Doctor Luttrell's First Patient, Page 2

  CHAPTER II.

  THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER.

  "I at least will do my duty."--_Caesar_.

  Young Mrs. Luttrell stood at the window one November afternoon,buttoning her gloves in an absent and perfunctory manner, as she lookedout at the slushy road and greasy pavement. There was a crinkle on hersmooth broad forehead, and an uneasy expression in her eyes--as thoughsome troublesome thought had obtruded itself--presently the crinkledeepened and widened into a frown, and she walked impatiently to thefireplace, where a black, uninviting fire smouldered in a cheerlesssort of way, and took up the poker in rather an aggressive manner, thenshook her head, as she glanced at the half-empty coal-scuttle.

  She was cold, and the clinging damp peculiar to November made hershiver; but a cheery blaze would be too great a self-indulgence; leftto itself the fire would last until tea-time--she would be back inplenty of time for Marcus's late tea--he should have a warm clear fireto welcome him and a plate of smoking French toast, because it was soeconomical and only took half the amount of butter. It had been afavourite delicacy in her nursery days, and the revival had given hergreat solace.

  Yes, he should have his tea first, and then she would bring in thevexed subject for argument; in spite of Aunt Madge's well-meant advice,it was a foregone conclusion in Olivia's mind that Martha must go. Ofcourse it was a pity. She liked the girl, she was so willing andgood-tempered; and her round childish face was always well washed andfree from smudges, and she was so good to Dot, caring for her as if shewere a baby sister of her own. Nevertheless, stern in her youthfulintegrity, Olivia had already decided that Martha's hours at the cornerhouse were numbered.

  And then there was the stuff for Dot's new winter pelisse. Marcuswould give her the few shillings without a murmur, she was sure ofthat, but he would sigh furtively as he counted out the coins.Whatever deprivations they might be called upon to endure their littleone must be warmly clad.

  She must do without her new pair of gloves, that was all, and hereOlivia looked disconsolately at her worn finger-tips; she could ink theseams and use her old muff, and no one would notice; what was the useof buying new gloves, when her hands would soon be as red and rough asMartha's. Olivia was just a little vain of her hands; they were notsmall, but the long slender fingers with almond-shaped nails were fullof character, and Marcus had often praised them.

  For his sake she would try to take care of them, but black-leadingstoves and washing Dot's little garments would not help to beautifythem. Of course, it was nonsense to care about such trifles, she mustbe strong-minded and live above such sublunary things. Marcus wouldonly honour her the more for her self-forgetfulness and labours oflove. Here the pucker vanished from Olivia's brow, and a sweet,earnest look came to her face.

  The next moment her attention was distracted; a tall old man in agreat-coat with a fur-lined collar passed the window; he was a littlebent and walked feebly, leaning on a gold-headed stick.

  Olivia watched him until he was out of sight; for some occult reason,not comprehensible even to her, she felt interested in the old man,although she had never spoken to him; but he looked old and ill andlonely; three decided claims on Olivia's bountiful and sympatheticnature.

  She knew his name--Mr. Gaythorne--he was a neighbour of theirs, and helived at Galvaston House, the dull-looking red brick house, with twostone lions on the gate-posts.

  Olivia had amused her husband more than once with imaginary storiesabout their neighbour. "He was a miser--a recluse--a misanthrope--hehad a wife in a lunatic asylum--he had known some great trouble thathad embittered his life; he had made a vow never to let a human beingcross his threshold; he was a Roman Catholic priest in disguise, anAgnostic, a Nihilist." There was no end to Olivia's quaint surmises,but she could only be certain of two facts--that the mysterious Mr.Gaythorne was methodical by nature, and whatever might be the weatheralways took his exercise at the same hour, and also that onlytradespeople entered the lion-guarded portals of Galvaston House.

  Olivia had only once come face to face with him. She was hurryingalong one afternoon, when in turning a corner she almost ran againsthim, and pulled herself up with a confused word of apology.

  A suppressed grunt answered her, a singular old face, with bright,deeply-sunken eyes, and a white, peaked beard and moustache seemed torise stiffly from the fur-lined collar; then the old man's hand touchedhis slouched hat mechanically, and he walked on. It was that nightthat Olivia was convinced that Mr. Gaythorne was a Nihilist and anAgnostic, and hinted darkly at the storage of dynamite and infernalmachines in the cellars of Galvaston House.

  "My dear child, you might write a novel," had been her husband's remarkon this. "Your imagination is really immense," but in spite of sarcasmand gibes on Marcus's part, Olivia chose to indulge in these harmlessfancies. She had always enjoyed making up stories about herneighbours, and it did no one any harm.

  When Mr. Gaythorne was out of sight she went to the kitchen to take alast look at Dot, who was slumbering peacefully in her cot; the kitchenwas the warmest place, and Martha could clean her knives and wash herplates and keep an eye on her.

  Martha gave her usual broad grin when her mistress entered; the littlehandmaid adored her master and mistress and Dot. During her rareholiday she always entertained her mother and brothers and sisters withwonderful descriptions of her mistress's cleverness and Miss Baby'sways.

  Martha had eleven brothers and sisters, and the house in Somers Row wasnot a luxurious abode. Her mother took in washing, and eleven brothersand sisters of all ages, and of every variety of snub-nose, made anysort of privacy impossible. Nevertheless, on her previous holiday, asMartha, or Patty, as they called her at home, sat in her best bluemerino frock, with her youngest sister on her lap and a paper-bag ofsugar-sticks for distribution to the family, there were few happiergirls to be found anywhere.

  "And I have brought you half-a-pound of really good tea, mother,"observed Martha, proudly. "I knew what a treat that would be to youand father."

  "You are a good girl, Patty," returned her mother, winking away themoisture in her eyes, as she went on with her ironing. "Amabel, don'tyou be trampling on Patty's best dress, there's a good little lass.Well, as I was saying, Patty, only the children do interrupt so.There, Joe and Ben, just take your sugar-sticks and be off to play. Ithink I have found a nice little place for Susan. She is to sleep athome, but will have all her meals and half-a-crown a week, and the ladywill teach her everything; that is pretty fair for a beginning, and asfather says, the money will just find her in shoe-leather and aprons.Father's looking out for a place for Joe now."

  "I wish Susan could have a place like mine, mother," returned Martha,proudly. "They are real gentlefolks, that is what they are. 'Will yoube so good as to clean my boots, Martha?' or 'Thank you, Martha,' whenI dry the paper of a morning. Oh, it is like play living at the cornerhouse, and as for that darling Miss Baby----" but here words failedMartha.

  It could not be denied that Olivia was unusually depressed thatafternoon, fog and damp always had this effect on her. Her natureneeded sunshine and crisp, bracing air.

  There was no buoyancy and elasticity in her tread. When people lookedat her, as they often did, for her pliant, slim figure rather attractednotice, she thought they were only commenting on her old black hat andjacket. Only one article of her dress satisfied her; her boots wereneat and strong. Marcus had found her one wet day warming her feet atthe fire and had gone off to examine her boots without a word. Oliviahad flushed up and looked uncomfortable when he came back with theboots in his hand.

  "Do you want to be laid up with bronchitis or congestion of the lungs?"he asked, rather sadly, as he showed her the thin, worn soles; "do youthink that will make things easier for me, Livy?" The next day he hadtaken her himself to the bootmaker's and had had her fitted with aserviceable stout pair.

  Somehow in spite of her pleasure in the boots and Marcus'sthoughtfulness she had felt rather like a scolded child.

  Her unus
ual pessimism had a moment's distraction, for as she passed theprint-shop, at the corner of Harbut Street, she saw her mysterious oldgentleman standing still on the pavement fixedly regarding a smalloil-painting.

  Olivia had a good view of the lean, cadaverous face and peaked whitebeard; the heavy grey eyebrows seemed to beetle over the dark sunkeneyes.

  "After all he looks more like a Spaniard than a Russian," she thought,and again her theory of the Roman Catholic priest came into her mind."If I could only see him without his hat, I should know if he had atonsure," and then with youthful curiosity she looked to see whatpicture had interested him.

  It was a small painting of the Prodigal Son, but was evidently by noamateur, the face of both father and son were admirably portrayed. Thestrong Syrian faces were mellowed by the ruddy gleams of sunset. Atame kid was gambolling behind them, and two women were grinding corn,with the millstone between them. On the flat white roof of the house,another woman had just laid aside her distaff in a hurry. The father'sarms with their gold bracelets were clasping the gaunt, sharp shouldersof the starving youth.

  Olivia knew the picture well. Marcus had been very much struck withit, it was good work, he said; the Syrian faces were perfect types, andhe had made Olivia notice the strong resemblance between father and son.

  "That is the mother, I suppose?" had been her comment; "she has justcaught sight of them, there is a puzzled look in her eyes as she laysaside her distaff, as though she is not quite sure that thatwild-looking figure in sheep-skin is her own long-lost son."

  "It must be a grand thing to be an artist," was Marcus's reply to this."Goddard, I do not know the name; the picture is cheap, too, only 25pounds, but I would wager any money that it was painted in Syria."

  Olivia stole a second glance at the old man, but he never moved; thenshe shivered, and walked faster. It was bitterly cold, a miserableafternoon for Marcus, who was visiting his poor patients in the squalidback streets and slums that fringed Brompton.

  Mayfield Villas were about ten minutes' walk from Galvaston Terrace;the villas had verandahs and long, narrow gardens, but most of them hadlodgings to let.

  Mrs. Broderick and her maid occupied the first floor at number six, thedrawing-room and back bedroom belonged to the invalid, and Deborah hada tiny room close by her mistress, the other room had been convertedinto a kitchen; none of the rooms were large, but they werewell-furnished, and thoroughly comfortable. During her husband'slifetime Mrs. Broderick had been comfortably off, and had had a goodhouse--the carved book-cases, Turkey-carpet, and deep easy-chairs, anda few proof-engravings handsomely framed, all spoke of better days.

  When Olivia's foot sounded on the stairs, a tall, hard-featured womancame out of the kitchen.

  "I knew it was you," she said. "Come in. My mistress is just wearyingfor you. She never sleeps in daylight, and it is ill-reading andworking in the fading light. I will soon have the tea ready. I havebeen baking some scones."

  Olivia sniffed the warm perfume delightedly. She was hungry, oh, sohungry! although two hours had not elapsed since dinner-time, and Deb'sscones, with sweet, fresh country butter, was ambrosial food.

  "Don't let Deb keep you with her chatter, come ben, my woman, as mypoor Fergus would have said."

  The voice was peculiarly youthful and melodious, the timbre exquisitein modulation and volume, but the face belonged to a woman aged more bypain and trouble than years.

  Madge Broderick had never been a handsome woman, her nose was too long,and her skin too sallow for beauty, but her bright eyes and a certaingracefulness of figure, and her beautiful voice had been her charms.Fergus Broderick, a rough Scotchman, with a tongue as uncouth as hisnative dales, had fallen in love with her at their first meeting; hehad been invited to dine at the house of the senior partner, in whoseemploy he was, and as the awkward, bashful young Scotchman entered thefirelit room, a clear laugh from amongst a group of girls gatheredround the hearth penetrated like music to his ear.

  "Parting is such sweet sorrow," said the voice, with much pathos, "thatI could say good-bye until the morrow; those are your sentiments,Katie, are they not?"

  "Hush, Madge! here is Mr. Broderick waiting for us to speak to him,"and the daughter of the house rose with a laugh to greet him.

  When the lamps were lighted Fergus Broderick had scanned all thegirlish faces with furtive eagerness. He had felt a shock ofdisappointment when the owner of the exquisite voice had revealed heridentity. Madge's long nose and sallow skin were no beautiescertainly; nevertheless, before the evening was over, Fergus Broderickknew he had found his mate; and for eight blissful years Madge dwelt inher woman's kingdom, and gathered more roses than thorns.

  Her first trouble had been the loss of her boy; he had succumbed tosome childish ailment; her husband's death--the result of anaccident--had followed a few months later.

  The strain of the long nursing and excessive grief had broken downMadge Broderick's strength. The seeds of an unsuspected disease latentin her system now showed itself, and for some two or three years hersufferings, both mental and physical, would have killed most women.

  Then came alleviation and the lull that resembles peace; the pain wasno longer so acute; the disease had reached a stage when there would bedays and even weeks of tolerable comfort; then Madge courageously setherself to make the most of her life.

  With a courage that was almost heroic, she divided and subdivided thehours of each day--so many duties, so many hours of recreation. Shehad her charity work, her fancy work, her heavy and light reading;books and flowers were her luxuries; the newest books, the sweetestflowers, were always to be found on the table beside her couch.

  Madge often said laughingly that she lived in a world of her own. "ButI have very good society," she would add; "the best and wisest of allages give me their company. This morning I was listening to Plato'sDialogues, and this afternoon Sir Edwin Arnold was entertaining me atthe Maple Club in Tokio. This evening--well, please do not think mefrivolous, but affairs at Rome and a certain Prince Saracinesca claimmy attention.

  "A good novel puts me in a better humour and disposes me to sleep, youknow," she would finish, brightly, "that I always read aloud to Fergusin the evening; we were going through a course of Thackeray--we were inthe middle of 'Philip on his way through the world' when the accidenthappened. After that he could only bear a few verses or a psalm."