The Rector and The Doctor’s Family

in it. But Nettie obstinately refused to be said to do her duty. She was doing her own will with an imperious distinctness and energy⁠—having her own way⁠—displaying no special virtue, but a determined wilfulness. Dr. Rider was half disgusted with Nettie, to see how little disgust she showed of her companions. He was disappointed in her: he concluded to himself that she did not show that fine perception which he was disposed to expect from so dainty a little sprite. Yet, notwithstanding all these disappointed expectations, it is astonishing how he haunted that room where the society was so unattractive, and bore Mrs. Fred’s spiteful speeches, and suffered his eyes and his temper to be vexed beyond endurance by the dismal sight of his brother. The children, too, worried their unfortunate uncle beyond description. He did not dislike children: as a general rule, mothers in the other end of Carlingford, indeed, declared the doctor to be wonderfully tender and indulgent to his little patients: but those creatures, with their round staring eyes, the calm remarks they made upon their father’s slovenly indolence and their mother’s imbecility⁠—their precocious sharp-sightedness and insubordination, moved Dr. Rider with a sharp prevailing inclination, intensifying by times almost into action, to whip them all round, and banish the intolerable brats out of sight. Such was his unpaternal way of contemplating the rising hopes of his house. How Nettie could bear it all, was an unceasing marvel to the doctor. Yet, in spite of these disagreeables, he went to St. Roque’s all the same.

One of these winter evenings the doctor wended his way to St. Roque’s Cottage in a worse frame of mind than usual. It was a clear frosty night, very pleasant to be out in, though sharp and chill; such a night as brightens young eyes, and exhilarates young hearts, when all is well with them. Young Rider could hear his own footsteps echoing along the hard frost-bound road, and could not but wonder in himself, as he drew near the group of buildings which broke the solitude of the way, whether Nettie too might hear it, and perhaps recognise the familiar step. The shadow of St. Roque’s fell cold over him as he passed. Just from that spot the light in the parlour window of the cottage became perceptible to the wayfarer. A shadow crossed the blind as he came in sight⁠—Nettie unquestionably. It occurred to Dr. Rider to remember with very sharp distinctness at that moment, how Nettie’s little shadow had dropped across the sunshine that first morning when he saw her in his own room. He quickened his step unawares⁠—perhaps tonight Nettie might be more accessible than usual, less shut in and surrounded by her family. He pictured to himself, as he went past the willows, which rustled faintly with their long bare branches in the night air, that perhaps, as he was later than usual, Fred might have retired to his den upstairs; and Susan might have gone to bear Fred company⁠—who knows? and the children might be in bed, the dreadful little imps. And for once a half-hour’s talk with the strange little head of the house might comfort the young doctor’s fatigued mind and troubled heart.

For he was sadly fatigued and worn out. What with incessant occupation and distracted thoughts, this year had been a very exhausting one for the doctor. He had fagged on through the whole summer and autumn without any relaxation. He had chafed over Fred’s presence for half of the year, and had been occupied for the other half with matters still more absorbing and exciting. Even now his mind was in a perpetual ferment, and no comforting spirit spoke quietness to his soul⁠—no stout heart strengthened his⁠—no lively intelligence animated his own to worthy doings. He was very cross and fretful, and knew himself to be so that particular evening⁠—worried and in want of rest. What a chance, if perhaps he found Nettie, whose very provocations were somehow more interesting than other people’s most agreeable and tranquillising efforts, all alone and at leisure! He went on with some palpitations of hope. As soon as he had entered the cottage, however, he found out the delusion he was under. The children were the first fact that presented itself to his senses; an uproar that pervaded the house, a novel tumult waking all the echoes; glimpses of flying figures pursuing each other with brushes and mops, and other impromptu weapons; one astride upon the banisters of the stairs, sliding down from top to bottom; another clinging now and then, in the pauses of the conflict, to the top of one of the doors, by which it swung back and forward. Terrible infants! there they all were in a complete saturnalia, the door of the parlour half open all the time, and no sound of Nettie’s restraining voice. Only poor Mrs. Smith standing helpless in successions of fright and exasperation, sometimes alarmed for life and limb, sometimes ready to give the little wretches over to all the penalties of poetic justice. The poor woman brightened a little when she perceived the sympathetic horror on the doctor’s face.

“How’s this?” exclaimed young Rider, with a sigh of dismay. Alas! however it was, no quiet imaginary conference, no soothing glimpse of Nettie, was practicable tonight. He grew sulky and ferocious under the thought. He seized the imp that hung on the door, and set it down summarily with a certain moral violence, unable to refrain from an admonitory shake, which startled its sudden scream into a quavering echo of alarm. “Do you want to break your neck, sir?” cried the wrathful uncle. Dr. Rider, however, had to spring aside almost before the words were uttered to escape the encounter of a hearth-brush levelled at him by his sweet little niece. “How is this, Mrs. Smith?” cried the startled visitor, with indignation, raising his voice sufficiently to be quite audible through the half-open door.

“Bless you, sir, Miss is gone out to tea⁠—don’t say