroyd; "a child could do
it without a slate."
"Pray ask me," said Alleyne, "and I will endeavour to answer you."
"Well, then: here is my problem," said Oldroyd; "perhaps you will try
and solve it too, Miss Alleyne. Suppose two men set to work to perform
a task, and the one--as you mathematicians would put it, say A, worked
twenty hours a day for five years, while B worked eight hours a day for
twenty years, which would do most work?"
"I know," said Lucy, quickly; "the busy B, for he would do a hundred and
sixty hours' work, while A would only do a hundred hours' work."
Alleyne smiled and nodded very tenderly at his sister.
"Isn't that right?" she said quickly, and her cheeks flushed.
"Quite right as to proportion, Lucy," he said, "but in each case it
would be three hundred and sixty-five times, or three hundred and
thirteen times as much."
"Of course," she said. "How foolish of me."
"Well, Mr Oldroyd, what about your problem?" continued Alleyne,
commencing upon a fresh piece of tough mutton.
"You have solved it," said Oldroyd. "You have shown me that the
eight-hour's man does more work than the twenty-hour's man."
"Yes, but one works five years, the other twenty, according to your
arrangement."
"Not my arrangement, sir, Nature's. The man who worked twenty hours per
diem would be worn out mentally at the end of five years. The man who
worked eight hours a day, all surroundings being reasonable, would, at
the end of twenty years, be in a condition to go on working well for
another ten, perhaps twenty years. Now, my dear sir, do you see my
drift?"
Moray Alleyne laid down his knife and fork, placed his elbows on either
side of his plate, clasped his hands together, and then seemed to cover
them with his thick, dark beard, as he rested his chin.
A dead silence fell upon the little party, and, as if it were some
chemical process going on, small round discs of congealed fat formed on
the mutton gravy in the dish.
Mrs Alleyne was about to break the silence, but she saw that her son was
ready to answer, and she refrained, sitting very upright and motionless
in her chair, as she watched the furrows coming and going on his brow.
"That is bringing it home, doctor," he said, and there was a slight
huskiness in his voice as he spoke. "But you are exaggerating."
"I protest, no," said Oldroyd, eagerly. "Allow me, I have made some
study of animal physiology, and I have learned this: Nature strengthens
the muscles, nerves and tissues, if they are well used, up to a certain
point. If that mark is passed--in other words, if you trespass on the
other side--punishment comes, the deterioration is rapid and sure."
"Mother," said Alleyne, turning to her affectionately; "you have been
setting the doctor to tell me this."
"Indeed, no, my dear," she cried, "I was not aware what course our
conversation would take; but, believe me, Moray, I am glad, for this
must be true."
"True?" cried Oldroyd. "My dear madam, the world teems with proofs."
"Yes," said Alleyne thoughtfully: and there was a far-off, dreamy look
in his eyes as he gazed straight before him as if into space, "it is
true--it must be true; but with so much to learn--such vast discoveries
to make--who can pause?"
"The man who wishes to win in the long race," said Oldroyd smiling, and
again there was a minute's absolute silence, during which the young
doctor caught a reconnaissant look from Lucy.
Then Alleyne spoke again.
"Yes, Mr Oldroyd, you are right," he said. "Nature is a hard mistress."
"What, for not breaking her laws?" cried Oldroyd. "Come, come, Mr
Alleyne, my knowledge of astronomy extends to the Great Bear, Perseus,
Cassiopeia, and a few more constellations; but where would your science
be if her laws were not immutable?"
For answer, to the surprise of all, Moray Alleyne slowly unclasped his
hands, and stretched one across to the young doctor.
"Thank you," he said. "You are quite right. I give way, for I am
beaten. Mother, dear, I yield unwillingly, but Nature's laws are
immutable, and I'll try to obey them. Are you content?"
"My boy!"
Stern, unbending Mrs Alleyne was for the moment carried away by her
emotion, and forgetting the doctor's presence, she left her chair to
throw her arms round her son's neck, bend down, kiss his forehead, and
then hurry from the room.
"She loves me, Mr Oldroyd," said Alleyne simply. "Lucy dear, bring
mamma back. We are behaving very badly to our guest."
Lucy had already left her chair, and she, too, impulsively kissed her
brother and then ran from the room to hide her tears.
"Poor things," said Alleyne, smiling. "I behave very badly to them,
doctor, and worry them to death; but I am so lost in my studies that I
neglect everything. They have made such sacrifices for me, and I forget
it. I don't see them--I don't notice what they do. It was to humour me
that they came to live in this desolate spot, and my poor mother has
impoverished herself to meet the outlay for my costly instruments. It
is too bad, but I am lost in my work, and nothing will ever take me from
it now."
"Nothing?" said Oldroyd.
"Nothing," was the reply, given in all simple childlike earnestness, as
the young doctor gazed straight into the deep full eyes that did not for
a moment blanch. "So you will not give me pills and draughts, doctor,"
said Alleyne at last, smiling.
"Medicine? No. Take exercise, man. Go more into society. See
friends. Take walks. Garden. Make this desert bloom with roses."
"Yes--yes--yes," said Alleyne, thoughtfully. "I must try. Mr Oldroyd,"
he said suddenly, "I should like to see more of you--if--if you would
allow me."
"My dear sir, nothing would give me greater pleasure. Here, I'll come
and garden with you, if you like."
"I should be very grateful," said Alleyne. "Give me your advice," he
continued, earnestly, "for I--I must live--I have so much to do--endless
labour--and if I do not husband my strength, I--you are right: a man
must take exercise and sleep. Mr Oldroyd, I shall take your advice,
and--Hush, here they come."
In effect, looking red-eyed, but perfectly calm now, Mrs Alleyne entered
with Lucy, and the rest of the dinner passed off most pleasantly to
Oldroyd, who was ready to accord that the poor, badly-cooked mutton was
the most delicious he had ever eaten, and the vegetables as choice as
could have been grown. Doubtless this was due to Lucy's grateful
glances, and the quiet, grave condescension with which Mrs Alleyne
turned from her idol to say a few words now and then.
Even Alleyne himself seemed to be making efforts to drag himself back
from the company of the twin orbs in space, or the star-dust of the
milky way, to chat about the ordinary things of every-day life; and at
last, it was with quite a guilty sensation of having overstepped the
bounds of hospitality in his stay that Oldroyd rose to go.
"You will call and see us again soon, Mr Oldroyd?" said Mrs Alleyne,
with the dignity of a reigning queen.
"Professionally, madam," he said, "there is no need. I have exhausted
my advice at this first visit. It is for you to play the nurse, and see
that my suggestions are carried out."
"Then as a friend," said the lady, extending her thin white hand. "I am
sure my son feels grateful to you, and will be glad to see you at any
time."
She glanced at Alleyne, who was seated in the sunshine, holding a pair
of smoked glass spectacles to his eyes, and gazing up at the dazzling
orb passing onwards towards the west.
"I thank you heartily," said Oldroyd. "Society is not so extensive here
that one can afford to slight so kind an invitation."
"Mr Oldroyd going?" said Alleyne, starting, as, in obedience to a look
from her mother, Lucy bent over him, and, pressing the glasses down with
one hand, whispered a few words in his ear.
"Yes, I must be off now," said the young doctor.
"You will come and see us again soon?" said Alleyne. "Would you care to
see my observatory? It might interest you a little."
"I shall be glad," said Oldroyd, "very glad--some day," and after a most
friendly good-bye, he took his soft hat and stout stick, and, leaving
the cheerless, sombre house, went down the steep slope, and took a short
cut across the rough boggy land towards his patient's cottage.
"Thorough lady, but she is very stiff; and she worships her son.
Charming little girl that. Nice and natural. No modern young-ladyism
in her," he muttered, as he picked his way. "I should think it would be
possible to be in her company a whole day without a single allusion to
frilling, or square-cut, or trains, or the colour and shape of Miss
Blank's last new bonnet. Quite a sensible little girl. Pretty flower
growing in very uncongenial soil, but she seems happy enough."
Philip Oldroyd's communings were checked by some very boggy patches,
which had to be leaped and skirted, and otherwise avoided; but as soon
as he was once more upon firm ground, he resumed where he had left off.
"Wonderfully fond of her brother, too. Well, I don't wonder. He's a
fine fellow after all. I thought him a dullard--a book-worm; but he's
something more than that. Why, when he wakes up out of his dreamy
state, he's a noble-looking fellow. What a model he would make for an
artist who wanted to paint a Roman senator. Why doesn't nature give us
all those fine massive heads, with crisp hair and beard? Humph! lost in
his far-seeing studies, and nothing will draw him out of them for more
than a few hours. Nothing would ever draw him away but one thing. One
thing? No, not it, though. He's not the sort of man. He's
good-looking enough, and he has a voice that, if bent to woo, would play
mischief with a woman's heart. He'll never take that complaint, though,
I'll vow. It would be all on the lady's side. And yet, I don't know:
man is mortal after all. I am for one. Very mortal indeed, and if I go
often to The Firs, I shall be mixing Lucy Alleyne up with my
prescriptions, and that won't do at all."
Volume 1, Chapter VII.