“Ay, ma’am, where?” he repeated, sternly.
“Why—why here, sir, here in this room,” she answered, with some confusion.
He fixed his eyes upon her sharply for a few seconds, and then as abruptly said—
“And how does your mistress rest at night, pray?”
“She rests—she rests—why, sir, she rests pretty well, sir; but why do you ask me?”
He continued to regard the old woman with the same steady scrutiny for some seconds; at last she said, with an affronted air, and rather an effort, for she was, whatever the cause might be, very much disconcerted—
“I’m sure I don’t know, sir, what you’re looking at me that way for; a body ’id think I was took for a thief.”
“There—there—never mind,” he said, putting down the candle; “no offence, nurse, no offence—go in to your young mistress. Is there—ay, there’s pen and ink here—very well—just go in, and I’ll call you when I want you.”
Accordingly, the old woman, muttering and sniffing, hobbled into the adjoining room, and closed the door, unaccountably, as it seemed, both irritated and alarmed.
Doctor Robertson being left alone, leaned, in deep reflection, for a minute or two upon the mantelpiece; he then glanced round the room, and observing another door in it, he walked over, opened it, and looked out. It commanded a landing-place upon a back staircase.
“Ha!” said he, as he closed the door, and returned to the fireplace, whistling slowly, and with rather a dismal countenance, a few interrupted staves as he went, he sat down, and after a brief pause exclaimed—
“Poor thing!—poor thing!—it must not rest here. Dear me—dear me—how very strange—I must see her again—humph!—perplexing, but—ay, ay—I’ll see her again—it is much better.”
So saying, he called Martha, gave her some general directions about preparing slops, etc., and telling her to attend to these arrangements meanwhile, he once more entered his patient’s chamber.
It was fully half-an-hour afterwards, that Dr. Robertson knocked at Sir Arthur Chadleigh’s door.
“Poor little thing!” said he, after a few introductory sentences, exchanged at either side, “she is seriously indisposed, feverish, and very nervous, and, I fear, without an immediate prospect of complete recovery. The best thing to be done for her is, to keep her from all excitement and agitation; her hours must be early, and the fewer visitors she sees the better. In short, I have spoken to her very fully; she is now in possession of my opinion, and appears perfectly disposed to follow my directions implicitly, so there is little else to be done for the present, than to permit her to do as she herself shall desire. In the meantime, I will look in from time to time, to see that all goes on well.”
“And pray, Doctor Robertson, how soon may we expect her perfect restoration to health,” said Sir Arthur, and with a coarse chuckle he added, “for egad, if a girl is to marry at all, it won’t do to have her locked up long—there’s no time like the present, my dear sir, especially in the case of youth and good looks.”
“True, Sir Arthur; very true,” said the medical man; “but, in Miss Chadleigh’s case, it would not be safe to undertake her recovery within any limited time—she may possibly be well in a few weeks, and possibly not for a year; it is impossible to predict with certainty; it is one of those doubtful cases, which may go on for a very long time, and which, at the same time, may just as possibly take a good or an ill turn within a fortnight.”
“It’s cursed provoking—the dear child!” ejaculated Sir Arthur, petulantly, as he thought of Lord Dungarret and his twelve thousand a year—“what do you say to a week or so in the country?”
“Umph! I proposed that; but she did not like it,” said Doctor Robertson; “and her disliking it would make the experiment mischievous instead of useful: her nerves are as much affected as her general health; so that we must not contradict her fancies, or irritate her on any account; she must be allowed to choose for herself—except in matters of essential importance; and in those she has good sense enough to defer implicitly to her medical adviser; so I shall look in, from time to time, and see that matters go on properly, and report progress to you accordingly.”
With these words he took his leave. As Doctor Robertson was in large and fashionable practice, Miss Chadleigh’s illness was soon generally known; some said it was merely a ruse to complete the reduction of Lord Dungarret; others, that she was brokenhearted for love of the faithless Captain Jennings; many pitied her, and some few sincerely lamented her absence.
I recollect, about this time, strolling into the theatre one evening with two or three acquaintances. We took our places in the back of a box, in the next one to which I observed Jennings. One of my party happened to be acquainted with him, and the following conversation passed between them—a conversation which indirectly threw a light upon some of the darkest passages of his subsequent history—
“I say, Jennings, did you hear the news about the Chadleighs?”
“No—what news?” he inquired, quickly.
“Why, young Chadleigh told me, not an hour since, a letter has come from his brother Dick, whom we all thought was killed and cut up in India; but far from it, he is perfectly well, and returning home on leave.”
“Good God! how extraordinary!—I really am delighted to hear it!” exclaimed Jennings, growing pale, nevertheless, and looking stunned and alarmed, instead of overjoyed, as his words implied.
“He has quite a tale of wonders to tell about his escapes and all that,” continued his informant; and so rattled on for a time, until, the curtain rising, he directed his attention to the stage.
Though Jennings immediately recovered his serenity of countenance, he grew silent, and in a few minutes withdrew from the theatre, leaving, in my mind at least, impressions not very favourable to the strength of his affections or the value of his friendship.
