The Star-Gazers

Volume Two – Chapter Eleven.

The Doctor Brings Alleyne down

About an hour later Oldroyd called; and, as the bell jangled at the gate and Eliza went slowly down, Lucy’s face turned crimson, and she ran to the window and listened, to hear the enquiry, – “Is your mistress in?”

That was enough. The whole scene of that particular morning walk came back with a repetition of the agony of mind. She saw Rolph in his ludicrous undress, striding along the sandy road; she heard again his maundering civilities, and she saw, too, the figure of Oldroyd seated upon the miller’s pony, passing them, and afterwards blocking the way.

It was he, now, seated upon the same pony; and, without waiting to hear Eliza’s answer, Lucy fled to her bedroom and locked herself in, to begin sobbing and crying in the most ridiculous manner.

“No, sir,” said Eliza, with a bob; “she’ve gone to town shopping, but Miss Lucy’s in the drawing-room.”

Eliza smiled to herself as she said this, giving herself the credit of having managed a splendid little bit of diplomacy, for, according to her code, young gents ought to have opportunities to talk to young ladies whenever there was a chance. She was, however, terribly taken aback by the young doctor’s words.

“Thank you, yes, but I don’t want to see her,” – words which, had she heard them, would have made Lucy’s sobs come more quickly. “Is Mr Alleyne in?”

“Yes, sir, he’s in the observatory.”

“I’ll come in then,” said Oldroyd; and he dismounted, and threw the rein over the ring hook in the yard wall.

“If you please, sir,” said the maid, who did not like to lose an opportunity now that a medical man was in the house, “I don’t think I’m very well.”

“Eh, not well?” said Oldroyd, pausing in the hall, “why you appear as rosy and bonny as a girl can look.”

“Thankye, sir,” said the girl, with a bob; “but I’m dreadful poorly, all the same.”

“Why, what’s the matter?”

For answer Eliza put her hands behind her, and seemed as if she were indulging in the school-girl trick of what is called “making a face” at the doctor, for she closed her eyes, opened her mouth, wrinkled her brow, and put out a very long red tongue, which quivered and curled up at the point.

“That’ll do,” said Oldroyd, hiding a smile; and the tongue shot back, Eliza’s eyes opened, her mouth closed, and the wrinkles disappeared from her face.

“Will that do, sir?”

“Yes; your tongue’s beautifully healthy, your eyes are bright, and your skin moist and cool. Why, what’s the matter?”

“Please sir, I’m quite well of a night,” said Eliza, with another bob, “but I do have such dreadful dreams.”

“Oh!” said Oldroyd, drawing in a long breath, “I see. Did you have a bad dream last night?”

“Oh yes, sir, please. I dreamed as a poacher were going to murder me, and I couldn’t run away.”

“Let me see; you had supper last night at half-past nine, did you not?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Bread and Dutch cheese?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ah, you want a little medicine,” said Oldroyd quietly. “I’ll send you some.”

“And please, sir, how am I to take it?”

“Oh, you’ll find that on the bottle, and mind this: you are not to eat any more cheese for supper, but you may have as much butter as you like, and stale bread.”

“Thank you, sir. Will you go in, sir?”

“Yes, I’ll go up,” said Oldroyd, and then to himself, “What humbugs we doctors are; but we are obliged to be. If I told the girl only to leave off eating cheese she would think she was ill-used, and as likely as not she would get a holiday on purpose to go over to the town and see another man.”

He tapped sharply on the door with the handle of his whip, and in response to the loud “Come in,” entered, to find Alleyne standing amongst his instruments.

“Ah, Oldroyd,” he said, holding out his hand, which the other took, “glad to see you.”

“And I’m glad to see you – looking so much better,” said Oldroyd. “Why, man, your brain has been working in a new direction; your eyes don’t look so dreamy, and the balance is getting right. Come, confess, don’t you feel more energetic than you did?”

“Ten times,” said Alleyne frankly.

“Then you’ll end by being a firm believer in my system – cure without drugs, eh?”

“Indeed I shall,” said Alleyne, smiling.

“And to show how consistent I am,” said Oldroyd, “I’ve just promised to send your maid a bottle of medicine. But come, sir, I’m just off among the hills to see a patient. It’s a lovely day; only about six miles. Come with me, and I’ll leave the pony and walk.”

Alleyne shook his head.

“No,” he said, “I should be very poor company for you, Oldroyd – yes, I will go,” he cried, recollecting himself. “Wait a minute and I’ll be back.”

“All right,” replied the doctor, who amused himself peeping among the various glasses till Alleyne came back in a closely-fitting shooting jacket, for which he had changed the long, loose dressing-gown he had worn.

“That’s better,” cried Oldroyd, approvingly; “why, Alleyne, you will be worth two of the patients I saw a few months ago if you go on like this.”

Alleyne smiled sadly, and took a soft felt hat from its peg; and as he did so, he sent his hand again to his long, wild hair, and thought of his sister’s words, the colour coming into his cheeks, as he said in an assumed easy-going manner, —

“It’s time I had my hair cut.”

“Well, not to put too fine a point upon it, Alleyne, it really is. I like short hair, it is so comfortable on a windy day.”

The colour stayed in Alleyne’s cheeks, for, in spite of himself, he felt a little nettled that his companion should have noticed this portion of his personal appearance; but he said nothing, and they went out into the yard, where, unfastening the pony, Oldroyd threw the rein over the docile little creature’s neck and then tied it to a loop in the saddle, after which the pony followed them like a dog, till they reached its stable, where it was left.

“Now,” cried Oldroyd, “what do you say to a good tonic?”

“Do I need one?” said Alleyne, looking at him wistfully.

“Badly. I don’t mean physic, man,” laughed Oldroyd, “but a strong dose of fresh air off the hills.”

Alleyne laughed, and they started off across the boggy heath, avoiding the soft places, and, wherever the ground was firm, striding along at a good brisk pace over the elastic turf, which seemed to communicate its springiness to their limbs, while the sweet breeze sent a fresh light into their eyes.

Over the common and up the hilly lanes, where, as they went more slowly, Oldroyd told the history of his patient up at the common, the result of which was an animated discussion upon the game, laws, and Oldroyd began wondering at the change that had come over his companion. He had taken in a new accession of nervous force, which lent animation to his remarks, and, as he noted all this, Oldroyd began wondering, for he frankly told himself that there must have been other influences at work to make this change.

“Isn’t that Captain Rolph?” he said suddenly, as they turned into a long lane that ran through one of the pine woods on the slope of a hill.

“Rolph?” said Alleyne quietly, as he glanced in the direction of a distant horseman, coming towards them. “Yes – no – I cannot say.”

“I should say – yes, from his military seat in the saddle,” said Oldroyd. “Well, if it be or no, he doesn’t mean to meet us. He has gone through the wood.”

For, as he spoke, the coming horseman drew rein turned his horse’s head, leaped a ditch, and disappeared amongst the pines.

“What does he want up here?” said Oldroyd to himself, and then aloud, “Been having a good ‘breather’ round the hills,” he continued. “Sort of thing you ought to cultivate, Alleyne. Nothing like horse exercise.”

“Horses are costly, and the money I should spend upon a horse would be valuable to me for some optical instrument,” said Alleyne, speaking cheerfully, though all the while he was slightly excited by the sight of the horseman they had supposed to be Rolph; but this wore off in a few minutes, and they soon came in sight of the cottages, while before them a tall figure, graceful in appearance, in spite of the homely dress, had suddenly crossed a stile, hurried in the same direction, and turned in at the cottage gate.

“Mademoiselle Judith,” said Oldroyd; “a very pretty girl with a very ugly name. Hallo! We are in trouble.”

“I don’t know what’s come to you. Here’s your poor father so bad he can’t lift hand or foot, and you always running off to Mother Wattley’s or picking flowers. Flowers indeed! Better stop and mind your father.”

This in very much strident tones from the cottage whose gate they were entering; and then a sudden softening as Oldroyd and Alleyne darkened the doorway, and the nurse dropped a curtsey.

“Didn’t know you was so close, sir. I was only saying a word to Judith – oh, she’s gone.”

“How is Hayle to-day?” said Oldroyd, as the girl stepped out at the back door.

“Well, sir, thank you kindly, I think he’s better; he talks stronger like, and he took a basin of hare soup to-day, well, that he did, and it was nice and strong.”

“Hare soup, eh?” said Oldroyd, with a queer look at Alleyne.

“Yes, sir, hare soup; he said as how he was sick o’ rabbits, and Caleb Kent kindly brought in a fine hare for him, and – ”

She stopped short, looking guiltily at the young doctor, and two red spots came in her yellow sunken cheeks.

“You’re letting the cat – I mean the hare – out of the bag,” said Oldroyd drily. “One of Sir John Day’s hares?”

“Oh, sir!” faltered the woman, “it’s nothing to him; and I’m only the nurse.”

“There, I don’t want to know,” said Oldroyd. “Can I go up?”

“Oh yes, sir, please,” cried the woman, who was only too glad to change the conversation after her lapse, “you’ll find him nice and tidy.”

“Care to come and see my patient, Alleyne?” said Oldroyd.

“Thanks, yes, I may as well,” and he followed the doctor up into the low room, where the truth of the woman’s assertions were plainly to be seen. The wounded man, lying upon coarse linen that was exquisitely clean, while the partially covered boards were as white as constant scrubbing could make them.

“Well, Hayle, how are you going on? I’ve brought a friend of mine to see you.”

The man whose eyes and cheeks were terribly sunken, and who looked worn out with his late journey to the very gates of death, from which he was slowly struggling back, raised one big gnarled hand heavily to his forelock, and let it fall again upon the bed.

“Steady, sir, steady. Glad to see you, sir, glad to see him, sir. He’s welcome like. Sit you down, sir; sit you down.”

Alleyne took the stool that was nearest and sat down watching the man curiously, as Oldroyd examined his bandages, and then asked a few questions.

“You’re going on right enough,” he said at last. “Capitally.”

“But I’m so weak, sir,” said the great helpless fellow, piteously. “I’m feeble as a child. I can hardly just hold my hand to my head.”

“Well, what can you expect?” said Oldroyd. “You lost nearly every drop of blood in your body, and it will take time to build you up again – to fill you up again,” he added, smiling.

“Yes sir, of course, sir; but can’t you give me a bottle or two of nothing as will set me to rights? We’ll pay you, you know, sir, don’t you be afraid o’ that.”

“Oh, I’m not afraid of that,” said Oldroyd, smiling, “but I can give you nothing better than I am giving you. The best medicine you can have now is plenty of strong soup, the same as you had this morning.”

“Did she tell you I had soup this morning, sir?”

“Yes – hare soup,” said Oldroyd meaningly.

“Did that woman say hare soup, sir?”

“Yes, and that you were tired of rabbits. I say, Hayle, I ought to tell Sir John’s keepers.”

“Eh, but you won’t, sir,” said the man quietly.

“Why not?”

“’Cause you’re too much of a gen’leman, sir, and so would your friend be, or else you wouldn’t have brought him. She needn’t have let out about it, though. I’m lying helpless-like here, and they talk and do just as they like. Was my Judith downstairs, sir?”

“Yes,” said Oldroyd.

“That’s a comfort,” said the man, with a sigh of content. “Young, sir, and very pretty,” he added apologetically, to Alleyne; “makes me a bit anxious about her, don’t you see, being laid-by like. You’ll come and see me again soon, doctor?”

“Yes, and I must soon have a bottle or two of port wine for you. I can’t ask Sir John Day, can I?”

“No, sir, don’t ask he,” said the man, with a faint smile. “Let’s play as fair as we can. If you say I’m to have some wine, we’ll get it; but I’d a deal rayther have a drop of beer.”

“I daresay you would, my friend,” cried Oldroyd, smiling; “but no beer for a long time to come. Alleyne, would you mind going down now, and sending me up the nurse?”

Alleyne rose, and, going down, sent up the woman to find himself alone with the girl of whom they had been speaking.

Student though he was, the study of woman was one that had never come beneath Alleyne’s ken, and he found himself – for perhaps the first time in his life – interested, and wondering how it was that so handsome and attractive a girl could be leading so humble a cottage life as hers.

Judith, too, seemed attracted towards him, and once or twice she opened her lips and was about to speak, but a step overhead, or the movement of a chair, made her shrink away and begin busying herself in arranging chairs or the ornaments upon the chimney-piece, which she dusted and wiped.

“So you’ve been flower-gathering,” said Alleyne, to break a rather awkward silence.

“Yes, sir, and – ” but just then Oldroyd was heard speaking at the top of the stairs, and Judith seemed to shrink within herself as he came down.

“Ah, Miss Judith, you there? Well, your father is getting on splendidly. Take care of him. Ready, Alleyne?”

His companion rose, said good-morning to Judith, and stepped out, while Oldroyd obeyed a sign made by the girl, and stayed behind.

“Well,” he said, looking at her curiously.

“I’m so anxious about father, sir,” she said, in a low voice. “Now that he is getting better, will there be any trouble? I mean about the keepers, and – and” – she faltered – “the police.”

“No,” said Oldroyd, looking fixedly at the girl, till she coloured warmly beneath his stern gaze, “everything seems to have settled down, and I don’t think there is anything to fear for him. Let me speak plainly, my dear. Lookers on see most of the game.”

“I – I don’t understand you, sir,” she said, colouring.

“Then try to. It seems to me that, to use a strong expression, some one has been squared. There are friends at court. Now, take my advice: as soon as father is quite well, take him into your confidence, and persuade him to go quite away. I’m sure it would be better for you both. Good-day.”

The doctor nodded and went off after Alleyne, while Judith sat down to bury her face in her hands and sob as if her heart would break.

Volume Two – Chapter Twelve.

Venus more in the Field of View

Lucy’s life about this time was not a happy one. Mrs Alleyne was cold and distant, Moray was growing more silent day by day, taking exercise as a duty, working or walking furiously, as if eager to get the duty done, so as to be able to drown harassing thoughts in his studies; hence he saw little of, and said little to his sister. The major looked stern when he met her, and Lucy’s sensitive little bosom heaved when she noticed his distant ways. Sir John, too, appeared abrupt and distant, not so friendly as of old, or else she thought so; and certainly Glynne was not so cordial, seeming to avoid her, and rarely now sending over one of her old affectionate notes imploring her to come to lunch and spend the day.

“Philip Oldroyd always looks at me as if I were a school-girl,” Lucy used to cry impetuously when she was alone, “and as if about to scold me for not wanting to learn my lessons. How dare he look at me like that, just as if there was anything between us, and he had a right!”

Then Lucy would have a long cry and take herself to task for speaking of the doctor as Philip Oldroyd, and, after a good sob, feel better.

Rolph was the only one of her acquaintances who seemed to be pleasant with her, and his pleasantry she disliked, avoiding him when she went out for a walk, but generally finding him in the way, ready to place himself at her side, and walk wherever she did.

Lucy planted barbed verbal arrows in the young officer’s thick hide, but the only effect of these pungent little attacks was to tickle him. He was not hurt in the slightest degree. In fact he enjoyed it under the impression that Lucy admired him immensely, and was ready to fall at his feet at any time, and declare her love.

“She doesn’t know anything,” he had mused. “Her sleepy brother noticed nothing, and as for the doctor – curse the doctor, let him mind his own business, or I’ll wring his neck. I could,” he added thoughtfully, “and I would.”

“Bah! it’s only a bit of flirtation, and the little thing is so clever and sharp and piquant that she’s quite a treat after a course of mushrooms with the major, and pigs and turnips with Sir John. If Alleyne should meet us – well, I met his sister, Glynne’s friend, and we were chatting – about Glynne of course. And as to the doctor, well, curse the doctor, as aforesaid. I believe the beast’s jealous, and I’ll make him worse before I’m done.”

In Rolph’s musings about Lucy he used to call her “little pickles” and “the sauce.” Once he got as far as “Cayenne,” a name that pleased him immensely, making up his mind, what little he had, to call her by one of those epithets – some day – when they grew a little more warmly intimate.

On the other hand, when Lucy went out walking, it was with the stern determination to severely snub the captain, pleasant as she told herself it would be to read Philip Oldroyd a good severe lesson, letting him see that she was not neglected; and then for the moment all her promises were forgotten, till she was going home again, when the only consolation she could find for her lapse was that her intentions had been of the most stringent kind; that she could not help meeting the captain, and that she really had tried all she could to avoid him; while there was the satisfaction of knowing that she was offering herself up as a kind of sacrifice upon the altar of duty for her brother’s welfare.

“Sooner or later dear Glynne must find out what a wretch that Rolph is, and then I shall be blamed – she’ll hate me; but all will be made happy for poor Moray.”

The consequence of all this was that poor Lucy about this time felt what an American would term very “mean” and ashamed of herself; mingled with this, too, was a great deal of sentiment. She was going to be a martyr – she supposed that she would die, the fact being that Lucy was very sick – sick at heart, and there was only one doctor in the world who could put her right.

Of course the thoughts turn here to the magnates of Harley and Brook and Grosvenor Street, and of Cavendish Square, but it was none of these. The prescription that would cure Lucy’s ailment was of the unwritten kind: it could only be spoken. The doctor to speak it was Philip Oldroyd, and its effect instantaneous, and this Lucy very well knew. But, like all her kind, she had a tremendous antipathy to physic, and, telling herself that she hated the doctor and all his works, she went on suffering in silence like the young lady named Viola, immortalised by one Shakespeare, and grievously sick of the same complaint.