"Oh, how you startled me."
"Can't help being ugly," said Oldroyd merrily. "Eliza said you had come
in, and were down the garden, so I took the liberty of following."
"Does mamma know?" said Lucy, with a guilty look at the house.
"I really can't tell," said Oldroyd, smiling. "I shall not look for her
permission now, since I consider myself your duly qualified medical
attendant, your life physician, I hope."
"Really, Mr Oldroyd," said Lucy, "you need not feel my pulse to-day."
"Indeed, but I must," he said; "and look into your eyes to see if they
are clear."
"What nonsense!" said Lucy. "I suppose next you'll want me to put out
my tongue."
"No," he said laughing, "your lips will do."
"Philip! For shame! Anyone might have seen. You shouldn't."
"Save that I would not have anyone witness of so holy a joy as that kiss
was to me," whispered Oldroyd, "the whole world might see my love for
you, little wife to be. There's no shame in it, Lucy. I am so happy.
And you?"
"I'm very, very miserable," she cried, looking in his face with eyes
that denied the fact.
"Then you are to tell me your trouble," he whispered, fondly, "and I am
to console you."
"But I don't think you can, Philip."
"Well, let us hear," he said. "What is the trouble?"
"It is about poor Moray."
"Ah! Yes!" said Oldroyd slowly.
"And Glynne!"
"Whom you have just been to see, eh?"
"Yes."
"I once knew a case," said Oldroyd, "where two people were most tenderly
attached to each other--the gentleman far more so than the lady; but
they, loving as they did, were kept apart by foolish doubts and
misconceptions and pride."
"It is not true," said Lucy sharply.
"That they were kept apart like that?"
"No; that--that--"
"The gentleman was more deeply touched than the lady? No; that part is
not true. It was just the reverse."
"And that is not true either," said Lucy archly.
"Well, we'll not argue the point," said Oldroyd, laughing. "But I'll go
on. In their case no one interfered to set matters straight, and they
only came right through the tender affection and good heart of the
dearest little girl who ever lived."
"You may say that again, Philip," said Lucy, nestling to him, and
looking up through a veil of tears; "but it isn't a bit true. I'm
afraid I was very, very weak, and proud and foolish, and I feel now as
if I could never forgive myself for much that I have done."
"I'll forgive you, and you shall forgive me," said Oldroyd. "And now I
don't think I need go on speaking in parables. I only wanted to point
out the difference. Our trouble arranged itself without the help of
friends. That of someone else ought soon to be set right, with two such
energetic people as ourselves to help."
"But sometimes interference makes matters worse," sighed Lucy.
"Yes; because those who see about these matters are ignorant pretenders.
Now, we are both duly qualified practitioners, Lucy, and, I think, can
settle the matter right off, and cure them both."
"But how? It is so dreadful."
"Lucy, Lucy!"
It was a sharp, agonised call, as of one in extreme anguish, and,
startled by the cry, Lucy sprang up and ran towards the house, closely
followed by Oldroyd.
"Mamma, dear mamma, what is it?" she cried.
"Your brother. Oh, thank heaven, Mr Oldroyd, you are here."
"What is it?" cried Oldroyd, catching Mrs Alleyne's white and trembling
hand.
"I--I went--I ventured to go into the observatory just now, my son
seemed so quiet, and--oh, heaven, what have I done that I should suffer
this?"
It was a wild appeal, uttered by one in deep agony of spirit, as Mrs
Alleyne reeled, and would have fallen, had not Oldroyd caught her in his
arms, and gently lowered her on the carpet.
"Only fainting," he whispered. "Let her lie; loosen her dress, and
bathe her face. I'll run on to your brother."
Satisfied that he was not wanted there, and, giving Lucy an encouraging
nod, Oldroyd ran quickly along the passage to the observatory, whose
door he found open, but almost in total darkness, for the shutters were
carefully closed, and the shaded lamp gave so little light, save in one
place on the far side of the table, that he was compelled to cross the
great room cautiously, for fear of falling over some one or other of the
philosophical instruments, whose places the student often changed.
On reaching the table, he could see that Alleyne was lying prone upon
the well-worn rug before his chair; and, making his way to the window,
Oldroyd tore open the shutters, admitting a burst of sunshine, and
completely changing the aspect of the great dusty place.
Going back to the table, he took in the position at a glance. There
were bottles there, in a little rack such a chemist would use, and one
stood alone.
He caught it up, removed the stopper, then put it down with an impatient
"Pish!" and was turning to the prostrate man, when, previously hidden by
a book, another stopper caught his eye, and, drawing in his breath with
a loud hiss, he sprang to Alleyne's side, to find that the fingers of
his right hand tightly clasped a small cut-glass bottle, the one to
which the stopper belonged.
"I was afraid so," muttered Oldroyd, with his eyes scanning the white,
fixed countenance before him. "He must have taken it as he stood by the
table, and fallen at once. Poor fellow! Poor fellow! He must have
been mad."
These words were uttered as, with all the prompt decision of a medical
man, Oldroyd was examining his friend; his first act being to ascertain
what the little bottle had contained.
It was no easy task to free it from the stiffened fingers; but he tore
it away at last, held it to the light, to his nostrils, and then set it
quickly upon the table, with an impatient exclamation.
"And I call myself a practised doctor," he muttered, "and let my fancy
carry me away as it did. Poor fellow! He must have felt it coming on,
and tried that ammonia to keep off the sensation. Suffered from it
before, perhaps," he continued, as he laid Alleyne's head more easily,
tore open his handkerchief and collar; and then, after drawing up the
lids and examining the pupils of his eyes, he hurriedly threw open both
windows, and caught up a chart from a side table.
His next act was to ring the bell furiously, and then return to
Alleyne's side and begin fanning his head vigorously.