"Humph!" ejaculated the visitor, mollifying himself with a large draught
of brandy-and-water. "I should think not, indeed. I shall send you a
dozen of that brandy."
"No, no, I beg!" said the doctor earnestly; and his white forehead
puckered up.
"Yes, I shall. May I smoke?"
"Certainly--certainly."
A very large, well-filled cigar case was already in the visitor's hands.
"Take one."
"No, thanks. I never smoke."
"Never mind, Hendon does. Here, I shall leave those six for him."
"I really would rather you did not, Poynter; indeed I would."
"Get out? What's the good of having these things if some one else don't
enjoy 'em too? Make Hendon a bit more civil to me. He is so jolly--so
jolly--what do you call it?--soopercilious with me. Because I'm not a
doctor, I suppose. There's half a dozen good ones for him when he comes
in. Now then, doctor, go ahead. Want to see my tongue?"
"No--no," said the doctor; "the look of your eye is sufficient, Mr
Poynter. It is much clearer. Felt any more of the chest symptoms?"
"No, not so much of them; but I don't sleep as I should: feverish and
tossy--spend half my nights punching my pillow."
"Have you given up the suppers?"
"Well, not quite. You see a man can't drop everything. I know a lot of
men, and one's obliged, you see, to do as they do. But now look here;
doctor. You've been treating me these three months."
"Dear me! is it so long as that?"
"More. You've poked my chest about, and listened to my works, and given
me all sorts of stuff to take, and told me to eat this and drink that,
and now I suppose you think I'm sound, wind and limb?"
"Certainly, my dear sir, certainly. I told you so at the first, and
that no treatment was necessary."
"Yes, yes, all right; but I'd got to be a bit nervous doctor, and now,
as I say, you think me sound, wind and limb?"
"Quite."
"Then you'll agree, won't you?"
"Agree?" said the doctor, looking over the glasses he had put on when
commencing to be professional.
"Yes. I'm as good a man as there is at Mincing Lane over a tea bargain;
but a job like this knocks the wind out of me, makes me feel a damaged
lot where the sea-water's got in, or a Maloo mixture. Can't do it: but
you understand."
"Really, Mr Poynter, I--"
"Now don't run away, doctor; don't, please. I'm a warm man, and I'm
getting warmer. My house is tip-top. I gave two-fifty for the piano, I
did, 'pon my soul, and fifty apiece for the cut-glass chandies in the
drawing-room. There ain't a better garden in Sydenham. You're willing,
ain't you?"
"Do you mean--"
"Yes, that's it. Say the word. There, I've loved her ever since I
first saw her. And situated as you are, doctor--"
"Mr Poynter."
"No offence meant--far from it; but of course I can't help seeing how
things are. Come, you'll give your consent, and get hers, and I'll make
settlements--anything you like. You shall come and have a bit o' dinner
with us every Sunday, and a glass o' real port wine; and if you'd rather
have a cab to come home, why, there you are. Come, there's my hand.
Where's yours?"
"Do I understand--"
"Stop a moment, doctor. Of course you'll attend us, whether we're ill
or whether we ain't. Keep us in order, like; and as to your fees, why,
I ask you now, as a man, what is a fee to me?"
"Mr Poynter!"
"One moment, doctor. I don't say anything about a brougham. If Miss
Richmond--I say, doctor, what made you call her Richmond and him
Hendon?"
"A foolish whim--eccentricity," said the doctor coldly. "One child was
born on the North Road, the other at the pretty old place on the south
west."
"I see. Well, as I was saying, if Miss Richmond likes it to be a
brougham, either the real thing, or on the job, she has only got to
speak, and it's lies."
"Am I to understand, Mr Poynter, that this is a formal proposal for my
daughter's hand?"
"That's it. How you can put it, doctor! You're right; it is, and
there's my hand."
"Mr Poynter," said the doctor, drawing himself up in his chair, and
without taking the extended hand, "that is a matter upon which I am not
prepared to speak."
"Why, you're her father, ain't you?"
"Does my daughter sanction this?"
"Well--er--yes--no--hardly, because I've never put it to her plump. But
you know what women are--sealskins, a carriage, bit o' jewellery, _and_
their own way. Why, of course she does; did you ever know a woman as
didn't want to marry? They often say so, but--you know. There, say the
word: I'll just go in and see her, and it'll be a good job for all of
us, and I shall go away with the day fixed."
"No, Mr Poynter," said the doctor gravely; "I have been a medical man
for thirty years--a great student, but I must frankly confess that I do
_not_ know what women are. As to my daughter, she is of an age to judge
for herself, and when she accepts a man for her husband--"
"I say, hold hard; there's nothing on, is there?"
"You have told me that you love my child."
"Like all that, doctor. But you know what I mean: old lover, prior
attachment, and that sort of thing."
"As far as I know, there has never been any attachment. Richmond is not
like most girls."
"Right doctor. She isn't. That fetched me. Why, in her plain shabby
things--"
The doctor winced. "She knocks my sister into fits, and Lyddy spends
two-fifty a year in dressmaking and millinery, without counting
jewellery and scent."
"I may say," continued the doctor, "that my daughter has always devoted
herself to her brother and me."
"Oh, yes, doctor, I've spotted that," said the visitor, smoking
furiously.
"And I have never seen any sign of an attachment. I once thought that
there was a liking between her and young Mark Heath."
"What, brother to that Miss Janet who comes here?" cried Poynter
eagerly.
"The same; but that was years ago."
"And he's abroad, isn't he?"
"He went to the Cape--to seek his fortune," said the doctor gravely;
"but he has not been heard of now for two years."
"Dead, safe!" said Poynter, drawing a breath full of relief.
"I'm afraid so."
"Afraid?"
"It would be sad if the young man had ended his career like that."
"Of course. But they weren't engaged?"
"Certainly not, Mr Poynter."
"And you've no objection to me, doctor?"
"N-no--I--that is, Mr Poynter, I look upon this as a matter for my
daughter to decide."
"Of course, doctor. Well, I'll just finish my cigar and grog, and then
I'll go and put it to her, plump and plain; and, as I said before, it'll
be a fine day's work for us all."
The doctor sighed.
"I say, you know," continued his visitor, with the wrinkles coming about
his eyes, "it was all a dodge of mine."
"I beg your pardon."
"There wasn't anything the matter with me when I came."
"Nothing whatever," said the doctor, nodding acquiescence.
"What! you knew that?"
"Of course I did. I looked upon it as all imaginary."
"But you took the fees, doctor?" said the young man, laughing.
"You took up my time."
"But I say, doctor, isn't that too bad?"
"Not at all. My dear sir, the medical profession. Won't I be a poor
one if we had no patients with imaginary ills. We treat them; they
think we do them good; and they grow better. Surely we earn our fees."
"Oh, but, doctor," said the young man jocularly, "why not honestly tell
them they are all right, instead of taking their coin?"
"Because if we did they would not believe us, and would go to some other
medical man."
"Then you knew I was all right?"
"Certainly I did."
"And made me up that wretched physic to take."
"You would not have been satisfied without."
"Ah, well," said the young man, with a chuckle which resulted in his
wiping his eyes with his highly scented handkerchief, "I never took a
drop."
"I know that too," said the doctor.
"Ah, well; we understand one another now, and I'd better go."
James Poynter, however, seemed to be in no hurry to go, but sipped his
brandy-and-water, smoked his cigar down to the throwing-away length, and
then brought out from his vest-pocket an amber and meerschaum
mouthpiece, tipped with gold, into which he fitted the wet end of the
cigar, and smoked till he could smoke no longer, when he rose,
flush-faced, and with the dew upon his forehead.
"I suppose I must go and get it done, doctor," he said; "but it's rather
a--well, it makes a man feel--I say, doctor, what is there in a pretty
woman that makes a man feel half afraid of her, like?"
"I told you, Mr Poynter, a short time back, that I did not understand
women," said the doctor gravelly. "I cannot tell. Say Nature's
heaven-gift for her defence."
"Humph!" said Poynter, staring. "I say, doctor--cigar, you know. Could
you give a fellow a mouthful of something that would take the taste out
of one's mouth? Going to see a lady."
"Try cold water," said the doctor, in a tone of voice which sounded like
throwing that fluid upon he young man's hopes; but he had so much faith
in himself that the verbal water glanced from his fine feathers, and
after rinsing his mouth, he shook hands clumsily, intending to leave the
doctor's fee within his palm, but managed to drop the more valuable of
the two coins on the edge of the fender, when it flew beneath the grate,
and had to be fished out with the tongs.
"Dodgy stuff, money, doctor," said Poynter, setting down the fire-iron,
and blowing the coin.
"Don't take all that trouble, pray."
"Oh, it's no trouble, doctor. I was never above picking up a sov.
There, don't you come. I know my way;" and he left the consulting-room
to go into the house and learn his fate.
"Brute!" said the doctor, with a look of disgust, as he sank into his
chair. "Why is Fate so unfair with her gold! I thought as much, but
Richmond will say _no_."
"Old lunatic!" said James Poynter, with his fat upper lip curling in
disgust, as his eyes lit on the row of glass jars with their ghastly
contents. "Once I get my lady home, I don't mean to see much of him.
Here, boy," he said, as he reached the hall, and so suddenly that there
was nearly a serious accident, for Bob was coming down the balustrade
from the first floor, gliding upon the central part of his person with
arms and legs extended--taking hold having grown common.
The sharp "Here, boy!" so startled him that he overbalanced himself,
went right over, but caught at the upright spindly bars, and so far
saved himself that he came down upon his feet in a couple of
somersaults, recovering himself directly, and coming forward with a grin
upon his bloodless face, as if the feat had been intended.
"Ah, you'll break your neck some day. Here's a shilling for you. Take
me into Miss Chartley at once."
Bob bit the coin, and slipped it into his pocket before he replied,
"Gone out."
"Gone out? Will she be long?"
"Dessay she'll be hours, sir."
James Poynter stamped with his foot, and muttered something
unparliamentary.
"Tell Miss Chartley," he said. "No, don't tell her anything. Here, let
me out."
Bob ran to the ponderous old door, and stood holding it open with his
eyes glittering as he stared at the visitor, till he had hurried out
with his hat set very much on one side, and walked sharply away.
"Thought he'd want the bob again," said the boy. "Just do for the old
gal. Well, I'm blessed!"
This last consequent upon his catching sight of a shabby-looking figure
in black, with a damaged bonnet, and a weirdly dissipated look, rising
slowly into sight up the area-steps, and then coming out of the creaking
gate to the boy, who grew more serious the nearer the figure came.
It was not a pleasant face to look upon, for it was not over-clean; the
black and grey hair was ill-arranged, and the eyes that shone above the
flushed cheeks belied the woman sadly if they did not tell the truth
about potations.
"Why, Bob, my darling," she said, with an exaggerated fawning smile,
"and how is my bonny boy?"
"Here stow that, mother," cried the lad, struggling from an embrace.
"Don't! Can't yer see I've been brushing my hair?"
"Yes, and it looks beautiful, ducky. I've been knocking ever so long at
the hairy door, and that fine madam saw me, and wouldn't let me in."
"No; she says I ain't never to let you in no more."
"Not let me in no more to see my own boy?"
"No; she says you took some fresh butter last time you was here, and you
sha'n't come."
"Then you sha'n't stay, Bob; I'll take you away, my darling. Oh, it's a
wicked, cruel world!"
"Here, I say, mother, stow that. Whatcher want?"
"What, my darling? Yes, that's it: want--staring want; but you sha'n't
stay here."
"Get out. I shall."
"No, you sha'n't, you ungrateful boy. I won't be separated from my own
child. Bob dear, have you got any money?"
"Eh?"
"Anybody give you anything?" whined the woman. "There ain't been
nothing pass my lips this blessed day."
"Oho! what a wunner!" cried the boy. "Why, I can smell yer."
"No, no, my dear; that's Mrs Billson as you can smell. I've been
talking to her, and she drink 'orrid. Ain'tcher got a few pence for
your poor lone mother, who's ready to break her heart sometimes because
she's parted from her boy?"
"Will you go away if I give you something?"
"Go away? Oho!" whined the woman, wiping off a maudlin tear with the
end of her shawl.
"Here, I say, don't cry on the front-doorsteps. Come down in the hairy,
where nobody can't see you."
"Driven away by my own boy! Oho, oho!"
"'Tain't my fault. Doctor said you wasn't to come, and if you did he'd
send me away."
"Then come home, Bob, to your poor heartbroken mother."
"Walker!" cried the boy. "Why yer ain't got no home to give a chap."
"No home?"
"Well, I don't call that a home, living up in a hattic along o' old
Mother Billson."
"Oh, you ungrateful boy! Ain't it enough for me to have come down so
that I'm obliged to see my own son in liveries, without him turning
against me."
"Who's a-turning again you? Don't cry, I tell yer," he said, angrily
stamping a foot.
"Then you shall come home."
"Sha'n't. I ain't going to leave the doctor and Miss Rich for nobody,
so there."
"Ugh, you viper!"
"Here, stow that. Who's a viper? See what they've done for me when I
was runned over. Why, if it hadn't been for Miss Rich a-nussing of me
when you was allus tipsy, you wouldn't have had no boy at all, only a
dead 'un berrid out at Finchley along o' the old man."
"Ah, you wicked ungrateful little serpent! They've been setting you
again' your poor suffering mother."
"Stow that, I say. You'll have the doctor hear you if you don't be
quiet."
"I won't be quiet, you wicked, wicked--"
"Look here! If you don't hold your row, I won't give you the bob and
two coppers I've got for you."
"Have you got some money for your poor mother, then?"
"I've got a bob a gent give me, and twopence, my half of what we got for
the bones me and 'Lisbeth sold."
"Ah? I'm a poor suffering woman, and I do say things sometimes as I
don't mean," whined the wretched creature. "Give me the money, dear,
and let me go."
"If I give it to yer, you won't say no more about my coming away?"
"No, dear; I only want to see you happy."
"Well, there, then," he said, giving her the coins; "and, I say--"
"Yes, my precious."
"You ain't to spend none of it in gin."
"Gin? Oh, no, my dear."
"Get some pudding out of Holborn, and a saveloy; and, I say, mother, get
yourself a bit o' tea."
"Yes, my darling."
"And don't let Mrs Billson gammon you into lending her none of it."
"No, my dear. And there, good-bye, Bob; be a good boy. I won't come
wherriting of you no more'n I can help."
The miserable object, from whom out of compassion Richmond Chartley had
rescued the boy, shuffled along the street to the nearest public-house,
to buy more plus spirit with which to attack her miserable minus spirit,
with the result that, as a mathematical problem, one would kill the
other as sure as Fate.
Meanwhile Bob stood on the step watching her.
"Wonder whether the old gal does like me? Somehow she allus goes as
soon as she gets all a chap's got. Now she'll go and have a drop. She
allus does when she says she won't."
"Bob! you Bob!" came in a shrill voice from the kitchen stairs.
"Can't you see I'm a-coming?" cried the boy; and hurriedly closing the
door, he returned to his work.