CHAPTER VIII
John took his hat and stepped out once more upon the drive, and theremet Dr. Blundell, who had left his dog-cart at the stables, and waswalking up to the house.
He did not pause to analyze the sentiment of slight annoyance whichclouded his usual good humour; but Dr. Blundell divined it, with thequickness of an ultra-sensitive nature. He showed no signs that he haddone so.
"It was you I came to see," he said, shaking hands with John. "Iheard--you know how quickly news spreads here--that you had arrived. Ihoped you might spare me a few moments for a little conversation."
"Certainly," said John. "Will you come in, or shall we take a turn?"
"You will be glad of a breath of fresh air after your journey,"said the doctor, and he led the way across the south terrace, to asheltered corner of the level plateau upon which the house was built,which was known as the fountain garden.
It was rather a deserted garden, thickly surrounded and overgrownby shrubs. Through the immense spreading Portuguese laurels whichsheltered it from the east, little or no sunshine found its way to thegrey, moss-grown basin and the stone figures supporting it; over whicha thin stream of water continually flowed with a melancholy rhythm, inperpetual twilight.
A giant ivy grew rankly and thickly about the stone buttresses of thiseastern corner of the house, and around a great mullioned window whichoverlooked the fountain garden, and which was the window of LadyMary's bedroom.
"These shrubberies want thinning," said John, looking round him ratherdisgustedly. "This place is reeking with damp. I should like to cutdown some of these poisonous laurels, and let in the air and thesunshine, and open out the view of the Brawnton hills."
"And why don't you?" said the doctor, with such energy in his tonethat John stopped short in his pacing of the gravel walk, and lookedat him.
The two men were almost as unlike in appearance as in character.
The doctor was nervous, irritable, and intense in manner; withdeep-set, piercing eyes that glowed like hot coal when he was movedor excited. A tall, gaunt man, lined and wrinkled beyond his years;careless of appearance, so far as his shabby clothes were concerned,yet careful of detail, as was proven by spotless linen andwell-preserved, delicate hands.
He was indifferent utterly to the opinion of others, to his ownworldly advancement, or to any outer consideration, when in pursuit ofthe profession he loved; and he knew no other interest in life, saveone. He had the face of a fanatic or an enthusiast; but also of a manwhose understanding had been so cultivated as to temper enthusiasmwith judgment.
He had missed success, and was neither resigned to his disappointment,nor embittered by it.
The gaze of those dark eyes was seldom introspective; rather, as itseemed, did they look out eagerly, sadly, pitifully at the pain andsorrow of the world; a pain he toiled manfully to lessen, so far ashis own infinitesimal corner of the universe was concerned.
John Crewys, on the other hand, was, to the most casual observer, asuccessful man; a man whose personality would never be overlooked.
There was a more telling force in his composure than in the doctor'snervous energy. His clear eyes, his bright, yet steady glance,inspired confidence.
The doctor might have been taken for a poet, but John looked like aphilosopher.
He was also, as obviously, in appearance, a man of the world, and aLondoner, as the doctor was evidently a countryman, and a hermit. Hisadvantages over the doctor included his voice, which was as deep andmusical as the tones of his companion were harsh.
The manner, no less than the matter of John's speech, had earlybrought him distinction.
Nature, rather than cultivation, had bestowed on him the faculty ofconveying the impression he wished to convey, in tones that charm; andheld his auditors, and penetrated ears dulled and fatigued by monotonyand indistinctness.
The more impassioned his pleading, the more utterly he held his ownemotion in check; the more biting his subtly chosen words, the morecourteous his manner; now deadly earnest, now humorously scornful,now graciously argumentative, but always skilfully and designedlyconvincing.
The doctor, save in the presence of a patient, had no such controlover himself as John Crewys carried from the law-courts, into his lifeof every day.
"Why don't you," he said, in fiery tones, "let in air and life, and aview of the outside world, and as much sunshine as possible into thismusty old house? You have the power, if you had only the will."
"You speak figuratively, I notice," said John. "I should be muchobliged if you would tell me exactly what you mean."
He would have answered in warmer and more kindly tones had Sarah'swords not rung upon his ear.
Was the doctor going to fight Lady Mary's battles now, and with him,of all people in the world? As though there were any one in the worldto whom her interests could be dearer than--
John stopped short in his thoughts, and looked attentively at thedoctor. His heart smote him. How pallid was that tired face; and thehollow eyes, how sad and tired too! The doctor had been up all night,in a wretched isolated cottage, watching a man die--but John did notknow that.
He perceived that this was no meddler, but a man speaking of somethingvery near his heart; no presuming and interfering outsider whodeserved a snub, but a man suffering from some deep and hidden cause.
The doctor's secret was known to John long before he had finished whathe had to say; but he listened attentively, and gave no sign that thiswas so.
"She will die," said Blundell, "if this goes on;" and he neithermentioned any name, nor did John Crewys require him to do so.
The doctor's words came hurrying out incoherently from the depths ofhis anxiety and earnestness.
"She will die if this goes on. There were few hopes and little enoughpleasure in her life before; but what is left to her now? _De mortuisnil nisi bonum._ But just picture to yourself for a moment, man, whather life has been."
He stopped and drew breath, and strove to speak calmly anddispassionately.
"I was born in the valley of the Youle," he said. "My people live ina cottage--they call it a house, but it's just a farm--on theriver,--Cullacott. I was a raw medical student when _she_ came here asa child. Her father was killed in the Afghan War. He had quarrelledwith his uncle, they said, who afterwards succeeded to the earldom;so she was left to the guardianship of Sir Timothy, a distant cousin.Every one was sorry for her, because Sir Timothy was her guardian, andbecause she was a little young thing to be left to the tender merciesof the two old ladies, who were old even then. If you will excuse myspeaking frankly about the family"--John nodded--"they bullied theirbrother always; what with their superiority of birth, and his being somuch younger, and so on. Their bringing-up made him what he was, I amsure. He went nowhere; he always fancied people were laughing at him.His feeling about his--his mother's lowly origin seemed to pervadehis whole life. He exaggerated the importance of birth till it becamealmost a mania. If you hadn't known the man, you couldn't havebelieved a human being--one of the million crawling units on theearth--could be so absurdly inflated with self-importance. It waspitiful. He went nowhere, and saw no one. I believe he thought thatProvidence had sent a wife of high rank to his very door to enable himpartially to wipe out his reproach. She looked like a child when shecame, but she shot up very suddenly into womanhood. If you ask me ifshe was unhappy, I declare I don't think so. She had never realized,I should think, what it was to be snubbed or found fault with inher life. She was a motherless child, and had lived with her oldgrandfather and her young father, and had been very much spoilt. Andthey were both snatched away from her, as it were, in a breath; andshe alone in the world, with an uncle who was only glad to get rid ofher to her stranger guardian. Well,--she was too young and too brightand too gay to be much downcast for all the old women could do. Shelaughed at their scolding, and when they tried severity she appealedto Sir Timothy. The old doctor who was my predecessor here told me atthe time that he thought she had bewitched Sir Timothy; but afterw
ardshe said that he believed it was only that Sir Timothy had made up hismind even then to quarter the Setoun arms with his own. Anyway, hewent against his sisters for the first and only time in his life, andthey learnt that Lady Mary was not to be interfered with. Whether itwas gratitude or just the childish satisfaction of triumphing over hertwo enemies, I can't tell, but she married him in less than two yearsafter she came to live at Barracombe. The old ladies didn't knowwhether to be angry or pleased. They wanted him to marry, and theywanted his wife to be well-born, no doubt; but to have a mere childset over them! Well, the marriage took place in London."
"I was present," said John.
"The people here said things about it that may have got round to SirTimothy; but I don't know. He never came down to the village, exceptto church, where he sat away from everybody, in the gallery curtainedoff. Anyway, he wouldn't have the wedding down here. He invited allher relatives, and none of them had a word to say. It wasn't as if shewere an heiress. I believe she had next to nothing. She was just likea child, laughing, and pleased at getting married, and with all herfinery, perhaps,--or at getting rid of her lessons with the old womenmay be,--and the thought of babies of her own. Who knows what a girlthinks of?" said the doctor, harshly. "I didn't see her again for along time after. But then I came down; the Brawnton doctor was gettingold, and it was a question whether I should succeed him or go on inLondon, where I was doing well enough. And--and I came here," said thedoctor, abruptly.
John nodded again. He filled in the gaps of the doctor's narrative forhimself, and understood.
"She had changed very much. All the gaiety and laughter gone. But shewas wrapt up in the child as I never saw any woman wrapt up in a bratbefore or since; and I've known some that were pretty ridiculous inthat way," said the doctor, and his voice shook more than ever. "Itwas--touching, for she was but a child herself; and Peter, between youand me, was an unpromising doll for a child to play with. He was uglyand ill-tempered, and he wouldn't be caressed, or dressed up, or mademuch of, from the first minute he had a will of his own. As he grewbigger he was for ever having rows with his father, and his motherwas for ever interceding for him. He was idle at school; but he was amanly boy enough over games and sport, and a capital shot. Anyway, shemanaged to be proud of him, God knows how. I shouldn't wonder if thiswar was the making of him, though, poor chap, if he's spared to seethe end of it all."
"I have no doubt the discipline will do him a great deal of good,"said John, dryly.
It cannot be said that his brief interview at Southampton hadimpressed John with a favourable opinion of the sulky and irresponsiveyouth, who had there listened to his mother's messages with loweringbrow and downcast eye. Peter had betrayed no sign of emotion, andalmost none of gratitude for John's hurried and uncomfortable journeyto convey that message.
"A few hard knocks will do you no harm, my young friend; and I almostwish you may get them," John had said to himself on his homewardjourney; dreading, yet expecting, the news that awaited him at Peter'shome, and for which he had done his best to prepare the boy.
"Too much consideration hitherto has ruined him," said the doctor,shortly. "But it's not of Peter I'm thinking, one way or the other.From the time he went first to school, she's had to depend entirely onher own resources--and what are they?"
He paused, as though to gather strength and energy for his indictment.
"From the time she was brought here--except for that one outing and achange to Torquay, I believe, after Peter's birth--she has scarce setfoot outside Barracombe. Sir Timothy would not, so he was resolved sheshould not. His sisters, who have as much cultivation as that stonefigure, disapproved of novel-reading--or of any other reading, Ishould fancy--and he followed suit. Books are almost unknown in thishouse. The library bookcases were locked. Sir Timothy opened them oncein a while, and his sisters dusted the books with their own hands;it was against tradition to handle such valuable bindings. He hatedmusic, and the piano was not to be played in his presence. Have youever tried it? I'm told you're musical. It belonged to Lady Belstone'smother, the Honourable Rachel. That is her harp which stands in thecorner of the hall. Her daughter once tinkled a little, I believe; butthe prejudices of the ruling monarch were religiously obeyed. Musicwas _taboo_ at Barracombe. Dancing was against their principles, andtheatres they regard with horror, and have never been inside one intheir lives. Nothing took Sir Timothy to London but business; andif it were possible to have the business brought to Barracombe, hissolicitor, Mr. Crawley, visited him here."
The doctor spoke in lower tones, as he recurred to his first theme.
"I don't think she found out for years, or realized what a prisonershe was. They caught and pinned her down so young. There are no verynear neighbours--I mean, not the sort of people they would recognizeas neighbours--except the Hewels. Youlestone is such an out-of-the-wayplace, and Sir Timothy was never on intimate terms with any one. Mrs.Hewel is a fool--there was only little Sarah whom Lady Mary made a petof--but she had no friends. Sir Timothy and his sisters made visitingsuch a stiff and formal business, that it was no wonder she hatedpaying calls; the more especially as it could lead to nothing. Hewould not entertain; he grudged the expense. I was present at a scenehe once made because a large party drove over from a distant house andstayed to tea. He said he could not entertain the county. She daredask no one to her house--she, who was so formed and fitted by natureto charm and attract, and enjoy social intercourse." His voicefaltered. "They stole her youth," he said.
"What do you want me to do?" said John, though he was vaguelyconscious that he understood for what the doctor was pleading.
He sat down by the fountain; and the doctor, resting a mended booton the end of the bench, leant on his bony knee, and looked downwistfully at John's thoughtful face, broad brow, and bright, intenteyes.
"You are a very clever man, Mr. Crewys," he said humbly. "A man of theworld, successful, accomplished, and, I believe, honest"--he spokewith a simplicity that disarmed offence--"or I should not haveventured as I have ventured. Somehow you inspire me with confidence. Ibelieve you can save her. I believe you could find a way to bring backher peace of mind; the interest in life--the gaiety of heart--that isnatural to her. If I were in your place, not the two old women--notSir Timothy's ghost--not that poor conceited slip of a lad who may beshot to-morrow--would stand in my way. I would bring back the colourto her cheek, and the light to her eye, and the music to her voice--"
"Whilst her boy is in danger?" John asked, almost scornfully. Hethought he knew Lady Mary better than the doctor did, after all.
"I tell you _nothing_ would stop me," said Blundell, vehemently."Before I would let her fret herself to death--afraid to break thespells that have been woven round her, bound as she is, hand and foot,with the prejudices of the dead--I would--I would--take her to SouthAfrica myself," he said brilliantly. "The voyage would bring her backto life."
John got up. "That is an idea," he said. He paused and looked at thedoctor. "You have known her longer than I. Have you said nothing toher of all this?"
The doctor smiled grimly. "Mr. Crewys," he said, "some time since Ispoke my mind--a thing I am over-apt to do--_of_ Peter, and _to_ him.The lad has forgiven me; he is a man, you see, with all his faults.But Lady Mary, though she has all the virtues of a woman, is also amother. A woman often forgives; a mother, never. Don't forget."
"I will not," said John.
"And you'll do it--"
"Use the unlimited authority that has been placed in my hands, byimproving this tumble-down, overgrown place?" said John, slowly. "Letin light, air, and sunshine to Barracombe, and do my best to brightenLady Mary's life, without reference to any one's prejudices, past orpresent?"
"You've got the idea," said the doctor, joyfully. "Will you carry itout?"
"Yes," said John.