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Doctor Luttrell's First Patient

<h3> CHAPTER XIII. </h3> <h3> FRESH COMPLICATIONS. </h3> "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. <center> <ANTIMG CLASS="imgcenter" SRC="images/img-171.jpg" ALT=""It is beautiful--it is perfectly charming."" BORDER="2" WIDTH="504" HEIGHT="380"> <H3 STYLE="width: 504px"> "It is beautiful—it is perfectly charming." </h3> </center> "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. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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