DOCTOR DRAKE GOES TO GILROYD
“And now I must say farewell, and if I _can_, or if you want me, I’ll
come soon and see you again; and God bless you, Violet; and good-bye, my
darling aunt. I’ll write from London this evening, and let you know what
my Paris address will be.”
“God Almighty bless you, my precious Willie; and I’m very glad—” and
here Aunt Dinah’s sentence broke short, and tears were in her eyes, and
she bit her lip. “I _am_, my darling Willie, that we met; and you’ll
really come soon, if I write for you; and you won’t forget your Bible
and your prayers; and, oh! goodness gracious! have you forgot the
tobacco-box?”
It was safe in his dressing-case. So another hurried farewell, and a
smiling and kissing of hands. “Good-bye, good-bye!” from the cab window;
and away it rattled, and William was gone; and the two ladies and old
Winnie in the rear, stood silently looking for a minute or so where the
carriage had been, and then they turned, with the faded smile of
farewell still on their faces, and slowly re-entered old Gilroyd Hall,
which all in a moment had grown so lonely.
In the drawing-room they were silent. Violet was looking through the
window, but not, I think, taking much note of the view, pretty as it is.
“I’m going away, and everything breaking up, and you must make
allowances”—William’s words were in her lonely ears now. A breaking-up
had partly come, and a greater was coming. William’s words sounded like
a prophecy. “Breaking-up.” Poor Gilroyd! Many a pleasant summer day and
winter evening had she known in that serene old place.
Pleasant times, no doubt, were before her—a more splendid home, perhaps.
Still memory would always look back regretfully on those early times,
and the familiar view of Gilroyd; its mellow pink-tinted brick, and
window-panes, flashing in the setting sun, half seen through the
stooping branches of the old chestnuts, would rise kindly and quaint
before her, better beloved than the new and colder glories that might
await her. Had the break-up indeed come? There was a foreboding of
change, a presage as of death at her heart. When she looked at Miss
Perfect she saw that she had been crying, and it made her heart heavier.
“Remember, he said he’d come to you whenever you write. You can bring
him back whenever you please; and really Paris is no distance at all.”
“I don’t know, little Violet, I’m very low. It’s all very true, what you
say, but I’ve a misgiving. I’ve looked my last on my fine fellow—my boy.
If I did as I am prompted, I think I should follow him to London, just
to have one look more.”
“You’re tired, grannie, darling, and you look pale; you must have a
little wine.”
“Pooh, child—no—nothing,” said Aunt Dinah, with a flicker of her usual
manner; but there was a fatigue and feebleness in her look which Violet
did not like.
“Give me my desk, like a darling,” said Miss Perfect; and she wrote a
note, pondering a good while over it; and she leaned back, tired, when
she had completed it. “I did my duty by him, I hope. I think he does me
credit—a handsome fellow! I don’t see anywhere⸺”
There was a pause here, and a kind of groan, and, coming near, Violet
Darkwell saw that she had fainted.
Great commotion was there in Gilroyd Hall. Miss Perfect’s seizure did
not pass away like a common swoon. Away went Tom for Doctor Drake, and
Vi and the servants got poor Aunt Dinah, cold, and breathing heavily,
and still insensible, to her bed.
Doctor Drake arrived quickly, and came up to her room, with his great
coat buttoned up to his chin, looking rather stern, in a reserved but
friendly sort of fuss.
“Hey—yes, yes—_there_ it _is_. How long ago did this happen, my dear?”
“Not quite half an hour—in the drawing-room. Oh, Doctor Drake, is it
anything very bad?” answered Violet.
“Well, my dear, it’s serious—but I hope it will be all right; it’s a
smart little attack of apoplexy—upon my word it is. There was no
convulsion—that’s right. It was very well he came when he did—just
caught me at the door. Open the window and door. Mrs. Dobbs, give me
cold water. Have _you_ a scissors? We’ll cut the strings of her dress
and staylace. One of you run down and bring up a kettleful of hot water.
Her feet are a little cold. Get up her head a little more. We’ll get her
sitting up, if you please, in this armchair here. We’ll bathe her feet,
and you’ll see she’ll do very well, presently. It’s not a case for
bleeding; and bring up mustard. I think you’ll see she’ll come round in
a little time.”
And so on the doctor talked and directed, and actively treated his
patient; and in a little time consciousness returned, and there was time
at last, to think of William Maubray.
“Shall we telegraph a message to London?” asked Violet.
“Not a bit; she’s going on as nicely as possible. He’d only be in the
way here, and it would frighten her. She’s doing capitally; and she may
never have a return, if she just takes care. She _must_ take _care_, you
know, and I’ll give you full directions how to treat her.”
And so he did. Miss Vi being accurate and intelligent, and rising with
the occasion, so that Doctor Drake that evening celebrated Miss Darkwell
to his friend Dignum, of the Golden Posts, as a trump and a brick, and
the nicest little creature he ever saw.
Mr. Vane Trevor, who had called at Gilroyd that morning, but found all
things in confusion and panic, called again in the evening, and had the
pleasure of an interview with Winnie Dobbs; but he could not see Miss
Darkwell. The young lady had given peremptory directions respecting all
visitors, and would not leave Miss Perfect’s room.
Doctor Drake was honoured that evening by a call from the proprietor of
Revington, and gave him a history of the case; and Trevor accompanied
him back again to Gilroyd, where he was about to make his evening visit,
and awaited his report in the little gravel courtyard, stealing now and
then a wistful glance up to the old-fashioned stone-faced windows. But
Violet did not appear. It might have been different—I can’t say—had she
known all that had passed between Miss Perfect and Vane Trevor
respecting her. As it was, the young gentleman’s long wait was rewarded
only by the return of Doctor Drake, and a saunter with him back again to
Saxton.
Pretty nearly the same was the routine of several subsequent days.
Fruits and vegetables, too, with messages came down from Revington; and
in his interviews with old Winnie Dobbs he betrayed a great solicitude
that the young lady should not wear herself out with watching and
attendance.
On Sunday he was in the church-yard almost as early as the doors opened,
and loitered there till the bell ceased ringing; and sat in his pew so
as to command an easy view of the church door, and not a late arrival
escaped his observation. But Violet Darkwell did not appear; and Vane
Trevor walked home with little comfort from the Rev. Dr. Wagget’s
learned sermon; and made his usual calls at Gilroyd and at Doctor
Drake’s, and began to think seriously of writing to Violet, and begging
an interview, or even penning the promptings of his ardent passion in
the most intelligible terms. And I have little doubt that had he had a
friend by him, to counsel him ever so little in that direction, he would
have done so.
------------------------------------------------------------------------