A VISIT TO GALVASTON HOUSE.
"He who knows how to speak knows also when to speak."--_Plutarch_.
The next morning as Olivia sat at work with Dot on the rug at her feet,
playing with a limp furry monkey, over which she was gurgling and
cooing like a baby dove, Dr. Luttrell entered the room; there was a
pleased look on his face.
"Olive," he said, "look what Mr. Gaythorne has given me for poor Jack
Travers," and he held a five-pound note before his wife's eyes. "Don't
you think we owe him a handsome apology for calling him a miser? it
does not do to judge by appearances in this world; Mr. Gaythorne is
eccentric, and a trifle cantankerous, but he is not stingy."
[Illustration: "Olive, look what Mr. Gaythorne has given me."]
"Jack Travers! is that the poor man in the Models? Oh, Marcus, how
splendid of him to give all that; it will be quite a fortune to the
poor things."
"Yes, it will pay their rent until Travers gets about again; he is not
going to die this journey. Was it not liberal of the old fellow? but
if you had only seen the way he gave it to me, as though he were
ashamed of the whole thing.
"'That is for the man you told me about last night,' he said, in quite
a grumpy voice; and he had hardly seemed as though he had listened
yesterday; and he would not let me thank him, he turned testy at once;
by-the-bye, Livy, he wants you to go and see him; you have evidently
won his heart, my dear. 'If Mrs. Luttrell has half an hour's leisure I
shall be pleased to see her,' those were his very words."
"I hope you told him that it would be rather difficult to find leisure
with all my numerous engagements," returned Olivia, saucily, "but that
I would do my best for him. How many callers have we had since we were
married, Marcus? let me see, the Vicar and Mrs. Tolman, oh, and one day
Mrs. Tolman brought a friend. I remember how excited I was that
afternoon, and that horrid little Sarah Jane had her sleeves rolled up
to her elbows when she opened the door, and I dared not offer them tea
because I knew she would never have had boiling water. Oh, yes,"
continued Olivia, merrily, "I will look over my visiting list, and see
how I am to squeeze in a call at Galvaston House. What hour do you
think would suit him best, Marcus?"
Then Dr. Luttrell, who had been much amused by his wife's drollery,
gravely considered the point.
"About three o'clock, I should say; I think he wants to show you his
flowers; he is going to have his couch wheeled into the conservatory,
or his winter garden, as he calls it. Why should you not go across
this afternoon? Now I must be off to the Models;" and as Olivia took
up her work again there was a soft flush on her cheek, and a happy look
in her eyes as she listened to his light springing tread.
"Dear Marcus," she said to herself; "how pleased he is about this, it
has done him good already. Oh, how I hope Mr. Gaythorne will take a
fancy to him; he is rich and liberal, I am sure of that; he will pay
Marcus well, and perhaps before long someone else will send for him.
What, Dot, my sweet, must I love Jacko too?" as Dot laid her treasure
on her mother's lap.
When Olivia rang at the bell of Galvaston House that afternoon the same
rosy-cheeked maid admitted her.
"If you will step into the library a minute, ma'am," she observed, "I
will tell Mrs. Crampton," and Olivia was left alone in the beautiful
room she remembered so well.
A bright fire burned cheerily on the hearth and the blind hound lay on
the rug; he came up to Olivia and thrust his slender nose into her hand
in a friendly fashion. It was in this room that Mr. Gaythorne
evidently passed his days; the tables bore signs of his numerous
occupations; one table seemed loaded with books of reference. A pile
of neatly written manuscripts were on the escritoire. Portfolios of
engravings and a microscope on a pedestal stand occupied one corner,
and a small inner room seemed full of cabinets and cases of stuffed
birds and butterflies.
Mr. Gaythorne was evidently a collector and a man of culture; the
volumes in the carved oak book-cases were mostly bound in Russian calf.
Olivia had only time to read a few titles when Mrs. Crampton appeared;
her comely face had a pleased smile on it.
"Mr. Gaythorne will be extremely obliged if you will step upstairs and
see him, ma'am," she said, civilly; "he has been wheeled into the
conservatory; my master thinks a deal of his flowers--books and
flowers--they are his main amusements when his cough keeps him from
going out Oh! you must come too, Eros, of course," as the hound
followed them closely.
Galvaston House had been built in rather an unusual fashion; a
conservatory had been thrown out at the back of the first floor landing
and ran along one side of the house, forming a sort of verandah to the
lower rooms.
As Mrs. Crampton opened the glass door, the warm fragrant air met them
deliciously. At the farther end Mr. Gaythorne lay on a couch under a
tall palm, with an oriental quilt thrown over him; his dark crimson
dressing-gown, and black velvet cap gave him a picturesque appearance;
with his white peaked beard and moustache, and his dark sunken eyes, he
would have passed for a Venetian Doge; the mass of brilliant bloom, and
the warm flower-scented air made Olivia slightly giddy.
"This is very kind of you, Mrs. Luttrell," observed Mr. Gaythorne, in a
slow, precise voice, as she stooped over him and took his hand.
"Crampton, bring a chair for the lady. I have been wanting to thank
you for your kind assistance that unlucky evening. I told the doctor
so, and he has been good enough to give you my message."
"Indeed, I did very little," returned Olivia, in her mellow voice.
"You seemed so feeble that I could not help watching you cross the
road; and then you slipped, and I felt you had hurt yourself. I fear
from what my husband tells me that it will be some little time before
you will be able to get out again."
"So he says, and he threatens me with crutches," returned the old man,
grimly; "but, as I seldom cross the threshold in winter, I need not
trouble myself about that. Are you fond of flowers, Mrs. Luttrell?" as
Olivia's eyes wandered to the splendid exotics round her. "Crampton
shall cut you some presently. My library and my winter garden form my
entire world now."
"And you live among all these lovely things!" observed Olivia, almost
in a tone of awe. "Oh, if only Aunt Madge could see these flowers!"
She spoke impulsively without considering her words, and blushed a
little when she saw Mr. Gaythorne lift his eyebrows cynically.
"I was only thinking of my aunt, Mrs. Broderick," she said,
apologetically. "She is such a sad invalid; she has never been out
once since Uncle Fergus died, and that is ever so many years ago, and
she suffers such dreadful pain sometimes. The doctors say her
complaint is incurable, and she is not at all old. She lives all alone
with her maid, and never goes beyond her two rooms, and yet no one
hears her complain."
"Mrs. Broderick must be a wonderful person. She beats Job," returned
Mr. Gaythorne, with a cynical curl of his lip; but Olivia was too much
engrossed with her subject to notice it.
"Oh, she is wonderful!" she returned, earnestly. "I never met any one
like her. She is the bravest woman I know. Even the Vicar says so.
Don't you love pluck, Mr. Gaythorne? So few people are plucky in that
sense. Aunt Madge has lost everything she cares for--husband and child
and health; but she bears it all so beautifully, and makes the best of
things. I could not help thinking of her when I saw all those lovely
flowers; she simply dotes on flowers! There are always some on her
little table; flowers and books, those are her sole pleasures."
"What on earth made you hold forth on Aunt Madge's virtues, you absurd
child?" was Marcus's comment when Olivia repeated this portion of her
conversation. "Fancy entertaining Mr. Gaythorne with an account of
your relations!"--and Olivia blushed guiltily.
"It does sound odd if you put it in that way, Marcus," she returned;
"but when I saw all those beautiful flowers, Aunt Madge just jumped
into my head, and I always do speak out my thoughts so. But I could
see he was interested. He said little sharp sneering things at first,
but afterwards he questioned me a good deal. Oh, we got on splendidly!
He began asking me about ourselves, and if you had much of a practice.
Oh, he said it quite nicely!" as Marcus dropped the loaf he was cutting
and frowned anxiously. "He was quite gentlemanly, and only hinted at
things; but I understood him, of course."
"And you told him, I suppose, that he was my first patient," in an
annoyed tone. "You may as well own it, Livy; you are honest enough
even for that," and there was no denying that Marcus's voice was
decidedly sarcastic. With all her virtues Olivia never did know when
to hold her tongue.
"Oh, Marcus dear, how could I help it," replied Olivia, nervously. "Of
course I had to tell him that we were just beginners, and how Dr. Slade
had deceived us; that there was no redress, as he was dead. But I told
him, too, how hard you worked among the poor---- He did not say much.
I don't think he is a great talker, but he stroked that funny beard of
his and nodded his head. Then when Mrs. Crampton came up he told her
to bring coffee, and he made me stay and pour it out for him. There
was such a lovely chased coffee-pot and cream-jug, and such delicious
cakes, and when I said at last that I must go he thanked me quite
pleasantly. 'It is long since I have been so well amused, and I hope
you will come and see me again.' Yes, he said that, Marcus, so I am
sure he did not mind my frankness. But oh, dear! he quite forgot to
tell Mrs. Crampton to cut me some flowers."
"You need not expect any flowers now," returned her husband,
impatiently. "You have done for yourself and me too I expect. A
beginner you said, Livy, and you a sensible woman! When I go this
evening, I have no doubt I shall be civilly told that a second opinion
will be desirable. My dear girl, don't you know that a modest
reticence, a judicious silence, is sometimes the safest policy. A
professional beggar may whine and show his sores, but a needy doctor
out at elbows must wear a good appearance;" but Olivia, who was on the
verge of tears from sheer vexation at her own impulsiveness, did not
seek to defend herself.
If she had imperilled Marcus's professional reputation by her
carelessness, she felt she should never hold up her head again, but
Marcus, who was tired and a little out of humour, was not disposed to
comfort her.
He had had a worrying day among his poor patients, the one bright spot
had been his visit to the Models, when Jack Travers had sobbed and
broken down in the attempt to speak his gratitude. And now just as
they were getting on so well, Olivia's want of tact and that terribly
honest tongue of hers had spoilt everything. Was it likely--was it
within the bounds of possibility--that a man of the world--a rich man
too--would be content with the services of an unknown practitioner? If
he put himself in Mr. Gaythorne's place, he knew that he should be
disposed to request Dr. Bevan to call. It was not only a sprained
ankle. Mr. Gaythorne was an ailing man, and needed medical care.
Marcus, who was clever and quick-witted, had already formed a pretty
correct diagnosis of the case. "There is mental as well as physical
trouble," he had said to himself the previous evening, and with
professional reticence he had kept this opinion to himself, but he was
already deeply interested in his patient. So much was at stake, and
their fortunes were at so low an ebb, that Marcus might be pardoned for
his unusual touchiness. Yet when he left the room without further
remark, Olivia's heart sank within her.
"Why could I not have held my tongue," she thought, with tardy
repentance. "What could have induced me to talk so much, but Mr.
Gaythorne really seemed interested, and somehow he encouraged me to go
on. If he had appeared bored or tired I should have stopped at once,
but he seemed so curious about Aunt Madge, he even asked if she had a
good doctor. Oh, dear, surely that is not Marcus going out!" as the
street door opened; and now there were actual tears in Olivia's eyes.
In all the two years of their happy married life they had never had
more than a momentary misunderstanding. If a hasty word had been
uttered by one of them, the other had always an eager protest or a
smooth answer ready. When Olivia had been impatient and captious,
Marcus had only laughed and coaxed her into good humour again. And
even when he had indulged in a few sarcastic speeches, Olivia's soft
voice and ready acquiescence had avoided friction.
Marcus often told her that they were a model couple, and had earned the
Dunmow Flitch over and over again, but in reality their mutual respect
and thorough understanding of each other's salient points had conduced
to this harmony.
That Marcus should leave the house therefore without speaking to her
alarmed Olivia excessively. She must have vexed him, indeed, if he
could do such a thing as that, and here one or two bright drops ran
down on the blue pelisse.
She was actually crying like a scolded child, when two or three minutes
later the parlour-door opened and Marcus entered. His face wore a
queer expression, and in each hand he held an exquisite bunch of
hot-house flowers; their perfume reached Olivia before he laid them
before her.
"There, Olive," he said, "I take back my words;" then, as he caught
sight of her tear-stained face: "Oh, you foolish little woman, you
absurd child," but his hand rested affectionately on her soft, brown
hair, as she put back her head against him.
"Oh, Marcus, I could not help crying to think I had vexed you so.
Somehow it is the one thing I cannot bear, to think my foolish tongue
should have harmed you."
"I was in an awful funk, certainly," returned Marcus, frankly, "but I
never meant to bother you like that. Cheer up, Livy, I daresay it is
all right, and I know you will be a model of discretion for the future.
Aren't you going to look at your flowers?" and then Olivia did permit
herself to be consoled.
"Think of his cutting all those lovely flowers for me," she cried,
ecstatically. "Is he not an old dear, Marcus? But why two bouquets?"
knitting her brows in a puzzled fashion.
"You had better open that folded slip of paper," suggested her husband,
sensibly, "it may explain matters," and Olivia took his advice.
"Mrs. Luttrell, with Mr. Gaythorne's compliments," was pencilled in a
shaky hand, and on the second slip, almost illegibly, "For Mrs.
Luttrell's aunt."
"Oh, Marcus, how sweet of him!" and Olivia looked almost lovely in her
excitement, and Marcus agreed that he was a good old sort.
"If you are going to write a note of thanks, you must just hurry up, as
it is nearly time for me to go across," and then Olivia put the flowers
in water, and got out her writing-case.