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Doctor Luttrell's First Patient

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Title: Doctor Luttrell's First Patient

Author: Rosa Nouchette Carey


        
Release date: October 4, 2007 [eBook #22883]
                Most recently updated: January 3, 2021

Language: English

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DOCTOR LUTTRELL'S FIRST PATIENT

by

ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY

Author of "Little Miss Muffet," "Cousin Mona,"
  "The Mistress of Brae Farm," "Esther," Etc.







[Frontispiece: "I hope you do not think I was wrong?"]



Philadelphia
J. B. Lippincott Company
1900

Copyright, 1896,
by
J. B. Lippincott Company.




_Contents._


CHAPTER I.

AT THE CORNER HOUSE


CHAPTER II.

THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER


CHAPTER III.

AUNT MADGE


CHAPTER IV.

DR. LUTTRELL'S FIRST PATIENT


CHAPTER V.

A VISIT TO GALVASTON HOUSE


CHAPTER VI.

"I REMIND YOU OF SOMEONE?"


CHAPTER VII.

BLOWING BUBBLES


CHAPTER VIII.

"'TIS A LOVE TOKEN, I RECKON"


CHAPTER IX.

THE CHRISTMAS GUEST


CHAPTER X.

A GENTLEMANLY TRAMP


CHAPTER XI.

THE NIGHT-BELL RINGS


CHAPTER XII.

GRETA


CHAPTER XIII.

FRESH COMPLICATIONS


CHAPTER XIV.

AN EVENTFUL DAY


CHAPTER XV.

"THEY WERE BOTH TO BLAME"


CHAPTER XVI.

BUSY DAYS


CHAPTER XVII.

PRODIGAL SONS


CHAPTER XVIII.

AUNT MADGE GIVES HER OPINION


CHAPTER XIX.

DAME FORTUNE SMILES


CHAPTER XX.

"SOMEBODY'S CRUTCH"


CHAPTER XXI.

SUNSHINE AND CLOUDS


CHAPTER XXII.

"YOU MUST NOT LOSE HEART"


CHAPTER XXIII.

"I HAVE COME TO STAY"


CHAPTER XXIV.

"NOT YET"




_Illustrations_


"I hope you do not think I am wrong?" . . . _Frontispiece_

"Oh, Marcus, how happy we are!"

"Olive, look what Mr. Gaythorne has given me"

Mr. Gaythorne sat in his great ebony chair

"It is beautiful--it is perfectly charming!"

"They both looked so comfortable and contented"




Doctor Luttrell's First Patient


CHAPTER I.

AT THE CORNER HOUSE.

"Seek not that the things which happen should happen as you
wish."--_Epictetus_.


There is an old adage, worn almost threadbare with continual use, "When
poverty looks in at the door, love flies out at the window," and,
doubtless, there is an element of truth in the saying; nevertheless,
though there were lines of care on Marcus Luttrell's face, and in the
strong sunlight the seams of his wife's black gown looked a little
shiny, there was still peace, and the patience of a great and enduring
affection in the corner house at Galvaston Terrace.

When the brass plate, glittering with newness, had been first affixed
to the door, Marcus Luttrell's heart had been sanguine with hope, and
he had brought his young _fiancée_ to see it.  The small, narrow house,
with its dark, square entry, its double parlours communicating with
folding-doors, and the corner room, that would do for a surgery, had
seemed to them both a most desirable abode.

Olivia, who prided herself on being unusually practical, pointed out
its numerous advantages with great satisfaction.  The side entrance in
Harbut Street, for instance, and the front room where patients would be
interviewed, and which had a window in Galvaston Terrace.

"It is so conspicuous, Marcus," she said, with legitimate pride in her
voice.  "No one can overlook it, it is worth paying a few pounds more
rent, instead of being jammed in between two terrace houses.  Harbut
Street is ever so much nicer than Galvaston Terrace, and the houses are
larger, and it is so convenient having those shops opposite."

Olivia was disposed to see everything in _couleur de rose_, but to most
people Galvaston Terrace would have appeared woefully dingy.  Two or
three of the houses had cards in the sitting-room windows, with
"Desirable apartments for a single gentleman" affixed thereon, and at
the farther end a French dressmaker eked out a slender income.

The Terrace had by no means a prosperous look, a little fresh paint and
cleaner blinds would have been improvements.  Nevertheless, people
lived out harmless lives there, and on the whole were tolerably
contented with their lot.

When Marcus Luttrell made that fatal mistake of marrying in haste and
repenting at leisure, things had not looked so badly with him.  He had
bought his partnership and had a little money in hand, and Olivia had
had sufficient for her modest trousseau.  How could either of them have
suspected that the partnership was a deceit and a fraud--that old Dr.
Slade had let Marcus in for a rotten concern--that no paying patients
would crowd the small dining-room--and that two years of professional
profits would be represented in shillings?  Now and then when he was
tired and discouraged Dr. Luttrell would accuse himself of rashness and
folly in no measured terms.

"Your Aunt Madge is right, Olive," he would say, "we have been a couple
of fools; but I was the biggest.  What business had I to tempt
Providence in this way?  I do believe when a man is in love he loses
his judgment; look at the life to which my selfishness has condemned
you.  You will be an old woman before your time, with the effort to
make a sixpence go as far as a shilling!  And there is Dot----"  And
here the young doctor sighed and frowned, but Olivia, who had plenty of
spirit, refused to be depressed.

"You took me from such a luxurious home, did you not, Marcus?" she
would say, with a genial laugh.  "A hard-working daily governess leads
such an enjoyable life, and it was so exhilarating and refreshing to
sit in one's lodgings of an evening, with no one to care if one were
tired and dull.  Yes, dear old boy, of course I was ever so much
happier without you and Dot to worry me----"  And, somehow, at these
cheering words the harassed frown on Marcus's brow relaxed.

Had he been so wrong after all.  How could he know that old Slade would
prove a rogue and a humbug; it would have been wiser to wait a little,
but then human nature is liable to make mistakes, and in spite of it
all, they had been so happy.  Olive was such a splendid companion, she
had brains as well as heart.  Yes, he had been a fool, but he knew that
under like circumstances many a man would have done the same.

He remembered the events that had led to their hasty marriage.  Olivia
had not long lost her mother, the widow's annuity had died with her,
and Olivia, who had only her salary as a daily governess in a large
family, had just moved into humbler lodgings.

He had gone round with some flowers and a book that he thought would
interest her, and as she came forward to greet him, he could see her
eyes were red and swollen.

"What is it, dear?" he had asked, kindly, and then the poor girl had
utterly broken down.

"Oh, Marcus, what shall I do?" she said, when her sobs would allow her
to speak.  "I cannot bear it; it is all so dull and miserable.  I am
missing mother and I am so tired, and the children have been so cross
all day."  And Olivia, whose nerves were on edge with the strain of
grief and worry, looked so pallid and woebegone that Marcus had been
filled with consternation.  Never had he seen his sweetheart in such
distress, and then it was that the suggestion came to him.

Why should they both be lonely?  Olivia could marry him and do her work
as well, and there need be no more dull evenings for either of them.

"You will trust me to make you as happy as I can, dearest," he said,
tenderly, as he pleaded for an early marriage.  And as Olivia listened
to him the sad burden seemed lifted from her heart.

"Are you quite sure we ought to do this, Marcus?" she had asked, a
little dubiously, for in spite of her youth she had plenty of good
sense, and then Marcus had been very ready with his arguments.

A doctor ought to be a married man, his house was too large for a
bachelor, and needed a mistress.  What was the use of Olivia paying for
lodgings when he wanted a wife to make him comfortable?  And if she
liked she could still go on with her teaching.

It was this last proviso that overcame Olivia's objections.  If she
could keep her situation she would be no expense to Marcus.  Her salary
was good, and until paying patients came she could subscribe towards
the housekeeping.

It was just one of those arrangements that look so promising and
plausible until fairly tried, but before many months had passed there
was a hitch--something out of gear in the daily machinery.

It was a dry summer, and Brompton is not exactly a bracing place.
Olivia began to flag a little, the long hours of teaching, the hurried
walks to and fro, tried her vigorous young frame.  The little maids who
followed each other in quick succession were all equally inefficient
and unreliable.  Marcus began to complain that such ill-cooked,
tasteless meals would in time impair their digestion.  The Marthas and
Annes and Sallies, who clumped heavily about the corner house, with
smudges on their round faces and bare red arms, had never heard of the
School of Cookery at South Kensington.  Olivia, fagged and weary,
looked ready to cry when she saw the blackened steak and unwholesome
chips set before Marcus.  Not one man in a thousand, she thought, would
have borne it all so patiently.

Then one hot oppressive evening the climax came.  Olivia, who had never
fainted in her life, found herself to her great astonishment lying on
the little couch by the open window with her face very wet, and Marcus
looking at her with grave professional eyes.

That night he spoke very plainly.  There must be no more teaching.
Olivia was simply killing herself, and he refused to sanction such
madness any longer.  In future he must be the only breadwinner.  Until
patients were obliging enough to send for him, they must just live on
their little capital.  Olivia must stay at home, and see after things
and take care of herself, or he would not answer for the consequences.

"You have your husband to consider," he said, in a masterful tone, but
how absurdly boyish he looked, as he stood on the rug, tossing back a
loose wave of fair hair from his forehead.  People always thought Dr.
Luttrell younger than he was in reality.  He was eight-and-twenty, and
Olivia was six years younger.  She was rather taller than her husband,
and had a slim erect figure.  She had no claims to beauty; her features
were too irregular, but her clear, honest eyes and sweet smile and a
certain effective dimple redeemed her from plainness, and the soft
brown hair waving naturally over the temples had a sunny gleam in it.

When baby Dot made her appearance--Dorothy Maud Luttrell, as she was
inscribed in the register--the young parents forgot their anxieties for
a time in their joy in watching their first-born.

Marcus left his books to devote himself to nursing his pale wife back
to health.  And as Olivia lay on the couch with her baby near her, and
feasted on the delicacies that Aunt Madge's thoughtfulness had
provided, or listened to Marcus as he read to her, it seemed to her, as
though the cup of her blessing were full.

"Oh, Marcus, how happy we are!" she would whisper, and Marcus would
stifle a sigh bravely.

[Illustration: "Oh, Marcus, how happy we are!"]

Alas! he knew the little capital was dwindling sadly--rent and taxes,
bread and cheese, and even the modest wages of a second Martha were
draining his purse too heavily.  He had plenty of poor patients, but no
one but the French dressmaker had yet sent for the late Dr. Slade's
partner.  It was then that those careworn lines came to the young
doctor's brow.

It was bitterly hard, for Marcus loved his profession, and had studied
hard.  The poor people whom he attended were devoted to him.

"He allus tells a body the truth," said old Widow Bates.  "I do hate a
fellow who truckles and minces his words like that Sparks.  Do you
suppose Jem Arkwright would have let his leg be cut off in that
lamb-like manner if it had been Benjamin Sparks to do it?

"I was down at their place, and I heard when Dr. Luttrell said, 'Now,
my man, you must just make up your mind, and be quick about it.  Will
you be a brave chap and part with this poor useless limb, or will you
leave your poor wife to bring up six fatherless children?  I am telling
you the truth, Jem.  If you will not consent to part with your leg,
there is no chance for you.'  Laws' sakes, you would have thought he
was a grey-headed old fellow to hear him; it kind of made one jump to
see his young, beardless face; but there, he was good to Jem Arkwright,
that he was.  Polly can't say enough for him.  She fairly cries if one
mentions his name.

"'I should have been Jem's widow but for Dr. Luttrell,' she said one
day.  'Why, before he came in Jem was lying there vowing "that he had
sooner die than part with his leg."  It was the thought of the little
uns that broke him.  My Jem always had a feeling heart.'"

And other folks, although they had not Widow Bates's garrulous tongue,
were ready enough to sing the doctor's praises.

When Dot was a year old and able to pull herself up by the help of her
mother's hand, things were no better at the corner house.  Olivia had
even consulted her Aunt Madge about the advisability of sending Martha
away and doing the work of the house herself.

"Martha is the best girl we have had yet," she said.  "Marcus owned
that yesterday.  She is rough, but her ways are nicer than Anne's or
Sally's, and she keeps herself clean; but then, Aunt Madge, she has
such a good appetite, and one cannot stint growing girls."

"I should keep her a little longer," was Aunt Madge's reply to this.
"It will only take the heart out of Marcus, knowing that you have to
scrub and black-lead stoves, and he is discouraged enough already.
When Dot is able to run about, you may be able to dispense with
Martha's services," and Olivia returned a reluctant assent to this.

But her conscience was not quite satisfied.  Even Aunt Madge, she
thought, hardly knew how bad things really were.

Mrs. Broderick was a chronic invalid, and never went beyond the two
rooms that made her little world.  Most people would have considered it
a dull, narrow life, and one hardly worth living; but the invalid would
have contradicted this.

Madge Broderick had learned the secret of contentment; she had lived
through great troubles--the loss of the husband she had idolised, and
her only little child.  Since then acute suffering that the doctors had
been unable to relieve had wasted her strength.  Nevertheless, there
was a peaceful atmosphere in the sunshiny room, where she lay hour
after hour reading and working with her faithful companion Zoe beside
her.

Zoe was a beautiful brown-and-white spaniel, with eyes that were almost
human in their soft beseechingness, and Mrs. Broderick often lamented
that she could not eulogise his doggish virtues as Mrs. Browning had
immortalised her Flush.

Olivia was devoted to her Aunt Madge; they had a mutual admiration for
each other's character, and her sister's child was dear to Mrs.
Broderick's heart, and perhaps the saddest hours she ever spent now
were passed in thinking over the young couple's future.

"I was wrong," she would say to herself, with a painful contraction of
the brow.  "I said too little at the time to discourage their marriage;
if I had been firm and reasoned with the child, she would have listened
to me.  Livy is always so manageable, but I was a romantic old goose!
And then she was in love, poor dear!  And now--oh, it breaks one's
heart to see their young anxious faces!  I know so well what Marcus
feels; he is ready to go out into the roads and break stones if he can
only keep a roof over his wife's head."  And there were tears in Madge
Broderick's eyes as she took up her work.




CHAPTER II.

THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER.

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


Young Mrs. Luttrell stood at the window one November afternoon,
buttoning her gloves in an absent and perfunctory manner, as she looked
out at the slushy road and greasy pavement.  There was a crinkle on her
smooth broad forehead, and an uneasy expression in her eyes--as though
some troublesome thought had obtruded itself--presently the crinkle
deepened and widened into a frown, and she walked impatiently to the
fireplace, where a black, uninviting fire smouldered in a cheerless
sort of way, and took up the poker in rather an aggressive manner, then
shook her head, as she glanced at the half-empty coal-scuttle.

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

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

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

She must do without her new pair of gloves, that was all, and here
Olivia looked disconsolately at her worn finger-tips; she could ink the
seams and use her old muff, and no one would notice; what was the use
of buying new gloves, when her hands would soon be as red and rough as
Martha's.  Olivia was just a little vain of her hands; they were not
small, but the long slender fingers with almond-shaped nails were full
of character, and Marcus had often praised them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Martha gave her usual broad grin when her mistress entered; the little
handmaid adored her master and mistress and Dot.  During her rare
holiday she always entertained her mother and brothers and sisters with
wonderful descriptions of her mistress's cleverness and Miss Baby's
ways.

Martha had eleven brothers and sisters, and the house in Somers Row was
not a luxurious abode.  Her mother took in washing, and eleven brothers
and sisters of all ages, and of every variety of snub-nose, made any
sort of privacy impossible.  Nevertheless, on her previous holiday, as
Martha, or Patty, as they called her at home, sat in her best blue
merino frock, with her youngest sister on her lap and a paper-bag of
sugar-sticks for distribution to the family, there were few happier
girls to be found anywhere.

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

"You are a good girl, Patty," returned her mother, winking away the
moisture in her eyes, as she went on with her ironing.  "Amabel, don't
you be trampling on Patty's best dress, there's a good little lass.
Well, as I was saying, Patty, only the children do interrupt so.
There, Joe and Ben, just take your sugar-sticks and be off to play.  I
think I have found a nice little place for Susan.  She is to sleep at
home, but will have all her meals and half-a-crown a week, and the lady
will teach her everything; that is pretty fair for a beginning, and as
father says, the money will just find her in shoe-leather and aprons.
Father's looking out for a place for Joe now."

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

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

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

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

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

Her unusual pessimism had a moment's distraction, for as she passed the
print-shop, at the corner of Harbut Street, she saw her mysterious old
gentleman standing still on the pavement fixedly regarding a small
oil-painting.

Olivia had a good view of the lean, cadaverous face and peaked white
beard; the heavy grey eyebrows seemed to beetle over the dark sunken
eyes.

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

It was a small painting of the Prodigal Son, but was evidently by no
amateur, the face of both father and son were admirably portrayed.  The
strong Syrian faces were mellowed by the ruddy gleams of sunset.  A
tame kid was gambolling behind them, and two women were grinding corn,
with the millstone between them.  On the flat white roof of the house,
another woman had just laid aside her distaff in a hurry.  The father's
arms with their gold bracelets were clasping the gaunt, sharp shoulders
of the starving youth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then came alleviation and the lull that resembles peace; the pain was
no longer so acute; the disease had reached a stage when there would be
days and even weeks of tolerable comfort; then Madge courageously set
herself to make the most of her life.

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

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

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




CHAPTER III.

AUNT MADGE.

"It is more delightful and more honourable to give than
receive."--_Epicurus_.


Most people thought it a strange thing that Mrs. Broderick spoke so
constantly of her husband.  Mrs. Tolman, the Vicar's wife, who was a
frequent visitor, had been scandalised more than once, and had
expressed herself rather strongly on the subject to her husband.

"I know you think very highly of poor Mrs. Broderick, Stephen, and so
do I," she remarked one day.  "Very few women would bear things in that
quiet, uncomplaining way, and the amount of work she gets through is
astonishing; but that perpetual dragging in of her husband's name seems
to me such bad taste."

"Upon my word, Isabella, I cannot say that I agree with you."  And the
Vicar straightened himself on the rug in his favourite attitude.  He
was a heavy, ponderous man, with an expression of shrewd good sense on
his face that won people's confidence.  "I wish other women were as
faithful to their husband's memory, that flighty little Mrs. Martin,
for example."

"My dear Stephen, what an absurd idea!  Fancy talking of Lydia Martin,
every one knows she is making a dead set at Mr. Germaine, although poor
Jack Martin has hardly been dead a year.  She is Mrs. Broderick's exact
opposite.  Please do not misunderstand me in this tiresome way," and
here Mrs. Tolman frowned slightly.  "It is the manner in which Mrs.
Broderick speaks of her husband that offends my tastes.  In my
opinion"--compressing her lips as she spoke--"our departed dear ones
are sacred, and should not be mentioned in a secular manner."

At the word "secular" there was a twinkle in the Vicar's eyes, though
he held his peace.  And to tell the truth, Mrs. Tolman had been unable
to find the expression she needed.

"But with Mrs. Broderick it is 'Fergus here' and 'Fergus there,' just
as though he were alive and in the next room, and she was expecting him
in every moment.  Sometimes in the twilight it makes me quite creepy to
hear her speaking in that sprightly voice, just as though she were
making believe that he heard her."

"Poor soul!" was the Vicar's answer to this; but he was used to keeping
his thoughts to himself--he and Mrs. Broderick understood each other
perfectly.  She had not a firmer friend in the world, unless it was her
kind physician, Dr. Randolph.  "Poor soul!" he repeated when his wife
in silent dudgeon had retired from the room.

"It is not likely that Isabella would understand her; Mrs. Broderick is
the bravest and the brightest woman I know, and yet the furnace was
heated sevenfold for her.  Make believe that he is alive!  Why, he has
never been dead to her!  It is her vivid faith and her vivid
imagination that has helped her to live all these years instead of
lying there a crushed wreck for people to patronise and pity."

And here again there was a wicked little twinkle in the Vicar's eyes.
Did he not know his Isabella, and how good she was to those who would
allow her to advise and lecture them.

"Mrs. Broderick has just laughed and put her foot down, that is why
Isabella is always complaining of her.  They have not exactly hit it
off."  And here the Vicar laughed softly as he sat down to consider his
sermon.

"Aunt Madge, how cosy you look!" exclaimed Olivia, as she stood on the
threshold of the warm firelit room; and then a swift transition of
thought carried her back to the dismal little dining-room at Galvaston
Terrace, with its black smouldering fire, and the damp clinging to the
window-panes, and an involuntary shiver crossed her as she knelt down
beside her aunt's couch.

"My dear Livy, you are a perfect iceberg!" exclaimed Mrs. Broderick.
"No, you shall not kiss me again until you are warmer.  Sit down in
that easy-chair close to the fire where I can see you, and take that
handscreen for the good of your complexion.--Now, Deb, bring the
tea-things, like a good soul, for Mrs. Luttrell has made a poor dinner."

"How could you guess that, Aunt Madge?  Are you a witch or a magician?"
asked Olivia, in her astonished voice.  It was pure guess-work on Mrs.
Broderick's part, but as usual her keen wits had grazed the truth.

Olivia, who had a healthy girlish appetite, had risen from the midday
meal almost as hungry as when she had sat down.  The dish of hashed
mutton had been small, and if Olivia had eaten her share, Martha would
have fared badly.  A convenient flower-pot, a gift from Aunt Madge, had
prevented Marcus from seeing his wife's plate.  Olivia, who had dined
off potatoes and gravy, was already faint from exhaustion.  As usual,
she confessed the truth.

"It was my fault, Aunt Madge," she said, basking like a blissful
salamander in the warm glow.  "I ought to have known the meat would not
go round properly; but happily Marcus did not notice, or else there
would have been a fuss.  He and Martha dined properly, and I mean to
enjoy my tea."

But Mrs. Broderick's only answer was to ring her handbell.

"Deb, boil two of those nice new-laid eggs that Mrs. Broughton sent me.
Mrs. Luttrell has had no dinner; if the scones are ready we will have
tea at once."  And as Deborah nodded and vanished, she shook her head a
little sadly.  "Olive dear, it won't pay; you are not the sort of
person who can safely starve.  I thought there was something wrong
about you when you came in; you had a peaky, under-fed look.  Oh, I
thought so!" as the tears rose to Olivia's eyes.  "Now, I am not going
to say another word until you have had your tea.  Look at Zoe; she
thinks you are in trouble about something, and wants to lick your face.
Is not the sympathy of a dumb creature touching?  They don't understand
what is wrong, but they see plainly that their human friend is unhappy.
Come to me, Zoe, and I will explain matters.  It is not much of a
trouble.  Olive is not really miserable; she is only cold and hungry
and weak, and wants petting and cosseting."

"I think I am rather unhappy, Aunt Madge," returned Olivia, in a sad
voice.  "Things are getting worse, and Marcus looks so careworn; he was
talking in his sleep last night.  We have so little money left--only
just enough for six months' rent and the coals, and ever so little for
housekeeping, and no patients come, and now I have made up my mind to
tell him to-night that Martha must go."

"My dear Olivia, we talked that over a few weeks ago, and we decided
then that you had better keep her."

"Yes, Aunt Madge, I know; but indeed, indeed we cannot afford her
food--these growing girls must be properly fed, and the amount of bread
and butter she eats would astonish Deb----" and here Olivia heaved a
harassed sigh.

"Well, well, we will talk it over again"--and then Deb brought in the
tea-things, and the scones, and the new-laid eggs, and as Mrs.
Broderick sipped her tea it did her kind heart good to see how her
niece enjoyed the good things before her.

"There now, you feel ever so much better," she said, when the meal was
finished.  "Now we can talk comfortably.  I have been thinking over
what you have said, and I suppose you are right from your point of
view, and that if you cannot afford Martha's food she must go, but I
have been thinking of Marcus.  He is at the turning-point of his
career.  Everything depends on his making a practice.  When patients
send for him, and they will send for him by-and-by, do you think it
will look well for his wife to open the door to them."

"But, Aunt Madge----"

"Olive, you were always a good, honest little girl, and you have grown
up an honest woman; you want to do your duty and slave for Marcus and
Dot, and you have begun nobly by starving yourself until you are on the
verge of an hysterical attack, but we must think of Marcus.  Martha
must not go, at least, not until the winter is over.  I have been
saving a few pounds for your Christmas present I meant you to have had
a new dress and jacket, and a few other little things you needed; but
if you like to pay Martha's wages with it until Easter you can please
yourself--only take it and say no more--what, crying again!  What
nonsense, as though I may not give my own niece a little present."

"It is the goodness and the kindness," returned Olivia, with a low sob.
"Aunt Madge, why are you so good to me?  You have saved all this, and
you have so little to spare--as though I do not know what a small
income you really have."

"It is a very respectable income, and my dear Fergus worked hard to
make it.  I never professed to be a rich woman, but I have everything I
want.  If people would only cut their coat by their cloth, as Fergus
used to say, there would be less distress in the world; well, my wants
are few; I have no milliner's bills;" here there was a gleam of fun in
the invalid's eyes.  "No smart bonnets or fashionable mantles needed at
this establishment; only just a cosy tea-gown now and then when the old
one is too shabby.  Come, Olive, are you not going to count your
money?"  And then Olivia emptied the contents of the little purse on
her lap.

"Well?" as the slim fingers sorted the gold and silver; "will there be
enough for Martha's wages until Easter?"

"Yes, indeed, Aunt Madge, and there will be some over.  I can buy the
stuff for baby's winter pelisse without troubling Marcus, and do you
know," knitting her brows in careful calculation, "I do believe that
with a little contrivance and management I can get some new trimming
for my Sunday hat, and a pair of chevrette gloves; good chevrette
gloves are dear, but they wear splendidly, and a pair would last me
most of the winter--yes," her eyes brightening, "I am sure I could do
it; it does fret Marcus so to see me shabby."

Mrs. Broderick nodded in a sympathising way--she knew the joy of these
small economies and contrivances; the little purse of savings had not
been gathered together without some self-denial; but as she saw the
lovely rainbow smile on Olivia's face, she felt that she had her reward.

"This is my red-letter day," she said, quaintly; "it is always a
red-letter day when I can really help someone.  I have my black-letter
days when I can do nothing special, when it is all noughts and crosses
in my diary,  I have had my Christmas treat beforehand, and I shall be
quite happy till bed-time thinking about Dot's pelisse and the new
hat-trimming; by-the-bye, what colour is the pelisse to be?"

"Blue, baby is so fair, and blue suits her best; I think I shall get
some cotton-backed velvet just to trim it;--I must not dream of fur."

"How would miniver look round the cape and neck?  I have two or three
yards in very good condition.  Deb picked it off my wadded satin mantle
years ago.  I was keeping it for some special occasion.  If you buy a
really good cashmere, and trim it with my old miniver, Dot will have a
grand pelisse," and then Mrs. Broderick hunted in her key-basket for a
certain key, and instructed her niece to unlock a drawer in her
wardrobe.

It was growing late by this time, and Olivia was obliged to take her
leave.  Marcus had promised to be back by seven, and it was six o'clock
now; but as she walked briskly through the quiet streets she felt as
light-hearted as a child.

What a happy evening she and Marcus would spend!  There would be no
need now to tell him about Martha, or to beg him to give her the few
shillings for Dot's pelisse; he should have a nice tea.  Aunt Madge had
made her take a couple of the new-laid eggs and a pot of Deb's
delicious marmalade home with her, and she knew how Marcus would enjoy
the little treat.

"Dear Aunt Madge, how I love her?  I think she is the very best woman
in the world;" but here Olivia gave a surprised start.  She had reached
the print-shop at the corner of Harbut Street, and in the strong glare
of the gas-lamp she distinctly saw the tall, bent form of her
mysterious neighbour.

He was coming out of the shop, and walking stiffly and with difficulty
in the direction of his house.  She had never known him out so late
before.  His afternoon walk was always timed for him to be back by
four.  She glanced at the shop window, but there was no picture of "The
Prodigal Son" to be seen.

Had he bought it?  Was this the reason why he was out so late?  Olivia
felt a little anxious as she noticed how feebly he walked; the greasy
pavements were rather slippery, and Galvaston Terrace was not a
well-lighted thoroughfare.  Perhaps it was nonsense, but she would not
enter her house until she had seen him safely across the road, and
within the lion-guarded portals.

It was just kindly womanly instinct, but all her life long Olivia was
glad that she had yielded to that impulse.  She was still standing upon
the step, and the old man was nearly across the road, when she saw him
slip.  A piece of orange-peel on the curb had escaped him in the
darkness, and he had put his foot on the slippery substance.  Olivia
gave a quick exclamation as she saw him try to recover his balance, and
then fall forward rather heavily.  No one was passing just then, and
happily the road was clear of vehicles.  Olivia ran across and picked
up his stick, then she took him by the arm and helped him to rise.

"I trust you have not hurt yourself," she said, anxiously.  "Please do
not be afraid of leaning on me, I am very strong.  Ah," as the old man
uttered a groan, "you have injured yourself in some way.  The curb is
rather steep just here."

"It is my ankle, but I must get home somehow.  You are very good,
madam; if you will allow me to take your arm, I think I can manage
those few yards.  I live there," pointing to the grim doorway.

"Yes, I know: Mr. Gaythorne, of Galvaston House; we are neighbours of
yours, and I have seen you come out of the house frequently.  Shall I
ring the bell for you, and perhaps"--hesitating a little, as though she
were taking a liberty--"you will allow me to go as far as the hall-door
with you."

But to her alarm the old man suddenly stood still.  It was pitchy dark
under the overhanging trees, and only a faint gleam from a large bow
window showed her the length of the garden-path that they would have to
traverse.

"I can do no more," he said, faintly; "I believe I have broken my
ankle.  Mrs. Crampton and the maids must find some way of getting me
in.  Perhaps, madam, you will be so good as to explain the matter to
them.  I see the door is open," and Olivia at once left him and went up
to the house.

"Your master has met with a slight accident," she said to the
astonished maid.  "He has fallen and hurt his foot, and it is quite
impossible for him to walk up to the house.  He mentioned Mrs.
Crampton; perhaps you will ask her what is to be done," and the girl, a
good-natured, buxom country lass, at once ran off.

Olivia stood patiently for a few minutes.  The hall with its handsome
rugs and blazing fire looked delightfully inviting.  A lean, old hound,
stretched on a tiger skin, turned its head and then rose stiffly and
came towards her.  As its slender nose touched her dress, she saw the
poor thing was blind.  The next moment a cheerful-looking, grey-haired
woman hurried towards her, followed by two maids.

"What is it that Phoebe tells me, ma'am; Mr. Gaythorne has met with an
accident?  Times out of number I have begged and prayed him not to go
out alone; but he was not to be persuaded."

"He is down there by the gate, the trees hide him," returned Olivia,
hastily.  "I think it would be best to take an arm-chair, if you think
we could carry him in.  He is in dreadful pain and cannot walk a step
farther."

"Phoebe, tell cook to light the lantern, and then you two girls bring
one of the study chairs--the lantern first, mind.

"Now, ma'am, perhaps we had better find my master, and the lasses will
follow us.  There are four of us, and Mr. Gaythorne is not so very
heavy, and we will have him on the library couch in no time."




CHAPTER IV.

DR. LUTTRELL'S FIRST PATIENT.

"Sudden the worst, turns the best to the brave,"--_Browning_.


Olivia felt as if she were dreaming as she followed the little
procession down the dark garden-path.  Once she pinched her wrist
slightly to assure herself that she was awake.  Mrs. Crampton held the
lantern, and the cook and the two maids carried the arm-chair, with
jolting uneven footsteps, that brought a suppressed groan to Mr.
Gaythorne's lips.  As they lifted him on the couch he looked so white
that Olivia thought he was going to faint, and begged the housekeeper
to give him some wine; he was evidently in severe pain.

"It would be better not to touch the foot until the doctor comes," she
observed.  And then Mrs. Crampton looked perplexed.

"My master does not hold with doctors, ma'am.  I don't remember one
ever crossing the threshold since poor Miriam had typhoid fever.  The
foot is swelling already, and it will be a job to get the boot off.
Ah, I thought so"--as Mr. Gaythorne winced and motioned her away--"he
will be afraid of one touching it!"

"My husband lives just opposite--the corner house with the red lamp in
Harbut Street.  He is a doctor and very clever, and I am nearly sure
that he is in just now."  Olivia spoke a little breathlessly and
anxiously; then she bent over the old man.

"If Mrs. Crampton does not know of another doctor would you mind one of
the maids running across the road for Dr. Luttrell?  You are suffering
so much, and your foot ought to be treated at once.  It is impossible
for any one to know if it be only a sprain until the boot is removed.
You fell so heavily that perhaps a small bone might be broken."

"Yes--send--send," returned the invalid, irritably.  "Clear the room,
Crampton.  You know that I hate to have a parcel of women round
me.--There is no need for you to go, madam"--with an attempt at
civility as Olivia was about to withdraw at this plain speaking.  "Give
the lady a chair, Phoebe."

But Olivia, who had excellent tact, only smiled pleasantly, and shook
her head.

"I think it will be best for me to send the doctor across, there is
nothing that I can do for you until he comes."

She took the old man's hand as she spoke and pressed it gently.

"I am so sorry to leave you in such pain, but I hope you will soon be
relieved.  Perhaps you will not mind my inquiring another day, but a
stranger is only in the way to-night."

Olivia's soft, well-modulated voice was so full of kindly sympathy,
that Mr. Gaythorne opened his weary eyes again.

"Thank you," was all he said; but he watched her keenly as she crossed
the long room.

Olivia walked so quickly that she was almost out of breath when she
reached her own door.  The dining-room looked cold and comfortless.
Martha was on her knees before the fireplace trying to revive the
blackened embers with the help of the kitchen bellows, and Dr.
Luttrell, with a tired face and puckered brow, was watching the
proceedings somewhat impatiently.  A tallow candle was guttering
uncomfortably on the table.

"Is the fire out?  Oh, Marcus, I am so sorry, but Martha and I will
soon put things to rights.  Will you go across to Galvaston House at
once, please?"--and here Olivia's voice was full of suppressed
excitement.  "Mr. Gaythorne has slipped against the curb and hurt his
foot; he is in great pain.  I have been helping him, and then I said I
would send you.  I have left the gate open so you can just go up to the
door."

Marcus listened to these details with an astonished face; then he
caught up his black bag and nodded acquiescence.  The tired frown left
his face, and he moved away with his quiet, professional step.

Olivia watched him from the doorstep.  As she closed the door after
him, she could have clapped her hands with sheer delight and
excitement.  It was her doing that Marcus had his first patient.  Those
foolish maids would never have thought of sending for him.  Dot was
awake and singing to herself in her usual chuckling fashion in the
firelight, but Olivia had no time to play with her pet.

"The bellows are no good, Martha," she said, quickly.  "You must just
fetch a bundle of sticks and a newspaper, and relay the fire, while I
kindle the lamp and set the table for tea; the room feels like a vault."

"There is a good fire in the kitchen, ma'am, if you want to make
toast," observed Martha, rising reluctantly from her knees; "I have
been ironing Miss Baby's pinnys."  Olivia, who was drawing the heavy
curtain across the window, was relieved to hear this.

In another quarter of an hour the little room wore a more cheerful
aspect.  The sticks crackled and blazed lustily; the green-shaded lamp
diffused a mellow light.  The tea-tray was set and the plate of French
toast was frizzling gently on a brass trivet.  At the sound of her
master's footstep Martha had orders to fill up the teapot and boil the
eggs.

After this Olivia played with Dot, and undressed her, and then brought
her in to say good-night to her father.  But she waxed sleepy long
before he let himself in with his latch-key.

Marcus paused on the threshold a moment as though something struck him.
Olivia's face looked fair and sweet as she sat in her low chair with
the sleepy child in her arms.  She put back her head with a soft
questioning smile as he bent down to kiss her face.

"Dot is nearly asleep, but I had not the heart to put her in her cot
until you had seen her; tea is quite ready, and Martha is boiling some
new-laid eggs.  Aunt Madge has sent you, too, a pot of her home-made
marmalade, because she knows how fond you are of it.  Sit down and
begin, I shall not be a moment," and Olivia's voice was so full of
suppressed excitement, that Marcus laughed as he drew his chair to the
table; he was tired and hungry, but he no longer felt impatient and
depressed.

"Now tell me everything," she exclaimed, when she came back.  "What
have you done?  Was the foot very bad?  Will you have to go to
Galvaston House again?"

"Rather!" returned Marcus; "it is a pretty bad sprain, I can tell you.
Why, I should not be surprised if Mr. Gaythorne is laid up for the next
two or three weeks; he is not in good condition and the shaking and
fright have upset him.  He will want good nursing and plenty of
attention, as I told his housekeeper.  I am going again early in the
morning."

"And was he civil to you?  Mrs. Crampton says he hates doctors," and
Olivia's tone was a trifle anxious.

"Well, he was a bit grumpy at first, but I had my work to do, and took
no notice, but when I had helped him upstairs and put him comfortable
for the night, he waxed a shade more gracious and thanked me quite
civilly.  I fancy he is a character and has lived so long alone that he
has grown morose and unsociable.  That blind hound of his followed us
upstairs and would not leave him.  Did you notice him, Livy?"

"Yes; and is it not a nice house, Marcus?  That library is a beautiful
room.  All those hundreds of well-bound books, and the massive oak
furniture.  I had not time to notice things, but I could not help
feeling how deliciously soft and warm the carpets felt to one's feet,
and then those lovely rugs and skins in the hall."

"His bedroom was just as luxurious.  Mr. Gaythorne is evidently a rich
man, though he keeps no carriage.  Mrs. Crampton told me so.  He is
very fond of flowers; there is a sort of conservatory on the first
floor full of beautiful plants, and an alcove where he can sit and
enjoy them.  I could not help stopping a moment to admire them, but
Mrs. Crampton did not invite me to go in.  You may depend upon it the
old gentleman is a strict martinet, and rules his household with a rod
of iron.  Mrs. Crampton seems a good creature, but he spoke pretty
sharply to her once or twice."

"But he was in such pain, Marcus."

"Yes, my dear, I know that.  Oh, by-the-bye, he sent his compliments to
you.  'I am greatly indebted to Mrs. Luttrell, and I trust that I shall
soon have an opportunity of thanking her properly for her kind
helpfulness.'  There, Livy, now we shall hear no more of the Nihilist
or the Roman priest."

Dr. Luttrell was in spirits; it was easy to see that.  The first
patient, the first brief, the first book--aye, and the first love.
What a halo remains round them!

Our first-fruits may be immature, unripe, but to us they have a goodly
flavour, a subtle, sweet aroma of their own.  All through his
successful life Dr. Luttrell will look back to this evening as the
turning-point of his career, when; he stood cold and tired watching
Martha's bellows, and his wife's voice with a triumphant ring in it had
called to him from the threshold.

Marcus's first piece of good luck had so absorbed them that it was some
time before Olivia remembered to tell him about Aunt Madge's present.
Marcus forgot to go on with his tea when he saw the little heap of
coins in his wife's hand.  Martha's wages, Dot's pelisse, and even the
gloves and new hat-trimming were all duly canvassed.  When Marcus said,
abruptly, "Aunt Madge is a trump," his glistening eyes were eloquent
enough.  They had so much to discuss that it was nearly bedtime before
he offered to go on with the book he was reading aloud, but after all
they were neither in the mood for other people's stories.

In youth life is so interesting.  No chapters of past memories, no wide
experiences are so beguiling and absorbing.  "Oh, we lived then."  How
often we hear that phrase, as the old man looks back over a long life,
to the time when lad's love filled his days with sunshine.

When Marcus lay awake that night there was no deadly coldness at his
heart, no lurking demon of despondency, waiting for the small dark
hours to assail him.  On the contrary, hope with seraph wings fanned
him blissfully.  Marcus Luttrell was young, but he was no coward.  For
two years he had waited patiently until the tide should turn.  "Wait
till the clouds roll by," he used to say, cheerily, but only his wife
guessed how he was really losing heart, as day after day and month
after month passed and no paying patients presented themselves at the
corner house at Galvaston Terrace.

Olivia was at the window the following morning with Dot in her arms.
As Dr. Luttrell, with his shabby black bag crossed the road, he looked
back once, and Dot kissed her dimpled hand to him.  Olivia, who admired
her husband with all her honest girlish heart, watched eagerly until
the slight, well-built figure passed between the stone lions.

"If he were only a little older-looking," she thought, regretfully, but
his smooth face and fair hair gave him a boyish look.

It was absurd, of course, but she could settle to nothing until he came
back; but Marcus, who had a bad accident case on his mind, was in too
great a hurry to satisfy his wife's curiosity.  "The foot was going on
as well as he expected, but Mr. Gaythorne was unable to leave his bed.
He was going again in the evening, and now he must be off to the model
lodging-house to see if the poor fellow had pulled through the night."

Olivia had planned out her morning.  She had her marketing to do, and
her purchases to make.  Then it was only right to go round and tell
Aunt Madge of the wonderful piece of good fortune that had befallen
them.

Mrs. Broderick was unfeignedly pleased.  "Still, Olive," she remarked,
with commendable prudence, "one swallow does not make a summer."

"No, Aunt Madge, of course not; but, as Marcus says, one patient brings
others.  Galvaston House is a big place, and when the neighbours see
him going in and out, it will be a sort of testimonial; besides, I
shall quote Deb's favourite proverb, 'Every mickle makes a muckle.'
Now I really must go, for I want to cut out Dot's pelisse."

"And the dinner, Olive; are you sure it will go round to-day?"

Then Olivia laughed in a shamefaced way.

"Yes, indeed; I have been dreadfully extravagant, and we are going to
have steaks and chips because it is Marcus's favourite dish, and Martha
does it so well.  There is a whole pound of steak and just a little
over.  I saw it cut myself, and it was such good weight."  And
hesitating a little, "There are currant dumplings too."

"Come--this is feasting indeed!"

But Aunt Madge smiled a little sadly when she found herself alone.

"Does Olive half realise how happy she is!" she said to herself.  "She
is a rich woman in spite of all her poverty and cares.  When one has
youth and love and health and a good conscience, every day is a feast
and a delight.  One day Marcus will drive in his carriage and pair.  He
is a clever fellow and there is real grit in him, and people will find
it out, they always do.  And Olive will wear silk dresses, and get
stout with prosperity and good living; but I doubt if she will be quite
as happy as she is to-day--cutting out Dot's pelisse, and enjoying her
day-dreams."

And very probably Mrs. Broderick was right.  Marcus was more
communicative that evening when he returned from his second visit to
Galvaston House.  Mr. Gaythorne was not exactly an ideal patient; he
had a will and a temper of his own, and already his opinion clashed
with his doctor's.

Marcus had laid great stress on perfect rest.  He wished his patient to
remain in bed for the next two or three days, but Mr. Gaythorne
perversely refused to do anything of the kind; he would put on his
dressing-gown and lie on the couch.  He hated bed in the daytime--it
made him nervous, and spoilt his night's sleep.

"I shall have to give in to him," went on Marcus, a little irritably.
"If I were in good practice I should just throw up the case.  'My good
sir,' I should say, 'if you will not follow my directions it will be
useless for me to prescribe for you.  My professional reputation is at
stake, and I cannot stand by and see you retard your cure.'  Can't you
fancy me saying it, Livy?"--and Marcus tossed back his wave of hair in
his old boyish way.

"Yes, dear; but people will soon find out what a splendid doctor you
are; and so that poor glazier in the Models will recover, you think?"

"Yes, I hope so; the chances are in his favour, poor chap; it was hard
lines crashing through the roof of that conservatory.  If I had not
been on the spot he would have bled to death before they could have got
him to a hospital.  You might go and see them, Livy; they are decent
people.  She is a pleasant, hard-working young woman, and they have two
little children, and the place is as clean as possible.  I told Mr.
Gaythorne about them just to amuse him, but he only grunted and looked
bored.  By-the-way, you are right in one of your surmises--he has
bought your favourite picture of the Prodigal Son.  It was on a chair
beside his bed, and he consulted me as to where he could have it hung.
I was going to suggest over the mantel-piece, but then I saw there was
a large picture there with a silk curtain over it."

"That must be his wife's picture, Marcus.  How nice of him to have
curtains over it!"

"Very nice if we could be sure that Mr. Gaythorne has been married and
had a wife," he returned, a little dryly; "but I should not be
surprised to find that he was an old bachelor; he is far too fussy and
precise for a widower.  But, my dear child, we are getting into very
gossiping ways, and I must really get on with that book Aunt Madge lent
us."  And then Olivia consented to hold her tongue and let him read
aloud to her as usual.




CHAPTER V.

A VISIT TO GALVASTON HOUSE.

"He who knows how to speak knows also when to speak."--_Plutarch_.


The next morning as Olivia sat at work with Dot on the rug at her feet,
playing with a limp furry monkey, over which she was gurgling and
cooing like a baby dove, Dr. Luttrell entered the room; there was a
pleased look on his face.

"Olive," he said, "look what Mr. Gaythorne has given me for poor Jack
Travers," and he held a five-pound note before his wife's eyes.  "Don't
you think we owe him a handsome apology for calling him a miser?  it
does not do to judge by appearances in this world; Mr. Gaythorne is
eccentric, and a trifle cantankerous, but he is not stingy."

[Illustration: "Olive, look what Mr. Gaythorne has given me."]

"Jack Travers! is that the poor man in the Models?  Oh, Marcus, how
splendid of him to give all that; it will be quite a fortune to the
poor things."

"Yes, it will pay their rent until Travers gets about again; he is not
going to die this journey.  Was it not liberal of the old fellow? but
if you had only seen the way he gave it to me, as though he were
ashamed of the whole thing.

"'That is for the man you told me about last night,' he said, in quite
a grumpy voice; and he had hardly seemed as though he had listened
yesterday; and he would not let me thank him, he turned testy at once;
by-the-bye, Livy, he wants you to go and see him; you have evidently
won his heart, my dear.  'If Mrs. Luttrell has half an hour's leisure I
shall be pleased to see her,' those were his very words."

"I hope you told him that it would be rather difficult to find leisure
with all my numerous engagements," returned Olivia, saucily, "but that
I would do my best for him.  How many callers have we had since we were
married, Marcus? let me see, the Vicar and Mrs. Tolman, oh, and one day
Mrs. Tolman brought a friend.  I remember how excited I was that
afternoon, and that horrid little Sarah Jane had her sleeves rolled up
to her elbows when she opened the door, and I dared not offer them tea
because I knew she would never have had boiling water.  Oh, yes,"
continued Olivia, merrily, "I will look over my visiting list, and see
how I am to squeeze in a call at Galvaston House.  What hour do you
think would suit him best, Marcus?"

Then Dr. Luttrell, who had been much amused by his wife's drollery,
gravely considered the point.

"About three o'clock, I should say; I think he wants to show you his
flowers; he is going to have his couch wheeled into the conservatory,
or his winter garden, as he calls it.  Why should you not go across
this afternoon?  Now I must be off to the Models;" and as Olivia took
up her work again there was a soft flush on her cheek, and a happy look
in her eyes as she listened to his light springing tread.

"Dear Marcus," she said to herself; "how pleased he is about this, it
has done him good already.  Oh, how I hope Mr. Gaythorne will take a
fancy to him; he is rich and liberal, I am sure of that; he will pay
Marcus well, and perhaps before long someone else will send for him.
What, Dot, my sweet, must I love Jacko too?" as Dot laid her treasure
on her mother's lap.

When Olivia rang at the bell of Galvaston House that afternoon the same
rosy-cheeked maid admitted her.

"If you will step into the library a minute, ma'am," she observed, "I
will tell Mrs. Crampton," and Olivia was left alone in the beautiful
room she remembered so well.

A bright fire burned cheerily on the hearth and the blind hound lay on
the rug; he came up to Olivia and thrust his slender nose into her hand
in a friendly fashion.  It was in this room that Mr. Gaythorne
evidently passed his days; the tables bore signs of his numerous
occupations; one table seemed loaded with books of reference.  A pile
of neatly written manuscripts were on the escritoire.  Portfolios of
engravings and a microscope on a pedestal stand occupied one corner,
and a small inner room seemed full of cabinets and cases of stuffed
birds and butterflies.

Mr. Gaythorne was evidently a collector and a man of culture; the
volumes in the carved oak book-cases were mostly bound in Russian calf.
Olivia had only time to read a few titles when Mrs. Crampton appeared;
her comely face had a pleased smile on it.

"Mr. Gaythorne will be extremely obliged if you will step upstairs and
see him, ma'am," she said, civilly; "he has been wheeled into the
conservatory; my master thinks a deal of his flowers--books and
flowers--they are his main amusements when his cough keeps him from
going out  Oh! you must come too, Eros, of course," as the hound
followed them closely.

Galvaston House had been built in rather an unusual fashion; a
conservatory had been thrown out at the back of the first floor landing
and ran along one side of the house, forming a sort of verandah to the
lower rooms.

As Mrs. Crampton opened the glass door, the warm fragrant air met them
deliciously.  At the farther end Mr. Gaythorne lay on a couch under a
tall palm, with an oriental quilt thrown over him; his dark crimson
dressing-gown, and black velvet cap gave him a picturesque appearance;
with his white peaked beard and moustache, and his dark sunken eyes, he
would have passed for a Venetian Doge; the mass of brilliant bloom, and
the warm flower-scented air made Olivia slightly giddy.

"This is very kind of you, Mrs. Luttrell," observed Mr. Gaythorne, in a
slow, precise voice, as she stooped over him and took his hand.
"Crampton, bring a chair for the lady.  I have been wanting to thank
you for your kind assistance that unlucky evening.  I told the doctor
so, and he has been good enough to give you my message."

"Indeed, I did very little," returned Olivia, in her mellow voice.
"You seemed so feeble that I could not help watching you cross the
road; and then you slipped, and I felt you had hurt yourself.  I fear
from what my husband tells me that it will be some little time before
you will be able to get out again."

"So he says, and he threatens me with crutches," returned the old man,
grimly; "but, as I seldom cross the threshold in winter, I need not
trouble myself about that.  Are you fond of flowers, Mrs. Luttrell?" as
Olivia's eyes wandered to the splendid exotics round her.  "Crampton
shall cut you some presently.  My library and my winter garden form my
entire world now."

"And you live among all these lovely things!" observed Olivia, almost
in a tone of awe.  "Oh, if only Aunt Madge could see these flowers!"

She spoke impulsively without considering her words, and blushed a
little when she saw Mr. Gaythorne lift his eyebrows cynically.

"I was only thinking of my aunt, Mrs. Broderick," she said,
apologetically.  "She is such a sad invalid; she has never been out
once since Uncle Fergus died, and that is ever so many years ago, and
she suffers such dreadful pain sometimes.  The doctors say her
complaint is incurable, and she is not at all old.  She lives all alone
with her maid, and never goes beyond her two rooms, and yet no one
hears her complain."

"Mrs. Broderick must be a wonderful person.  She beats Job," returned
Mr. Gaythorne, with a cynical curl of his lip; but Olivia was too much
engrossed with her subject to notice it.

"Oh, she is wonderful!" she returned, earnestly.  "I never met any one
like her.  She is the bravest woman I know.  Even the Vicar says so.
Don't you love pluck, Mr. Gaythorne?  So few people are plucky in that
sense.  Aunt Madge has lost everything she cares for--husband and child
and health; but she bears it all so beautifully, and makes the best of
things.  I could not help thinking of her when I saw all those lovely
flowers; she simply dotes on flowers!  There are always some on her
little table; flowers and books, those are her sole pleasures."

"What on earth made you hold forth on Aunt Madge's virtues, you absurd
child?" was Marcus's comment when Olivia repeated this portion of her
conversation.  "Fancy entertaining Mr. Gaythorne with an account of
your relations!"--and Olivia blushed guiltily.

"It does sound odd if you put it in that way, Marcus," she returned;
"but when I saw all those beautiful flowers, Aunt Madge just jumped
into my head, and I always do speak out my thoughts so.  But I could
see he was interested.  He said little sharp sneering things at first,
but afterwards he questioned me a good deal.  Oh, we got on splendidly!
He began asking me about ourselves, and if you had much of a practice.
Oh, he said it quite nicely!" as Marcus dropped the loaf he was cutting
and frowned anxiously.  "He was quite gentlemanly, and only hinted at
things; but I understood him, of course."

"And you told him, I suppose, that he was my first patient," in an
annoyed tone.  "You may as well own it, Livy; you are honest enough
even for that," and there was no denying that Marcus's voice was
decidedly sarcastic.  With all her virtues Olivia never did know when
to hold her tongue.

"Oh, Marcus dear, how could I help it," replied Olivia, nervously.  "Of
course I had to tell him that we were just beginners, and how Dr. Slade
had deceived us; that there was no redress, as he was dead.  But I told
him, too, how hard you worked among the poor----  He did not say much.
I don't think he is a great talker, but he stroked that funny beard of
his and nodded his head.  Then when Mrs. Crampton came up he told her
to bring coffee, and he made me stay and pour it out for him.  There
was such a lovely chased coffee-pot and cream-jug, and such delicious
cakes, and when I said at last that I must go he thanked me quite
pleasantly.  'It is long since I have been so well amused, and I hope
you will come and see me again.'  Yes, he said that, Marcus, so I am
sure he did not mind my frankness.  But oh, dear! he quite forgot to
tell Mrs. Crampton to cut me some flowers."

"You need not expect any flowers now," returned her husband,
impatiently.  "You have done for yourself and me too I expect.  A
beginner you said, Livy, and you a sensible woman!  When I go this
evening, I have no doubt I shall be civilly told that a second opinion
will be desirable.  My dear girl, don't you know that a modest
reticence, a judicious silence, is sometimes the safest policy.  A
professional beggar may whine and show his sores, but a needy doctor
out at elbows must wear a good appearance;" but Olivia, who was on the
verge of tears from sheer vexation at her own impulsiveness, did not
seek to defend herself.

If she had imperilled Marcus's professional reputation by her
carelessness, she felt she should never hold up her head again, but
Marcus, who was tired and a little out of humour, was not disposed to
comfort her.

He had had a worrying day among his poor patients, the one bright spot
had been his visit to the Models, when Jack Travers had sobbed and
broken down in the attempt to speak his gratitude.  And now just as
they were getting on so well, Olivia's want of tact and that terribly
honest tongue of hers had spoilt everything.  Was it likely--was it
within the bounds of possibility--that a man of the world--a rich man
too--would be content with the services of an unknown practitioner?  If
he put himself in Mr. Gaythorne's place, he knew that he should be
disposed to request Dr. Bevan to call.  It was not only a sprained
ankle.  Mr. Gaythorne was an ailing man, and needed medical care.
Marcus, who was clever and quick-witted, had already formed a pretty
correct diagnosis of the case.  "There is mental as well as physical
trouble," he had said to himself the previous evening, and with
professional reticence he had kept this opinion to himself, but he was
already deeply interested in his patient.  So much was at stake, and
their fortunes were at so low an ebb, that Marcus might be pardoned for
his unusual touchiness.  Yet when he left the room without further
remark, Olivia's heart sank within her.

"Why could I not have held my tongue," she thought, with tardy
repentance.  "What could have induced me to talk so much, but Mr.
Gaythorne really seemed interested, and somehow he encouraged me to go
on.  If he had appeared bored or tired I should have stopped at once,
but he seemed so curious about Aunt Madge, he even asked if she had a
good doctor.  Oh, dear, surely that is not Marcus going out!" as the
street door opened; and now there were actual tears in Olivia's eyes.

In all the two years of their happy married life they had never had
more than a momentary misunderstanding.  If a hasty word had been
uttered by one of them, the other had always an eager protest or a
smooth answer ready.  When Olivia had been impatient and captious,
Marcus had only laughed and coaxed her into good humour again.  And
even when he had indulged in a few sarcastic speeches, Olivia's soft
voice and ready acquiescence had avoided friction.

Marcus often told her that they were a model couple, and had earned the
Dunmow Flitch over and over again, but in reality their mutual respect
and thorough understanding of each other's salient points had conduced
to this harmony.

That Marcus should leave the house therefore without speaking to her
alarmed Olivia excessively.  She must have vexed him, indeed, if he
could do such a thing as that, and here one or two bright drops ran
down on the blue pelisse.

She was actually crying like a scolded child, when two or three minutes
later the parlour-door opened and Marcus entered.  His face wore a
queer expression, and in each hand he held an exquisite bunch of
hot-house flowers; their perfume reached Olivia before he laid them
before her.

"There, Olive," he said, "I take back my words;" then, as he caught
sight of her tear-stained face: "Oh, you foolish little woman, you
absurd child," but his hand rested affectionately on her soft, brown
hair, as she put back her head against him.

"Oh, Marcus, I could not help crying to think I had vexed you so.
Somehow it is the one thing I cannot bear, to think my foolish tongue
should have harmed you."

"I was in an awful funk, certainly," returned Marcus, frankly, "but I
never meant to bother you like that.  Cheer up, Livy, I daresay it is
all right, and I know you will be a model of discretion for the future.
Aren't you going to look at your flowers?" and then Olivia did permit
herself to be consoled.

"Think of his cutting all those lovely flowers for me," she cried,
ecstatically.  "Is he not an old dear, Marcus?  But why two bouquets?"
knitting her brows in a puzzled fashion.

"You had better open that folded slip of paper," suggested her husband,
sensibly, "it may explain matters," and Olivia took his advice.

"Mrs. Luttrell, with Mr. Gaythorne's compliments," was pencilled in a
shaky hand, and on the second slip, almost illegibly, "For Mrs.
Luttrell's aunt."

"Oh, Marcus, how sweet of him!" and Olivia looked almost lovely in her
excitement, and Marcus agreed that he was a good old sort.

"If you are going to write a note of thanks, you must just hurry up, as
it is nearly time for me to go across," and then Olivia put the flowers
in water, and got out her writing-case.




CHAPTER VI.

"I REMIND YOU OF SOMEONE?"

    "The fire in the flint
  Shows not till it be struck."--_Timon of Athens_.


Although Marcus had other visits to pay, and would not be back until
quite late, Olivia sat up for him on pretence of finishing Dot's pelisse,
but to her disappointment he had very little to tell her on his return.

Mr. Gaythorne had been tired and out of spirits, and he had had no
inducement to prolong his visit; he had not read Olivia's note, only
placed it beside him.

"Perhaps he was a shade more civil than usual," observed Marcus, dryly,
"but his manners certainly want mending.  Could you not illuminate that
motto, Livy, 'Manners makyth man?' and we would frame it, and give it him
as a Christmas present."  But Olivia could not be induced to see the
joke; Mr. Gaythorne was still an old dear, and the perfume of his flowers
was sweet to her.

Marcus would have wondered if he had intercepted one of the searching
glances that were reading him so acutely; those deep-set, melancholy eyes
could pierce like a gimlet; sometimes a vivid blue light seemed to dart
from them.  "When master has one of his awful looks on, I dare not face
him," Phoebe would say, and Mrs. Crampton, conscious as she was of
rectitude and the claim of long and faithful service, felt there were
limitations to her intercourse with her master.

Once, and once only, had she ventured on a tabooed subject, and had
retired from the room with her comely face quite pale with fear.

"I thought he would have struck me," she said to her confidante, the
middle-aged housemaid, "or that he would have had a fit; I should have
one myself if I ever tried it on again; but I never will, Rebecca, I will
take my oath of that."

"Master has an awful temper when he is drove wrong," returned Rebecca,
primly; "I don't wonder at Mr. Alwyn myself.  I don't hold with keeping
too tight a hand over a young man, it fairly throttles all the goodness
out of them.  He was none so bad that he would not have done better, if
only he had had a word of encouragement instead of all those flouts and
jibes."

"Those are exactly my sentiments, Becky," returned Mrs. Crampton, wiping
her eyes with her snowy-frilled apron, "and having a boy of my own, bless
him, I am a pretty fair judge.  Tom was a pickle before he went to sea,
but neither his poor father nor me ever cast it at him.  He ran away and
took the Queen's shilling, though it nigh broke our hearts.  Well, he is
a sergeant now, and Polly makes him a good wife, and all's well that ends
well.  But I must be looking after master's supper," and Mrs. Crampton
bustled away to her duties.

Olivia took her flowers round to Aunt Madge as soon as her household
duties were done in the morning.  Mrs. Broderick, who had had a sleepless
night of pain, looked more worn and languid than usual, but she
brightened up at the sight of the flowers, and poked her long nose into
the heart of a rose with an air of rapt enjoyment, but the next moment
she frowned.

"Livy," she said, severely, "I am extremely angry!  how dare you be
guilty of such extravagance, even if it be my birthday!  Don't I know
what these exquisite flowers must have cost!" then Olivia's face fell a
little.

"Oh, Aunt Madge, I had no idea it was your birthday, and I have brought
you nothing, nothing at all.  Do let me explain," and then Mrs. Broderick
listened with much interest to Olivia's recital.

"The flowers are even sweeter than I thought them," she said, presently,
and her face flushed a little.  "I thought the day would be so blank, and
that I should just lie here missing Fergus.  He always made such a fuss
on my birthdays; they were red-letter days to him, and now this friendly
message has come to me.  Give me my writing-case, Livy.  I must scrawl a
few lines to your old gentleman," and she refused to dictate the note to
Olivia.


"MY DEAR SIR," she wrote, "do you know what you have done?  You have
given a poor invalid a very happy day.  Your beautiful flowers have come
to me like a lovely message of sympathy and goodwill from an unknown
friend.

"If you were ever sad and lonely, if life has not always been easy to
you, it will sweeten your solitary hours to know that you have given
enjoyment to a crippled sufferer.

"To-day is my birthday, the forty-sixth milestone on my life's journey.
During a long, wakeful night of pain I have been counting up past
blessings, and the new day seemed a blank to me, and then your flowers
came, and I thanked God and took courage.

"Dear sir, I remain,
  "Yours gratefully,
    "MARGARET BRODERICK (widow)."


That was one of Aunt Madge's fads, one of her harmless little
peculiarities, to sign herself in that fashion.  "There is so much in the
word widow," she would say; "if it were not for seeming odd or making
people smile, I would always sign myself 'Fergus's widow,' instead of my
proper name," but nothing could induce her to send even a note without
that curious signature.

Olivia could not quite get over her grievance of forgetting Aunt Madge's
birthday.

"It was so horrid of me," she said, with a long face, "but, anyhow, I
will come to tea."

"No, dear, not to-day," returned Mrs. Broderick, quietly.  "To-morrow Deb
and I will be delighted to welcome you.  And Deb shall bake some
shortbread and scones.  Marcus might come too, it is long since I saw
him."

"But why not to-day, dear Aunt Madge?" persisted Olivia, rather curiously.

"Fergus and I always spent the day alone together, and I keep up the
custom still," returned Mrs. Broderick, in a dreamy voice.  "He never
gave me his present until the evening, and it was always such a grand
surprise.  His last present to me was that revolving book-table.  How
splendid I thought it, and what a comfort it has been to me all these
years.  Don't look so serious, Livy, I don't mean to be dull, I never am,
but I like to fancy that on my birthday I have Fergus near me still," and
nothing that Olivia could say would shake her resolution.

Olivia hesitated to repeat her visit to Galvaston House, and when she
consulted Marcus he advised her to wait a little.

"We must not be too pushing.  I daresay one of these days Mr. Gaythorne
will send you another message.  He is rather ailing and out of sorts just
now, and inclined to bristle up at a word," but, though Marcus laughed in
this way, he had not found his berth an easy one.

Mr. Gaythorne was often irritable, and the least contradiction--even the
assertion of an opinion--would ruffle him.  Once, when Marcus had
proposed discontinuing his evening visits, Mr. Gaythorne had appeared
quite affronted.

"If I can afford to pay for medical advice, I suppose I may be allowed to
have it," he had returned, testily.  "Of course, if your time is too
valuable----"

But Marcus, flushing at the covert sneer, answered, in his quick,
straightforward way:

"I wish it were more valuable; but as I have no wish to pick your pocket,
I thought it would be only honest to tell you that the evening visit is
no longer necessary."

"Very well, then we will regard it in the light of a luxury," returned
Mr. Gaythorne, a little less grimly.  "By-the-bye, Dr. Luttrell, I want
to ask you if you will kindly let me have your account at the end of the
month.  Monthly payments are my rule, if it will not inconvenience you."

Marcus assured him he was quite ready to meet his wishes.

Olivia, who had few amusements, often thought longingly of that beautiful
winter garden, and wished to revisit it.  She had described it so vividly
and graphically to Aunt Madge, that Mrs. Broderick declared she could
picture it exactly.  She was never weary of hearing her niece's
description.

"I feel as though my world were enlarged, and that I had got a new
friend," she said one day, and Olivia was amused to hear that the faded
flowers had been carefully pressed.

She was much delighted then when one raw, foggy November morning Marcus
brought her a message.  Mr. Gaythorne felt himself better, and would be
very pleased if Mrs. Luttrell would give him an hour that afternoon.

Her visit was a very pleasant one.  The yellow fog outside had been
extremely depressing, but as she stepped into the hall, the whole house
seemed brightly illuminated.  Mr. Gaythorne, who was on crutches, met her
at the head of the staircase.  He had discarded his dressing-gown, and
wore a black velvet coat that became him still better.

The conservatory, lighted up by lamps cunningly concealed among the
foliage, looked more like fairyland than ever.  And the deep easy-chairs,
with their crimson cushions, were deliciously inviting.

Her admiration seemed to gratify Mr. Gaythorne, and as he pointed out his
favourite flowers, and descanted on their habits and peculiar beauties,
Olivia listened with such intelligent interest, and asked such sensible
and pertinent questions, that he was drawn insensibly into giving her a
botanical lesson.

They were so engrossed with their subject that it was almost an effort to
break off when coffee was brought.

Mrs. Crampton had sent up a profusion of dainty cakes, and as Olivia
drank her coffee and feasted on the various delicacies, the one drawback
to her pleasure was that Marcus was not there to share it.  At this
present moment he was in some slum or other supplementing the labours of
the overworked parish doctor.

How surprised Dr. Luttrell would have been if he could have seen the
transformation in his patient's appearance--the lean, cadaverous face had
lost its fretful look, the melancholy dark eyes had grown bright and
vivid, the slow precise voice had waxed animated and even eloquent as he
discoursed learnedly on his floral treasures.

Flowers, butterflies, and birds were his great hobbies, and his
magnificent collections had been gathered from all parts of the world; he
had been a great traveller in his early manhood.

"I have been everywhere and seen everything," he said once.  Towards the
end of the afternoon Olivia had been much touched by a little incident;
she had asked him a question about a curious cactus.  "If you will come
with me, my dear," he had answered, "I could show you a better
specimen"--and then a dull red had risen to his forehead.  "Excuse me,
Mrs. Luttrell.  I forgot whom I was addressing--and--and--you----" but
here he checked himself.

"Oh, do finish your sentence!" she said, in her bright persuasive voice.
"You were going to say that I remind you of someone?"--and as he met her
kind friendly glance, his shy stiffness relaxed.

"Yes," he said, simply, and a great sadness came into his eyes, "you
remind me of my daughter.  That first evening when you spoke to me you
reminded me of her then."

"And you have lost her!  Oh, I am so sorry!  Does it pain you to speak of
her?  I should so like to know her name!"

"Her name was Olivia," he returned, slowly, "but we always called her
Olive.  She was born at Beyrout, under the Syrian sun, and in the land of
grey olive-trees."

"How strange!  What a curious coincidence!" returned young Mrs. Luttrell,
softly.  "That is my name too, and Marcus often calls me Olive; and I
remind you of her?"

"Yes, Olive spoke in just that brisk, cheerful manner.  She was so full
of life and energy.  She died of fever at Rome--we were staying there.
She was only two-and-twenty, and she was to have been married that
summer.  Her poor mother never got over the shock; before the autumn she
had followed her."

"Oh, how sad--how dreadfully sad!" observed Olivia, with tears in her
eyes.  "What a tragedy to live through.  And her poor lover too!"

"Oh, yes, Arbuthnot; he was bitterly cut up.  He is a judge now, and has
a good wife, but I doubt if he has ever forgotten Olive.  She was no
beauty, but she had a way with her.  Stay--I will show you her picture."

"Poor man!  No wonder he looks melancholy," thought Olivia, as he slowly
hobbled away on his crutches.  "How strange that I should remind him of
her, and that she should be Olive too!" but when Mr. Gaythorne returned
and placed a beautiful miniature before her, she could see no resemblance
to herself in the dark sweet face of Olive Gaythorne.

No, she was not beautiful, but there was something wonderfully attractive
and winning in her expression; the eyes, deep-set like her father's, had
a frank soft look.

"Your only child--and you lost her," murmured Olivia, sympathetically.

"My only daughter," corrected Mr. Gaythorne, in a tone so peculiar, that
Olivia raised her eyes, and then she felt a little frightened.  There was
a curious pallor on Mr. Gaythorne's face, which made it look like old
ivory, and his bushy eyebrows were drawn closely together.

"It is a sweet face--a dear face," returned Olivia, hurriedly.  She was a
little nervous over her mistake.  "It is kind of you to show me this, and
I like to think her name was Olive."  And then she closed the case
reverently and put it back in his hands.  "I must go now," she said; "it
has been such a lovely time, and you have taught me so much.  Will you
send for me again when you want to see me?  I think that is best; it
would be such a pity for me to disturb you when you felt tired or
disinclined for visitors."

"You are my only visitor," returned Mr. Gaythorne, in his old grim
manner.  "The Vicar's wife--what is the woman's name?--forced her way in
one day, but I do not think her reception pleased her.  The Vicar himself
is an honest man.  I have given him a hint that he will be welcome if he
comes alone, but no bustling prying vicaress for me."

"Oh, poor Mrs. Tolman; well, she is a little officious, as Marcus calls
her, and I know she often sets Aunt Madge's nerves on edge."

"Oh, by the way, I intend to send Mrs. Broderick some more flowers; will
it be a trouble to you to take them, or shall one of the lasses carry
them straight to her house?"

"Oh, no; please let me have the pleasure of taking them.  If you had only
seen Aunt Madge's delight----"

"She wrote me a pretty sort of note," returned Mr. Gaythorne; "but tell
her not to do that again, gratitude is for favours to come; you may
remind her of that.  Does she always sign her name in that
fashion--Margaret Broderick, widow----?"

"Yes, always; it is one of Aunt Madge's whimsies; but you will never get
her to alter."

"It does not sound badly, but it is certainly unique.  How would it
answer if one were to follow her example.  John Alwyn Gaythorne,
widower," and here Mr. Gaythorne gave a short sardonic laugh.

"Marcus! oh, Marcus!" exclaimed Olivia, coming into the room in her
breezy fashion.  "I have so much to tell you.  Mr. Gaythorne is a
widower--and he has lost his only daughter, and her name was Olivia, and
that is why he has taken to me, because I remind him of her;
but"--checking herself as she caught sight of her husband's face--"you
have something to tell me too."

"Only that they sent for me from Fairfax Lodge, that is that ivy-covered
house next to Galvaston House.  A child taken suddenly with croup.  I
have been there most of the afternoon."

Then Olivia clapped her hands with a little exclamation of delight.
Marcus's tone had been quite cool and matter-of-fact, but there was a
glint of satisfaction in his eyes.  The tide had turned at last.




CHAPTER VII.

BLOWING BUBBLES.

"How pleasant it is to be acquainted with new and clever
things."--_Aristophanes_.


Marcus certainly carried his head a little higher than usual that
evening; as for Olivia, she trod on air.  As she sat at her needlework
later on, waiting until Marcus returned from his second visit to
Galvaston House, her thoughts were busy about the future.

Marcus would soon have a large practice; it was all very well for Aunt
Madge to be sententious, and say that one swallow does not make a
spring; but already the second harbinger of good luck had put in an
appearance.

There was no fear of parting with Martha now; before long Olivia was
building magnificent castles.  The house next door to Galvaston House
was to let, it had a garden and a small conservatory, and Marcus had
once remarked that it was just the house for a medical man; the
reception-rooms were good and there was a capital stable.

"Supposing we were ever rich enough to take Kempton Lodge," she said to
herself.

Marcus threw back his head and indulged in a hearty laugh, when he
heard where his wife's imagination had landed her.

"Kempton Lodge--my dear child--why do you not suggest Prince's Gate, or
Belgravia?  My own thoughts had not gone further than a new greatcoat
this winter.  I am afraid my old one is getting a little seedy."  And
at this remark, Olivia's airily constructed fabric dissolved into
nothingness.

To blow bubbles is an enchanting pastime even with grown-up children.
The big bright-coloured bubbles soar into the air and look so beautiful
before they burst.  One is gone, but another takes its place, just as
rainbow-tinted, and gorgeous.  There are people who blow endless
bubbles until their life's end, who cannot be induced to discontinue
the harmless pursuit.

"Life is so hard and dreary," they say.  "The wheels of drudgery are
for ever turning and grinding; let us sit in the sun a little and float
our fairy balls.  What if they are dreams and never come to anything;
the dreams and the sunlight have made us happy; there is plenty of time
in which to do our work."

Marcus laughed at his wife's fancies; but he never crushed them
ruthlessly.  "Poor little Livy," he thought, "why should she not build
her air castles if they make her happy, and perhaps, after all, who
knows----" but Marcus did not finish his sentence even to himself.

But the next day when he went to Maybrick Villas to fetch his wife
home, he had a good deal to say about his new patients.

"I am in luck," he said, as he stood warming himself before the fire,
while the two women watched him.  "I thought of course when they sent
for me that it was because I was the nearest doctor, and that perhaps
their own medical man was engaged--in an imminent case like that it is
impossible to wait--but no, it was nothing of the kind.  Mrs. Stanwell
told me herself--she is such a nice little person, Livy--that they have
only been a few months at Fairfax Lodge, and that before that they had
lived in Yorkshire.

"Being strangers in the place they were sadly perplexed on the subject
of doctors, until the nurse told her mistress that she had seen me
going in and out of Galvaston House.  And this decided Mrs. Stanwell to
send for me.  As I was able to do the child good, they are ridiculously
grateful.  I am likely to have another patient there; Mrs. Stanwell has
an aunt living with her, and she is ailing.  I have only taken a hasty
diagnosis of the case, but I am going again to-morrow.  I am half
afraid the poor old lady is in a bad way."

"It is a long lane that has no turning, Marcus," observed Aunt Madge.
"There, you must take Olive away, she has been wearying the past
half-hour to get back to Dot!" but as they left her alone in the
firelight she said to herself:

"Dear things, how happy they look! at their age life is so dreadfully
exciting.  I believe myself Marcus will get on; he is really clever,
and never spares himself, but I doubt if Livy or I will ever be so
interested in anyone as we are in Marcus's first patient."

Olivia would have indorsed this sentiment readily; before long Mr.
Gaythorne became an important factor in her daily life, the friendship
between them ripened rapidly.

Olivia kept to her resolution of never going to Galvaston House unless
she were specially invited; but every three or four days a message from
the old man reached her.

Olivia, whose only dissipation had been a weekly tea with Aunt Madge,
and a biannual call at the Vicarage, with or without tea, according to
Mrs. Tolman's mood, found these afternoons at Galvaston House very
stimulating.

At first she was sorry when Mr. Gaythorne gave up sitting in the winter
garden, and ensconced himself in the library, but she soon changed her
opinion when he began to show her his curiosities and rare prints.  He
had so much to tell her about the birds and butterflies in the museum
as he called the inner room, that the hours flew past as she listened
to him, and it was always with real regret that she took her leave when
the time came for her to go home.

"Aunt Madge and Marcus find me so much more interesting ever since you
have taken me in hand," she said once.  "I try and repeat all you tell
me, but, of course, I forget half.  Very often Marcus helps me to
remember--he has read so much on these subjects, you see."

Perhaps it was this artless speech that led to Mr. Gaythorne showing
Marcus a case of curious insects, and Dr. Luttrell had been so
fascinated, so utterly engrossed, that the old man, much flattered, had
cordially invited him into the museum.  Marcus, who had still much time
on his hands, often spent a pleasant hour or two with his patient.  Mr.
Gaythorne lent him books, and gave him choice brands of cigars.

Olivia was highly delighted at these evident marks of favour, but it
troubled her that Mr. Gaythorne never liked them to come together.
Olivia was always invited pointedly when Marcus's visit had been paid,
and now and then he would ask Dr. Luttrell to have a chat with him
after dinner.  Once when Olivia had ventured to hint her disapproval of
this he had answered with unwonted irritability.

"I like to take my pleasures singly, Mrs. Luttrell.  I am sorry if I
keep you from your husband.  I am a selfish old misanthrope, I am
afraid;" but Olivia, alarmed by this decided acerbity, hastened to
assure him that her remark had meant nothing.

"It is so natural of me to want Marcus to share my pleasure," she said
so sweetly that Mr. Gaythorne was mollified.

Even Marcus noticed a decided improvement in his patient's manner.  He
was less irritable and contradictory, and was evidently grateful for
the relief he had derived from his doctor's treatment.  The bare
civility with which he had at first tolerated Marcus soon changed into
greater cordiality.  Dr. Luttrell's intelligence could appreciate Mr.
Gaythorne's culture and learning.  Before long they were on the best of
terms, but it was Olivia who was the prime favourite.

When Olivia's face appeared on the threshold Mr. Gaythorne's eyes
brightened under their rugged brows, and his voice insensibly softened.
To her, and her only, he showed his real self.

"He has a strange complex nature," she said once to her husband.  "He
is very reserved, there are some things of which he never speaks.  He
has not once mentioned his son.  I should not have known he had one,
only I saw the name of Alwyn Gaythorne in a book.  'I thought your
first name was John?' I said rather heedlessly.

"'So it is, John Alwyn,' he returned; 'that book belonged to my son,'
but his voice was so constrained that I did not venture to say more.
Depend upon it there is a mystery there, Marcus."

"'Perhaps Alwyn the younger is a Nihilist," returned Marcus, in a
teasing voice.  "Probably he is at Portland at the present moment,
undergoing his sentence.  No wonder poor Mr. Gaythorne is such a
recluse;" but Olivia refused to be entertained by this badinage.

"I am quite in earnest," she returned, with a grave air.  "So you need
not trouble yourself to be ridiculous, Marcus.  Why should he talk so
much of his daughter and never mention his only son?"

"According to you he is almost as silent on the subject of his wife."

"Oh, that is different," she answered, hastily.  "He once said to me
that he could never bear even to hear her name mentioned, that it upset
him so.  'I was a happy man as long as she lived,' he said, so sadly,
'but it was all up with me when I lost her.  She was a peacemaker, she
always kept things smooth; her name was Olivia too.'"

"Poor old boy," was Marcus's irrelevant remark at this.

"Yes, he is a strange mixture," went on Olivia, thoughtfully.  "He has
an affectionate nature, but he is hard too; he could be terribly hard,
I am sure of that.  And then see how good he is to those poor Traverses
and to Aunt Madge.  Could anyone be more generous.  And yet he is not
liberal by nature.  That very day that he sent Mrs. Crampton to the
Models with all those good things--jellies and beef-tea and chicken and
actually two bottles of port wine--he was as angry as possible with
Phoebe, because she had broken his medicine glass.  Mrs. Crampton had
orders to deduct the price of the glass from her wages.  'I always do
that,' he said to me, 'it teaches them to be careful,' but poor Phoebe
cried about it afterwards.

"'I call it real mean of master,' Phoebe had said; 'it is the first
thing that ever I broke in this house, and it was all through Eros
getting between my feet.  It is not the few pence I mind, for we have
good wages paid down on the day, but I call it shabby of master to be
down on a poor servant-girl like that.'

"His servants don't seem to love him," went on Olivia.  "They serve him
well, because it is their interest to do so, but even Mrs. Crampton,
who has been with him twenty years, does not dare to contradict him."

"Anyhow, he is liberal to us," returned Marcus, patting his waistcoat
pocket, for he had that morning received his first cheque.

Marcus's first act had been to go to the coal merchant and order in a
ton of excellent coal, then he had gone home and told his wife in a
peremptory tone to put on her hat and jacket.

"I am going to take you to Harvey and Phelps to get a new dress and
jacket," he said, severely.  "I am not going to put up with that rusty
old serge any longer," and Olivia had remonstrated in vain against such
extravagance.

It was all very well to blow bubbles and furnish Kempton Lodge from
garret to basement, but when it came to spending Marcus's first
cheque----!

"Marcus, dear," she said, imploringly, "my old dress is quite tidy.  I
put new braid round it yesterday, and I would so much rather you got a
new great-coat.  Even Aunt Madge noticed that your present one was
dreadfully shabby."

"Of course I shall get a new coat too," returned Dr. Luttrell, coolly.
Then at the thought of this lavishness Olivia was stricken dumb.

Marcus made his purchases with great discretion; the grey tweed and
warm jacket to match suited Olivia's tall supple figure perfectly--he
had a momentary debate with himself before he ventured on a modest
black straw hat with velvet trimmings, but in the end the order was
given.

"Oh, Marcus, how could you!" exclaimed Olivia, who was at fever point
by this time.

"Hold your tongue, Livy!" returned Marcus, good-humouredly.  "I mean my
wife to be well-dressed for once in her life.  Now I must go to the
tailor's for that great-coat.  There won't be much of Mr. Gaythorne's
cheque left by the time I get home.  We shall want the balance for
Christmas groceries."

Olivia groaned in spirit over Marcus's recklessness, but she could not
bear to damp his enjoyment.  She unburdened her mind to Mrs. Broderick
the next day.

"Don't you think it would have been wiser to have put it by for a rainy
day?" she said, anxiously.  But Aunt Madge did not seem quite to share
this opinion.

"My dear," she said, shrewdly, "I think Marcus knows what he is about;
it would never do for him to go to those good houses in a shabby
greatcoat.  A little outlay is sometimes a good investment."

"Oh, yes, but I was thinking of the dress and jacket and that hat, Aunt
Madge----"

"Ah, well, we must forgive Marcus that extravagance!  It hurt his pride
to see you calling at Galvaston House in that old serge dress.  He is
not really improvident, Livy.  You have enough in hand for present
necessities, and there will be something coming in next month."

"Oh, dear, yes; and do you know, Aunt Madge, they have sent for Marcus
to attend the lodger at number seventeen.  He is a music-teacher and
very respectable, and can afford to pay his doctor, so that is swallow
number three."

"Then I am sure you can wear your new dress with an easy conscience,"
and then Olivia's last scruples vanished.

Olivia looked so distinguished in her grey tweed that Marcus made her
blush by telling her that she had never looked so handsome.

Mr. Gaythorne gave her an odd penetrating glance when she entered the
library.

"I hardly knew you, Mrs. Luttrell," he said, dryly, and then his manner
changed and softened.  "That was her favourite colour," he said.
"Olive was always a grey bird; she liked soft, subdued tints; she was a
bit of a Puritan.  I often told her so."

"I am glad you like my new dress," returned Olivia, simply.  "My
husband chose it for me, he has such good taste."

"You need not tell me that, Mrs. Luttrell."  And again Olivia blushed
like a girl at the implied compliment.

Mr. Gaythorne was looking over a portfolio of water-colour paintings.
Olivia had not yet seen them, and she was full of outspoken admiration,
as Mr. Gaythorne placed one after another before her.

"They are all the work of a young artist who died at Rome," he said.
"I bought them of his widow.  They are very well done; he had great
promise, poor fellow.  If he had lived, he would have done good work.
These were merely pot-boilers, as he called them--little things he
painted on the spur of the moment."

"To me they are perfectly beautiful," returned Olivia.  "Those two are
so lovely that I could not choose between them.  Please let me look at
them a little longer, Mr. Gaythorne, I want to tell Aunt Madge about
them."  And Olivia, who was always charmingly natural in her movements,
propped her chin on her hands, and looked long and earnestly at the
pictures.

Their beauty lay in the soft rich colouring and a certain
suggestiveness in the subject.

One was a little grey church on a hill-side; the church was ruinous and
out of repair, the churchyard full of weeds and thistles; a storm had
just broken, and an old shepherd in a ragged smock had taken refuge in
the porch, his rough-looking dog at his feet.  The bowed figure and
knotted hands, and the peaceful look in the wrinkled face were
wonderfully striking, the patient eyes turned upwards were gazing at
the rainbow.  "'Tis a love token, I reckon," were the words written
underneath the sketch.

Olivia could almost hear them through the parted lips; ruins and
thistles and weeds and a broken storm, and beyond them the message of
peace, written on the bright tints of the rainbow, for one simple heart
to read.

"Aunt Madge would understand that," she said to herself; "she would
like that picture best, but this is just as beautiful to my mind."

The second sketch was equally suggestive; it was a cornfield with
poppies growing in it; under the hedge in the cool shade lay a brown
baby asleep.  A dish tied up in a blue handkerchief and a stone bottle
lay beside the infant; an old terrier kept watch over them both.

"Keeping watch and ward" was the title of this picture; it was
certainly very well painted.  A breeze seemed rippling through the corn
in the nook where the child lay; there were festoons of honeysuckle and
dog-roses, and long sprays of traveller's joy.  The stumpy grey terrier
sitting erect at his post of duty was full of significance and
individuality.  The mother was evidently among the reapers in the far
distance.

"One would never be tired of looking at that cornfield," observed
Olivia, and though Mr. Gaythorne smiled at her enthusiasm, he would not
spoil her enjoyment by pointing out to her one or two defects that he
had already noticed.

By-and-by he called her to pour out the coffee--Mr. Gaythorne never
indulged in afternoon tea.

"This is not much like Christmas weather," he said, looking out at the
cold mizzling rain; "the forecasts promise a change, however.  I
suppose I must not ask if you dislike Christmas, it would not be a fair
question at your age."

"No, indeed; I love it dearly.  I have only had one sad Christmas--the
year dear mother died--it is my birthday too, that makes it doubly
festive.  I am so glad I was born on such a beautiful day; that is why
my second name is Noel."

"And you hold high festival on it?"

"Well, we cannot do much.  Marcus and I always go to the early service,
that is how we begin the day, and then he always has some little
present on the breakfast table.  It is the one day in the year we
always dine with Aunt Madge; she is such an invalid, you see, that very
little tires her; but on Christmas Day, we first dine with her quietly,
and have an early tea, then come home; we are generally back by six
o'clock, and have a long evening by ourselves.  Do you spend Christmas
Day quite alone, Mr. Gaythorne?"

"Yes, quite alone," he returned, gloomily; "but I have plenty of ghosts
to visit me," and his face twitched, and he stooped over the pictures
as he spoke.




CHAPTER VIII.

"'TIS A LOVE TOKEN, I RECKON."

"It is in men as in soils--where sometimes there is a vein of gold
which the owner knows not of."--_Dean Swift_.


"Marcus, I have an idea."

Olivia had been sitting for some time in a brown study, staring into
the red caverns, where the yellow fire-elves were beating out their
rainbow gold on their glowing, hissing anvils.

It was in the gloaming, and the little sitting-room was warm and cosy.
Dot was on her mother's lap, toasting her pink toes gleefully, and
chuckling over them in baby fashion.  And Marcus, who had finished his
day's work, had left off trying to read by the light of the flickering
flame, and was indulging in a furtive doze.  He roused up when Olivia's
clear voice broke the silence.

"Marcus, do you hear me?  I have such a nice plan."

"Is it a riddle?" he returned, lazily.  "I give it up."  Then he
contemplated his small daughter with much satisfaction.  "I wonder none
of you advanced women have ever turned your attention to
baby-language," he observed presently; "we are studying the
ape-vocabulary, you know.  Dot has got quite a little language of her
own.  As far as I can make out each sentence is finished off with a
'gurgle-doe.'  Something between the 'gobble, gobble' of a turkey and
the coo of the ring-dove.  I suppose it all means something."

"Means something!" and Olivia kissed the little rings of curly hair
with passionate fondness.  "Of course my girlie means something!  I
understand her as well as possible.  She is scolding the fire, because
it has burnt her dear little toes.  Look, she is showing them to me.
Naughty fire, to burn my baby."  And thereupon followed one of those
maternal and infantine duets, which appear such hopeless jargon to the
masculine mind.

To Marcus it had a lulling effect, his eyes began to blink drowsily
again, but Olivia, who had passed a solitary day, was not disposed for
silence.

"You are not a bit curious about my plan, dear," she said presently.
"I have been thinking so much of that sad, sad speech of Mr.
Gaythorne's yesterday.  I cannot bear to think of him alone all
Christmas Day, with only the ghosts of happier years to haunt him."

"There is no need for him to be alone," returned Marcus, coolly.  "He
could invite us to supper.  Why don't you propose it, Livy?  You seem
to say anything that comes into your head.  A good bowl of steaming
punch would drive all the grey and black spirits away.  I would
undertake to amuse him."  But Olivia only looked at him rebukingly.

"Marcus, it is so tiresome that you will always joke when I want to be
serious.  Now, do give me a straightforward answer, if you can.  Shall
you have any visits to pay on Christmas Day?"

"My dear child, how can you expect me to answer in that off-hand way,
and without consulting my visiting list?  Well, if you must know," as
Olivia uttered an impatient exclamation, "I shall have to go up to the
Models after tea, to see that poor woman who was confined yesterday.
The baby is not likely to live; and then I shall look in on Travers.  I
don't suppose I shall be out more than an hour."

"Oh, that will do nicely," returned his wife, in a satisfied tone.
"Marcus, do you know, I have made up my mind to pay Mr. Gaythorne a
surprise visit on Christmas evening.  We are always back by six, and I
know he does not dine until half-past seven.  Do you think I dare
venture?  You see, I have never been without an invitation yet."

"And you actually mean 'to beard the lion in his den, and Douglas in
his hall,'" spouted Marcus.  And then, in his ordinary voice, "Well,
you might try it, if you like; but I should not be surprised if you got
snubbed.  Christmas ghosts have a ghastly effect, and rub a man up the
wrong way."

"Oh, I will take my chance of that," returned Olivia, cheerfully.  "Now
I will put Dot to bed, and leave you to finish your nap in peace."

"Thank goodness!" was on the tip of Marcus's tongue, but he refrained
and only curled himself up afresh in his easy-chair.  He had sat up
late over his books the previous night, wasting lamp-oil and coals, as
his wife had remarked, rather severely, and the cold air, with a touch
of frost in it, had made him sleepy.

Olivia had been bristling all day, like a blissful porcupine, with
little plans and surprises: first, she had actually saved out of Aunt
Madge's Christmas gift enough money to buy Marcus another of
Thackeray's novels; last Christmas she had given him _The Newcomes_,
and this year she had fixed on _Esmond_.

Marcus was devoted to Thackeray, and thirsted for a complete set of his
works, but at present only _Vanity Fair_ and _The Newcomes_ were on his
modest bookshelves.  Neither the husband nor wife thought it right to
spend even those few shillings on the purchase of books, when they
could make use of the Free Library.

The new copy of _Esmond_ looked decidedly inviting, with its clean,
uncut pages, and then there was really a handsome work-bag for Aunt
Madge, fashioned by Olivia's skilful fingers out of a yard of cretonne.
Olivia had already received her Christmas presents, and had nothing to
expect.  Her new outfit, and Dot's pelisse, and Martha's wages were all
birthday and Christmas gifts.  Nevertheless when Marcus came on
Christmas Eve to hang up their scanty store of holly, he was met by his
wife's excited face.

"Oh, Marcus!" she exclaimed, "I thought you would never come home;
there is such a hamper from Galvaston House, and I am waiting for you
to open it.  And oh! do you know, dear, Aunt Madge has sent us some of
her delicious mince pies, and a Christmas cake!"

"She is a good old soul," returned Marcus, fervently.  "By-the-bye,
Olive, could not we have supper earlier? for this sharp air--and it is
freezing hard, let me tell you--has made me as hungry as a hunter."
And as Olivia conceded this point graciously, he was induced to follow
her to the small kitchen, where Martha, all smiles and excitement,
awaited them.

Martha had her best dress on, for she was going round to her mother's
presently, with her little store of Christmas gifts: a red knitted
shawl for her mother and half a pound of tea, a comforter for her
father, and some warm cuffs for the boys, and gingerbread-nuts and some
oranges for the children, to which Olivia had added a bag of mixed
sweets.

Martha's round eyes widened with amazement when the hamper was opened,
and a plump turkey, and a fine York ham came to view; there were also
half a dozen bottles of old port-wine for Dr. Luttrell, with Mr.
Gaythorne's compliments, and a box of candied fruit and a jar of
preserved ginger for his wife.

"Oh, Marcus! is not this kind?"  Olivia's voice was almost awe-struck;
her acquaintance with turkeys had hitherto been strictly limited to a
partial view of their limp bodies as they dangled above her in the
poulterers' shops; now her little larder would be filled to overflowing.

"Shall I step across and thank him, while you put those things away?"
suggested Marcus.  And as Olivia agreed to this, he caught up his hat
and vanished.

When everything was safely stowed away, and Martha had been made
supremely happy by the gift of two mince pies for her mother, and had
trotted off red in the face with excitement, Olivia busied herself in
getting the supper ready.  The unsightly remains of a cold shoulder of
mutton had been transformed into tempting rissoles.  Olivia always
treated her husband to a hot supper on Christmas Eve.  Potatoes cooked
in their coats, and a couple of Deborah's mince pies, finished off the
_menu_, to which Marcus did ample justice.  Afterwards he hung up their
holly, and then Olivia fetched her work-basket, and Marcus went on with
the novel that he was reading aloud, and both of them looked at the
clock in amazement when Martha's modest ring told them the evening was
over.

When Marcus put on his new great-coat the next morning, he shrugged his
shoulders as he opened the front-door.  Instead of the frost he had
expected, the icy coldness of the air and the heavy aspect of the
wintry sky were premonitory signs of a snow-storm.

"It is hardly fit for you to go out," he said, as Olivia joined him,
but she only smiled at him, her vigorous young strength was proof
against the cold.

"We must hurry, Marcus," she said, briskly, "or we shall be late, and I
want to enjoy my Christmas service," for she had already arranged to
take care of Dot during the morning, while Martha went to church.
Marcus had his rounds, and would fetch her in time for the early dinner
at Maybrick Villas.

The quiet service in the warm, well-lighted church was very soothing
and refreshing.  As Olivia knelt beside her husband, her heart swelled
with thankfulness for countless blessings.  "I have not deserved to be
so happy," she said to herself, as she thought of her two treasures.

Martha had breakfast ready for them on their return, and Olivia hurried
upstairs to take off her hat.  She was just stepping into the
dining-room, when Marcus caught hold of her, and blindfolded her
playfully.

"No, you are not to look yet!" he said, teasingly.  "There is a
surprise in store for you."  But as he took his hands from her eyes,
she uttered a little cry of ecstasy.

On the breakfast-table, propped up with books, was a small framed
picture, the very cornfield, with the brown baby asleep under the
hedge, and the old terrier guarding it, that she had so admired.  A
card, with Mr. Gaythorne's compliments and Christmas greeting, was
beside it.

"What do you think of your friend now, Livy?"

But Olivia seemed to have no answer ready, her lips trembled, and the
tears gathered in her bright eyes.  Marcus, who was almost as pleased
as she was, patted her on the shoulder kindly, and bade her pour out
the coffee, but for a long time Olivia could not be induced to go on
with her breakfast.

"If only I could take it to show Aunt Madge!" she said at last.  But
Marcus negatived this at once; the picture was heavy, and the damp,
cold air might injure it.

That was a happy morning to Olivia, as she played with Dot, and then
sang her to sleep.  When Marcus came home he told her to wrap up as
warmly as possible.  "The damp quite gets into one's bones," he said;
and even Olivia owned that it was disagreeably cold.

Aunt Madge received them with her usual kind welcome, but she looked at
her niece with a queer expression.

"Livy," she said, "I feel as though I were living in the days of
Aladdin and his wonderful lamp.  I had to pinch myself this morning, to
be sure I was not dreaming.  What do you think our dear old magician
has done now?"  And as she pointed to the table beside her, Olivia saw
the picture of the ruined church, and the old shepherd in his tattered
smock.  "'Tis a love token, I reckon," repeated Aunt Madge, but her
voice was not quite steady.  As for Olivia, the tears were fairly
running down her face.

"Dear Aunt Madge, I do love him for this.  What do you think, he has
sent me the picture of the cornfield that I described to you, and such
a hamper of good things!"

"Yes, and a brace of pheasants have come to me.  Livy, do you know what
that picture means to me?  I have just been feasting my eyes on it all
the morning.  I mean to get an easel and stand it at the foot of my
couch, with that Indian scarf of mine just draped over it; won't it
cheer me up on one of my bad days when I can't read or work, and even
thinking is too hard for my poor head?  ''Tis a love token, I reckon,'
I shall just say that to myself."

"Marcus, I shall have to pay that visit," observed Olivia, desperately.
"Oh, dear, if only we could do something in return for him!  Don't
laugh at me, you tiresome boy; it is all very well for you, you are
doing him a good turn every day, that is why it is so grand to be a
doctor, but Aunt Madge and I want to have our share too."

"Take off your hat, Livy," interrupted Aunt Madge, "for I hear Deb
dishing up the dinner, and Marcus looks blue in the face with cold and
hunger."  And at this reminder Olivia hurried.

Mrs. Broderick always gave them the same dinner, a roast fowl and a
piece of boiled ham, with plum pudding and mince pies to follow, but
Deborah's cookery always gave it a different and most delicious flavour.

When dinner was over they sat by the fire and roasted chestnuts, and
talked softly to each other, while Aunt Madge dozed.  She roused up
when Deb brought in the tea-things, and chatted in her old bright way,
but Marcus's professional eyes detected lassitude, and in spite of her
entreaties took his wife away rather earlier than usual.

"Livy," observed Aunt Madge, as her niece stooped over her to kiss her,
"I have not been able to write a note of thanks to Mr. Gaythorne yet,
but will you tell him that I have not had such a Christmas gift as that
since my husband left me, and that I have been praying for him off and
on all day, that he may have his heart's desire--there, tell him
that----"  And then she sank back wearily on her pillows.




CHAPTER IX.

THE CHRISTMAS GUEST.

  "This life of ours is a wild Aeolian harp of many a joyous strain;
  But under them all there runs a loud perpetual wail, as of souls in
      pain."--_Longfellow_.


Olivia felt a little nervous as she sent in her name by Phoebe; the
girl had looked at her dubiously.

"I am not sure whether master will see you, ma'am," she said.  "He
never sees anyone on Christmas Day; and Mrs. Crampton says he is but
poorly;" nevertheless, at Olivia's request, she had taken the message.

After a brief delay she returned.  Her master would see Mrs. Luttrell;
but Olivia's heart beat a little quickly as she entered the library.
For the first time she was not sure of her welcome.

The grand old room looked unusually gloomy.  The tall standard lamps
were unlighted, and only the blazing fire and a small green
reading-lamp made a spot of brightness.  Deep shadows lurked in the
corners, and the heavy book-cases and window recesses only seemed to
add to the gloom.

Mr. Gaythorne sat in his great ebony chair--with its crimson cushions.
His face looked more cadaverous and sunken than usual; the fine
features looked as if they were carved in old ivory, they were so fixed
and rigid; as he held out his hand to Olivia there was no smile of
welcome on his face--the melancholy deep-set eyes were sombre and
piercing.

[Illustration: Mr. Gaythorne sat in his great ebony chair.]

"This is indeed a surprise, Mrs. Luttrell."

"I hope you will not think it an intrusion," she returned, a little
breathlessly.  "I wanted so much to see you and give you Aunt Madge's
message.  Somehow I could not bear to think that we were so happy and
that you were sitting alone and feeling sad.  Are you vexed with me for
coming?" she continued, in her winning way; "I can see you are not a
bit pleased to see me."

"My dear Mrs. Luttrell," he said, in his harsh, grating voice, "it is
one of my bad days, and nothing on earth would yield me pleasure.  I
gave you warning, did I not?  You are visiting a haunted man!  The
Christmas ghosts have been holding high revel this evening; one of them
has been pointing and gibing at me for ever so long: 'You are reaping
what you have sown,' that was what it said.  'Why do you grumble at
your harvest--there is no ripening without sunshine?  Young hearts must
be won by love and not severity; it is your own fault, your own
obstinacy, your own blindness'--that is what it has been saying over
and over again."

He shivered slightly as he said this, and held out his thin hands to
the blaze.  He had not asked her to sit down, but Olivia drew a small
chair forward and seated herself.

"Do not listen to them any longer," she said, gently.  "You are ill and
sad, and so everything looks black and hopeless--let me talk to you
instead; I want to tell you how we have spent our day."

Olivia had a charming voice.  As she went on with her simple narrative
the muscles of Mr. Gaythorne's face insensibly relaxed; hesitation,
nervousness, a touch of self-consciousness even, would have repelled
him; but her gentleness and childlike directness seemed to soothe him
in spite of himself.  And as she repeated Mrs. Broderick's message,
though he shrugged his shoulders and muttered "Pshaw," she could see
that he was gratified; and even his remark--"that Mrs. Broderick must
be a very emotional person"--did not daunt her.

"If Aunt Madge is emotional, I am too," she said, softly.  "Do you know
what I said when I saw that picture of the old shepherd looking at the
rainbow?  'I love him for this,' and, dear Mr. Gaythorne, I meant it."

"Tut, nonsense!" but as Olivia took his hand and held it in her firm
grasp, there was a sudden moisture in the old man's eyes.

"No one has loved me since my two Olives left me," he muttered.  "If
only one had been spared to me, only one; but I am left here alone with
my sorrow and remorse."

"You are not really alone," she returned, soothingly.  "Why do you
speak as if your wife and daughter had ceased to love you?  Do you
imagine for one moment that they forget you?  It would do you good to
talk to Aunt Madge; she has such wonderful ideas about all that.  Some
people--people like Mrs. Tolman, our vicar's wife--laugh at her and
call her fanciful, but to me she is so real.  Why should it not be
true?" she went on, with gathering excitement, "nothing that is good
can die!  Love is eternal, and it is only pain and grief and sin that
can come to an end.  That is what Aunt Madge says, and she does more
than say it, she lives it.  Of course she misses her husband
dreadfully--they were everything to each other--but he never seems dead
like other women's husbands, if you know what I mean by that.  She
seems to keep step with him somehow, and think his thoughts.  I have
heard her say once that it is just as though a high wall separated
them.  'I cannot see him or hear him, but I know he is just the other
side of the wall; only he has all the sunshine, and I have to grope
alone in the shadows.'"

"Oh, she is right there; I know what it is to grope among shadows.  My
dear young lady," laying his hand heavily on her arm, "Mrs. Broderick
must be a wonderful woman, and I hope to see her some day; and I am not
above caring for a good woman's prayers, but our cases are not exactly
similar."

"I daresay not," returned Olivia, hesitatingly.

"No, indeed"--and Mr. Gaythorne's heavy eyebrows drew together--"look
here, Mrs. Luttrell, what sort of comfort do you suppose a man can have
in thinking of his wife, when he knows he has acted contrary to her
desires, when he has failed to carry out even the wishes expressed on
her deathbed.  What would you say to that man?"

"I would say that he must be very unhappy, and that no doubt
circumstances were too hard for him.  Perhaps he did his best; but it
is not always possible for dying people to judge rightly, they may make
mistakes."

"No, it was I who made all the mistakes," and there was such anguish in
the old man's eyes as he said this, that Olivia almost started; "but
God help me, if it were to come over again I should do the same.  Mrs.
Luttrell, you do not know me; it is my whim to be generous now and
then.  I like to give and it costs me nothing, but I am a hard,
domineering man; when people oppose and anger me, I can be relentless;
it is not easy for me to forgive, even when the offender is my own
flesh and blood, and I am no hypocrite.  I must speak the truth at all
costs."

"And yet we expect our Father to forgive us," returned Olivia, almost
to herself, but Mr. Gaythorne heard her, and a strange expression
crossed his face.

"That is what she always said--my Olive, but it never seemed to make
any difference to me.  Ah, well, it is no use talking, some spirits
refuse to be laid, but this is poor entertainment, my dear, and on your
birthday too!"

"Please do not say that.  I should love to stay, but I must not; it is
late now, and Marcus will be waiting for me," and Olivia rose as she
spoke.  "And now before I go may I ring for the lamps to be lighted?
there is something uncanny in this darkness, and the fire is getting
hollow too."

"Well, well, do as you like," was the abrupt answer.  "I am going to
have my dinner here tonight, it is warmer," and so Olivia had her way.
As she bade him good-night, he said, a little wistfully, "You can come
to-morrow afternoon if you like.  I have those views of Venice and
Florence to show you.  I had an old Florentine palace for six months,
the year before my little Olive died; that was our last happy year."

"Of course I will come," she replied, smiling at him.  But as she left
the room she sighed; had she really exorcised those evil spirits? or
would they return again, with tenfold force? "remorse;" that was the
word he used, this was the canker-worm that was robbing him of peace.
"It is not easy for me to forgive even if the offender is my own flesh
and blood."  How sad it was to hear him say that.

"I think, after all, I did him some little good," she thought, as she
groped her way cautiously through the dark shrubbery.  "That hard,
rigid look had quite disappeared before I left.  I have a feeling
somehow that one day he will open his heart to me and tell me his
trouble.  Every now and then he drops a word or two; perhaps this
evening, if I had not been so hurried, he would have spoken out."

Olivia's warm heart was full of pity for the lonely man sitting beside
his desolate hearth, but she was young, and as the heavy gate closed
after her, and she hurried across the road, a sudden vision of her own
bright little parlour with Marcus waiting for her rose blissfully
before her.

Marcus would have returned long ago and would be wondering at her
delay.  She knew what he was doing--cutting the pages of _Esmond_ for
their evening reading.  How charmed he had been with her gift, although
he had pretended to be angry at her extravagance.

A few particles of snow powdered her as she rang the bell.  Marcus
answered it himself.

"Livy, my dear child," he said, quickly, "what an age you have been!
Come into the kitchen a moment, I want to speak to you, and Martha is
upstairs.  No, not there," catching hold of her arm as she absently
turned the handle of the parlour door.  "I said the kitchen."

"Oh, Marcus, what is it?" in an alarmed voice, as she suddenly
perceived his grave, preoccupied look, "there is something wrong--with
baby," but his smile reassured her.

"Nothing is wrong, I am only a little perplexed.  Dot's all right, and
the house is not on fire, and Martha is enjoying her usual health, but
we have got a Christmas guest, that's all."

"Marcus, what can you mean, when we know no one here?  Is it one of
your old hospital friends?  And why may I not go in and see him?"

"So you shall, but I must explain matters first.  I have a poor fellow
in there whom I picked up off a door-step.  At first I thought he was
drunk, and I meant to call a policeman, but I very soon found out my
mistake.  The poor wretch had fainted from cold and exhaustion, he was
simply starving."

"Oh, how dreadful!" exclaimed Olivia, much shocked at this.  "Have you
given him some food?  But why is he not here instead of in the
sitting-room?  Martha has a capital fire."

"Yes, she has been making him some tea, and luckily there was some cold
bacon.  He has had nothing but a penny roll and some coffee since
yesterday morning.  Another night of exposure and want would have
killed him.  I took him into the parlour because the couch was handy,
but directly he spoke I saw he was a gentleman--at least an educated
man, but his clothes are threadbare.  He has parted with his waistcoat
for food.  Now you know why I brought you in here, to save you a shock."

"But, Marcus, what are we to do with him?"

"Ah, that is what puzzles me.  I have fed and warmed him, and could
give him money for a night's lodging, but he is not fit to move.  When
he tried to sit up just now, he nearly fell back from exhaustion.  I
should say from the look of him that he has been ill, perhaps in some
hospital, and has not got up his strength.  And he is quite young
too--not more than five-and-twenty, I should say."

"May I go and look at him first, and then we will think what is to be
done."

"Yes, dear, that will be best.  But, Livy, I really cannot wait just
now.  All this has hindered me so that I have not been to the
Traverses'.  I shall not be long--not more than half an hour."

Olivia looked rather troubled at this, but it was no use making a fuss.
Marcus must do his work, but her vision of a cosy evening was sadly
marred.  Instead of listening to _Esmond_ she had to interview a
strange man.

Directly Marcus had gone she went into the sitting-room; the couch had
been drawn near the fire and Marcus's easy chair was pushed back, and
there in the warmth and firelight, with an old plaid thrown over him,
the forlorn wanderer lay sleeping as placidly as a child.

Olivia trod on tiptoe as she crossed the room and stood beside the
couch, and studied him attentively.

Marcus was right; of course he was a gentleman; in spite of his
emaciated appearance and poor, threadbare garments, this was evident;
the features were well-cut and refined; the wasted hands bore no signs
of manual labour, and the filbert nails were carefully attended.

Some poor prodigal fallen to low estate lay before her, and yet he
looked so boyish and innocent in his sleep, that Olivia's heart grew
very pitiful over him.

Turn him out in the winter's cold, and on Christmas night, too; when
all the merciful angels were moving betwixt heaven and earth.  When the
bond of brotherhood that linked human beings together was drawn closer,
and the rich man's gift and the widow's mite were paid into the same
treasury of love, it was impossible!

How soundly he was sleeping, poor fellow, lulled by the very fulness of
comfort, his sick hunger appeased, and his bones no longer aching with
cold.  A fair moustache covered his mouth, but Olivia, who prided
herself on reading character, soon decided that the chin and lower part
of the face showed signs of weakness, but as the thought passed through
her mind a pair of deep blue eyes opened full on her face, and gazed at
her in bewilderment.

"Where am I?" he said, feebly; "oh, I remember, I fainted on a
doorstep, and some good Samaritan carried me in;" then in the same weak
voice, "Forgive me, madam, but I am afraid to rise."

"Lie still--please lie still until my husband comes back," returned
Olivia, a little nervously.  How ill he looked--the eyes looked
preternaturally large in the wasted face.  "It is sad to see anyone in
such distress," she continued, gently, "and on Christmas night, too."

"Yes, I am down on my luck," returned the stranger; but even in his
feebleness he spoke a little recklessly; "I was always 'Murad the
Unlucky;' it would have been all over with me in a few hours if the
doctor had not found me.  I was just at the end of my tether,"--but
here a hard cough seemed to tear him to pieces.

"Lie still and try to sleep again," returned Olivia, hurriedly; then
she went out of the room and summoned Martha.

When Marcus returned and went in search of her, he found her airing
some sheets at the kitchen fire.

"Marcus," she said, "Martha has been lighting a fire in that little
empty room, where the iron bedstead is; there are the mattress and the
two blankets Aunt Madge lent me when I was ill; I am going to make up a
bed there for to-night."

"You think we ought to keep him, then," returned her husband, looking
at her questioningly.  "To be sure, I hardly know how we are to turn
him out; but if he falls ill on our hands, eh, Livy?"

"If he be very ill, you would have to take him to a hospital," she
returned, quickly.  "We have not got the cruise of oil, remember, and,
as Aunt Madge says, we must be just before we are generous--but he has
such a terrible cough, Marcus."

"Oh, that is from cold and exhaustion, and, as I told you before, he
has evidently recovered from some severe illness, probably pleurisy or
pneumonia.  Well, Livy, I think you are about right; we must do our
best for the poor beggar; now and then one must help 'lame dogs over
stiles,'" and Marcus, whose bump of benevolence was largely developed,
and who believed in practical religion, was sincerely grateful that his
wife had fallen in with his views.

"I think you were sent to him to help him," returned Olivia, softly.
"'Inasmuch as ye have done it unto the least of these my brethren.'
Oh, Marcus, you know how that finishes," and Marcus smiled back at her
as he left the room.




CHAPTER X.

A GENTLEMANLY TRAMP.

  "'Tis not enough to help the feeble up,
  But to support him after."--_Timon of Athens_.


When Olivia had finished her preparations she summoned Marcus upstairs,
and with an air of housewifely pride showed him all the arrangements
she had made.

In his bachelor days Dr. Luttrell had been in the habit of picking up
all sorts of miscellaneous articles at sales, that he thought might be
useful some day, and though Olivia had often laughed at his purchases
and called them old lumber, they had often proved serviceable.

The strip of faded carpet and shabby little shut up washstand intended
for the surgery, and a couple of chairs, had been put into the empty
room, and though it looked bare enough to Marcus's eyes, and in spite
of the bright little fire terribly chilly, it would doubtless be a
haven of refuge to their miserable guest.

"He says it is just heaven," observed Marcus, when he came downstairs
to his wife; "the night before last, poor beggar, he was in the casual
ward, and last night he had a few hours in some refuge.  'Fancy the
casual ward for a gentleman's son,' he said to me so bitterly, 'and
there was actually a barrister there too, and we fraternised.'  It is
just as I thought, Livy, he was discharged from the hospital about
three weeks ago, and has been roughing it ever since."

"Did you ask him his name, Marcus?"

"Yes, and he hesitated; I don't believe Robert Barton is his real name;
the way he gave it looked a bit shady; he is a good-looking fellow, and
I can't think he is vicious, but he is one of those weak fellows who
get led away.  If we are to help him, he must tell us more about
himself."

Olivia found her hands full the next day; when Marcus went up to see
Barton, he found him flushed and feverish, and complained of aching in
his limbs.

"It is only a bad chill," he said, when Olivia looked grave at this
report; "but unless we take care of him well for a day or two, it will
be pneumonia or congestion of the lungs.  I shall be pretty busy for
the next two or three hours, and am afraid I must leave him to you and
Martha.  Don't let him talk, and keep the fire up, that room is still
like an ice-house.  Are you sure you don't mind the bother, Livy?"

And though Olivia was too truthful to answer in the negative, she
promised to do her best for Marcus's _protégé_.

Robert Barton looked more to advantage lying in bed in Dr. Luttrell's
old red striped blazer than he had done in his threadbare shabby
clothes the previous night; indeed, Olivia quite started when she saw
him; he was certainly what Marcus called him, a good-looking fellow,
the dark blue eyes were beautiful and full of expression; he flushed as
Olivia asked him kindly how he felt.

"I feel pretty bad," he returned, "and the doctor says I must lie here.
I used not to think much of the story of the Good Samaritan, but I
believe in it now.  Oh, if you knew what it was to feel clean linen
about me again."

"My husband says you are not to talk," replied Olivia, gently, "so I
must carry out his orders; there is some medicine you are to take, and
by-and-by I shall bring you some hot broth; if only your cough were
easier you would be able to sleep, but perhaps the drops will do you
good."

"Thanks awfully; if you will put them down by me, I will take them, but
please, please do not trouble about me, I am not worth it.  I never was
worth anything;" he sighed and there were tears in his eyes; but Olivia
took no notice, she put things straight and then went about her
business.  On her next visit she found him sleeping; but as she put
down the cup of hot broth beside him he half woke.

"Mother," he said, in a hoarse voice, "I never did it, I swear to you
on my honour; I was never as bad as that; ask Olive, she believes in
me, she knows I could not be such a low cad."

"Mr. Barton, I have brought you your broth; will you please take it
before it gets cold?" and Olivia's clear voice roused Robert Barton
effectually.

"I was dreaming," he said, looking at her rather confusedly.  "I
thought I was at Medhurst, in the old library; oh, what a fool I am!"
and there was almost a despairing look in his eyes.

"You are weak, or you would not dream so, and yet it must be natural to
dream about your own people.  I am so glad you have someone belonging
to you; last night we were afraid that you were quite friendless," then
she stopped as she remembered Marcus's injunctions.

"No, I am not friendless," he returned, raising himself with
difficulty, and coughing as he spoke.  "Even the prodigal son had
relatives, you know--a father and an elder brother; but he was better
off than I, for he knew where to find them"--but here such a terrible
fit of coughing came on, that Olivia forbade him to say another word.

"You shall tell us all about it when you are better," she said, kindly;
"perhaps, who knows, we may be able to help you find your friends; we
are poor people ourselves, my husband is only just beginning to make a
practice, so there is not much that we can do."

Then as she stooped over him and wiped his brow, she was almost
startled by the sweetness of the smile that crossed the young man's
face.

"Not much," he reiterated; but Olivia shook her head at him to
inculcate silence, and carried away the empty cup.

When Marcus came home at dinner-time, she proposed sending a note
across to Galvaston House to tell Mr. Gaythorne that she could not
leave home that afternoon, but to her surprise Dr. Luttrell objected to
this.

"You know how crotchety Mr. Gaythorne is," he said, quickly, "and it
will never do to disappoint him; he might be a bit touchy.  Barton will
be all right, and I shall be in myself the greater part of the
afternoon."  And then Olivia's scruples vanished.

She felt Marcus had been wise when she entered the library.  Mr.
Gaythorne was evidently expecting her; he had a large portfolio open
before him.  As he held out his hand to her without rising--for he had
still great difficulty in moving--there was a brighter look on his face.

"We must make the most of the daylight," he said, and the next moment
Olivia found herself in Venice.

The views were so beautiful and Mr. Gaythorne's descriptions so
interesting, that, as usual, the time passed quickly.  It was not until
they were drinking their coffee in the pleasant firelight that Olivia
found an opportunity of narrating her husband's strange adventure of
the previous evening.

Mr. Gaythorne listened with his usual air of half contemptuous
amusement; but before she came to the end of the recital he turned upon
her quickly.

"Do you mean that the tramp is actually in your house at this moment?"
he asked, indignantly.

"Oh, please don't call him that; he is a gentleman, he speaks in quite
an educated manner, and his ways are so refined.  Marcus saw that at
once."

"Pooh, nonsense!  My dear Mrs. Luttrell, a gentlemanly tramp is the
worst kind; it is generally drink and profligacy that have dragged them
down.  You will be robbed or burnt in your beds!"

Olivia could not conceal her amusement.  A vivid remembrance of the
flushed, weary young face of the wanderer rose before her; it was so
boyish-looking with the fair hair and golden brown moustache.

"I am sure he does not drink," she returned, trying vainly to suppress
a smile; but this contradiction did not please Mr. Gaythorne.

"How can you know anything about it?" he asked, testily; "from your own
account he has told you nothing except that he has been in a hospital
and a casual ward--they have plenty of cases of delirium tremens in
both places.  Good heavens! and I thought Dr. Luttrell was a sensible
man.  This is the way he takes care of his wife and child, harbouring a
frozen-out tramp."

"Dear Mr. Gaythorne," returned Olivia, pleadingly, "just put yourself
in my husband's place.  Marcus found the poor young fellow on a
doorstep in Harbut Road not a dozen yards from his own door.  Being a
doctor, he saw at once that he must be warmed and fed or life would be
endangered, and Christmas night of all nights.  How could he forbear in
sheer humanity to take in the poor creature, and then when he found how
weak he was, how was he to turn him out into the streets again?"

"He might have sent for a cab and had him driven to a hospital."

"No--Marcus said it was no case for a hospital, at least at present;
they would not have admitted him; indeed--indeed he could not have done
otherwise--I told him so at once.  What is the use of going to church
and saying one's prayers if one shrinks from such a clear duty as that?
Why, we should never dare to read St. James again!"

"And why not, may I ask?"

"Because we should have set our faces against his teaching.  Oh, you
know what I mean, Mr. Gaythorne," and Olivia repeated the text
reverently: "'If a brother or sister be naked and in lack of daily
food, and one of you say unto them go in peace, be ye clothed and fed,
and yet you give them not those things needful for the body, what doth
it profit?'  Marcus does not only profess his religion.  Oh"--finished
Olivia, with sparkling eyes--"I did feel so proud of my husband last
night."

"Well--well; if you choose to be Quixotic it is your own affair, not
mine," but Mr. Gaythorne spoke with less irritation.  "Now shall we go
on with the portfolio, or do you want to go back to your gentlemanly
tramp?"  Then Olivia begged to finish the pictures.

"I have nearly half an hour before Dot's bedtime," she said,
cheerfully, "and then I must go," and so harmony was restored.

When the half-hour had passed, Olivia took her leave, but before she
reached the door, Mr. Gaythorne called her back and thrust something
into her hand.

"That will help you to provide for your tramp," he said, hurriedly,
"and prevent him from eating you out of house and home.  Mind you repay
yourself before you lay out any for him: do you suppose," in a cynical
tone, "that your husband's income will bear the expense of such an
inmate as that?" and Olivia, to her intense astonishment, found the two
crumpled bits of paper in her hand were five-pound notes.

"Oh there is no need for this," she said, in distress; "have you
forgotten the turkey and all those good things Aunt Madge sent us?" but
Mr. Gaythorne waved her away.

"Nonsense," he said, crossly; "do you suppose a trifle like that
matters to me?  Why, I am not spending half my income; if you want any
more you can just let me know; but if you take my advice you will get
rid of that fellow as soon as possible."

Marcus smiled when Olivia showed him the money.  "Put it away for the
present," he said, "it will buy Barton some warm clothes; we can afford
to give him his bit and sup for a few days; he is stone broke, as they
call it, and a few pounds may be just what he requires, and put him on
his feet again."

When Mrs. Broderick heard of the strange guest at No. 1, Galvaston
Terrace, she was deeply interested, and warmly commended Marcus's
philanthropy.

"I wonder," she said, thoughtfully, after a few minutes' silence,
"whether any of Fergus's things would fit him; you know what a foolish
body I have been, Livy, to keep them all this time, and it gives Deb so
much trouble to preserve them from moth; but there, we all have our
crazes.

"I have been meaning to part with them for a long time, and this seems
a good opportunity; it does seem such a pity to touch that money; it
would set him up to have a few pounds in hand."

Olivia could not deny this, and in her secret heart she thought Aunt
Madge could not do better with her dead husband's things.

"It will be a real act of charity," she said, frankly.  "Oh, Aunt
Madge, if you could only see his clothes, they are so worn and
threadbare, and when Martha washed his shirt and socks she almost cried
over the holes; and then his boots!"

"Say no more, my child, it shall be done, and at once," and Mrs.
Broderick's mouth looked unusually firm.

The very next day Marcus carried a big parcel upstairs and opened it
before Robert Barton's astonished eyes.

Mrs. Broderick, who did nothing grudgingly, had put up all she thought
requisite--a warm suit, and a great coat, a pair of boots, some
coloured flannel shirts and warm underclothing.

"It has upset him a bit," Marcus said, when he re-entered the parlour,
"he is still so weak, you see.  He fairly broke down when I showed him
the things.  He is very grateful; by-the-bye, Livy," sitting down
beside her as he spoke, "he has been telling me more about himself
to-night; not much, certainly, he does not seem to like speaking of
himself, but he gave me a brief outline.

"He has relations, only he has not seen them for some years; it
appeared he quarrelled with them or got wrong somehow; in fact, he
owned he had been a bit wild, and then things went from bad to worse
with him, and he had a run of ill-luck.

"It seems he is an artist and rather fond of his profession, but he
hurt his hand, and blood-poisoning came on, and for some time he was
afraid he would lose his right arm; for months he could paint no
pictures, and so all his little capital was swallowed up."

"But why did he not write to his people, Marcus, and make it up with
them?"

"So he did, but his letters never got answered, and he got sick of it
at last.  When he was pretty nearly at the end of his tether he came
back to England.  I think he said he was in Paris then, or was it
Beyrout? well, never mind, he went straight to his old home; but to his
horror the house was shut up, and to let, and the caretaker told him
that no one had lived there for years, and that she believed the party
who had owned it was abroad; he could get nothing more than that out of
her.

"He put up at a little wayside inn that night, meaning to make
inquiries in the neighbourhood, but the next day he fell ill, and after
a bit they took him to the hospital, and since then he drifted up to
London, hoping to see his father's old lawyer and glean intelligence
from him, but he found he was dead.  His fixed intention was to go down
again to the place and see the vicar and prosecute his inquiries in
person, but ill-luck pursued him; he was robbed in some wretched
lodging, and soon found himself in actual want; 'but I mean, if I die
for it, to get to Medhurst somehow,' he said to me.  'I could have
found someone to identify me there; not that we had been there long,
for my people mostly lived abroad, but there must be some friends who
could tell me about them.'

"It is a queer story altogether, and yet not a wholly improbable one;
but there is a mystery somewhere, Livy, and I am sure of one thing,
that his name is not Barton.  I hinted as much, but he only flushed up
and said nothing."




CHAPTER XI.

THE NIGHT-BELL RINGS.

"A bad beginning leads to a bad ending."--_Livy_.


The next few days passed quietly.  Dr. Luttrell professed himself
perfectly satisfied with his patient's progress.  In spite of his
delicate aspect, and the terrible hardships he had experienced, Robert
Barton proved that he had a fair amount of recuperative power.  Perhaps
his youth was in his favour, and it was soon evident that he had a
naturally sanguine temperament.  His nature was singularly
ill-balanced, he was always in extremes--either in the depths of
depression or else unaccountably excited.  Olivia would sometimes find
him crouching over the fire with his head between his hands in a state
of morose misery.  And at other times she would hear him whistling a
few bars from some opera in quite a light-hearted way.

"If you do not mind, Olive, I think that Barton had better come down
to-morrow afternoon," Marcus observed one evening.  "He will get on all
the faster."  And as Olivia made no objection to this the matter was
settled.

Marcus secretly wondered how Robert Barton could take things quite so
coolly.  Perhaps it might be partly owing to his enfeebled state, but
he certainly did not seem to trouble himself much about the future.  "I
feel as if I should pull through now," he said, once.  "I only wanted a
helping hand to lift me out of the slough of despond.  When I am a bit
stronger, doctor, I must paint a pot-boiler or two," and Marcus had
quietly assented to this.

"I have made up my mind what I must do, Livy," continued Dr. Luttrell
later on that same evening, when he had arranged that his patient
should come downstairs.  "You know that nice Mrs. Randall in the
Models; well, she has a lodger, but she expects that he will leave her
in a week or so, as he has work at a distance.  I might take the room
for Barton, it is a clean, tidy little place.  And Mrs. Randall is a
motherly sort of woman, and will look after him."

"Oh, what a good idea, Marcus."

"Yes, it came into my head when I was leaving the Models yesterday.
And I had half a mind to go back and ask the price of the room, but I
was in such a hurry.  I would pay her a month in advance, and we would
use some of Mr. Gaythorne's money in buying him what he wants for his
painting.  I have no idea what sort of an artist he is, but it seems
the only thing he can do."

"Oh, how pleased he will be, poor fellow," exclaimed Olivia, "but
surely he is not well enough to leave us just now, and in this
weather?" for a hard frost had set in.

"Not for another week, perhaps, but we must not let him think himself a
fixture here.  We have had him ten days already."

Marcus had not repented of his philanthropy, he was too highly
principled for that, but though he would not have confessed it to his
wife for worlds, he was a little alarmed at the responsibility so
suddenly thrown on him.

Barton seemed such a happy-go-lucky, casual sort of person.  The
gentlemanly tramp was not a bad name for him.  He was not quite open,
either.  In Dr. Luttrell's opinion he ought by this time to have
confided in them fully.  "He is a bit shifty and hazy about things," he
said to himself, "and I shall be glad when Livy and I have the house to
ourselves."

"Ten days," repeated Olivia, thoughtfully; "is it so long as that,
Marcus?  How time flies when one is busy!  Do you know, dear, I have
such an odd feeling sometimes.  I feel as though that poor fellow was
sent to us for some special purpose, that we had a sort of mission
towards him.  It is not that I want him, for of course his being here
makes so much work for Martha, but all the same, I do not wish you to
lose sight of him."

"My dear child," returned Marcus, rather impatiently, "am I likely to
lose sight of him when I am at the Models at least three times a week?"

"No, but we can see him so much better under our own roof," she
replied, quietly.  "We must not get tired of him too soon.  Yes, you
are tired, dear," laying her hand affectionately on his.  "Do you think
I do not know that, although you are so good about it, and never
grumble, but it will be trying to us both when he comes downstairs."

"Yes, and one hardly knows how to treat him," returned Marcus, feeling
it a relief to utter his thoughts.  "He is clever and refined, and I
suppose we must allow that he is a gentleman, but it is impossible
somehow to trust him, or to feel at one's ease with him.  There is
something that fascinates and yet repels one."

"I know what you mean," replied Olivia, thoughtfully, "but somehow I
like him in spite of everything; Marcus, what a blessing it is to think
that I went to Galvaston House this afternoon, and so I shall be free
to-morrow," for Olivia's sunny, nature always looked on the bright side
of things.

That night a wonderful thing happened.  The night-bell rang.

That sound so dreaded by the hard-worked doctor was like a triumphal
_reveille_ in Marcus's ears.  And Robert Barton's muttered "poor devil"
as he turned on his pillow would not have been endorsed.

Olivia indeed had been alarmed for a moment by the unaccustomed sound,
and thought drowsily that the house must be on fire, but she was soon
wide awake and hushing Dot.

"Go to sleep, girlie, it is only someone come to see dada," she said,
rocking her little one.  Dot had been startled and was cross in
consequence, and it was sometime before she could be pacified.

The next minute Marcus came back fully dressed.  "I must go round to
15, Brunswick Place," he said, hurriedly.  "Don't expect me back till
you see me," and then she heard him running downstairs.

"He expects to be detained, so I suppose some poor baby is to enter
this wintry world," she thought, as she composed herself to sleep, but
she little guessed the terribly hard work that was before Marcus.

It was early morning and Martha had already crept softly past her door
in her stocking' feet, as she would have said, so as not to wake Miss
Baby, before Dr. Luttrell let himself in with his latchkey.

He looked sadly jaded, but utterly refused to lie down and have a nap.
"I will have my tub and some breakfast instead," he observed.  "They
gave me some hot coffee a couple of hours ago.  My word, it is freezing
hard still.  Tell Martha to give us a good-sized rasher of ham."

"Is the poor thing all right," asked Olivia presently, when they were
seated at their breakfast, with Dot crawling between them.  Then for
the moment Dr. Luttrell looked puzzled.

"What poor thing--oh," with a laugh, "I see what you mean now, but it
was nothing of that sort.  I have not had such a business since my
hospital days," he went on; "poor Livy, you would not have slept so
comfortably if you had known.  It was a case of delirium tremens; an
elderly man, too, and his poor daughter was frightened out of her wits;
but she behaved splendidly; you women have pluck; I must tell you that
she actually helped me when the man-servant was afraid to come near his
master."

"Oh, Marcus, he might have hurt you," and Olivia turned pale--perhaps
it is as well that doctors' wives know so little about their husbands'
experiences.

"Oh, we had plenty of that sort of business at Bart's," he returned,
coolly; "but I shall have to get him a nurse.  I must see after one at
once, or poor Miss Williams will be worn out; will you give me another
cup of tea, Livy?"

"Are they new people too, Marcus, like the Stanwell's?" but Dr.
Luttrell shook his head.

"No, they have lived in the place for years, but Mr. Williams
quarrelled with Dr. Bevan, and his daughter dared not send for him, and
as I was the nearest medical man, the servant came to me; it was just a
fluke, that's all."

"Is there only one daughter, Marcus?"

"Well, my dear, it was not likely that I questioned Miss Williams about
her family, but I imagine she is the only daughter; poor girl, I felt
sorry for her; there have been plenty of briers besetting her path, I
should say; as the poet writes so feelingly, she has had more kicks
than halfpence," and as usual, when Marcus began to joke, Olivia took
the hint and left off questioning him.

The little parlour looked a haven of comfort to Robert Barton's eyes as
he entered it that afternoon, leaning on Dr. Luttrell's arm.

Olivia was sitting at needlework as usual, with Dot playing at her
feet, and sprawling on the rug in exact imitation of Jet the black
kitten; she rose at once with a bright, welcoming smile, and arranged
the cushions in the easy-chair.

"I daresay you are glad to be down again," she said, kindly, as Barton
sank back in them rather heavily; "but you must be careful, you are far
from strong yet."

"Thanks, I am tolerably fit," but the weak, shaking hand rather
contradicted this.

"Oh, what a pretty child!  I should like to make a sketch of her.  Will
you come to me, little one?"  And Robert Barton's smile was so winning
that Dot crawled to him at once, and hauled herself up by the help of
one finger.

Olivia gave her husband a quick glance which he quite understood;
"there cannot be much harm in him if he likes children," this was what
her look meant, and even Marcus was touched and surprised when he saw
his little daughter put up her round face to be kissed, and then make
playful dabs at him.

"What a darling she is--rather like you, Mrs. Luttrell, but she has a
look of the doctor too.  I have always been fond of children, they are
never afraid of me," and this speech completely won the young mother's
heart.

"He is really very distinguished-looking," she said to herself, as she
watched him playing with Dot; "he is dreadfully thin, and, of course,
Uncle Fergus's clothes are too big for him, but no one could help
seeing that he is a gentleman."

They began to talk presently in quite a friendly way, and after a time
Olivia said, quite simply:

"Your name is not really Robert Barton, is it?"  She had blurted this
out almost without thinking.

"Well, no," he returned, reddening a little, "but I have been calling
myself by that name for the last month or two, it was handy," and his
face twitched.  "I did not care to carry my father's name into the
places I have been obliged to frequent lately."

"You have a father then, Mr. Barton?" in an interested tone.

"Oh, yes, and a mother and a sister, though I have heard nothing of
them for half a dozen years."

"Oh, not so long as that, surely," and then Olivia looked at him with
kindly gravity.  "Why, you could only have been a boy when you left
home."

"I am older than you think, Mrs. Luttrell--I shall soon be
eight-and-twenty--but I was young enough, certainly, when they shunted
me off.  Confession may be good for the soul," he went on, with a
reckless laugh; "but it is not particularly pleasant.  As I told your
husband, I quarrelled with my people.  It was my own fault in a great
measure; but I do not mean to take all the blame; if they had treated
me differently, things would not have come to this; but this is all
ancient history; if a man sows thistles he must expect a harvest of the
same.  I have had my evil things certainly, and perhaps I deserved
them."

"And you wish now that you had acted differently;" then such a look of
intense pain crossed Robert Barton's face that Olivia was quite
startled.

"I would give my right hand if those months could be blotted out," he
said, vehemently.  "You know the proverb, Mrs. Luttrell--'Give a dog a
bad name, and hang him'--well, they were for hanging me, I mean
figuratively, so I took the bit between my teeth and bolted."

"It seems to me, Mr. Barton," she said, thoughtfully, "that your one
chance to retrieve the past is to find out your own people.  I
suppose"--hesitating a little--"that they are in a position to help
you?"

"Most certainly they are; we lived mostly abroad, but always in good
style; the house we had at Medhurst was only taken on lease for a short
time; it was my father's fancy never to stay long in one place; he was
fond of travelling; when I am strong enough to brave the weather, I
will go down to Medhurst and hunt up an acquaintance or two; there must
be someone who knew him; but the doctor will not give me leave yet."

"Did my husband say anything to you about the future?" asked Olivia,
tentatively; then Robert Barton's face, that had grown suddenly old and
haggard, brightened up.

"He told me some old gentleman, a friend of yours, had been awfully
kind, and that he would be able to take a room for me for a month, and
get me some canvas and colours.  If I only had my tools, I could take a
sketch of your little girl at once, just as she is now with the kitten.
I could call it 'Play-fellows,' just a small thing, you know, but it
would be sure to take.  I do not paint badly, although I have not made
my mark yet, but I have sold two or three small pictures besides
pot-boilers.  I could begin to-morrow if only I had my easel and
palette," and his tone was so eager, that Olivia promised to consult
her husband, and, if he approved, to go herself for the necessary
things.

When Marcus came in he told them at once that he had been round to the
Models.  "The room will be vacant next Tuesday, Barton," he said,
briskly, "and I have settled with Mrs. Randall that you will take it
for a month.  It is a poor place, of course, but in my opinion it is
not so bare as your present diggings, and it is very clean and
comfortable, so you may be sure of board and lodging for a month.  You
will have to be careful, you know," he went on, "as long as this
weather lasts.  You must not think of moving about the country just yet
or you will be laid up again," and then Olivia chimed in, and after a
little consultation it was arranged that Olivia should go to the
picture-shop at the corner of Harbut Street the next morning.

Robert Barton made a list of things required.  He was in such good
spirits all tea-time, and told such amusing stories of his life in
Paris, that even Marcus, tired as he was, was much entertained.

"He is really a well-informed fellow," he observed, when Barton had
retired.  "I am not so sure that we shall find him in the way, after
all.  He told us that story about the artist's model in quite a racy
fashion.  He seems to be up to date in his notions.  I am a bit curious
to find out if he can paint or if it is only tall talk, but he
certainly seems bent on it.  Now I must turn in, for I am dead beat.
Oh, by-the-bye, Livy, I told Miss Williams that you would go round and
see her to-morrow afternoon.  It would really be a charity," as Olivia
seemed very much astonished at this.  "The poor girl is so lonely, she
has no brothers and sisters, and as far as I can find out no friends
either."

"No friends, Marcus--and they live in one of those nice houses in
Brunswick Place, and keep a man-servant!"

"Oh, I daresay they have a few acquaintances," returned Dr. Luttrell,
with a yawn.  "Most likely it has been impossible for her to have
friends.  When I proposed sending you to cheer her up, she looked quite
grateful.  Poor soul, you will like her, Olive.  She is just your sort;
no nonsense about her, plenty of feeling, but nothing hysterical."

"Marcus," observed Olivia, slipping her hand through his arm, and
speaking very deliberately, "do you not think we had better have those
cards printed? our visiting acquaintance is so much increased," and
then Marcus laughed and turned down the lamp.




CHAPTER XII.

GRETA.

"For I am the only one of my friends that I can rely
on."--_Appolodamus_.


Olivia set out in good spirits to pay her call the next afternoon.  It
was a clear, frosty day, sunless and excessively cold, but Olivia felt
a certain exhilaration in the ring of the horses' hoofs on the hard
road, and the brisk exercise brought such a glow to her face, that more
than one passer-by looked at her approvingly.

There are no cosmetiques so beneficial as good health, happiness, and
an easy conscience.  Olivia, who had never been handsome, looked so
fresh and comely, that many a languid beauty might have envied her.

Brunswick Place was considered rather a desirable spot; it was quiet
and retired, and the houses were well-built and substantial looking.
They were chiefly inhabited by solicitors in good practice, and retired
army men who had private means of their own.  The very air was redolent
of respectability and prosperity.  No one with a small income would
have thought of settling down in Brunswick Place.

The man-servant who admitted Olivia ushered her into a large,
handsomely furnished drawing-room with a conservatory opening out of
it, and the next moment Miss Williams joined her.

To her great surprise Olivia recognised her at once.  She was the tall
girl in brown that she had so often noticed in church, who was always
alone, and who looked so sad.  Yes, it was the same tired-looking young
face, she was certain of it.

"I am sure I have often seen you," she said, as they shook hands, and
Miss Williams smiled.

"I was just thinking the same of you.  You attend St. Matthew's, do you
not?  I have seen you with Dr. Luttrell.  Please sit down--no, not that
chair.  Come a little closer to the fire, it is so bitterly cold," and
here she shivered a little.

"I do not mind the cold as much as some people," replied Olivia,
sturdily.  "I am very strong and take plenty of exercise.  Perhaps you
have not been out; it is so difficult to keep warm indoors."

"No, I have not been out," returned Miss Williams, and then she looked
at Olivia.  "It is very kind of you to come and see me--Mrs. Luttrell."

She spoke slowly, almost deliberately, but her voice was pleasant.  In
her light tweed, she looked even taller than Olivia had thought her,
and very thin.

In spite of her pale complexion and want of animation, Miss Williams
had some claims to good looks.  She had soft grey eyes, with remarkably
long lashes, and the coils of fair hair set off a finely shaped head.

"My husband thought that you seemed rather lonely," returned Olivia, in
her usual straightforward fashion.  Then a faint colour rose to Miss
Williams's face.

"Yes, it was so kind of him to propose it, and I was very grateful.  I
suppose he told you that I had no friends--no one, I mean, that I could
ask to come in and sit with me a little.  I know the next-door people
slightly.  We call at intervals, and they have invited me to a party,
but I have never got beyond that.  It has been difficult for me to make
friends.  I am rather shy--and----" here she broke off rather awkwardly.

"I think I know what you mean," replied Olivia.  "When one is in
trouble, one wants real friends, not chance acquaintances, and if one
has not made them----"

"Just so--that is precisely my case.  Circumstances have been to blame,
for I think I am sociable by nature.  Dr. Luttrell was very quick; he
understood at once, and he said it was not good for me to be so much
alone.  Oh, he was such a comfort to me.  Even the first moment he did
not seem like a stranger.  I felt before half-an-hour was over that I
could trust him implicitly.  And when he suggested yesterday that you
should come and cheer me up, I said yes at once."

"I was very glad to come," replied Olivia, quickly.  "Like yourself, I
have no friends here, with the exception of another patient of my
husband's, an old gentleman who lives opposite to us.  So I hope you
will let me be of some use to you.  You know," after a moment's
hesitation, "Dr. Luttrell is not one to talk about his patients, but he
told me a little about your trouble."

"So I imagined, and of course it makes it easier for me."  And here
Miss Williams's lips trembled slightly.  "You could not help me or be
any comfort without knowing a little.  Oh, Mrs. Luttrell, is it not
dreadful?  My poor father, and such a good father, too.  He is just
killing himself, I know that."

"And you are all alone?"

"Yes, since my mother died.  Things were bad enough then, but they have
been worse since.  She used to be able to influence him and keep him
straight, but he will not listen to me."

"Have you had this to bear long?" and Olivia looked at her pityingly.
What a life for a young, sensitive girl!

"For some years.  Ever since Dacre, my brother, died.  It was a boating
accident, and they brought him home quite dead.  We thought it was the
shock, but Dr. Bevan, who attended him, then told us that it was due
also to hereditary disease.  We dared not send for Dr. Bevan the other
night, though he understood him so thoroughly, and was so kind.  My
father had quarrelled with him, but Dr. Luttrell saw him yesterday and
they had a long talk."

"My husband always speaks so highly of Dr. Bevan."

"Yes, and I liked him so much.  He was such a comfort to me when poor
mother died, and I shall always be grateful to him, but I dared not run
the risk of exciting my father.  He is a little better today; Dr.
Luttrell says so; but of course he is coming again to-night.  We have a
good nurse, so things are more hopeful, but I shall have to get rid of
our man.  He is no use.  Dr. Luttrell says I must have someone older
and more reliable, who can help in an emergency.  Roberts is far too
young to be any real good."

Olivia listened and assented.  She was quick-witted enough to see that
it would be better to let Miss Williams talk and unburden herself a
little.  The girl, in spite of a naturally shy temperament, seemed
ready to open her heart to her.  Perhaps Olivia's winning personality
had already won her.  Human nature is so strangely constituted--the
laws of attraction and repulsion are so unaccountable.

Some natures seem magnetic; they attract and draw us almost without our
own volition.  With others we make no way, months and years of
intercourse will not bind us more closely.  We are not on the same
plane.

Olivia's sympathetic manner, the pitying kindness in her eyes, appealed
strongly to Greta Williams, the lonely girl--isolated by the worst
curse that can affect humanity--grievous hereditary vice--the innocent
scape-goat of another's sin.  Alas, how many homes even in our favoured
land are desolated as well as desecrated from this one cause.  What
piteous waste of sweet young life, crushed under unnatural burdens.
The sin of England, we say--the shameful curse of diseased
self-indulgence.

Greta Williams seemed patient by nature; though it was a relief to talk
openly to another woman, she did not complain.  In spite of her
father's faults, he was evidently very dear to her.

"It is a disease--a madness," she said once, "but it would never do to
have young people here; one could not be sure, and for his sake it is
better not," and in these few words there lay a world of tragedy.

To love, and yet not to be sure that the object of our love will not
disgrace us.  What misery to a refined and sensitive nature, to have to
blush and grow pale from very shame and terror; to stretch out a
helping hand to some dear one who has sunk too low to reach it.  Ah,
only One, the All-merciful, can rightly gauge the anguish of such a
sorrow.  No wonder Greta Williams looked so worn and pale, and that her
eyes had grown sad.

"He is worse than he has ever been," she whispered, presently.  "Dr.
Luttrell does not tell me, but I know he was alarmed for him that
night.  He has been so much better lately," she went on, with a little
sob in her throat.  "I had felt almost comfortable; not quite
comfortable, you know, because it never really lasted, but he liked me
to read to him, and we played chess; but now"--her voice dropped into
weariness--"I shall never feel quite easy again."

Olivia had long ago outstayed an ordinary conventional visit; but
Marcus had sent her for a purpose: she was to try and cheer, and, if
possible, comfort, this poor girl, so, when Greta rang for tea, she
simply stayed on, and towards the end of her visit she thought her
young hostess looked a shade brighter.

"You will come and see me," she said when she rose to take leave; but
Miss Williams hesitated.

"Will you forgive me if I do not return your call just now?  I simply
dare not leave the house.  You understand, do you not, Mrs. Luttrell?
but if you would be so very kind as to come again."

"Most certainly I will come again; did you think that I should not?
but, dear Miss Williams, you must not shut yourself up too closely, or
your health will suffer."

But Greta only smiled faintly at this.

"I shall tell Dr. Luttrell that you have done me good," she said,
pressing Olivia's hand; "how strange it seems--there is no cure for
such a trouble as mine, and yet telling you about it has seemed to make
it more bearable.  Oh, please come again soon--very soon," and of
course Olivia readily promised this.

It was rather a disappointment on her return to find Marcus had been in
for tea and had gone out again.  Robert Barton, who was reading by the
fire, said that he would not be back for an hour or two.

"Have you had a pleasant afternoon, Mrs. Luttrell?" he asked, putting
down his book, and trying to stifle a yawn; but, though Olivia replied
in the affirmative, she did not vouchsafe any information about her
visit.

When Marcus returned two hours later, he found their guest had betaken
himself to bed, and Olivia was able to give him a graphic account of
her afternoon.

"I am very much interested in Miss Williams," she observed presently;
"fancy her turning out to be the very tall girl in brown at St.
Matthew's."

"Did your ears burn just now, Livy," observed Marcus, mischievously.
"I am glad to find someone appreciates my wife properly; you seem to
have got on like a house on fire; well, you will be doing good work
there."

"She said you were rather alarmed about her father that first night."

"Did she?  I never said so," he returned, dryly; "in some cases it is
best to reserve one's opinion; but of course at Mr. Williams's age it
is a grave matter;" then he drew his chair closer to the fire.  "Life's
an awful muddle, Livy, as that man said in _Hard Times_; fancy the
loneliness of a young creature like that; why, she cannot be more than
two- or three-and-twenty, and her lawful protector drinking himself to
death."

Olivia shuddered, her own young life had been anxious and hardworking;
but compared with Greta Williams it had been strewn with roses.  Could
any parents have been more honoured than hers had been?  And then had
she not always had Aunt Madge's wise counsel and sympathy to aid her?
and, lastly, had not the sunshine of a happy love glorified it?  But
Miss Williams apparently had none of these things.

"Not more than others I deserve, but God has given me more," she
thought, with a swelling heart, as she made her thanksgiving that night.

In spite of outside weather, there was plenty of life and movement in
the corner house at Galvaston Terrace.  The next day Mr. Barton began
his sketch of Dot, and he soon became so absorbed in it that he seemed
to forget his weakness and lassitude.

Olivia watched the progress of the picture with intense delight, and
carried a favourable report of it on her next visit to Galvaston House.

"It is a striking likeness of my little girl," she said.  "Even my
husband, who is not easy to please in such matters, allows that.  He
owned yesterday that Mr. Barton is certainly a good artist, and
understands his business.  I like to watch him? he looks so happy when
he is painting, as though he has forgotten all his troubles; he is
staying with us a day or two longer on account of the picture, but he
will certainly leave us on Thursday."

Mr. Gaythorne did not answer; he seemed to be considering something; at
last he said, rather abruptly:

"Yes, Dr. Luttrell has been telling me what a clever fellow he seems,
and I think I shall get him to do a little job for me.

"That picture I bought at Stangrove's wants touching up; it has been
injured; I knew that when I bought it; but it was so slight that it did
not matter, and I meant to get it put to rights.  If I send it over
to-morrow or the next day, do you think Mr. Barton will undertake the
job? it will only take him an hour or two."

"He will gladly do so, I am sure of that.  Is it the picture that my
husband admired so much?"

"Yes, the Prodigal Son; I bought it that day I sprained my ankle.  Very
well, Mrs. Luttrell, it shall be sent to your house."




CHAPTER XIII.

FRESH COMPLICATIONS.

"It is best to be cautious and avoid extremes."--_Plutarch_.


Greta Williams's pathetic little speech, "Come soon, very soon,
please," rather haunted Olivia, and she very speedily found an excuse
for repeating her visit.  This time she was welcomed so warmly, and
Miss Williams seemed so unfeignedly pleased to see her, that she felt
she had done the right thing, and after that she went frequently to
Brunswick Place.

Circumstances certainly favoured the rapid growth of their intimacy.
Greta, who had caught a severe cold, was obliged to remain closely
confined to the house, and Dr. Luttrell, who was sincerely sorry for
the lonely girl, encouraged his wife to go as often as possible.

"She has not a soul belonging to her, at least in England," he said
once, "though she has relations in New Zealand, uncles and aunts and
cousins.  There is a colony of Williamses in Christ-church.  The worst
of it is people seemed to have left off calling, her father made
himself so disagreeable; it is hard lines for her, poor girl.  I
believe Mrs. Tolman looks her up occasionally."  Then Olivia, at the
mention of the vicar's wife, made a naughty little face.

"Miss Williams rather dreads her visits," she replied.  "She calls her
an east-windy sort of person, and I know what she means.  Mrs. Tolman
is an excellent woman, but she rubs one up the wrong way.  I always
feel bristly all over after one of her parochial visits, and I know
Aunt Madge feels the same.  When the vicar is with her he seems to tone
her down somehow, but the very swing of her gown as she enters the
room, and the way she sits down, as though she were taking possession
of one's chair, irritates my nerves," but though Marcus laughed he did
not contradict this.

The new friendship gave Olivia a great deal of pleasure.  Since her
school-days she had never enjoyed the society of anyone of her own age.
The hard-working young governess had had scant leisure for cementing
intimacies.

It had always been a wonder to her how Marcus had managed his courting,
and she often told him so.  She had met him at the house of one of her
pupils, and, it being a wet day, he had offered his umbrella, and
walked back with her to her lodgings.

She had a vague idea that he had detained her for such a long time
talking on the doorstep that her mother had come down and invited him
to wait until the rain was over, but Marcus always repudiated this, and
declared that she had talked so fast that he found it impossible to get
away; but after this he and her mother had seemed to play into each
other's hands.

Perhaps under other circumstances Olivia would hardly have found Miss
Williams so attractive and interesting, for, though amiable and
affectionate, she was by no means clever.  Her accomplishments
consisted in a tolerable knowledge of French and Italian picked up
abroad, but she had no decided tastes.  She read little, knew nothing
of music, and her chief pleasure seemed the care of her flowers and her
beautiful needlework, for some French nuns had taught her embroidery
and lace-making.  Olivia, who was intellectual and well read, and who
thought deeply on most subjects, had soon reached the limits of Greta's
knowledge, but happily there is culture of the heart as well as of the
head.

Greta had plenty of sweet, womanly virtues.  She was patient by nature
and capable of much long-suffering and endurance.  Her affections were
warm and deep, but she had hitherto found no fitting scope for them.
The sad grey eyes told their own story: her youthful bloom had been
wasted amid sterile surroundings.  Greta Williams had one of those
strong womanly characters that are meant to be the prop of weaker
natures, that are veritable towers of strength in hours of adversity.
It was for this that Olivia grew to love her when she knew her better.

"She is so patient," she said once when she was discussing her with
Mrs. Broderick.  "She has so much staying power, and then she never
quite loses her faith in anyone, however hopeless they seem.  Even
Marcus has said more than once that her pluck is wonderful, but of
course it wears her out."

"You must bring her to see me, Livy," returned Aunt Madge.  "We will
have a little tea party, and Deb shall distinguish herself," but Greta
only smiled faintly when Olivia repeated this.

"Some day, perhaps," she said, quietly, and then her eyes had suddenly
filled with tears.  "Oh, Mrs. Luttrell, we have had such a dreadful
time.  Nurse only left him a minute, and he managed to get to the
brandy.  It must have been Roberts's fault that the cellarette was
unlocked, but ever since he has seemed quite mad; we were obliged to
send for Dr. Luttrell."  And then at the thought of the grim shadows
brooding over that unhappy home, Olivia's little plans seemed out of
place.

Mr. Gaythorne kept his promise, and before Robert Barton left them, the
picture was sent to the corner house.

Mr. Barton, who had just finished his sketch of Dot and the kitten, had
that moment invited Olivia to look at it.

"I may touch it up a bit more, but I suppose it will do now," he said,
in a tone of complacency.

"Do! it is beautiful--it is perfectly charming.  Oh, if we were only
rich enough to buy it for ourselves, but," looking at him severely,
"you know what my husband said this morning, Mr. Barton, that he would
not allow me to accept it as a gift.  You are to take it round to that
picture dealer's in Harbut Street, and see if they will not give you a
fair price for it, and then you must set about something bigger for the
Royal Academy."  And though Robert Barton shook his head in a
melancholy dissenting fashion, he knew that Dr. Luttrell had been right.

[Illustration: "It is beautiful--it is perfectly charming."]

"I should have liked you to have it," he said, with a sigh, "but I
suppose beggars ought not to be generous.  If I only get on, I will
paint Dot again;" and then Martha had come in with the picture.

"There is no light now.  I shall have to wait till to-morrow, but of
course your old gentleman knows that."

Robert Barton always spoke of him as the old gentleman, but when Olivia
had first mentioned his name, he had seemed a little startled, and had
questioned her about him.

"He lives alone," he said presently; "it is rather an uncommon name.
There were some Gaythornes in London--a firm of solicitors--perhaps it
is one of those.  They make plenty of money sometimes."  And then the
subject had dropped.

Olivia, who had promised to spend an hour or two with Mr. Gaythorne
that evening, looked at the clock, and then folded up her work; but as
she put it away, a sudden quick exclamation from Robert Barton made her
look at him.

He was staring at the picture.  "Why, it is my own work," he said, with
a flush of pleasure.  "The picture I painted at Beyrout, and that I
sold for a mere song.  Of course the fellow cheated me, he was a mean
sort of chap; but it is not so bad after all.  And what's
this?--'Goddard.'  Well, of all the cads!  He has put his own name to
it, but I swear I painted it.  Abdul and his son Hassan were my models.
Oh, I see by your face that you like it, Mrs. Luttrell.  I don't think
myself that I ever did anything better.  Isn't it Carlyle that says
'Genius is the capacity for taking infinite pains.'  Well, I took lots
of pains with that picture.  I meant to get it into the Royal Academy,
but ill-luck obliged me to sell it."

"You painted that picture of the Prodigal Son!" exclaimed Olivia,
excitedly.

"Oh, yes, I painted it all right.  It was a nasty trick of Goddard's
putting his name to it.  Look, that was Abdul's wife, the one with the
distaff; the other two were two women I saw sitting under a palm-tree
one evening.  Well, your old gentleman has sent it to the right person
to touch it up.  It shall be done to-morrow before I go."

Olivia was so full of this wonderful piece of intelligence that she
could hardly wait until Phoebe had closed the library door.  "Oh, Mr.
Gaythorne," she exclaimed, "what do you think!  Your beautiful picture
of the Prodigal Son is Mr. Barton's work.  Goddard is only the name of
the man who bought it.  Yes," as Mr. Gaythorne looked very much
astonished at this.  "You will not call him the gentlemanly tramp any
longer, now that he is a real artist."

"Look here, Mrs. Luttrell," he said, abruptly, "I don't believe all
this.  You are being gulled.  Goddard painted that picture, not Barton;
I hate imposition.  I daresay the fellow can paint in a pretty
amateurish sort of way, and he will be able to do my job, but I am not
going to swallow this without proof.  Tell him to bring the picture
back himself, and you can come too if you like.  If he has been
imposing on your credulity I shall very soon detect him."  But Olivia
was indignant at this.

"Of course he shall bring back the picture if you wish it," she said, a
little stiffly.  "And I shall ask him to bring the sketch of Dot, too,
and then you will see for yourself how well he paints, but he is no
impostor, I am certain of that;" but as usual Mr. Gaythorne only held
obstinately to his opinion.

"My dear young lady," he said, irritably, "you have hardly enough
experience to judge in a case like this.  If Mr. Barton really painted
that picture, which I deny, for Goddard painted it, he is a worse scamp
than I thought him.  What business had he to be starving on a doorstep
or supping off dry bread and thin cocoa in a casual ward?  My dear, we
old fellows know the world better than that.  Robert Barton is a black
sheep, and not all your charity can wash him white."

Mr. Gaythorne was evidently in one of his obstinate moods, and Olivia
thought it prudent to say no more on this subject.  Robert Barton would
be able to vindicate himself without difficulty.  When Mr. Gaythorne
saw the sketch of Dot and the kitten he would be more lenient in his
judgment of the young artist.

During the remainder of her visit she chatted to him cheerfully about a
book he had lent her; but just before she took her leave she
unfortunately broached the subject of her new friend.  At the mention
of her name Mr. Gaythorne started and changed color.

"Greta Williams," he observed, with a sharp, almost displeased
intonation in his voice.  "That is not a common name.  And she lives in
Brunswick Place?"

"Yes; they have been living there for some years, but before that they
were in the country."  But to her surprise Mr. Gaythorne interrupted
her impatiently.

"Yes, yes, you said that before; go on with what you were telling me
about her father.  He is a dipsomaniac, you say."  And then Olivia
proceeded with her story.

"Is it not sad for the poor girl?" she observed when she had finished,
but Mr. Gaythorne made no reply.  He was sitting in a stooping attitude
over the fire and seemed lost in thought.

His first remark took Olivia by surprise.  "Have you ever mentioned my
name to Miss Williams?" he asked, with one of his keen searching looks.
"You are very frank, Mrs. Luttrell.  I daresay you have dropped a word
or two about me."

But Olivia shook her head.

"I am quite sure that I have not done so.  I have only seen Miss
Williams four or five times, and we have only talked about her own
troubles and--oh yes, a little about Mr. Barton.  No, I am certain that
your name has never been mentioned."

"That is well," he returned, slowly.  "Perhaps you will be good enough
for the future to leave me out of your conversations when you go to
Brunswick Place.

"The fact is, Mrs. Luttrell," he went on, slowly, "the Williamses were
old neighbours of ours.  And Greta and my Olive were dear friends, but
they left the neighbourhood long before we did.  I never liked Mr.
Williams; he had a knack of quarrelling with all his friends, and we
soon came to loggerheads.  He made himself obnoxious in many ways, and
I declared I would never enter his house again.  I am sorry to hear we
are such close neighbours."

"What a pity!" observed Olivia, regretfully.  "And poor Miss Williams
is so nice."

"Oh, I have no fault to find with her," he returned, in a softer voice.
"She was a good creature, and my Olive was very fond of her.  At one
time she was always in our house, and she and Alwyn--let me see, what
was I saying?" interrupting himself with a frown of vexation.  "No,
there is no harm in the girl, and I shall always wish her well, for my
little Olive's sake.  But it would be painful for us both to meet."  He
stopped, sighed heavily, and then, shading his eyes, sat for some
minutes without speaking.

Olivia rose at last.  Her visit had not been a pleasant one; the
subjects of conversation had been unlucky.  She was vexed with herself,
and yet it was no fault of hers.  For once Mr. Gaythorne did not try to
detain her, but there was no want of cordiality in his manner as he bid
her good-bye.

"I shall see you to-morrow," he said; "you had better come early, as
the afternoons are so short," but before she had closed the door he
seemed again lost in thought.

That evening Robert Barton was in high spirits, and talked in a most
sanguine manner of his future.  He would set about a picture for the
Royal Academy at once.  He had his subject ready.  A group in the
casual ward that had greatly impressed him.  He had sketched it roughly
with an old, battered lead-pencil he had picked up.  He discussed it
with animation all tea-time.

"It is just the sort of thing to take the fancy of the public," he
said.  "I shall take pains with it and work it up, patches and all.  It
will be sure to sell."  And Marcus applauded this resolution.

During the rest of the evening Robert Barton was excellent company.  He
told stories--pathetic stories and comical ones, until Olivia put down
her work to listen.  And Marcus's laugh had more than once brought
Martha out of the kitchen.

But towards the end of the evening, when Olivia brought him a cup of
hot cocoa, his gaiety suddenly vanished, and he looked at her a little
sadly.

"To-morrow evening I shall be missing my kind nurse and hostess," he
said, gently, "and shall be wishing myself back in this cosy parlour,"
and then he added, abruptly, "Look here, Mrs. Luttrell, I am not much
of a hand at making pretty speeches, but if ever I can do a good turn
for you and the doctor I shall be proud and happy to do it."

"He is very grateful, Marcus," observed Olivia, as she lingered a
moment by her husband's side.  "There were tears in his eyes as he said
that.  Poor fellow, I cannot help liking him.  There is something
_débonnaire_ and boyish about him, in spite of all he has been through,
and certainly he has been very amusing this evening, but," with a
little caressing touch, "how nice it will be when we are alone again!"
And Marcus smiled assent.




CHAPTER XIV.

AN EVENTFUL DAY.

"Forget not thy sins that thou mayest sorrow and repent."--_Petrarch_.


When Olivia woke the next morning she was conscious of a curious
feeling; an indefinable presentiment that she could not put into words.
"How I wish the day were over," she said to herself; and the thought of
her visit to Galvaston House, and Mr. Gaythorne's sharp, cynical
speeches, quite oppressed her.

"I hope he will be civil to Mr. Barton," she observed later on to her
husband.  "Mr. Barton is very proud and touchy, and he will not submit
to a course of cross-examination from a stranger.  I am quite dreading
the afternoon."  But Marcus only laughed at her fears.

"Barton can hold his own," was his reply.  "He is a bit peppery, but he
is not such a fool as to quarrel with his bread and butter.  He knows
Mr. Gaythorne is a connoisseur, and he will put up with a few sarcastic
speeches in the hope of future profits.  Mr. Gaythorne could make him
extremely useful; he hinted as much to me this morning.  There are some
pictures he wants rehung, and one or two that need cleaning and
varnishing.  Barton has only got to prove without doubt that he and not
Goddard painted that picture, and then they will get on all right.  You
must just hold your tongue, Livy, and leave them to fight it out."  And
Olivia resolved to abide by this prudent advice.

Robert Barton worked hard most of the morning, and then, as the sun
shone brightly, he went out for a stroll before the early dinner.

He came back looking so pale and tired that Olivia scolded him for
taking too long a walk.

"I have not been far," he returned, sitting down in rather a weary
manner, "and it was so warm and pleasant in the sunshine that I thought
it would do me good."  Then he gave a short laugh, and said, abruptly,
"The fact is, something has bowled me over--I have seen a ghost."  Then
Olivia, who was clearing the table for the early dinner, stared at him.

"Oh, of course, I am only speaking figuratively," he went on.  "I
suppose it was really flesh and blood that I saw; but no ghost could
have been more startling.  I wonder"--speaking as though to
himself--"if my sight deceived me; but it was certainly a singular
likeness.  If I had only had the courage to stop and speak; but when I
recollected myself the opportunity had gone--a passing omnibus hindered
me--and then I was too late."

"Did you think it was someone you knew?"

"Yes," very curtly--"a friend of my happier days."  But he seemed
disinclined to say more.  He was so silent and moody all dinner-time
that Dr. Luttrell looked at him in surprise more than once.

"I suppose you will go straight to your lodgings from Galvaston House,"
he said, presently; "it will never do for you to be out late, Barton."
And Robert Barton assented to this.

"I shall just fetch my bag and one or two things; I do not suppose we
shall be long."  And then he rose from the table and began putting up
his brushes, and then took up a book, which he read upside down, until
Olivia was ready to accompany him.

As they crossed

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