Then Dr. Luttrell, who had been much amused by his wife's drollery, gravely considered the point.

"About three o'clock, I should say; I think he wants to show you his flowers; he is going to have his couch wheeled into the conservatory, or his winter garden, as he calls it. Why should you not go across this afternoon? Now I must be off to the Models;" and as Olivia took up her work again there was a soft flush on her cheek, and a happy look in her eyes as she listened to his light springing tread.

"Dear Marcus," she said to herself; "how pleased he is about this, it has done him good already. Oh, how I hope Mr. Gaythorne will take a fancy to him; he is rich and liberal, I am sure of that; he will pay Marcus well, and perhaps before long someone else will send for him.

What, Dot, my sweet, must I love Jacko too?" as Dot laid her treasure on her mother's lap.

When Olivia rang at the bell of Galvaston House that afternoon the same rosy-cheeked maid admitted her.

"If you will step into the library a minute, ma'am," she observed, "I will tell Mrs. Crampton," and Olivia was left alone in the beautiful room she remembered so well.

A bright fire burned cheerily on the hearth and the blind hound lay on the rug; he came up to Olivia and thrust his slender nose into her hand in a friendly fashion. It was in this room that Mr. Gaythorne evidently pa.s.sed his days; the tables bore signs of his numerous occupations; one table seemed loaded with books of reference. A pile of neatly written ma.n.u.scripts were on the escritoire. Portfolios of engravings and a microscope on a pedestal stand occupied one corner, and a small inner room seemed full of cabinets and cases of stuffed birds and b.u.t.terflies.

Mr. Gaythorne was evidently a collector and a man of culture; the volumes in the carved oak book-cases were mostly bound in Russian calf.

Olivia had only time to read a few t.i.tles when Mrs. Crampton appeared; her comely face had a pleased smile on it.

"Mr. Gaythorne will be extremely obliged if you will step upstairs and see him, ma'am," she said, civilly; "he has been wheeled into the conservatory; my master thinks a deal of his flowers--books and flowers--they are his main amus.e.m.e.nts when his cough keeps him from going out Oh! you must come too, Eros, of course," as the hound followed them closely.

Galvaston House had been built in rather an unusual fashion; a conservatory had been thrown out at the back of the first floor landing and ran along one side of the house, forming a sort of verandah to the lower rooms.

As Mrs. Crampton opened the gla.s.s door, the warm fragrant air met them deliciously. At the farther end Mr. Gaythorne lay on a couch under a tall palm, with an oriental quilt thrown over him; his dark crimson dressing-gown, and black velvet cap gave him a picturesque appearance; with his white peaked beard and moustache, and his dark sunken eyes, he would have pa.s.sed for a Venetian Doge; the ma.s.s of brilliant bloom, and the warm flower-scented air made Olivia slightly giddy.

"This is very kind of you, Mrs. Luttrell," observed Mr. Gaythorne, in a slow, precise voice, as she stooped over him and took his hand.

"Crampton, bring a chair for the lady. I have been wanting to thank you for your kind a.s.sistance that unlucky evening. I told the doctor so, and he has been good enough to give you my message."

"Indeed, I did very little," returned Olivia, in her mellow voice.

"You seemed so feeble that I could not help watching you cross the road; and then you slipped, and I felt you had hurt yourself. I fear from what my husband tells me that it will be some little time before you will be able to get out again."

"So he says, and he threatens me with crutches," returned the old man, grimly; "but, as I seldom cross the threshold in winter, I need not trouble myself about that. Are you fond of flowers, Mrs. Luttrell?" as Olivia's eyes wandered to the splendid exotics round her. "Crampton shall cut you some presently. My library and my winter garden form my entire world now."

"And you live among all these lovely things!" observed Olivia, almost in a tone of awe. "Oh, if only Aunt Madge could see these flowers!"

She spoke impulsively without considering her words, and blushed a little when she saw Mr. Gaythorne lift his eyebrows cynically.

"I was only thinking of my aunt, Mrs. Broderick," she said, apologetically. "She is such a sad invalid; she has never been out once since Uncle Fergus died, and that is ever so many years ago, and she suffers such dreadful pain sometimes. The doctors say her complaint is incurable, and she is not at all old. She lives all alone with her maid, and never goes beyond her two rooms, and yet no one hears her complain."

"Mrs. Broderick must be a wonderful person. She beats Job," returned Mr. Gaythorne, with a cynical curl of his lip; but Olivia was too much engrossed with her subject to notice it.

"Oh, she is wonderful!" she returned, earnestly. "I never met any one like her. She is the bravest woman I know. Even the Vicar says so.

Don't you love pluck, Mr. Gaythorne? So few people are plucky in that sense. Aunt Madge has lost everything she cares for--husband and child and health; but she bears it all so beautifully, and makes the best of things. I could not help thinking of her when I saw all those lovely flowers; she simply dotes on flowers! There are always some on her little table; flowers and books, those are her sole pleasures."

"What on earth made you hold forth on Aunt Madge's virtues, you absurd child?" was Marcus's comment when Olivia repeated this portion of her conversation. "Fancy entertaining Mr. Gaythorne with an account of your relations!"--and Olivia blushed guiltily.

"It does sound odd if you put it in that way, Marcus," she returned; "but when I saw all those beautiful flowers, Aunt Madge just jumped into my head, and I always do speak out my thoughts so. But I could see he was interested. He said little sharp sneering things at first, but afterwards he questioned me a good deal. Oh, we got on splendidly!

He began asking me about ourselves, and if you had much of a practice.

Oh, he said it quite nicely!" as Marcus dropped the loaf he was cutting and frowned anxiously. "He was quite gentlemanly, and only hinted at things; but I understood him, of course."

"And you told him, I suppose, that he was my first patient," in an annoyed tone. "You may as well own it, Livy; you are honest enough even for that," and there was no denying that Marcus's voice was decidedly sarcastic. With all her virtues Olivia never did know when to hold her tongue.

"Oh, Marcus dear, how could I help it," replied Olivia, nervously. "Of course I had to tell him that we were just beginners, and how Dr. Slade had deceived us; that there was no redress, as he was dead. But I told him, too, how hard you worked among the poor---- He did not say much.

I don't think he is a great talker, but he stroked that funny beard of his and nodded his head. Then when Mrs. Crampton came up he told her to bring coffee, and he made me stay and pour it out for him. There was such a lovely chased coffee-pot and cream-jug, and such delicious cakes, and when I said at last that I must go he thanked me quite pleasantly. 'It is long since I have been so well amused, and I hope you will come and see me again.' Yes, he said that, Marcus, so I am sure he did not mind my frankness. But oh, dear! he quite forgot to tell Mrs. Crampton to cut me some flowers."

"You need not expect any flowers now," returned her husband, impatiently. "You have done for yourself and me too I expect. A beginner you said, Livy, and you a sensible woman! When I go this evening, I have no doubt I shall be civilly told that a second opinion will be desirable. My dear girl, don't you know that a modest reticence, a judicious silence, is sometimes the safest policy. A professional beggar may whine and show his sores, but a needy doctor out at elbows must wear a good appearance;" but Olivia, who was on the verge of tears from sheer vexation at her own impulsiveness, did not seek to defend herself.

If she had imperilled Marcus's professional reputation by her carelessness, she felt she should never hold up her head again, but Marcus, who was tired and a little out of humour, was not disposed to comfort her.

He had had a worrying day among his poor patients, the one bright spot had been his visit to the Models, when Jack Travers had sobbed and broken down in the attempt to speak his grat.i.tude. And now just as they were getting on so well, Olivia's want of tact and that terribly honest tongue of hers had spoilt everything. Was it likely--was it within the bounds of possibility--that a man of the world--a rich man too--would be content with the services of an unknown pract.i.tioner? If he put himself in Mr. Gaythorne's place, he knew that he should be disposed to request Dr. Bevan to call. It was not only a sprained ankle. Mr. Gaythorne was an ailing man, and needed medical care.

Marcus, who was clever and quick-witted, had already formed a pretty correct diagnosis of the case. "There is mental as well as physical trouble," he had said to himself the previous evening, and with professional reticence he had kept this opinion to himself, but he was already deeply interested in his patient. So much was at stake, and their fortunes were at so low an ebb, that Marcus might be pardoned for his unusual touchiness. Yet when he left the room without further remark, Olivia's heart sank within her.

"Why could I not have held my tongue," she thought, with tardy repentance. "What could have induced me to talk so much, but Mr.

Gaythorne really seemed interested, and somehow he encouraged me to go on. If he had appeared bored or tired I should have stopped at once, but he seemed so curious about Aunt Madge, he even asked if she had a good doctor. Oh, dear, surely that is not Marcus going out!" as the street door opened; and now there were actual tears in Olivia's eyes.

In all the two years of their happy married life they had never had more than a momentary misunderstanding. If a hasty word had been uttered by one of them, the other had always an eager protest or a smooth answer ready. When Olivia had been impatient and captious, Marcus had only laughed and coaxed her into good humour again. And even when he had indulged in a few sarcastic speeches, Olivia's soft voice and ready acquiescence had avoided friction.

Marcus often told her that they were a model couple, and had earned the Dunmow Flitch over and over again, but in reality their mutual respect and thorough understanding of each other's salient points had conduced to this harmony.

That Marcus should leave the house therefore without speaking to her alarmed Olivia excessively. She must have vexed him, indeed, if he could do such a thing as that, and here one or two bright drops ran down on the blue pelisse.

She was actually crying like a scolded child, when two or three minutes later the parlour-door opened and Marcus entered. His face wore a queer expression, and in each hand he held an exquisite bunch of hot-house flowers; their perfume reached Olivia before he laid them before her.

"There, Olive," he said, "I take back my words;" then, as he caught sight of her tear-stained face: "Oh, you foolish little woman, you absurd child," but his hand rested affectionately on her soft, brown hair, as she put back her head against him.

"Oh, Marcus, I could not help crying to think I had vexed you so.

Somehow it is the one thing I cannot bear, to think my foolish tongue should have harmed you."

"I was in an awful funk, certainly," returned Marcus, frankly, "but I never meant to bother you like that. Cheer up, Livy, I daresay it is all right, and I know you will be a model of discretion for the future.

Aren't you going to look at your flowers?" and then Olivia did permit herself to be consoled.

"Think of his cutting all those lovely flowers for me," she cried, ecstatically. "Is he not an old dear, Marcus? But why two bouquets?"

knitting her brows in a puzzled fashion.

"You had better open that folded slip of paper," suggested her husband, sensibly, "it may explain matters," and Olivia took his advice.

"Mrs. Luttrell, with Mr. Gaythorne's compliments," was pencilled in a shaky hand, and on the second slip, almost illegibly, "For Mrs.

Luttrell's aunt."

"Oh, Marcus, how sweet of him!" and Olivia looked almost lovely in her excitement, and Marcus agreed that he was a good old sort.

"If you are going to write a note of thanks, you must just hurry up, as it is nearly time for me to go across," and then Olivia put the flowers in water, and got out her writing-case.

CHAPTER VI.

"I REMIND YOU OF SOMEONE?"

"The fire in the flint Shows not till it be struck."--_Timon of Athens_.