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Doctor Luttrell's First Patient

<h3> CHAPTER XIV. </h3> <h3> AN EVENTFUL DAY. </h3> "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 the road she said to him, gently: "I am sorry to see that you are a little out of spirits, and I am afraid this visit may be rather trying—an elderly invalid has all sorts of fads and cranks—but I hope you will be patient." Then Robert Barton smiled pleasantly. "Oh, yes, I am quite prepared to be regarded as a fraud; but I shall soon prove that Goddard is the cheat in this case." And then they rang the bell, and Phoebe, telling them that her master was still in the dining-room, ushered them into the library. "Please tell Mr. Gaythorne we are in no hurry," observed Olivia, vexed that they had come so early; but Robert Barton, with one quick glance round the beautiful room, busied himself with placing the pictures in the best possible light. "There," he said, stepping back with a complacent smile, "I think your old gentleman will own that the same artist painted those two pictures, when he sees them side by side." But as he spoke the sound of footsteps made him look towards the open door. As he did so, Olivia saw him suddenly recoil and turn deadly white at the sight of Mr. Gaythorne standing rigid and motionless on the threshold. A stifled voice cried, "Alwyn! Good Heavens! it is Alwyn!"—and the next moment the heavy crutch-handled stick fell from the old man's trembling hand with a sudden crash. At the sound, Robert Barton shivered and shrank back against the easel. Olivia picked it up, and tried to place it in Mr. Gaythorne's hand again, but he never noticed her. His eyes were fixed with a look of agonised intensity on the white face of the young artist. "It is Alwyn," he said again, in the same suppressed voice, "and yet he does not speak or look at me!" And at the anguish in his tone the young man raised his head. "Father, I was not prepared for this," he stammered; "what am I to say to you?" And then, without advancing a step, he looked round him wildly. "Father, what does this mean—am I dreaming—where are my mother and Olive?" Then a low moan of intense pain broke from Mr. Gaythorne's lips. "He does not know. Oh, this is too dreadful, Mrs. Luttrell!" He looked at her almost appealingly, as though his strength were gone, and then she put her arm round him and guided him gently to a chair. "Sit quiet for a moment," she whispered; "you are not fit for this." And as she wiped the cold perspiration from his forehead, his ashen look terrified her. "Dear Mr. Gaythorne, try to compose yourself. Shall I ring for Mrs. Crampton?—perhaps she would know what to do." But he shook his head vehemently. "No, no—only give me time. Ah, look there!"—for the blind hound that had just come into the room was now whining and fawning upon Robert Barton in the most excited way. "Eros knows him. Alwyn,"—trying to raise his voice, but it was strangely feeble—"come nearer to me. When I told you you were never to see my face again, that you were no son of mine, I was labouring under a grievous mistake. I know now who forged that cheque—I have known it for years. No, with all your faults you never did that." And as he said this Mr. Gaythorne put out a shaking hand to his son, but the young man did not take it. There was a fierce, angry light in his blue eyes and a contemptuous smile on his lips. "I am glad you have done me this tardy justice, sir," he said, in a firmer tone, "and that I have heard from your own lips that I am no criminal. When we parted, I remember you threatened me with penal servitude. No, I have not disgraced your name to that extent. I have starved, and nearly died of cold on a doorstep, but I have kept my hands clean." "Alwyn," exclaimed Mr. Gaythorne, piteously, "I was too hard, I will confess that. All these years I have been longing to atone, and the sorrow and remorse have made me an old man before my time. There was much to forgive—much that you made me bear. Surely you cannot deny that." "No, sir, I will not deny that I was a sad scapegrace, but you never took the right way to keep me straight. But for my mother and Olive, I should have run away long before. Father"—and here there was a frightened look in his eyes—"where are they? Why are you alone?" Then, as Mr. Gaythorne raised his hand with a solemn gesture, the young man laid his head down on the mantelpiece and his whole frame shook with convulsive sobs. "Dead! Oh, no—impossible! My own mother, who always believed in me, and my little Olive!" he gasped out more than once. "Mr. Alwyn," observed Olivia, putting her hand on his shoulder, but the tears were running down her face as she spoke, "your father cannot bear much more. I am afraid he is ill." But even as she spoke, Mr. Gaythorne, who had risen from his chair rather stiffly, suddenly fell on the rug at his son's feet. The next moment the pealing of the bell brought Mrs. Crampton and the frightened servants to the room. They found Mrs. Luttrell and the stranger kneeling by the side of the prostrate form; but as the housekeeper caught sight of the young artist's face, she uttered a sudden cry. "It is Mr. Alwyn," she said, "and the joy of seeing him has killed my master." But Olivia hushed her. "Send for Dr. Luttrell," she said; "we must do nothing till he comes. Mr. Alwyn,"—for the unfortunate young man seemed on the verge of fainting,—"I do not think he is dead; it is some sort of attack. We must do the best we can for him, without moving him, until my husband comes." But to her intense relief Marcus entered a moment afterwards. One quick glance at the young artist's agitated face gave Dr. Luttrell a vague clue to the mystery, but he was soon too deeply engrossed with his patient to think of anything else. Under his directions, a temporary bed was made in the library, and the invalid was undressed and laid on it. Mrs. Crampton, who was a capable nurse, carried out the doctor's instructions, and Olivia made herself useful. After the first few minutes Alwyn had left the room, unable to endure the sight any longer. An hour or two passed, then Dr. Luttrell rose from his seat beside his patient, and beckoned his wife from the room. "Livy," he said, as they stood together by the hall fire, "I feel a little more sanguine now there is partial consciousness, but everything depends on keeping him quiet. I shall remain with him tonight and Mrs. Crampton will be with me. I want you to tell me what brought on this attack. From all your faces I can see something has happened. Barton looked as if he would have a stroke, too?" "Oh, where is he, Marcus? I have not seen him for more than an hour. Ah, you may well think that something has happened. I never was present at such a scene. Mr. Barton is his son Alwyn. They recognised each other in a moment. Poor Mr. Gaythorne accused himself of harshness and made a sort of apology, but Mr. Alwyn looked so angry and contemptuous, and would not shake hands. And then he asked after his mother and sister—they are dead, you know. And then, oh, he broke down and sobbed so dreadfully that it quite upset me. "I am sure the poor old man was trying to get to him when he suddenly fell down at his feet, and Mr. Alwyn screamed out, thinking he was dead." "Yes, I see, poor little Livy. What a sad scene; but you behaved very well. Now, as there is nothing more you can do, suppose you take Barton—I mean Gaythorne—back with you. We can't let him go to the Models now, and it would not be safe to have him here. Give him some food and talk to him. Mrs. Crampton will look after my comforts. I will run across later on and tell you how he is." And then Olivia reluctantly obeyed him. Marcus was right, and she would not venture to contradict his orders, but how she longed to stay and share his watch. "Good child," he said, kissing her. "You are a splendid doctor's wife! No fuss and no arguing." And this little bit of praise went far to console her. "Promise me that you will take care of yourself and I will do my best for Mr. Alwyn," she said, nestling up to him for a moment. And then the door-bell rang, and Phoebe, with rather a scared face, went to the door. "Is Dr. Luttrell here?" asked a clear voice that they both recognised as Greta Williams's, and then she caught sight of them and stepped into the hall. "They told me you were here, so I ventured to come across," she said, in a low tone, as Marcus looked at her anxiously. "Oh, there is nothing wrong, only nurse forgot to ask you something, and as it was a fine evening I said I would call." "I am coming round later on. I am sorry you have had your walk for nothing," returned Marcus. And then they went apart and talked together for a few minutes. Then Marcus went back to his patient and Greta joined Olivia, who was sitting on the oaken settee by the blazing fire. She was tired out with the strain of the last two hours, and felt in need of a little rest before she went in search of Alwyn. "Sit down, Greta,", she whispered. "How strange you should have come to this house! But then everything is strange to-day——" But here she stopped confusedly, as she remembered Mr. Gaythorne's injunction. "Why is it strange?" asked Greta, innocently. "There is someone seriously ill here, is there not? But your servant did not tell me the name. How pale and tired you look, Mrs. Luttrell! I suppose it is some friend of yours who is ill?" She glanced at Olivia questioningly, but she only nodded in answer. "Yes; it was a sudden attack—I think it must have been a stroke. Oh, Greta, what is it?"—for Miss Williams had suddenly risen from her seat with a startled exclamation and was gazing with wide, frightened eyes and parted lips into the shadowy corner behind her. The next moment Robert Barton came forward into the firelight, with his pale face and fair, dishevelled hair. He looked almost like a ghost of himself, but Greta, with a little cry, held out her hand to him. "Alwyn, it is you; but how you startled me! Why did you stand there in that silent, ghostly fashion?" But as he only looked at her in a dazed way, and made no answer, she turned to Olivia. "Mrs. Luttrell," she said, piteously, "what does it all mean? Why does he not speak to me, and we are such old friends? Is he ill? He looks dreadful. I should hardly have known him—and yet—and yet—it must be Alwyn." "Yes, I am Alwyn," returned the young man, in a hollow voice. "But you must not touch me, Greta. I am not worthy to take your hand. I have killed my father!" <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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