in her chair, as she watched the furrows coming and going on his brow.
“That is bringing it home, doctor,” he said, and there was a slight huskiness in his voice as he spoke. “But you are exaggerating.”
“I protest, no,” said Oldroyd, eagerly. “Allow me, I have made some study of animal physiology, and I have learned this: Nature strengthens the muscles, nerves and tissues, if they are well used, up to a certain point. If that mark is passed – in other words, if you trespass on the other side – punishment comes, the deterioration is rapid and sure.”
“Mother,” said Alleyne, turning to her affectionately; “you have been setting the doctor to tell me this.”
“Indeed, no, my dear,” she cried, “I was not aware what course our conversation would take; but, believe me, Moray, I am glad, for this must be true.”
“True?” cried Oldroyd. “My dear madam, the world teems with proofs.”
“Yes,” said Alleyne thoughtfully: and there was a far-off, dreamy look in his eyes as he gazed straight before him as if into space, “it is true – it must be true; but with so much to learn – such vast discoveries to make – who can pause?”
“The man who wishes to win in the long race,” said Oldroyd smiling, and again there was a minute’s absolute silence, during which the young doctor caught a reconnaissant look from Lucy.
Then Alleyne spoke again.
“Yes, Mr Oldroyd, you are right,” he said. “Nature is a hard mistress.”
“What, for not breaking her laws?” cried Oldroyd. “Come, come, Mr Alleyne, my knowledge of astronomy extends to the Great Bear, Perseus, Cassiopeia, and a few more constellations; but where would your science be if her laws were not immutable?”
For answer, to the surprise of all, Moray Alleyne slowly unclasped his hands, and stretched one across to the young doctor.
“Thank you,” he said. “You are quite right. I give way, for I am beaten. Mother, dear, I yield unwillingly, but Nature’s laws are immutable, and I’ll try to obey them. Are you content?”
“My boy!”
Stern, unbending Mrs Alleyne was for the moment carried away by her emotion, and forgetting the doctor’s presence, she left her chair to throw her arms round her son’s neck, bend down, kiss his forehead, and then hurry from the room.
“She loves me, Mr Oldroyd,” said Alleyne simply. “Lucy dear, bring mamma back. We are behaving very badly to our guest.”
Lucy had already left her chair, and she, too, impulsively kissed her brother and then ran from the room to hide her tears.
“Poor things,” said Alleyne, smiling. “I behave very badly to them, doctor, and worry them to death; but I am so lost in my studies that I neglect everything. They have made such sacrifices for me, and I forget it. I don’t see them – I don’t notice what they do. It was to humour me that they came to live in this desolate spot, and my poor mother has impoverished herself to meet the outlay for my costly instruments. It is too bad, but I am lost in my work, and nothing will ever take me from it now.”
“Nothing?” said Oldroyd.
“Nothing,” was the reply, given in all simple childlike earnestness, as the young doctor gazed straight into the deep full eyes that did not for a moment blanch. “So you will not give me pills and draughts, doctor,” said Alleyne at last, smiling.
“Medicine? No. Take exercise, man. Go more into society. See friends. Take walks. Garden. Make this desert bloom with roses.”
“Yes – yes – yes,” said Alleyne, thoughtfully. “I must try. Mr Oldroyd,” he said suddenly, “I should like to see more of you – if – if you would allow me.”
“My dear sir, nothing would give me greater pleasure. Here, I’ll come and garden with you, if you like.”
“I should be very grateful,” said Alleyne. “Give me your advice,” he continued, earnestly, “for I – I must live – I have so much to do – endless labour – and if I do not husband my strength, I – you are right: a man must take exercise and sleep. Mr Oldroyd, I shall take your advice, and – Hush, here they come.”
In effect, looking red-eyed, but perfectly calm now, Mrs Alleyne entered with Lucy, and the rest of the dinner passed off most pleasantly to Oldroyd, who was ready to accord that the poor, badly-cooked mutton was the most delicious he had ever eaten, and the vegetables as choice as could have been grown. Doubtless this was due to Lucy’s grateful glances, and the quiet, grave condescension with which Mrs Alleyne turned from her idol to say a few words now and then.
Even Alleyne himself seemed to be making efforts to drag himself back from the company of the twin orbs in space, or the star-dust of the milky way, to chat about the ordinary things of every-day life; and at last, it was with quite a guilty sensation of having overstepped the bounds of hospitality in his stay that Oldroyd rose to go.
“You will call and see us again soon, Mr Oldroyd?” said Mrs Alleyne, with the dignity of a reigning queen.
“Professionally, madam,” he said, “there is no need. I have exhausted my advice at this first visit. It is for you to play the nurse, and see that my suggestions are carried out.”
“Then as a friend,” said the lady, extending her thin white hand. “I am sure my son feels grateful to you, and will be glad to see you at any time.”
She glanced at Alleyne, who was seated in the sunshine, holding a pair of smoked glass spectacles to his eyes, and gazing up at the dazzling orb passing onwards towards the west.
“I thank you heartily,” said Oldroyd. “Society is not so extensive here that one can afford to slight so kind an invitation.”
“Mr Oldroyd going?” said Alleyne, starting, as, in obedience to a look from her mother, Lucy bent over him, and, pressing the glasses down with one hand, whispered a few words in his ear.
“Yes, I must be off now,” said the young doctor.
“You will come and see us again soon?” said Alleyne. “Would you care to see my observatory? It might interest you a little.”
“I shall be glad,” said Oldroyd, “very glad – some day,” and after a most friendly good-bye, he took his soft hat and stout stick, and, leaving the cheerless, sombre house, went down the steep slope, and took a short cut across the rough boggy land towards his patient’s cottage.
“Thorough lady, but she is very stiff; and she worships her son. Charming little girl that. Nice and natural. No modern young-ladyism in her,” he muttered, as he picked his way. “I should think it would be possible to be in her company a whole day without a single allusion to frilling, or square-cut, or trains, or the colour and shape of Miss Blank’s last new bonnet. Quite a sensible little girl. Pretty flower growing in very uncongenial soil, but she seems happy enough.”
Philip Oldroyd’s communings were checked by some very boggy patches, which had to be leaped and skirted, and otherwise avoided; but as soon as he was once more upon firm ground, he resumed where he had left off.
“Wonderfully fond of her brother, too. Well, I don’t wonder. He’s a fine fellow after all. I thought him a dullard – a book-worm; but he’s something more than that. Why,
