Alleyne shook her head.
“Does he partake of his meals regularly?”
“No, Mr Oldroyd,” said Mrs Alleyne, with a sigh.
“Does he sleep sufficiently and well?”
“Alas! No.”
“Of course he does not, my dear madam. Here is a man who never employs his muscles; never takes the slightest recreation; disappoints nature when she asks for food; and turns night into day as he performs long vigils watching the stars, and burning the midnight oil. How, in the name of all that is sensible, can such a man expect to enjoy good health? Why, nature revolts against it and steals it all away, to distribute among people who obey her laws.”
Mrs Alleyne sighed, and thought better of the doctor than she did before.
“It is impossible for such a man to be well, Mrs Alleyne; the wonder is that he has any health at all.”
“But he is really ill, now, Mr Oldroyd.”
“A little touched in the digestion, that is all.”
“And you will prescribe something for that?”
“Yes, ma’am, I’ll prescribe turpentine.”
“Turpentine!” cried Mrs Alleyne, aghast.
“Yes, madam, out of nature’s own pharmacopaeia. Let him go and climb the hills every day, and inhale it when the sun is on the fir woods. Let him get a horse and ride amongst the firs, or let him take a spade and dig the ground about this house, and turn it into a pleasant garden, surrounded by fir trees. That is all he wants.”
“Oh, doctor, is that all?” said Mrs Alleyne more warmly; and she laid her thin, white hand upon her visitor’s arm.
“Well, not quite,” he said, with a smile. “He is a great student; no one admires his work more than I, or the wonderful capacity of his mind, but he must be taken out of it a little – a man cannot always be studying the stars.”
“No, no; he does too much,” said Mrs Alleyne. “You are quite right. But what would you recommend?”
“Nature again, madam. Something to give him an interest in this world, as well as in the other worlds he makes his study. In short, Mrs Alleyne, it would be the saving of your son if he fell in love.”
“Doctor!”
“And took to himself some sweet good girl as a wife.”
“Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!”
The doctor started, and looked for the source of the gush of mirth.
A sweet ringing silvery laugh, that sounded like bell music in the gloomy room, for Lucy Alleyne had entered unheard, to catch the doctor’s last words, and burst into this girlish fit of merriment.
“Lucy!” exclaimed Mrs Alleyne with an angry glance, as she rose from her chair.
“Oh, I am so sorry, mamma. I beg your pardon, Mr Oldroyd, but it did seem so droll.”
She laughed again so merrily that it seemed infectious, and the young doctor would have joined in had not Mrs Alleyne been there; besides, as this was a professional call, he felt the necessity for some show of dignity.
“May I ask, Lucy, what is the meaning of this extremely unseemly mirth,” said Mrs Alleyne, with a good deal of annoyance in her tone.
“Don’t be angry with me, mamma dear, but it did seem so comical; the idea of Moray falling in love and being married.”
“I fail to see the ridiculous side of the matter,” said Mrs Alleyne, “especially at a time when Mr Oldroyd has been consulted by me upon the question of your brother’s health.”
“Oh, but you don’t think he is really ill, Mr Oldroyd, do you?” cried Lucy, anxiously.
“Indeed, I do not, Miss Alleyne. He requires nothing but plenty of open-air exercise, with more food and regular sleep.”
“And a wife,” said Lucy, with a mirthful look.
“And a wife,” said Oldroyd, gravely; and he gazed so intently at Lucy that her merry look passed away, and she coloured slightly, and glanced hastily at her mother.
“We must make Moray go out more, mamma dear,” she said hurriedly. “I’ll coax him to have walks with me, and I’ll teach him botany; Major Day would be delighted if he’d come with him – I mean go with him; and – oh, I say, mamma, isn’t dinner nearly ready? I am so hungry.”
“Lucy!” cried Mrs Alleyne, with a reproachful look, as Oldroyd rose.
“It is an enviable sensation, Miss Alleyne,” he said, as a diversion to the elder lady’s annoyance; “one of nature’s greatest boons. As I was saying, Mrs Alleyne, à propos of your son, he neglects his health in his scientific pursuits, and the beautifully complicated machine of his system grows rusty. Why, the commonest piece of mechanism will not go well if it is not properly cared for, so how can we expect it of ourselves.”
“Quite true, Mr Oldroyd. Did you ride over? Is your horse waiting?”
“Oh, no, I walked. Lovely weather, Miss Alleyne. Good-day, madam, good-day.”
“But you have not taken any refreshment, Mr Oldroyd. Allow me to – ”
“Why, dinner must be ready, mamma,” said Lucy. “Will not Mr Oldroyd stop?”
“Of course, yes, I had forgotten,” said Mrs Alleyne, with a slight colour in her cheek, and a peculiar hesitancy in her voice. “We – er – dine early – if you would join us, we should be very glad.”
“With great pleasure, madam,” said the young doctor, frankly; “it will save me a five miles’ walk, for I must go across the common this afternoon to Lindham.”
“To see poor old Mrs Wattley?” cried Lucy eagerly, as Mrs Alleyne tried to hide by a smile, her annoyance at her invitation being accepted.
“Yes; to see poor old Mrs Wattley,” said Oldroyd, nodding.
“Is she very ill?” said Lucy sympathetically.
“Stricken with a fatal disease, my dear young lady,” he replied.
“Oh!” ejaculated Lucy.
“One, however, that gives neither pain nor trouble. She will not suffer in the least.”
“I’m glad of that,” cried Lucy, “for I like the poor old lady. What is her complaint?”
“Senility,” said Oldroyd, smiling. “Why, my dear Miss Alleyne, she is ninety-five.”
“Will you come with me, Lucy,” said Mrs Alleyne, who had been vainly trying to catch her daughter’s eye, and then – “perhaps Mr Oldroyd will excuse us.”
“Not if you are going to make any additions to the meal on my account, madam,” said the doctor, hastily. “I am the plainest of plain men – a bachelor who lives on chops and steaks, and it needs a sharp-edged appetite to manage these country cuts.”
