It's very odd the pride we take In finding out our neighbours' lives, Tho' idle words a heart may break, It's very odd the pride we take In saying this one is a rake, And that one's luck thro' evil thrives It's very odd the pride we take In finding out our neighbour's lives.
It's very odd the pride we take In finding out our neighbours' lives, Tho' idle words a heart may break, It's very odd the pride we take In saying this one is a rake, And that one's luck thro' evil thrives It's very odd the pride we take In finding out our neighbour's lives.
Snarling and spitting, with blazing eyes and bushy tail, the cat flew round the room rapidly, did a steeplechase over several chairs, and finally took refuge on the mantelpiece, where she stood with arched back, spitting freely, while the fox-terrier, yelping sharply, tried, unsuccessfully, to leap up.
"What a beast of a dog," said Beaumont, tranquilly; "it's Muffins, of course."
"Rather," cried a laughing voice at the door, "did you ever know Muffins when he wasn't worrying a cat or killing a rat or doing something disreputable?"
The owner of the voice was a tall young fellow of twenty years of age, with curly fair hair, a fresh complexion and merry blue eyes. He was positively bubbling over with good nature and excitement, and appeared the embodiment of robust health and animal spirits. Suddenly he caught sight of Nestley, who stood near the fireplace looking on at the scene with an amused smile.
"Awfully sorry about my dog, sir," he said, taking off his cap with a gay laugh and striding across the room to where Muffins was performing leaps worthy of an acrobat, "but he believes his mission in life is to kill cats, so at present----"
"He is performing his mission with great zeal," finished Nestley with a smile.
"By the way," interposed Beaumont, raising his voice, "I'd better introduce you two men, Mr. Richard Pemberton--Dr. Duncan Nestley."
Nestley bowed somewhat stiffly, as he thought Beaumont was taking an unwarrantable liberty in acting as he was doing, but Pemberton, with the ingenuousness of youth, caught the doctor's hand and shook it heartily.
"Glad to see you," he said looking at Nestley, "you will be a perfect God-send in this dull place."
His manner was so cordial that without being positively rude Nestley could not refuse to be gracious so seeing that he had attained his object of introducing Nestley as his friend, Mr. Beaumont sauntered out of the room with a cynical smile on his thin lips.
"You'll measure swords with me, will you?" he said to himself with a short laugh. "I wouldn't advise you to try that game, my friend."
Meanwhile Pemberton caught hold of Muffins, who was making frantic attempts to seize his feline enemy, whereupon the cat, seeing the coast clear, sprang down and dashed out of the room, but the wary Muffins, wriggling himself free, raced after her, nose on ground, with an occasional sharp yelp.
"There," said Pemberton gaily, "Muffins is provided with an amusing evening, for he'll never leave the cat till he runs her down."
"I'm sorry for the cat."
"You'll be sorry for Muffins when you see him return scratched all over," retorted the lad, whereupon they both laughed.
"Staying here long?" asked Pemberton eyeing the doctor in a friendly manner.
"Only to-night--I'm on a walking tour," replied Nestley carelessly.
"Lucky devil," said the other, thrusting his hands into his pockets. "I've got to stay here."
"Is it your home."
"In a sort of way, yes--pupil at the vicarage and all that shoot, don't you know--it's a five-act funeral of a place, but we manage to get some tra-la-la out of it."
"Who are we?" asked the doctor, mightily amused at Mr. Pemberton's colloquialisms.
"Oh! I forgot you're a stranger here--why, Reggy Blake, myself, and Priggs."
"Priggs?"
"One of the pupils," explained the communicative Richard, "a jolly ass--writes poetry--lines to Chloe, and all that sort of thing--hasn't got an idea beyond the Muses as he calls 'em--beastly old frumps--Reggy's a good sort of chappie--he's in the taproom now--come and see the fun--we often stand beer to the rustics and they sing us songs--twenty verses long and no stops."
"Do you know Beaumont well?" asked Nestley, following his youthful guide to the taproom.
"Not very, he's only been here a fortnight, but the vicar knows him; he's a native of these parts, not a bad sort of chap but awfully stand off the grass; gets up on his hind legs pretty freely. Do you know him?"
"To my cost," replied the doctor bitterly.
Pemberton stared and was about to ask the meaning of this strange remark, when a burst of laughter sounded from the taproom, so postponing his inquiry until a more favourable period, he opened the door and entered, followed by Duncan Nestley.
The doctor's eyes smarted somewhat with the pungent tobacco-smoke, but when he became more accustomed to the cloudy atmosphere, he found himself in a long low-ceilinged room round which about fifteen men were seated on benches, smoking vigorously. On a long, deal table in the centre stood a number of pewter tankards containing beer and a large jug filled with the same generous beverage stood at the end. A kerosine lamp hung from the ceiling, diffusing a dull yellow light, and the floor was covered with saw-dust, with spittoons placed about.
On the end of the table sat Reginald Blake, who was as dark as Pemberton was fair. A somewhat mournful countenance when in repose, but now sparkling with life and animation. Decidedly handsome, with an olive complexion, closely-cropped black hair and a small moustache of the same colour. As he sat there swinging his legs and showing his white teeth with every laugh, Nestley thought he was a very striking figure, although somewhat out of place in that homely room.
"Looks like an Italian," he thought, looking at the tall, lithe figure as Reginald Blake slipped off the table to greet him. "Must have been born in the South, or perhaps he's a Greek born in England, like Keats."
Dick Pemberton lost no time, but then and there introduced Nestley to his friend.
"This is Dr. Nestley, Reggy--stranger here--got the blues, so I brought him here to see the fun."
"Rather homely fun I'm afraid," said Blake holding out his hand with a frank smile. "I'm very pleased to see you, Dr. Nestley. You'll find this noisy but it's amusing."
"What would the vicar say if he knew two of his pupils were here?" asked Nestley mischievously.
Both the young men laughed heartily.
"Oh, the dear old boy wouldn't mind," said Pemberton producing a cigar case, "he trusts us, besides, we work hard all the week and only get off the chain on Saturday nights."
"Then," observed Reggy, helping himself to a cigar from his friend's case, "we study mankind----"
"As seen in the public-house," finished the doctor smiling.
"As seen in the public-house," assented Mr. Blake gravely, lighting his cigar. "Dick and myself are students of human nature."
"It's great fun," observed Dick confidentially. "If we were in Town I've no doubt we'd go to a music hall, but here we amuse ourselves with rustic simplicity."
"Said simplicity being mythical," said Blake satirically, "but the singing is amusing--I say Jarx," he added, raising his voice, "sing us that ditty of yours."
Jarx, a huge, good-tempered giant, excused himself bashfully, but on being pressed, took a long drink of beer, wiped his large mouth with his sleeve and fixing his eyes on the ceiling began to sing. First he started too low so that his voice sounded as if it came from his boots, then, apologising in a sheepish manner to the company, he began again in a high key. This being the other extreme was found equally unsatisfactory, but on making a third attempt he struck the happy medium and started off into a rustic ditty the chorus of which was solemnly sung by the company while they rocked slowly to and fro:
"There's the hog tub and the pig tubAnd the tub behind the do-o-rShe's gone away with t'other chapAnd she'll never come back no more."
Full chorus after long pause. "She won't--"
This song averaged about ten verses which the singer conscientiously delivered with the chorus to each verse, first as a solo, afterwards with the full strength of the company, who sang impartially in different keys, so that the result was anything but harmonious. By this simple means the song lasted about a quarter-of-an hour, much to Nestley's amusement and that of the young men, who joined in the chorus with great gusto, Dick gravely conducting with his cigar.
Mr. Jarx having finished his melody, resumed his seat, his pipe and his beer, amid great applause, and in response to a general demand, a local favourite with a shrill voice sang a ditty about "Four Irish girls who came from the Isle of Wight," which also had the additional attraction of a dance, the music of which was provided by the performer whistling, he being his own orchestra. This double display of genius was received with great rapture and, at its conclusion Nestley, turning to the young men, asked if either of them sang.
"Reggy does," said Dick promptly; "he's got a voice like a nightingale."
"Bosh!" retorted Reggy, reddening under his dark skin. "Why I never had a lesson in my life."
"No, self-taught genius," said the incorrigible Dick. "Come, old man, out with it."
Thus adjured by his friend and being pressed by the doctor, Blake consented and sang "You'll remember me," that old-fashioned song which contains such a world of pathos.
A tenor voice, pure, rich and silvery as a bell, not cultured in the least, but with rare natural power and an intensity of dramatic expression. One of those sympathetic voices which find their way straight to the heart, and as Blake sang the appealing words of the song, with their haunting, pathetic tenderness, Nestley felt strangely stirred. Even the rustics, dull as they were, fell under the spell of those resonant notes, and when the last word died away like a long-drawn sigh, sat silently pondering, not daring to break the charm with applause.
"You have a great gift," said Nestley, when the singer ceased. "A wonderful voice."
Blake flushed with pleasure at this word of praise from a stranger, and Dick delighted with the eulogy of his friend's talent chimed in delightedly.
"'Tis--isn't it jolly? and he sings comic songs--give us one old chap."
Blake would have consented, particularly as the rustics seemed anxious to hear something more suited to their comprehension than the preceding ballad, but Nestley hastily intervened.
"No, no," he said quickly, unwilling to spoil his first impression of that charming voice by hearing it lowered to the level of music hall singing, "don't do that, it will spoil everything."
The young man looked at him in surprise.
"I don't care much about them myself," said Reginald frankly, "but people down here like them better than sentimental ditties."
At this moment, Job Kossiter announced to the assembled company that it was time to close the bar, so in a few moments the room was empty of all save Nestley and his two companions. Dick asked him to have a glass of ale but he refused.
"I never drink," he said bluntly, "I'm teetotal."
They both opened their eyes at this, but were too polite to make any comments, so in order to relieve the awkwardness of the situation, Dr. Nestley began to speak.
"I suppose you've got some queer characters down here," he said, filling a fresh pipe of tobacco.
"Rather," said Dick, promptly, "old Garsworth for instance."
"Is that the squire you're talking of?" said a drawling voice at the door, and on looking towards it, the trio saw Mr. Basil Beaumont strolling into the room. Nestley grew a shade stiffer in his manner as his enemy came towards them, but Dick Pemberton turned his merry face to the new comer and nodded an answer.
"Do you know him?" he asked.
Beaumont took up his favourite position in front of the fire and smoked complacently.
"Yes. When I left this place twenty-three years ago, I heard a lot about him."
"He's a miser," said Blake meditatively.
"He was when I left, and I presume he still is," replied Beaumont, "but from all I've heard, he used to be pretty gay in his youth."
"Youth," echoed Dick scornfully, "was he ever a youth?"
"I believe he was, somewhere about the Flood. Why he must be ninety now."
"Over seventy," said Blake.
"Thank you for the correction," answered Beaumont, casting a sidelong look at him; "over seventy, yes, I should say seventy-three or four, as he was about fifty when I left; he had lived a riotous life up to the age of forty, then he suddenly took to saving money, why, nobody knows."
"Oh yes, they do," said Reginald, taking his cigar out of his mouth. "It's common gossip now."
"Tell us all about it," said Nestley, settling himself in his chair.
"It's a curious story," said Blake leisurely. "Squire Garsworth led a fast life, as Beaumont says, till he was forty, then he stumbled on some books about the transmigration of the soul."
"Pythagoras?" asked Beaumont.
"Yes, and Allan Kardec, spiritualism and re-incarnation; he learned from those books to believe that his soul would be incarnated in another body; from long study of this theory he became a monomaniac."
"In one word--mad," said Beaumont.
Nestley did not want to speak either directly or indirectly to Beaumont, but this observation appealed to his professional pride, therefore he spoke.
"Monomania does not necessarily mean madness, though it may become so; but so far as I can understand Mr. Blake, it seems to me that Squire Garsworth has made a hobby of this study, and from long concentration upon it, his hobby has become a mania; and again, the disease, as I may call it, has now assumed a more dangerous form and become monomania, which really means madness on a particular subject."
"Then it is madness," insisted Beaumont.
"In a sort of a way yes," assented Nestley; "but in a general sense I would not call him mad from simply concentrating his mental power on a single subject."
"You'll call him mad when you hear all about him," said Dick grimly; "fire away Reggy."
"Mr. Garsworth," said Blake, "accepted the doctrine of re-incarnation with certain modifications. Kardec, Pythagoras and Co. believe that a newly incarnated soul is in ignorance of its previous existences, but the squire thinks that it knows all about them, consequently he believes that when his soul--at present incarnated in the Garsworth body--leaves said body, it will become re-incarnated in another body of the same sex, and remember the time when it was the guiding intelligence of Squire Garsworth. Do I make myself clear?"
"Very clear," replied Nestley, "but if the squire believes that the soul does not lose its memory, what about his previous existences?"
"He's got a whole stock of 'em," broke in Dick quickly, "ranging from the Pharaohs down to the middle ages, but I think the Garsworth body is the first time his soul has used any fleshly envelope in our modern days."
"Curious mania," said Nestley reflectively, "if he isn't mad he's very near it."
"But what has all this incarnation humbug to do with his miserly habits," said Beaumont impatiently, "he doesn't want to pass his existences in being miserable."
"That's the very thing," explained Reginald calmly, "it appears that in some of his previous existences he suffered from poverty, so in order to arrest such a calamity, he is saving up all his money in this existence to spend during his next incarnation."
"Oh, he's quite mad," said Nestley decisively.
"But how does he propose to get hold of the money?" observed Beaumont disbelievingly; "he'll be in another body, 'and won't have any claim to the Garsworth estate."
"That's his secret," said Dick Pemberton, "nobody knows; queer yarn, isn't it?"
"Very," said Nestley, deeply interested. "I should like to study the case. Does he live by himself?"
"No, his cousin, Una Challoner, lives with him," interposed Blake hurriedly, the colour flushing in his face.
"Ah," thought Beaumont, noting this, "case of love, I see. I suppose Miss Challoner does not believe in his mad theories?" he added aloud.
"Hardly," said Dick contemptuously, "she's too sensible."
At this moment Job Kossiter entered the room, and, after slowly surveying the group, addressed himself to Reginald:
"If I may make so bold, Mr. Blake, sir," he said, in his thick voice, "would you ask the vicar to go to the old squire?"
"What's up?" asked Blake, rising.
"He's very ill, sir, as Munks says," said Kossiter, scratching his head, "and Doctor Bland, sir, he's ill, too, sir, and can't go, so as there ain't a doctor to see him, I thought the vicar----"
"Not a doctor?" interposed Beaumont, quickly. "Nonsense! This gentleman," indicating Nestley, "is a doctor, so he can go at once."
"Oh, I'll go," said Nestley, rising, rather glad of the opportunity to study the case.
"Then, sir, Munks is waiting outside with the cart," observed Kossiter, moving to the door.
"Who on earth is Munks?" asked Nestley, following the landlord.
"The squire's servant," cried Dick, "and a cross-grained old ass he is."
"I don't suppose as you need tell the vicar now, sir," said Mr. Kossiter to Reginald.
"No, of course not," replied Blake, "this gentleman will do more good; it's the doctor he needs--not the clergyman."
"I wouldn't be too sure of that, Reggy," said Dick, as they all went out. "He needs a little spiritual consolation."
"I think a strait waistcoat would be best," said Beaumont quietly, as they stood at the door, "judging from your story."
The two lads said good-night, and went homeward, while Mr. Beaumont retired into the inn, and Nestley, stepping up into the high dog-cart, drove off into the darkness of the night on his unexpected mission.
Mad?Not what the world calls madness--he is quietRaves not about strange matters--curbs his tongueWith wond'rous wisdom--ponders ere he speaks,And yet I tell you he is mad, my liege;The moon was regnant at his birth and allThe planets bowed to her strong influence.
Mad?Not what the world calls madness--he is quietRaves not about strange matters--curbs his tongueWith wond'rous wisdom--ponders ere he speaks,And yet I tell you he is mad, my liege;The moon was regnant at his birth and allThe planets bowed to her strong influence.
If Dr. Nestley had been imaginative he might have thought that he was being driven by one of the statues out of the old church, so grim and stiff was the figure beside him. Munks had a hard-featured face, and an equally hard manner, and in his suit of rough grey cloth he looked like Don Juan's Commandantore out for an airing. He devoted himself exclusively to the raw-boned animal he was driving, and replied to Dr. Nestley's questions in what might be called a chippy manner, his answers being remarkably monosyllabic.
Was the squire ill?--very! What made him ill?--Did not know! How many people lived at the Grange?--Six! What were their names?--The squire, Miss Una, Miss Cassandra, Patience Allerby, Jellicks and himself.
As Nestley did not find this style of conversation particularly exhilarating, he relapsed into silence, and the stony Munks devoted his attention once more to the raw-boned horse.
The dog-cart spun rapidly through the sleeping village with the dark-windowed houses on either side--over the narrow, vibrating bridge under which swept the sullen, grey river--across the wide common, where the gorse bushes looked fantastic and unreal in the moonlight, with only the silent sky overhead and the silent earth below--tall trees on either side, some gaudy with the yellow and red of their autumnal foliage, and others gaunt and bare, their leafless branches ready for the winter snows. So still, so silent, with every now and then the sad cry of some night bird from the lonely marshes, and the steady beat of the horse's hoofs on the hard, white road. The scenery, grey and colourless under the pale light of the moon, changed with the rapidity of a kaleidoscope. First the tangled, odorous hedges that separated the road from the closely-reaped fields, afterwards a grove of beeches, casting fantastic shadows on the ground, and then, suddenly starting out of the earth as if by magic, the thick, dark wood which surrounded Garsworth Grange, as though it were the enchanted palace of the sleeping beauty. The rusty iron gates were wide open, and they drove into the park between the tall white posts with the leopards sejant thereon--up the broad, winding avenue with the trees tossing their leafless branches in the chill wind--while here and there at intervals the cloudy white forms of statues appeared indistinctly. The wheels crunched the dead leaves that thickly carpeted the path--a wide sweep of the avenue, and then a low, broad terrace of white stone, to which a flight of shallow steps led up through urns and statues to Garsworth Grange.
Nestley had no time to take any note of the architectural beauties of the place; for, hastily alighting, he ran up the steps, while Munks, still grimly silent, drove off, presumably in the direction of the stables. So here, Nestley found himself alone in this ghostly white world, with the keen wind whistling shrilly in his ears, and before him a monstrous, many-pillared porch with a massive door scrolled grotesquely with ironwork, like the entrance to a family mausoleum. Whilst he was searching for a bell to ring or a knocker to knock with, the door slowly swung open with a surly creak, and a tall, slim figure, holding a flickering candle, appeared.
Was it one of the cold, white statues in the lonely garden that had by some miracle awoke to life?--this sudden vision of lovely, breathing womanhood standing out from the darkness amid a faint halo of tremulous light, the rose-flushed face with its perfectly-chiselled features delicately distinct under the coronet of pale, golden hair, one slender arm raised aloft, holding the faintly-glimmering candle, one eloquent finger placed warningly upon the full red lips, while the supple body, clad in a loose white dress, was bent forward in a graceful poise. Not Aphrodite, this midnight goddess, for the face was too pure and childlike for that of the divine coquette, not Hera in the imperial voluptuousness of undying beauty, but Hebe, bright, girlish Hebe, with the smile of eternal youth on her lips, and the vague innocence of maidenhood shining in her dreamy eyes.
The goddess evidently expected to see the familiar face of the village doctor; for she started back in astonishment when she beheld a stranger, and seemed to demand an explanation of his visit. This he speedily furnished.
"Doctor Bland is ill, I understand," he said, politely, "but I am a medical man staying at the inn, and as the case seemed urgent, I came in his place."
The goddess smiled, and her frigid manner thawed rapidly.
"It's very kind of you, Doctor--Doctor----"
"Nestley," said that gentleman, "Doctor Nestley."
"It's very kind of you, Doctor Nestley," she said, in a musical voice, "and, indeed, the caseisvery urgent--please come in."
Nestley stepped inside, and the young lady, closing the heavy door, secured the innumerable fastenings. Catching Nestley's eye, as he looked on, rather puzzled, at the multiplicity of bolts and chains, she laughed quietly.
"My cousin is very much afraid of thieves," she remarked, as she turned round, "he wouldn't rest in his bed if he didn't think the front door was locked--by the way, I must introduce myself--Una Challoner!"
"I have heard of you, Miss Challoner," said Nestley, looking at her in admiration.
"From whom?" she asked quickly.
"Mr. Blake and Mr. Pemberton."
She flushed a little, and bowed with some hauteur.
"Will you come upstairs with me, Doctor," she said, turning away from him.
Dr. Nestley was about to follow, when his attention was arrested by the unexpected apparition of a small, stout lady, by no means young, who was, nevertheless, arrayed in a juvenile-looking gown of pink with the remarkable addition of a tea-cosy perched on her head which gave her the appearance of being half extinguished. She also held a candle and stood in front of the doctor, smirking and smiling coquettishly.
"Introduce me, Una, dearest," she cried, in a thin, piping voice which seemed ridiculous, coming from such a stout person. "I'm so fond of doctors. Most people aren't--but then I'm odd."
She certainly was, both in appearance and manner; but, Una being used to her eccentricities, evinced no surprise, but, looking down on the grotesque figure from her tall height, smiled gravely.
"Doctor Nestley, this is my aunt, Miss Cassandra Challoner," she said, in a soft voice.
Miss Cassandra shook her girlish head and made an odd little bow, to which the doctor politely responded, then suddenly recollecting the tea-cosy, snatched it off with an apologetic giggle, thereby displaying a head of frizzy yellow hair.
"Draughty house," she said, in explanation of her peculiar head-dress. "I get neuralgia pains down the side of my nose and in my left eye. I'm sure it's the left, doctor. Very odd, isn't it? I wear the tea-cosy to keep the heat in my head. Heat is good for the nerves, but you know all about that, being a doctor. How very odd. I mean, it isn't odd, is it?"
How long she would have rambled on in this aimless fashion it is impossible to say, but, fortunately, a third woman, bearing a candle, appeared descending the stairs, which put an end to Miss Cassandra's chatter.
"It's Jellicks," said Miss Challoner quickly, "the squire must be worse."
Jellicks was an ugly old woman of about sixty, with a withered, wrinkled face, rough, greyish hair, and a peculiar kind of wriggling movement, something like that of a dog who has done wrong and wants to curry favour with his angry master. She wriggled down the stairs, writhed up to Una, and, with a final wriggle, delivered her message in one word and a whisper.
"Wuss!" she hissed out in a low, sibillant manner.
Dr. Nestley was beginning to feel bewildered with the strangeness of his position. This cold, vault-like hall with its high roof, tesselated black and white diamond pavement, massive figures in suits of armour on either side, seemed to chill his blood, and the three candles held by the three women danced before his eyes like will-o'-the-wisps. A musty odour permeated the atmosphere, and the flickering lights, which only served to show the darkness, assumed to his distorted imagination the semblance of corpse candles. Shaking off this feeling with an effort, he turned to Miss Challoner.
"I think I had better go up at once," he said in a loud, cheerful voice. "Every moment is precious."
Miss Challoner bowed in silence, and preceded him up the stairs, followed by the wriggling Jellicks and the girlish Miss Cassandra, who declined to be left behind.
"No; positively no," she whimpered, shaking her candle and replacing the cosy on her head. "It's like a tomb--the 'Mistletoe Bough,' you know--very odd--he might die--his spirit and all that sort of thing--nerves, doctor, nothing else--chronic; mother's side--dear, dear. I feel like a haunted person in what's-his-name's book? Dickens. Charming, isn't he? So odd."
And, indeed, there was a ghostly flavour about the whole place as they walked slowly up the wide stairs, with the darkness closing densely around them. Every footfall seemed to awake an echo, and the painted faces of the old Garsworths frowned and smiled grotesquely on them from the walls as they moved silently along.
A wide corridor, another short flight of stairs, and then a heavy door, underneath which could be seen a thin streak of light. Pausing here, Una opened it, and the four passed into Squire Garsworth's bedroom, which struck the doctor as being almost as chill and ghostly as the hall.
It was a large room with no carpet on the polished floor, hardly any furniture and no lights, save at the further end, where a candle, standing on a small round table, feebly illuminated a huge curtained bed set on a small square of carpet on which were also the round table aforesaid and two heavy chairs, the whole forming a kind of dismal oasis in the desert of bare floor.
On the bed lay the squire, an attenuated old man with a face looking as though it were carved out of old ivory, fierce black eyes and scanty white hair flowing from under a black velvet skull cap. A multiplicity of clothes were heaped on the bed to keep him warm, and his thin arms and claw-like hands were outside the blankets plucking restlessly at the counterpane. Beside him stood a woman in a slate-coloured dress, with an expressionless white face and smooth black hair, drawn back over her finely shaped head. She kept her eyes on the floor and her hands folded in front of her, but, on hearing a strange footstep, turned to look at the doctor. A strangely mournful face it was, as if the shadow of a great sorrow had fallen across it and would never more be lifted. Nestley guessed this to be Patience Allerby, so the number of the extraordinary individuals who occupied Garsworth Grange was now complete.
Hearing the doctor enter, Squire Garsworth, with the suspicious celerity of a sick man, raised himself on his elbow and peered malevolently into the darkness, looking like some evil magician of old time.
"Who is there?" he asked in a querulous voice, "someone to rob me; thieves and rogues--all--all rogues and thieves."
"It is the doctor," said Una, coming close to him.
"What does he bring? what does he bring?" asked the sick man, eagerly, "life or death? Tell me, quick."
"I cannot tell you till I ask a few questions," said Nestley, stepping into the radius of light.
"Ha!" cried Garsworth, with sudden suspicion, "not Bland. No; a stranger. What do you want? Where is Bland?"
"He is ill," said Nestley distinctly, coming close to him, "and cannot come, but I am a doctor and will do as well."
The old man looked at him anxiously, seeming to devour him with the fierce intensity of his gaze.
"Weak," he muttered, after a pause, "very weak, still there is intellect in the face."
Then he suddenly put out his hand and grasped that of Nestley in his thin, claw-like fingers.
"I will trust you," he said rapidly. "You are weak, but honest. Save my life and I will pay you well."
"I will do what I can," replied Nestley simply.
The squire, with an effort, sat up in bed, and waved his hand imperatively.
"Turn them all out," he said sharply, pointing to the women. "I must tell you what I wo'nt tell them. A physician is more of a confessor than a priest. Go away and leave me with my confessor."
Nestley was about to remonstrate, but Una placed her finger on her lips, and all three women noiselessly withdrew, bearing their candles. When the door closed after them the immense room was quite in darkness, save for the feeble glimmer of the taper by the bed, which shed its light on the pallid countenance of the old man now lying back exhausted on his pillows. It was certainly a very strange situation, and Nestley, modern physician though he was, felt little thrills of superstitious awe running through him. He was about to speak when the squire, turning on his side, looked at him earnestly and commenced to talk.
"I do not want you to diagnose my case," he said, in a low, feverish voice. "I can tell you all about it. Your task is to supply remedies. I am an old man, seventy-five years of age. It's a long life, but not long enough for what I want. The sword has worn out the scabbard--my soul is encased in a worn-out body and I want you to sustain the vital forces of the body. I can look after the soul; you mind the body."
"I understand perfectly," observed Nestley, feeling his pulse. "Nerve exhaustion."
"Aha! yes, that is it. I have been working too hard and overtaxed my nerves. You must restore them to their normal state. Tonics, electricity, rest--what you will, but give me back my vital powers in their pristine vigour."
"It is impossible to do that," said Nestley, quickly, "you are not young, remember, but I will give you some medicine that will replace the wasted tissues and afford you relief, if not health; but you will never be strong again."
"Not in this body," exclaimed Garsworth, raising himself on his elbow, "no, but in my next incarnation I shall be--ah, you look surprised, but you, no doubt, have heard of the mad squire. Mad! Poor fools, my madness is their sanity. I shall be young and vigorous in my next body, and I shall be rich. All this life I have been working for the next, but I have not gained enough money. No, not half enough. Make me well again, that I can complete my work, then I will gladly leave this worn-out body for a new one. I will pay you--oh yes--I will pay you."
He fell back exhausted on the pillows, worn out by the rapidity of his speech, and Nestley called out loudly for assistance. Patience Allerby entered the room, and, by the doctor's orders brought some wine in a glass. This Nestley held to the sick man's lips, while the housekeeper, at the other side of the bed, held the candle for him to see by. The wine infused a fictitious life into the old man, and seeing he was easier, Nestley determined to go back to Garsworth in order to get some medicine.
He put the clothes over the squire and bent down to speak.
"You must lie quiet," he said, in a slow voice, "and take some wine whenever you feel exhausted. I will send you a sedative to-night, and to-morrow morning will call and see you."
The sick man, too exhausted to speak, made a motion with his hand to show he understood, and lay back white and still, in complete contrast to his former restlessness. Nestley saw that the effort had fatigued him greatly, and was the more anxious to give him some soothing draught, as every paroxysm of excitement exhausted the nerves and rendered him weaker. But even in his anxiety, as he looked at him lying so still with the candles on either side of the bed, he could not help comparing him, in his own mind, to a corpse laid out preparatory to burial. The thought was a horrible one, but the atmosphere of the house seemed to engender horrible thoughts, so he hurried to the door, anxious to leave this nightmare castle.
Patience Allerby, soft-footed and silent, lighted him downstairs, and having seen him safe in the hall turned back without a word.
"A strange woman," thought Nestley, looking after her, "and a strange house;" then he turned to Una and Miss Cassey, who were anxiously waiting his report.
"I have given him a little wine," he said, putting on his gloves. "Keep him as quiet as possible and I'll send some opiate from Garsworth; he is in a very exhausted condition and must be kept quiet. How can I send the medicine?
"Munks will bring it when he drives you in," said Una quickly. "You will come again?"
"Yes, to-morrow morning," he replied as she opened the door, and was about to depart when Miss Cassey arrested him.
"I'll take some of the medicine myself, doctor," she said. "I'm so easily upset--nerves again--it's in the family; come and prescribe for me to-morrow--I'm so odd, I think it's the house--lonely, you know--bromide is good, isn't it? Yes, Doctor Pecks, in London, told me so. Do you know him?--No--how odd--clever on nerves--my nerves--don't forget to-morrow--good-night--charming moon--yes--so odd."
After hearing this incoherent speech, Dr. Nestley managed to get away, and saying good-night to Una, went down the steps. The dog-cart was waiting for him, and Munks, the Mute, drove him back grimly the whole way. It was quite a relief getting into the cool fresh air, and Nestley half thought the lonely house and its fantastic occupants were phantoms, so unreal did they seem.
But turning from these scenes of beauty rareThe family circle next demands our care,That fireside kingdom where the father blandHis sceptre sways with firm and gentle hand.Obedient children clust'ring round his kneesPerform with pleasure all his mild decrees,With willing hearts upon his orders waitThus show example to the parent state.
But turning from these scenes of beauty rareThe family circle next demands our care,That fireside kingdom where the father blandHis sceptre sways with firm and gentle hand.Obedient children clust'ring round his kneesPerform with pleasure all his mild decrees,With willing hearts upon his orders waitThus show example to the parent state.
Dr. Larcher, the vicar of Garsworth, was a fine type of what is called muscular Christianity. Tall, broad-shouldered and burly, he looked more like a cavalry officer than a parson, and he preached his sermons, which were generally plain and outspoken, in a loud assertive tone of voice. Being fond of archaeology and long walks he knew every inch of the country for miles round, and was as well acquainted with the poorest cottagers as with the lords of the soil. Simple, large-minded gentleman that he was, he admirably suited his position in life, and if the rustics of Garsworth had not a sound belief in the tenets of the Church of England, it was by no means the fault of the worthy vicar, who thundered out practical Christianity in ponderous Johnsonian sentences, with the zeal of a Savonarola and the eloquence of a Bossuet. He was also a great Latinist and plentifully seasoned his discourse with quotations from Horace, for which bard he professed great admiration.
On the morning after the visit of Nestley to the Grange, Dr. Larcher was seated at the breakfast-table talking eagerly about a bronze sword which had just been brought to him, having been disinterred from some ancient British tumulus. His present congregation consisted of Dick Pemberton, who was rather disposed to laugh at the important discovery, Reginald Blake, looking somewhat preoccupied, Ferdinand Priggs, the poet, a sallow youth with dreamy eyes and a deep voice, and Miss Eleonora Gwendoline Vera Bianca Larcher, the sole child of the vicar and his wife.
These names, decidedly alarming ones, had been given to her by Mrs. Larcher, who had selected them from the "Family Herald," her favourite journal, but Dr. Larcher, who had no fancy for high-sounding titles, called his daughter Pumpkin. This unhappy cognomen had been bestowed on the child by the nurse, in despair at being unable to master the legitimate names, and the vicar was so pleased with the oddity of the title that he there and then adopted it. Mrs. Larcher, however, obstinately refused to accept this innovation, and called her daughter Eleonora Gwendoline, but generally Miss Larcher answered to the name of Pumpkin, her aristocratic names being only brought out on company occasions.
She was a pretty, plump girl, with dark eyes and a rosy face. Endowed with a large amount of common sense, her tastes lay in the direction of making puddings and mending clothes, whilst she evinced a great contempt for poetry and such-like things. Mrs. Larcher, being an invalid, left the management of the house entirely to Pumpkin, who ruled the servants with a rod of iron, looked after the creature comforts of her father and his pupils, and was besides a bright, lively girl whom everyone adored.
As to Mrs. Larcher, she was always ill, but why she should be so was a mystery to everyone save herself. It was either her nerves or her liver or her spine or her laziness, most probably the latter, as she mostly passed her life alternating between the sofa and her bed. Occasionally she strolled out, but always came back feeling weak and bad, to be strengthened with strong tea and hot muffins, after which she would bewail her delicate constitution in a subdued whimper. Her unknown malady was known to all as "The Affliction," that being a generic name for all kinds of diseases, and Mrs. Larcher herself alluded to her ill health by this title as being a happy one and necessitating no special mention of any one infirmity. Pumpkin looked after everything and was the good fairy of the vicarage, while Mrs. Larcher lay all day on her sofa reading novels and drinking tea, or gossiping with any visitors who might drop in.
At present Mrs. Larcher was safe in bed upstairs and Pumpkin presided at the breakfast-table, which was now covered with an array of empty dishes, as the male portion of the vicarage inmates, with the exception of the poet, had large appetites. Dr. Larcher, however, had been too excited to eat much, and had his eyes intently fixed upon his newly-discovered bronze implement.
"It's a wonderful example of what the ancient Britons could do," he said grandiloquently, "and to my mind, I proves no mean standard of civilisation."
"Even in that age of barbarism," observed the poet enthusiastically, "they cultivated a love for the beautiful."
"Oh, bosh," said Dick irreverently, "they wanted something to knock the stuffing out of an enemy."
"Well, I think that sword could do it," remarked Pumpkin with a smile. "Suppose we try it on you, Dick."
"No, thanks," retorted that young gentleman, grimacing, "I'll agree without practical proof."
"I shall write an article on this," said Dr. Larcher, delicately balancing the sword in his hand. "Such a discovery will be a distinct gain to our knowledge of the aborigines of that dead and buried time of so long ago--Eheu fugaces Postume labuntur anni."
"It breathes the very spirit of the age," cried Ferdinand with an inspired air: