The Rector and The Doctor’s Family

him. “Look here⁠—here’s a man,” said the youngest, meditatively, beholding his dismayed uncle with a philosophic eye. “Can’t someone go and tell Nettie?” said the little girl, gazing also with calm equanimity. “If he wants Nettie he’ll have to wait,” said the elder boy. A pause followed; the unhappy doctor stood transfixed by the steady stare of their three pair of eyes. Suddenly the little girl burst out of the room, and ran screaming along the passage. “Mamma, mamma, here’s a man come,” cried the wonderful colonial child. A few minutes afterwards their mother appeared, languid and faded as before. Perhaps she had been even prettier than Nettie in her bright days, if any days had ever been bright for Fred Rider’s wife. She was fairer, larger, smoother than her sister; but these advantages had lapsed in a general fade, which transformed her colour into washy pinkness, made her figure stoop, and her footsteps drag. She came remonstrating all the way in feeble accents. It was not for her, certainly, that the doctor had taken the trouble to come to the Blue Boar.

“Please to sit down,” said Mrs. Fred, and stood leaning on the table, looking at her brother-in-law with a calm curiosity, not unlike that of her children. “Nettie and my husband have gone out together; but now that we are all so happy and united,” she continued, with a sort of feeble spitefulness, “I am sure it is quite a pity to trouble you. You could not take us in, you know. You said that very plain, Mr. Edward.”

“It was perfectly true, madam,” said the doctor. “I have not ventured on the step my brother has taken, and have naturally no accommodation for a family. But I am not here for my own pleasure. Your sister, I presume it is, wrote to me. I was requested to call here today.”

“Oh, yes; Nettie is very self-willed⁠—very; though, of course, we could not get on without her. She attacked Fred like a wildcat for not writing you: but I daresay, if the truth were known, you did not expect to hear from my husband,” said the wife, recovering her voice, and fixing a vindictive gaze upon her visitor, who felt himself betrayed.

“I came by Miss Underwood’s instructions and at her request,” said the unfortunate man. “We need not enter into any question between Fred and myself.”

“Ah, yes, that is very safe and wise for you,” laughed Fred’s wife.

The doctor was deeply exasperated, as was only natural: he eyed the feeble helpless creature for a moment angrily, provoked to answer her; but his gaze became one of wonder and dismay ere he withdrew it. Surely of all incomprehensible entities, the most amazing is a fool⁠—a creature insensate, unreasoning, whom neither argument nor fact can make any impression upon. Appalled and impressed, the doctor’s gaze left that pretty faded face to turn upon the children. Dreadful imps! If Fred had only taken to evil ways after he became possessed of such a family, his brother could have forgiven him. While these thoughts passed through Dr. Rider’s mind, however, deliverance approached. He heard Nettie’s voice in the passage, long before she reached the door. Not that it was loud like the voices of this dreadful household; but the tone was sufficiently peculiar to be recognised anywhere. With a most penetrating clearness, it came through the long passages, words inaudible, only the sound of a voice, rapid, breathless, decided⁠—with the distant sound of Fred’s long, shambling, uncertain footsteps coming in as the strange accompaniment. Then they entered the room⁠—the one tiny, bright, dauntless, an intrepid, undiscourageable little soul; the other with his heavy large limbs, his bemused face, his air of hopeless failure, idleness, content. Edward Rider gazed involuntarily from one to another of this two. He saw the sprite place herself between the husband and wife, a vain little Quixote, balancing these extremes of helplessness and ruin. He could not help looking at her with a certain unconscious admiration and amazement, as he might have looked at a forlorn hope. Thousands of miles away from her friends, wherever and whatever they might be, with Fred and his wife and children on her hands, a household of incapables⁠—what was that little creature to do?

“Good morning, Dr. Edward,” said Nettie. “I thought I should have been back sooner; but Fred is so slow, I cannot manage to get him along at all. We have found some lodgings a little way out of Carlingford, near that chapel, you know, or church, or something, that stands a little off the road: where it’s open, and there’s morning service, and such a handsome young clergyman. Who is he? We went into the chapel, and it’s so fine, you would not believe it. Well, just a hundred yards from there is the house. Four rooms, exactly what I wanted, with a garden for the children to play in⁠—quite quiet, and fresh and pleasant. Tell me who the people are⁠—their name is Smith. If they’re respectable, I’ll go back and take it. I can afford the rent.”

“Near St. Roque’s? They belong to the church there. I daresay they are all right,” said the doctor, “but it is a long way off, and inconvenient, and⁠—”

“That is just why I want it,” said Nettie. “We never were used to conveniences, and none of us want to be much in the town, so far as I know. It is the very thing. Why has not lunch come up?⁠—what do these people mean, Susan, by not attending to their orders? Ring the bell, Freddy⁠—ring loud; and after lunch, as your drag is at the door, Dr. Edward, you’ll drive me down to this place again, that I may secure it, won’t you? I want to have a talk with you besides.⁠—Lunch, please, immediately. I ordered it to be ready at one⁠—now it is half-past. We can’t have our time wasted this way.⁠—Dr. Edward, please, you’ll stay.”

The doctor gazed with ever-increasing amazement at the little speaker.