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Doctor Luttrell's First Patient

<h3> CHAPTER XI. </h3> <h3> THE NIGHT-BELL RINGS. </h3> "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. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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