AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR
In appearance the doctor had altered but little since we saw him
last. He was the same little wizened old man, with the slight
stoop, and the sunken eyes which looked out so keenly from under
the thick, overhanging thatch of his shaggy eyebrows. When she
heard his voice, and saw him, Margaret, running to him--before
Harry, before the servant--put her arms about his neck (she
could easily do it, since he was the shorter), and, after
looking at him fixedly, as if to make sure that he was still the
same man, kissed him on the lips.
"Dr. Twelves, to think of your coming to see me after all these
years!"
"And whose fault is it that I haven't come before? whose fault
I'd like to know?"
"It certainly isn't mine."
"Not yours? when I hadn't a notion where to look for you, and
you took care that I hadn't? It's only by the grace of God I've
chanced upon you now. I was looking in a bit of a magazine, at
an illustration which seemed to me to be pretty fair, when I saw
your name in the corner--Margaret Wallace--in your own
handwriting. I can tell you I jumped--there, in the railway
carriage--so that I daresay my fellow-passengers thought that
I'd a sudden gouty twinge or, maybe, rheumatism, for none can
say that I look like a gouty subject. I went straight to the
office where the magazine is published, and I asked them to tell
me where you might be found. I believe they thought I'd designs
upon your life, or, at least, upon your purse. I had to tell
them such a yarn before they'd tell me. Then I took care to
follow the girl up the stairs, so that, if you meant to deny
yourself, you shouldn't have a chance."
"Deny myself?--to you?--doctor! what a notion!--as if I should!"
By now the servant had retired; Miss Wallace, who still retained
a hand upon her visitor's shoulder, had brought him into the
room. "Harry, this is Dr. Twelves, of whom you have so often
heard me speak. Doctor, this is Mr. Talfourd, whose wife I hope
one day to be."
"I trust, young gentleman, that your deserts are equal to your
good fortune, and that you're properly conscious how great that
is. I've known this lassie since the time she seemed all hair
and legs, for those were the parts of her you noticed most, and
there hasn't been a day on which I haven't wanted her to be my
wife."
"Now, doctor, that's contrary to the fact; you know you told me
more than once that Providence had marked you out to be a
bachelor."
"And wasn't that self-evident, since you wouldn't have me? Now,
Margaret Wallace, what have you been doing?"
"Doing? I was talking to Harry when you came in."
"I'll be bound that it's plenty of talking to Harry that you do,
and will do--particularly later on, when you're Mrs. Harry."
"Doctor!"
"What I mean was, have you made your fortune? or are you drawing
pictures for your daily bread?"
She looked at Mr. Talfourd quizzically.
"I have one eye upon my daily bread."
"And it isn't too much of it you see, by the looks of you.
You're peaked, and you're thin."
"Oh, doctor! I'm sure I'm not."
"And I'm sure you are, and by virtue of my profession I ought to
know. It's a pretty market to which you've brought your pigs.
You might be one of the richest women in England, instead of
being half-starved--with white cheeks and tired eyes."
"Doctor, how dare you say such things! It's not true! You've not
improved!"
"I'm thinking you've not improved either. You've a stubborn
heart. Why, all this time, haven't you let some of us know
something about you?--if it was only where a line might reach
you."
"You know very well why, and I did go to see Mr. Grahame."
"You went to see Cuthbert Grahame? When?" She mentioned the
date. "Girl, you're dreaming. It was the day after that he
died."
"The day after that he died? I knew he was dead. I heard of it
long afterwards by a side wind; but I have never heard any
particulars. You none of you told me anything."
"How were we to, when you'd hidden yourself from us in this
great city?"
"Of what did he die?"
"If you ask what was on the certificate I can tell you; but if
you want to know how death came to him you must inquire of his
wife."
"His wife?"
"When he died he was a married man, according to the law of
Scotland."
"Dr. Twelves, are you jesting?"
"I'm not. On the day he died he made a will leaving her all that
he had in the world--and she had it."
"Who was she?"
"Beyond saying that she was no better than she ought to be, I
can tell you nothing."
"Was she some one from the neighbourhood?"
"She was not; she was from England. She dropped from the clouds.
I should say--if I may be allowed to do so in this company--on
her road to hell. What passed between you and Cuthbert Grahame
when you saw him on that day before he died?"
"I didn't see him. Nannie wouldn't let me."
"Nannie wouldn't let you?"
"She would not. She said that Mr. Grahame had forbidden her to
admit me into the house."
"She's never spoken a word to me about it. What's been the
matter with the woman? But there's something ails your story.
That day, and for many days afterwards, she was lying in bed
with a broken leg. Was it from her bedroom that she shouted out
to you?"
"From her bedroom?--nothing of the kind. She told me through the
front door that Mr. Grahame had forbidden her to let me in. When
I said that I would come in, and began to break the window to
show that I was in earnest, she went to the window above, and
poured two buckets of boiling water over me."
"Margaret Wallace! it's dreaming you must have been."
"It was a curious kind of dream. The water scalded my neck, and
left a scar which was visible for weeks--wasn't it?"
She turned to Mr. Talfourd, as if for corroboration.
"It was. When I saw it I was disposed to go straight off to
Scotland, and give the old harridan a taste of my quality."
"It's as queer a story as any I've heard. Seeing that Nannie was
as if she had been glued to her bed, how could she walk about
the house as you say, and pour buckets of boiling water on to
you through a window?"
"I only know that she did."
"Did you see her?"
She considered a moment.
"No, I didn't. She took care not to show herself."
"She took care not to show herself?"
"She hadn't the courage to let me see her face, but she let me
hear her voice, and plenty of it. It was not necessary for me to
see her when I heard her. I've been acquainted with Nannie
Foreshaw's voice for too many years to be likely to mistake it
for any one else's."
"You're sure? I doubt----" The doctor seemed to be considering
in his turn. "I can't put the pieces of the puzzle together so
that they just fit, but I've a notion that I'm on the way.
Margaret Wallace, I've a suspicion that I've been a greater fool
even than I thought. After the chances I've had to get wisdom,
to get understanding, that's not a nice feeling to have. Between
us--you've had a hand!--we've muddled things to a marvel. I'll
communicate with Nannie with reference to that little
conversation you say you had with her; when I've heard from her
I'll talk to you again." He turned to Mr. Talfourd.
"And you, sir, do you make drawings?"
"No; I write stories."
The doctor looked him up and down as if he were a specimen of a
species which was new to him.
"Stories? Oh! and is that a man's work? I come of a good old
Scottish stock. My forebears have always held that a man should
do a man's work. Is writing stories that?"
"It isn't easy, if that's what you mean."
"Not easy? I should have thought you would have found it as easy
as lying. I've written them myself; I didn't find it hard. It's
just a waste of time. However, I'm not judging you. Is that all
you do, write stories?"
"Just at present I'm doing something else as well. I'm acting as
private secretary to a lady."
"Private secretary to a lady? You've your own notions of what's
a man's work, Mr. Talfourd."
Harry flushed; Margaret laughed.
"And you country Scotchmen have your own ideas of what you're
entitled to say."
"You're Scotch yourself, my lassie, on the best side of you;
don't gird at your own birth. I ask your pardon, Mr. Talfourd,
if I've said anything I ought not to say; but I've known this
lassie all her days. She's been to me as the apple of my eye,
and--she tells me that you're to be her husband. Would it be
going too far, Mr. Talfourd, if I were to ask you what's the
name of the lady to whom you're acting as private secretary?"
"Mrs. Lamb--Mrs. Gregory Lamb."
"Mrs. Gregory Lamb? That's odd."
"How is it odd? I hope there's nothing improper about the name."
"It's not that it's improper; it's that I once met a Gregory
Lamb. What sort's your Gregory Lamb?"
"He's about my own age, perhaps a little older; not ill-looking;
not, I should imagine, a bad fellow in his way."
"Is he a poor man?"
"I believe his wife is very rich."
"His wife? Of course, there's the wife--and she's very rich. The
rich woman who married the Gregory Lamb I know would be a very
foolish female."
"Mrs. Lamb is certainly not that."
"Then her Gregory's not mine, though it's an unusual conjunction
of names. I'm thinking that none but a fool of a woman would
ever have married him."