Back Aa

Doctor Luttrell's First Patient

<h3> CHAPTER XV. </h3> <h3> "THEY WERE BOTH TO BLAME." </h3> "It befits a son to be dutiful to his father."—Plautus. As Alwyn uttered these despairing words Greta shrank back in alarm, but Olivia, with a reassuring smile, put her hand gently on his arm. "Do not talk so wildly, Mr. Alwyn," she said, soothingly; "you are frightening poor Miss Williams. How can you have killed your father when he is not dead? My husband has only just left me. He seems hopeful about him; he thinks consciousness is returning; but he must have perfect quiet. Even our voices may disturb him—that is why I must beg you to come back with me at once." "You are not deceiving me, Mrs. Luttrell?" returned Alwyn, suspiciously. "You are sure that he is not dead?" "Quite sure," she returned, quietly; and then again Greta put out her hand. "You will come with us, will you not, Alwyn?" she said, with sisterly tenderness; "there is so much that I have to hear and that you must tell me, and we must not talk here. To think that we should have met like this, by accident—if there be such a thing as accident in this life of ours. But no; it was Providence that brought me to this house." And as Olivia followed them down the dark shrubbery she could hear her quiet tones still talking, as though to a younger brother. Olivia was too tired to do more than wonder vaguely as she listened; the sight of her own little parlour and Martha's sturdy figure arranging the tea-table gave her a pleasant revulsion of feeling. When Martha whispered confidentially, as she brought in the lamp, "The seed-cake is nicely baked; hadn't I better bring it in, ma'am?" Olivia gave a little hysterical laugh. After all that tragedy it was so odd to think of freshly baked cakes. "Yes, yes, and make the tea quickly," she said, waving off the little handmaiden impatiently; and Martha, somewhat affronted and vaguely alarmed, retreated to the kitchen. "What's come over the mistress?" she said to herself. "I have never known her so huffy." But Olivia, with difficulty recovering her calmness, busied herself in ministering to her guests. "Mr. Alwyn," she said, gently, "you must rest on that couch—you are just worn out; but a cup of tea will do you good. Greta, you must stop and have some too. Do you know this is the first time you have entered this house? Dot is asleep. I am going up to see her now. Would you like to come too?"—for she guessed intuitively that the girl was longing to question her—and Greta, with a grateful look, followed her at once. Olivia kissed the sleeping child with her usual tenderness. How she longed to lie down beside Dot and sleep off her overpowering weariness; but the day's work was not over. Greta, who had only just glanced at the little one, put her arms suddenly round Olivia and drew her down beside her. "Mrs. Luttrell," she said, breathlessly, "tell me what it all means. What has happened to Alwyn, and what makes him talk so strangely? Do you know, for one moment, I believed him! In the old time they often quarrelled—but of course it is paralysis." And then Olivia told her all that had occurred that afternoon. Greta listened with painful attention; then her eyes filled with tears. "And he never knew that his mother and Olive were dead," she observed. "Oh, Mrs. Luttrell, how sad—how terribly sad it all is! No wonder he looked bewildered, poor fellow; it must have been such an awful shock to hear that, and then to see his poor father fall at his feet." "Yes, and he had been ill too; think of all the hardships he has been through." And Greta shivered as Olivia said this. "How little I thought," she said, "that when you were telling me about the poor young artist that Dr. Luttrell had found on the doorstep on Christmas night, that it was Alwyn Gaythorne, my old playmate and friend!" Then she added, with a sigh, "What would his poor mother have said? She and Olive almost worshipped that boy." "We ought not to leave him too long alone," observed Olivia, wearily. "I promised my husband that I would look after him. We must coax him to take some food, and then he must go to bed; he is very weak still, and all this has exhausted him." And as Greta evidently shared her anxiety, they went back to the parlour. They found Alwyn pacing the room restlessly. He stopped and looked relieved as Greta entered. "I was afraid you had gone," he said, abruptly. "Do you know you passed me in the street this morning? You had that thing on"—touching her sealskin mantle—"but you were not looking at me. I thought it was a ghost, and then I tried to follow you, but some vehicles got in my way, and then you disappeared." "I wish I had seen you," she said, softly. And then Alwyn resumed his restless walk. It was with difficulty that Olivia could induce him to come to the table, and then he could not eat; his eyes looked feverishly bright, and his cough made Greta glance at him anxiously. When tea was over Olivia left the room for a little. Alwyn had utterly refused to go to bed until he had seen Dr. Luttrell; he was evidently tormented by remorse for his hardness to his father, and Olivia thought that he might unburden himself more freely to his old friend; and she was right. On her return she found them talking together, and the strained, hunted look had left Alwyn's eyes. Greta's were swollen with weeping, but there was a smile on her lips. "Alwyn has been telling me his troubles," she said, simply, "and I could not help crying over them, he has suffered so, and I felt so sorry for him. If only we had not gone abroad! But when we came back the Grange was empty, and no one knew what had become of Alwyn. He had quarrelled with his father, and it was supposed he had enlisted and gone to India; and he had talked so often of doing this that I thought it was probably the truth. Now I must go, but I shall come again to-morrow." And then she smiled at him and rose from her seat. "He has talked it all out and it has done him good," she observed, as she and Olivia lingered a moment in the passage; "but if his father dies, Alwyn will never get over it. "Oh, he is much to blame," she went on; "he has been very wild, very imprudent, utterly mad and reckless; but his poor father was to blame, too. A high-spirited lad like Alwyn would not be kept in leading-strings. Mr. Gaythorne was far too strict with him—his own mother said so—and yet in his way he loved him. How often poor Olive would cry about it to me. "Dear, dear Olive, how I loved her! And I was very fond of Mrs. Gaythorne, too, she was so sweet and motherly; she always called us her big and her little daughter. I was so much taller than Olive; but there"—interrupting herself—"if I begin talking about the old days at the Grange I shall never finish." "But you will come to-morrow?" "Yes; indeed, how could I keep away? Do you know that for years Alwyn and I were just like brother and sister—I don't believe he cared much more for Olive than he did for me. I think I understood him better than she did—his mother always said so. Well, good-night, dear Mrs. Luttrell; I shall come to-morrow as early as I can." When Olivia went back to the parlour she found Alwyn lying back in his chair looking utterly spent and exhausted. "I believe I shall have to take your advice and go to bed," he said. "All this has taken the starch out of me, and I feel dead beat"—and he looked so ill that Olivia half thought of sending for her husband. Fortunately he came in half an hour later, and went up at once to Alwyn's room. He was some time with him, and then he came down and told Olivia that she had better fill a hot-water bottle and heat some flannel. "It is a sort of nervous attack," he explained, "and his teeth are chattering with cold, and he is shaking as though he were in an ague fit; but I am going to mix him a composing draught, and he will soon quiet down. I have brought him a favourable report of Mr. Gaythorne, but he is too weak to be cheered by it. This will have done him no end of harm. We shall have him in bed for the next day or two." Olivia gave a tired sigh, but she would not add to Marcus's burdens by selfish complaints of her own fatigue. She would have taken the eider-down off her own bed, but Marcus preferred borrowing a couple of blankets from Mrs. Crampton. In a few minutes he returned again laden with warm things that the housekeeper had sent for her young master's use, and, soothed by the unaccustomed comfort and the powerful narcotic, Alwyn sank into an exhausted sleep. It was eleven o'clock before Olivia could lay her own head on her pillow. As Dot nestled to her with a sleepy cry, the young mother breathed her nightly thanksgiving for her two blessings, and then knew no more until Martha came to pull up her blinds in the morning. When Marcus came across for his breakfast he seemed in excellent spirits. He had had three or four hours' rest, and, in his opinion, the stroke was a slight one. Mr. Gaythorne had regained consciousness, and, though the right arm and his speech were certainly affected, he believed that it was only temporary mischief. "Of course one knows at his age that it is the danger signal," he went on, "but I hope with care that his life may be prolonged for years. I shall get Dr. Bevan to look at him, as I do not care for such undivided responsibility. And perhaps it will be well to have a nurse for a week or two. Mrs. Crampton is not as young as she was, and it is a pity to knock her up." As the day wore on there were still more cheering reports. Mr. Gaythorne had said a few words almost distinctly—at least, Dr. Luttrell had understood him. "Where is Alwyn?" He was quite sure those were his words; but he had seemed quite satisfied when Marcus told him he was with his wife, and had not spoken again. Olivia had hoped for a talk with Aunt Madge, for it was quite three days since she had been round to Mayfield Villas; but she found it impossible to leave the house. Alwyn needed a great deal of attention; he was very low and depressed. Marcus had given orders that he was to have frequent nourishment, and as Mrs. Crampton had sent Phoebe across with a store of good things—soup and jelly and grapes—there were no demands on Olivia's simple larder. A ready-cooked pheasant would be sent for his dinner, and anything else that he could fancy. "Mrs. Crampton says that she knows her master would approve, so I suppose we need not be too scrupulous," observed Marcus; but at that moment the surgery bell rang. Dr. Luttrell's services were required at number seventeen, and with an expressive look at his wife Marcus took up his hat and hastened out. Olivia had expected Greta quite early, but she did not make her appearance until late in the afternoon. She had been detained, she said—nurse had asked her to take her place for a couple of hours. And then she looked anxiously at Olivia. "I am afraid Alwyn is ill," she observed; but Olivia assured her that it was only a temporary break-down. "We have such good news of Mr. Gaythorne that he cannot fail to be cheered, but of course he is fretting about the loss of his mother and sister. It was such a shock, you see, and, as my husband says, we must give him time to pull himself together. But you do not look very well yourself, Greta; you are terribly pale." "Oh, that is nothing," she returned. "I suppose I was too much excited, for I could not sleep for hours. I seemed to be living through my old life again. They were such happy days, Mrs. Luttrell; one's existence was not meagre and colourless then." "I wish you would tell me a little about it all," observed Olivia as she ensconced Greta in the most comfortable chair. "You cannot imagine how it interests me." And then Miss Williams smiled. "Oh, you are so sympathetic—that is your great charm; but indeed I love to dwell on that part of my life. You know the Gaythornes lived at Medlicott Grange. It was a quaint, picturesque, old house, covered with ivy, and with a lovely garden. There was a lime-walk that was delicious on hot summer afternoons; I can smell the limes now. "Mr. Gaythorne, who had been abroad a great many years, had taken a fancy to the place and half thought of buying it, but he changed his mind later. "We lived at the Lodge, a much smaller house, looking over the village green; it was rather an inconvenient house, full of small rooms all opening out of each other, and long, rambling passages; but dear mother and I were very fond of it. We liked the three-cornered little drawing-room with its bay-window, where we could sit and work and watch the old men in their grey smocks having a palaver under the big elm in the centre of the green. "Mrs. Luttrell"—interrupting herself—"do you know Ivy Dene Lodge is to let now? I saw the advertisement in the Standard. Now, I should love to live there again. If anything happened to poor father I know I should go back there; it is the only place I ever called home. Don't you love a village green, with geese waddling over it and a big pond where little bare-legged urchins are always sailing their boats, and then the church and the lich-gate and the vicarage smothered in creepers?" "Why, Greta, what a charming description! You quite make me long to see it." "But it is not as charming as it really is; even strangers allow that Medlicott is a pretty village. It is true that Ivy Dene has not much of a garden—just a little patch of lawn and a mulberry tree and a flower-bed or two; but as I spent most of my time in the Grange garden that did not matter. "Dear mother was always so unselfish. She would never let me stay at home with her. She thought it good for me to be with young people of my own age, and so Olive and Alwyn and I were always together. Olive was my friend, but I always looked upon Alwyn as a dear younger brother. He is not really much younger—only a few months—but I was always a little older than my age." "He must have been very handsome," observed Olivia, and Greta coloured slightly. "Yes; all the Gaythornes were handsome. Mr. Gaythorne himself was a fine, stately-looking man, only a little foreign and unusual in his dress. I was always a little afraid of him, and I never approved of the way he treated Alwyn. He had been over-indulged and petted in his boyhood, but later on his father thwarted him unnecessarily. He was always calling him to account for some foolish imprudence. And though his mother and Olive shielded him as much as possible, there were often sad scenes at the Grange. Mr. Gaythorne had set his heart on Alwyn's reading for the Bar. He thought he had sufficient money and influence to warrant the hope that his only son might eventually enter Parliament, but Alwyn had already secretly determined to be an artist. He detested his law studies and could not be induced to work, and spoilt all his father's plans. "As I told you last night," finished Greta, "they were both to blame. But at the time I could not help taking Alwyn's part. He was not good to his father, and often lost his temper and said disrespectful things. But Mr. Gaythorne had no right to be so tyrannical. "When my mother died father would not hear of our living at Ivy Dene. He said he hated the place, and we went to America for a year or two, and there I heard of Olive's death. Olive had told me in her letters of Alwyn's disappearance. "'There has been an awful scene,' she wrote, 'poor dear mother has been so ill. Father thinks that Alwyn has done something very wrong, but of course neither mother nor I believe it for a moment, though it cannot be denied that appearances are terribly against him. Forgive me, dearest Greta, if I do not enlarge on this painful subject. We do not know what has become of Alwyn; but we think he has enlisted.' "This was the last letter I received from Olive. Before many months had passed she died at Rome, and her mother did not long survive her." <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

1 of 2

2 of 2

Update Required To play the media you will need to either update your browser to a recent version or update your Flash plugin.