The clock was striking twelve the following day when Dr. Jago rang at the door of the Hall. He was a little, dark-featured, foreign-looking man of thirty, with a black moustache and a pointed beard, and small restless eyes that seemed never to look stedfastly at anything or anybody, imparting an impression of being always on his guard. He had come to Nullington about a year ago, a stranger to everyone in it, and had started there in practice. His charges were low, and his patients chiefly those who could not afford to pay much in the shape of doctors' bills. But Dr. Spreckley was an elderly man, and Dr. Downes might be considered an old man, so there was no knowing what might happen in the course of a few years. Meanwhile Theophilus Jago possessed his soul in patience, and made ends meet as best he could. It was a great event in his life to be sent for by the Master of Heron Dyke.
"You are Dr. Jago, I think?" began the Squire, who was again in bed; and the Doctor bowed assent.
"I and my medical attendant, Dr. Spreckley, have had a slight difference of opinion. In all probability he will not visit me again, and I have sent for you in the hope that we may get on better together than Spreckley and I did."
"I am flattered by your preference, sir. You may rely upon my doing my best to serve you in every way."
"Probably you may have heard that I have been ill for a long time--people will talk--and, as a medical man, you most likely are aware of the nature of my complaint?"
Dr. Jago admitted this.
"I had a bad attack two days ago. Yesterday I asked Spreckley whether I should last over the twenty-fourth of next April. He told me that I could do so only by a miracle. He says I can't live, and I say that I must and will live over the date in question."
"And you have sent for me to--to----?"
"To keep me alive. Spreckley can't do it. You must. Now, don't say another word till you have examined me."
Not another word did Dr. Jago utter for a quarter of an hour, beyond asking certain questions in connection with the malady. This over, he sat down by the bedside and drew a long breath.
"Well, what's the verdict? Out with it," added the Squire grimly, the old hungry, wistful look rising in his eyes.
"I suppose you want to hear the truth and nothing but the truth, Mr. Denison?" said Dr. Jago.
"That is precisely what I do want to hear. Why not?"
"Then, sir, I think it most probable that Dr. Spreckley is correct. I fear I can only confirm his opinion."
There was a moment or two of silence.
"Then you say, with him, that I shall not live to see the twenty-fourth of April?"
"There is, of course, a possibility that you may do so," replied Dr. Jago, "but the probabilities are all the other way. I am very sorry, sir, to have to tell you this."
"Keep your sorrow until you are asked for it," returned the Squire, drily. "Perhaps you will pour me out half a glass of that Madeira. I am not so strong as I should like to be."
Dr. Jago did as he was requested, and then sat down and waited. Turning on him with startling suddenness, the sick man seized him by the wrist with a grip of iron, to pull him closer, and spoke with a grim earnestness.
"Look here, Jago, it's not of any use your telling me, or a thousand other doctors, that I shall not live to see April. I must and will live till then, and you must see that I do: you must keep me in life. Man! you stare as if I were asking you to kill me, instead of to cure me."
Dr. Jago tried to smile. He evidently doubted whether he had to deal with a lunatic.
"Pardon me, Mr. Denison," he said, "but in your condition you must avoid excitement. Perfect quiet is your greatest safeguard."
The sick man shrugged his shoulders.
"Well, well, you are perhaps right. You know my young secretary--Hubert Stone?"
"A little."
"And I dare say you think him a shrewd, clever young fellow, eh! But he is more clever than you think for, and has dabbled in many a curious science; medicine for one. He--listen, Mr. Physician--he has suggested a mode of treatment by which he believes I may be kept alive. Come now."
Dr. Jago's face expressed a mixture of surprise and incredulity not unmingled with sarcasm. Mr. Hubert Stone would indeed be a very clever gentleman if he could keep life in a dying man.
"Ido not know of any such treatment, Mr. Denison."
"Possibly not. But I suppose you are open to learn it?"
"If it can be taught me."
"Well, you go into the next room. Hubert is there, I believe, and will explain it to you better than I can. I never bothered my head about physics. When the conference is over come back to me."
Half an hour had elapsed--quite that--and the Squire was growing impatient, when Dr. Jago returned. He was looking, very grave.
"Will the treatment answer?" he cried out impatiently, before the Doctor could speak.
"It might answer, Mr. Denison; I do not say it would not. But--it is dangerous."
"And what if it is dangerous? I am willing to risk it--and I shall pay you well. What! you hesitate? Why, I have heard say that dangerous remedies are not unknown to you; that with you it is sometimes kill or cure."
"In a desperate case possibly. Not otherwise."
"And have you not just told me mine is desperate?"
"True."
"Then you will take me in hand. Bodikins!--if I were telling you to give me a dose of prussic acid as you stand there, you could but look as you are looking. See here. Listen. I will have these--these remedies tried, young man, and by you. I know your skill. I will give you five hundred pounds at once; and I will make it up to two thousand if you carry me over to the twenty-fifth of April."
"I accept the terms," said Dr. Jago, awaking from a reverie, and speaking with prompt decision now his mind was made up. To a struggling practitioner the money looked like a mine of gold: and perhaps Squire Denison's imperative will influenced his. "And I hope and trust Ishallbe able to carry you over the necessary period," he added with intense earnestness. "My best endeavours shall be devoted to it."
Outside the door Hubert Stone was waiting, anxiety in his eyes.
"Yes, I have consented," said Dr. Jago, in answer to their silent questioning. "If we succeed--well. But I cannot forget the risk. And these hazardous risks, if they be discovered, are fatal to the reputation of a professional man."
"Take the book home with you, and study the case well," said Hubert, putting a volume, in the Doctor's hand. "Some little risk there must of course be, but I think not much. It succeeded there: why should it not succeed with Squire Denison?"
That evening Dr. Spreckley received a letter, written by Hubert Stone in his master's name, dismissing him from further attendance at Heron Dyke. The Squire added a kind message and enclosed a cheque; but he very unmistakably hinted that Dr. Spreckley was not expected to call again, even as a friend. Two doctors who held opposing views, and who pursued totally opposite modes of treatment, had better not come into contact with each other.
When Philip Cleeve opened his eyes the morning after his visit to The Lilacs it took him a minute or two to collect his thoughts, and call to mind all that had happened during the previous evening. In the cold unsympathetic light of early morn his overheated fancies of the preceding night seemed to have little more substance in them than a dream. He could not quite forget Margaret Ducie's liquid black eyes, or the fascination of her smile; but the glamour was gone, and he thought of them as of something that could never trouble his peace of mind again. "It was that champagne," thought Philip. "I had more of it than was good for me."
There was, however, one very tangible fact connected with the doings of the preceding night which would not allow itself to be forgotten. He had gambled away Mr. Tiplady's twenty pounds, and it would have to be his disagreeable duty this morning to ask his mother to make good the loss. Mentally and bodily he felt out of sorts, and out of humour with himself and the world. Very little breakfast did he eat. Lady Cleeve only came down when it was getting time for him to set out for the office. She asked a little about his visit of the previous evening, and also after Freddy Bootle, who was rather a favourite of hers.
"Bootle has promised to dine here tomorrow," said Philip. "This evening I dine with him at the Rose and Crown." He left his seat and went to the window. The disagreeable moment could be put off no longer. Going behind Lady Cleeve's chair, he leaned over and kissed her. "Mother, I am going to ask you to do a most preposterous thing," he said.
"Not many times in your life, dear, have you done that," she answered. "But what is it?"
"I want you to give me twenty-five pounds."
"Twenty-five pounds is a large sum, Philip--that is, a large sum for me. But I suppose you would not ask me for it unless you really need it."
"Certainly not, mother. I need it for a very special purpose indeed."
"Can you tell me for what?"
"No," said Philip, in a low tone. "It--it is for some one," he rather lamely added.
"You are going to lend it! Well, Philip, if it is for some worthy friend who is in want, I will say nothing," said Lady Cleeve, who had implicit confidence in her son. "You shall have the money."
Philip's face was burning. He turned to the window again.
"Do you know that next Tuesday will be your birthday, Philip?" asked his mother. "You will be twenty-two. How the years fly as we grow old! Your asking for this money brings to my mind something which I did not intend to mention to you till your birthday was actually here; but, there is no reason why I should not tell you now. Can you guess, my dear boy, what amount I have saved up, and safely put away for you in Nullington Bank? But how should it be possible for you to guess?"--Philip had turned by this time, and was staring at his mother.
"I have saved up twelve hundred pounds," continued Lady Cleeve. "Yes, Philip, twelve hundred pounds; and on the day you are twenty-two the amount in full will be transferred into your name, and will become your sole property."
"Mother!" was all that the young man could say in that first moment of surprise. Then he took her hand and kissed it.
She smiled, and stroked his curls fondly.
"I need hardly tell you, Philip, that the hope I have had, all along, was that my savings might ultimately be of use in advancing your interests in whatever profession you might finally choose. You have now been two years with Mr. Tiplady, and I gather that you are quite satisfied to remain with him. I have had a little quiet chat with Mr. Tiplady: you know that he and I are very old friends. I named to him the amount I had lying by me in the bank, and hinted to him that he might do worse than take you into partnership. His reply was that he had never hitherto thought about a partner, but that the idea was worth consideration, more especially as he had some thought of retiring from business in the course of a few years. There the matter was left, and I have had no talk with him since, but I think the opening would be a most excellent one for you."
"Twelve hundred pounds seems a lot of money to hand over to old Tiplady," said Philip, with rather a long face.
"Why 'old' Tiplady, dear? He is younger than I am," said Lady Cleeve, with a faint smile. "His business is excellent and superior, as you know; one in which, if you join him, you may rise to eminence. Mr. Tiplady seemed to doubt whether twelve hundred pounds was a sufficient sum to induce him to take you into partnership. And of course it seems ridiculously small compared with the advantages. But I suppose he thinks your connections would go for something--and he is too well off for money to be an object with him. At first you would take but a small share."
Philip shrugged his shoulders and whistled under his breath.
"We can talk of that another time," he said. "How can I thank you enough, mother mine, for this wonderful gift? You are a veritable fairy queen."
In truth, he could not think where so much money had come from. Twelve hundred pounds! He knew the extent of his mother's income and what proportion of it, of late years, had found its way into his own pocket; but he did not know that his mother, in view of some such contingency as the present one, had begun to save and pinch and put away a few pounds now and again even before her husband's death--many years before. The magic of compound interest had done the rest.
Philip Cleeve carried a light heart with him that morning as he set out for the office, and the twenty-five pounds given him by his mother. He had not only got out of his present difficulty easily and without trouble, but in a few short days he would be a capitalist on his own account; he would be one of those favoured mortals, a man with a balance at his banker's, and a cheque-book of his own in his pocket. He could hardly believe in the reality of his good fortune. As for handing overin tototo Mr. Tiplady the sum that was coming thus unexpectedly into his possession--it was a matter that required consideration, very grave consideration indeed. But he would have plenty of time to think about that afterwards.
As he crossed the market-place, he stopped to look in the window of Thompson, the jeweller. There was a gold hunting-watch lying in it that he had often admired. In a few days, should he be so minded, he might make it his own. And that pretty signet ring. The price of it was only five guineas, a mere bagatelle to a man with twelve hundred pounds. Hitherto he had never worn a ring, but other young men wore such things, and there was no reason now why he should not do the same. A minute or two later he passed his tailor.
"Good-morning, Dobson," he said with a smile. "I shall look you up in a day or two."
Having to pass the Rose and Crown Hotel on his way to the office, he thought he might as well look up Freddy Bootle. But that gentleman was not yet downstairs, so Philip set out again. As he passed Welland's, the florist, he saw two magnificent bouquets in the window. All at once it struck him that it would not be amiss to pay a morning call at The Lilacs and present Mrs. Ducie with one of the bouquets. Without pausing to reflect, he entered the shop. He was waited on by pretty Mary Welland, the florist's lame daughter, by whose deft fingers the flowers had been arranged. After a little smiling chat, he and Mary being old acquaintances, he chose one of the bouquets and had it wrapped up in tissue paper. The price was half a guinea, but to Philip, in the mood in which he then was, half a guinea seemed a matter of little moment.
Philip had started on his way again, when he encountered Maria Kettle. They both started as their eyes met, and a guilty flush mounted to Philip's brow. Maria at once held out her hand, and her glance fell on the bouquet in its envelope of tissue paper. All in a moment it flashed into Philip's mind that to-day was Maria's birthday. There was little more than the difference of a week between their ages.
"Good-morning, Philip," began Maria. "Papa and I have been wondering what had become of you. You have only been to see us once since we got back."
"The fact is," said Philip in a hesitating way, very unusual with him, "I have been much engaged--Bootle is here now, too, and he has taken up a good deal of my time. But I have not forgotten that this is your birthday, Maria, and----" here he paused and looked at the bouquet. "In fact, I was on my way to----" then he hesitated again and held out the bouquet.
"You were on your way to the vicarage," said Maria, with a smile, "and these pretty flowers are for me. I know they are pretty before I look at them. It was indeed kind of you to remember my birthday."
Philip felt immensely relieved.
"Accept them with my love, Maria," he whispered, and at that moment he felt that he loved her very dearly. Then he pressed one of her hands in his, and spoke the good wishes customary on such occasions. A bright, glad look came into Maria's eyes, and her pale cheek flushed at Philip's words. He turned and walked a little way with her, and then they parted.
Philip sighed as he turned away. What an air of quiet goodness there was about Maria! How sweet and saintly she looked in her dress of homely blue, with the sunlight shining on her!
"If she had lived five hundred years ago, her face would have been painted as that of some mediæval saint," muttered Philip to himself. "She is far away too good to be the wife of such a shuffling, weak-minded fellow as I am."
When he reached the florist's shop on his way back to the office, the remaining bouquet was still in the window. He hesitated a moment, and then went in.
"I will take that other bouquet, if you please, Miss Welland," he said: but Mary noticed that there was no smile on his face this time, as she tied up the flowers. Philip set off in the direction of The Lilacs. He was dissatisfied with himself for what he had done, there was a sore feeling at work within him, and yet his steps seemed drawn irresistibly towards the roof that sheltered Margaret Ducie.
He had got half-way to the cottage when he was overtaken by Captain Lennox in his dog-cart.
"'Morning, Cleeve," called out the Captain; "where are you off to in such a hurry?"
"I didn't know that I was in a hurry," said Philip as he faced round, while that wretched tell-tale flush, which he could not succeed in keeping down, mounted to his face. "The fact is, I was on my way to the cottage," he added. "I thought that I might venture to call on Mrs. Ducie and ask her acceptance of a few flowers."
"And she will be very pleased to see you, I do not doubt," answered Lennox. "I am on the way home myself; so jump up and I will give you a lift."
When they reached the cottage they found Mrs. Ducie practising some songs which she had just received from London. She wore a dress of some soft, creamy material embroidered with flowers, with ornamental silver pins in her hair and a silver snake round one of her wrists. She accepted Philip's flowers very graciously.
"How charmingly they are arranged," she said; "and with what an eye for artistic effect. I must try to paint them before they begin to fade."
Philip begged that he might not interrupt her singing; so she resumed her seat at the piano, and he stationed himself behind her and turned over the leaves of her music. Now that he was here and in her presence, and so near to her that he could have stooped and touched her hair with his lips, the infatuation of last night crept over him again with irresistible force. He was like a man bewitched, from whom all power of volition seems stolen away. She looked even more beautiful this morning in the soft cool twilight of the drawing-room than when seen by lamplight yesterday evening. Nowhere had he seen a woman like her, or one who exercised over him such a nameless but all-powerful charm. By-and-by she persuaded him to sing too.
At last Philip remembered that he must go. The office was not pressed for work just now, and Mr. Tiplady had given him a partial holiday during Bootle's stay: but Philip felt that there was reason in all things. Moreover, Tiplady was away himself to-day.
"When the cat's away," laughed Captain Lennox, upon Philip's saying this.
"I can drive you into the town if you like, Mr. Cleeve," said Mrs. Ducie, who had just reappeared, dressed for going out. "My ponies are at the gate."
Philip accepted the offer gladly.
"I shall see you later in the day," were Lennox's last words to him as he was driven away.
Mrs. Ducie was an accomplished whip, and had a thorough mastery over her high-spirited ponies. Very few minutes sufficed to bring the party to Nullington. They had slackened their pace a little while a load of timber drew out of the way, when Maria Kettle stepped out of a chemist's shop just as they were passing the door. She saw Mrs. Ducie and Philip, and at the same moment they recognised her. A look that was partly surprise and partly trouble came into her eyes; but she bowed gravely and passed on. Mrs. Ducie smiled and bowed; Philip, colouring furiously, greeted Maria with an awkward nod, and then turned away his head. How thoroughly ashamed of himself he felt!
"What a charming young lady Miss Kettle is," said Mrs. Ducie, a minute later.
Philip gave a keen look at his companion's face, but there was nothing to be read there.
"I was not aware that you knew Miss Kettle," he said a little stiffly.
"I have had the pleasure of meeting her three or four times since her return, and Ferdinand and I attend church regularly. I never met anyone who with so much goodness was so entirely unaffected."
It was like heaping coals of fire on Philip's head for him to have to listen to these words. Nothing more was said till the carriage drew up for Philip to alight. Mrs. Ducie held out her hand.
"I hope we shall see you at the cottage again soon, Mr. Cleeve," she graciously said. "I assure you that both to my brother and myself your visits will always be a pleasure."
Philip replied suitably, and went his way. He was grievously annoyed at having been seen by Maria Kettle in the act of driving out with Mrs. Ducie; yet he could not forget how charming the latter was, and how kindly she had received his flowers.
Scarcely had he at length entered the office when Freddy Bootle came in, asking him to take holiday for the rest of the day. The old clerk, Mr. Best, manager in Mr. Tiplady's absence, was agreeable to it. Philip was a favourite of his, and there was not much doing.
Away went Philip and his friend gaily, arm-in-arm. Philip's heels were always light where pleasure was concerned. After eating some luncheon at the Rose and Crown, they adjourned to the billiard-room. Only then did it occur to Philip that the bank-notes his mother had given him in the morning were in his pocket still. He ought to have handed them over to Mr. Best: he had meant to do so, but other matters had put it out of his head.
Lord Camberley and Captain Lennox came in to dinner, in answer to the invitation of Mr. Bootle. Afterwards they all sat talking, over their coffee and cigars. Captain Lennox, the thought striking him, inquired of Bootle whether his lost watch had turned up.
"Not it," said Freddy. "It will never turn up, any more than your purse will. It was an odd thing, when one comes to think of it, that Mrs. Carlyon should have been robbed on the same night. Just as if the same thief had done it all!"
Lord Camberley pricked up his ears.
"How was it?" he asked. "What were the robberies?" And Mr. Bootle related them.
"Pretty good cheek--to leave the case under the curtains and walk off with the baubles!" observed his lordship. "I suppose it was too big to carry away?"
"Too big to carry away unobserved, and too big to be stowed away in a coat, I take it," said Captain Lennox. "How large was it, Cleeve?--you saw it, I think. The fellow must have disposed of the articles about his pockets."
"How large?" repeated Philip, who was sitting with his chair tilted and his head thrown back, puffing forth volumes of smoke in silence, "oh--aboutthatlarge"--making a movement with his hand. "Just give me my coffee-cup, will you, Freddy?"
Later, the party sat down to cards. They began by playing Napoleon, as on the previous evening; but this was changed for the still more dangerous game of Unlimited Loo. At neither one game nor the other was Philip Cleeve anything like a match for those experienced players, Camberley and Lennox, and he grew nervous and excitable. When the party broke up Philip had not only lost the twenty-five pounds given him in the morning by his mother, but fifteen pounds more, for which Lord Camberley held his IOU. As for Freddy Bootle, he did not much care for cards, and he played with a severe indifference to either the smiles or frowns of fortune: if he lost, it was a matter of little consequence to him; if he won, it was a few sovereigns more in the pocket of a man who had already more money than he knew what to do with.
Philip rose from the table with haggard eyes, flushed face, and trembling hands.
"I will redeem my scrap of paper in the morning," he remarked to his lordship.
"All right, old man: you will find me in the billiard-room about four o'clock," answered Camberley. "Only look here, there's no need to be in such a desperate hurry, you know."
He had a dim suspicion that Philip was not over well-off in money matters.
"I shall be in the billiard-room at four," retorted Philip with some hauteur.
He resented the implication in Camberley's words--that perhaps it might not be convenient to pay the fifteen pounds so quickly. His poverty was a matter that concerned no one but himself.
As he walked home alone under the cold light of the stars, and went back in memory to the events of this evening and the last, they seemed to him nothing more than a wretched phantasmagoria, in which only the ghost of his real self had played a part. He was a loser to the extent of forty pounds. And where was he to raise the twenty-five pounds for Tiplady, or the fifteen for Camberley?
There was only one way--by applying to his friend Bootle. It was a disagreeable necessity, but Philip saw no help for it. Bootle was rich and generous, and would lend him the money in a moment. It would only be needed for a few days. The very first cheque he drew, after coming into that twelve hundred pounds, should be one to repay Freddy.
And, thus easily settling his difficulties, Mr. Philip finished up by vowing to himself that he would never touch a card again.
Dr. Spreckley felt like an angry man. When he read Squire Denison's curt note--curt as to the part of his dismissal--his first impulse was to go up to the Hall and demand an explanation from his old friend and patient. He had been forced into a corner as it were, had been driven into telling a certain disagreeable truth, and now he was discarded for having done so, and a young practitioner of less experience and no note, was taken on in his place! It was very unjust. But Dr. Spreckley never did anything in a hurry. He put the Squire's note away, saying, "I'll sleep upon it."
On the morrow he found that Dr. Jago was really in attendance on the Squire. Dr. Spreckley met him on his way thither in a hired one-horse fly, and received a gracious wave of the hand by way of greeting. "I'll not interfere," exploded the old Doctor in the bitterness of his heart; "I'll never darken Denison's doors again. Unless he sends for me," he added a minute later. "And for all the goodhecan do him"--with a contemptuous glance after Jago--"that won't be long first."
Meanwhile, at the Hall, the Squire was soothing and explaining the change to Ella, who regarded it with dismay.
"I don't like Dr. Jago, Uncle Gilbert. And Dr. Spreckley was our friend of many years."
"And why don't you like Dr. Jago, lassie?"
"I don't know. There's something about him that repels me; it lies in his eyes, I think. I never spoke to him but once."
"When you know more of him, you will like him better," returned the Squire. "I am not sure thatIlike him much, personally. But if he cures me--what shall you say then? Come now!"
"I would say then that I should like him for ever," replied Ella, laughing.
"Well, child, he is hoping to do it. And I think he will."
"Is this true, Uncle Gilbert?"
The Squire patted her cheek.
"What a disbelieving little girl it is! Jago is a wonderfully clever man, Ella; there's no doubt of that: he has studied in foreign schools, and he is about to try an entirely new kind of treatment upon me. He thinks it will turn up trumps, and so do I!"
Ella drew a long, relieved breath.
"Oh, I am so glad, dear uncle! I will make him welcome whenever he comes."
"It is a month to-day since I was outside the house," went on the Squire. "Jago tells me that he shall get me out again in three or four days. The man is a man of power; I see it--I feel it. Give him opportunity, and he will make a great name for himself. We will go about again as we used to, Ella; you and I. Why not?"
Ella's heart leaped; she believed the good news. Her uncle had seemed very poorly indeed lately, but she did not suspect he had any incurable malady, or that he was in any danger.
Dr. Jago came to Heron Dyke day after day. In a short while the Squire was walking about the grounds, leaning on Ella's arm or on Hubert Stone's; and he would be seen again driving through Nullington, his niece seated by his side. Ella had grown to think kindly of Dr. Jago; but that old vague feeling of dislike or distrust she could not quite get rid of. "There is a look in his eyes I never saw in the eyes of anyone else," she said to herself. "He interests me, and yet repels me."
"The Squire will last out yet to will away his property; ay, and longer than that," cried the gossips of the neighbourhood, as they watched the improvement in him. "It will take more than two doctors to kill a Denzon."
And thus October came in. About the middle of that month the Squire sent an invitation to Mrs. Carlyon. It was partly in answer to a letter received from her--in which she told them that a certain projected plan of hers, that of going abroad for the winter, was still in abeyance, for she did not much like the idea of going alone. Higson would attend her of course; but who was Higson?--what she needed was a friend.
"She shall take you, Ella," said the Squire, after the letter of invitation was despatched.
"Take me, uncle! Oh dear, no!"
"And why not, pray, when I say yes?"
"I could not leave you, Uncle Gilbert."
"Oh, indeed! Could you not, lassie?"
"Suppose you were to be taken ill--and I ever so many hundred miles away! Oh, uncle dear, how could you think of it!"
"Well, I hope I am not likely now to be taken ill. Jago is doing me a marvellous deal of good. Don't fear that. I should like you to go abroad for the winter, lassie, and if Gertrude Carlyon goes, we--we will see about it."
Mrs. Carlyon arrived in due course. It had previously been arranged that, if she did go abroad, she should come to them for a short visit first. It seemed to her that she saw a great change for the worse in Mr. Denison; but she was discreet enough to keep her thoughts on the matter to herself, and chose rather to congratulate him on looking so well.
"Ay," said he, complacently, "the new doctor understands me."
"And don't you think Dr. Spreckley did?" asked Mrs. Carlyon.
"Not of late. Spreckley could not do for me what this man will do."
On the second day of her visit, when they were alone, the Squire questioned Mrs. Carlyon about her plans for the winter.
"Have you decided on them, Gertrude?" he asked.
"Not quite," she said. "I suppose, though, I shall go abroad, probably to the South of France. This climate tried my chest severely last winter."
"Ay, I remember. Best for you to go out of it for the next few months."
"An old friend of mine, Mrs. Ord, had decided to accompany me, and now circumstances have intervened to prevent it. That is why I hesitate. I don't care to go so far without a companion."
"You shall take Ella. Come now."
Mrs. Carlyon looked up eagerly.
"Take Ella! Are you in earnest?"
"Never more so. Why not? I had meant to make you and London a present of her for the winter: if you go abroad, so much the better. It will be the greater change for her--and she needs change."
"I shall certainly no longer hesitate if I may have Ella," spoke Mrs. Carlyon, gladly. "But--I should probably stay away four or five months."
"If you stay away six months it would be all the better. To tell you the truth, Gertrude," he continued, seeing Mrs. Carlyon look surprised, "I do not intend my pretty one to be here during the dark months, and you must take her out of my hands. She has never been quite the same since that curious affair up yonder"--pointing over his shoulder in the direction of the north wing.
Mrs. Carlyon began to understand.
"You mean--about Katherine Keen?"
"Ay. Since the girl disappeared----"
"What a most extraordinary thing that was!" interrupted Mrs. Carlyon. "Can you in any way account for it, Squire?"
"There's no way at all of accounting for it. Bodikins, no!"
"I meant, have you any private theory of your own--as to what can have become of her?"
"I know no more what could have become of her thanthat," returned the Squire, touching his stick, and then striking it on the ground to enforce emphasis. "It has troubled me above a bit, Gertrude, I can tell you. She was as nice and inoffensive a young girl as could be. Only the day before she disappeared she ran all across the garden to me to put my umbrella up, because a drop or two of rain began to fall. You can't think what a modest, kind, good little thing she was."
"I always thought it," assented Mrs. Carlyon. "And I esteem her mother; she is so hard-working and respectable. What a trial it must have been for her, poor woman! I shall call and see her before I leave."
"Ay. Why not? Well, it is altogether a very mysterious and unpleasant thing to have happened in this old house, and my pretty lassie, I see, does not forget it. She seems to mope, and to get a bit melancholy now and then. I fancy her eyes are not so bright as they used to be; she doesn't talk so much, or sing so much about the house. It's just as if there was always something hanging over her."
"Of course she must have a change," spoke Mrs. Carlyon.
"She was all the better for her visit to London in spring, but she was not long enough away," went on the Squire. "You know how lonely we are here. My health won't allow of my seeing much company, and Ella doesn't seem to care about extending her acquaintances. It will be horribly dull for her here this winter, with nobody in the house but a sick and cantankerous old man. I wish she could get right away out of England for six or eight months. She would come back to us next spring as merry as a blackbird. Why not, now?"
"I need not say how glad I should be to take Ella with me," said Mrs. Carlyon. "But there's one question--would she go?--would she leave you?"
"Odds bodikins!" cried the Squire, angrily, "is the child to set up her will against mine--and yours? It is for her good--and, go she must."
"Do you think you are in a state to be left for a whole winter alone?" debated Mrs. Carlyon, remembering how greatly she at first thought him changed. "Will Ella think it?"
"I! why I am twenty per cent, better than I was a month ago. There's no fear for me. And, if I became ill at any time, couldn't you be telegraphed to? I say that Ella must have a change for her own sake; and what I say I mean. Come now!"
"Yes; it would no doubt be better for her," assented Mrs. Carlyon, slowly: but, Mr. Denison thought, dubiously.
"Look here, Gertrude: for a woman you've got as sharp a share of sense as here and there one," cried he, lowering his tone as he bent forward towards her. "People have set up all kinds of superstitious notions about the affair; the women here hardly dare stir out of their kitchens after dusk. I find a notion prevails that Katherine is still in the house--is seen sometimes at her window at night. Now, as she can't be in the house alive, you--you must see what that means--folks are such fools, the uneducated ones. But, I put it to you, Gertrude--with this absurd nonsense being whispered about the house, whether it is fit the lassie should spend her winter in it? Eh, now, come!"
He glanced keenly for a moment at Mrs. Carlyon, as if to see whether his words impressed her. And they certainly had.
"No, it is not," she assented, speaking firmly, "and I will take her out of it. But--you speak of the young women-servants, I suppose, Gilbert? It is not at all seemly that they should be allowed to say such things. See Katherine at her window! How absurd! What next?"
"And profess to hear weird sounds about the passages, whisperings, and such like," added the Squire, as if he had pleasure in repeating this.
"What is Dorothy Stone about, to allow it?"
"Dorothy is worse than they are: she always was the most superstitious woman I ever knew. Not a step dare she stir about the house now after dark. Old Aaron is in a rare rage with her; threatens to shake her sometimes," added the Squire with a grim smile.
"Therecan'tbe anything in it, you know, Gilbert."
"I don't know," he answered: and Mrs. Carlyon stared at him. "After the disappearance of Katherine into--into air, as may be said, one may well believe any marvel. Eh, now?" continued the Squire. "At any rate, Gertrude, it seems to me that we may forgive these poor ignorant people who do believe. But, to go back to the question: Heron Dyke is getting an ill name for mystery, see you, and I do not choose that my innocent lassie shall pass the winter in it."
"Quite right; I perceive all now, and I will take her out of it, Gilbert. At least for two or three of the dark months."
"Two or three months won't do," cried the Squire, testily. "It would be of no use. She must not come back until the days are long and bright."
"Well, well, I see how anxious you are for her," said Mrs. Carlyon; who, however, could hardly feel it right to let him be so long alone. "In any case, you would like her to be home before your birthday."
The Squire did not answer. He seemed to be struggling with some inward emotion, and a curious spasm shot across his face. Mrs. Carlyon half rose from her chair, but sat down again.
"Why before my birthday?" said he, at length. "It's no more to me than any other day. I never make a festival of it as some idiots do--as if it was something to rejoice over. She needn't come back for my birthday unless I send for her. I shall be sure to send if I want her."
"If you became worse--or weaker--you would send?"
"Ay, ay--why not? Don't we always want our dear ones with us in sickness? Not but, what with Jago's treatment, I seem to have taken a new lease of life. Look here: I should like the child to see Italy."
"And so she shall. And she will enjoy it, I am sure, provided she can make her mind easy at leaving you. Ella is not like other girls; she is more reasonable," added Mrs. Carlyon. "Look at some flighty young things--thinking of nothing but of getting married."
"Bodikins! the women are generally keen enough after that, nowadays. Ella never seems to care for the young fellows. Young Hanerly wanted her, came to me about it; but she'd have nothing to say to him. Whomsoever she marries, he will have to change his name to Denison. None but a Denison must inherit Heron Dyke."
The thought occurred to Mrs. Carlyon--and it was on the tip of her tongue to say it--that Ella's husband might not inherit Heron Dyke. If the ailing man before her did not live to his next birthday, it must all pass away from Ella. But she kept silence.
"I suppose you never by any chance hear from your cousin Gilbert?" she presently asked, the train of thought prompting the question.
Mr. Denison's face darkened; a cold, hard look came into his eyes. He turned sharply round and faced his questioner, but she was directly regarding the smouldering logs on the hearth.
"Hear from my cousin Gilbert!" he said in deep harsh tones. "And pray why should I want to hear from him? I would sooner receive a message from--from the commonest beggar. He would never have the impudence to write to me. Body o' me! Gilbert, forsooth! He has his spies round the place night and day, I know that; watching and waiting for the moment the breath will go out of me. But they will be deceived--they and their master: yes, Gertrude Carlyon, I tell you that they will be deceived! I am not dead yet, nor likely to die. I shall live to see my seventieth birthday--I know it, I feel it--and not one acre of the old estates shall go to that man!"
He spoke with strange energy. It was evident that the old hatred towards his cousin still burned as fiercely in his heart as it had done forty years before.
"I am afraid that son of his will prove no credit to the name he bears," Mrs. Carlyon remarked after a pause: and the Squire looked up but did not speak. "I am told that some time ago he had a terrible quarrel with his father. They separated in anger, and he has not been home since. He is supposed to have enlisted as a common soldier and gone out to India."
Mr. Denison gave a sort of savage snarl.
"Ay, ay, that's good news--rare news," he said. "I would give that boy a thousand pounds to keep him away from his father if I only knew where he was--two thousand to anyone who could point out his grave. An only son too. Ah, ah! Rare news!"
At that moment Dr. Jago came in. When he saw the Squire's face, he looked anything but pleased.
"Madam," said he to Mrs. Carlyon, "this must not be. If Mr. Denison is to get permanently better, he must be kept free from excitement. It might counteract all the good I am doing him."