Barbara turned cold and shivered. ‘For heaven’s sake, Mr. Coyshe, do not say such things; you frighten me.’
He laughed.
She remained silent, uneasy and vexed. Presently she said, ‘It is not true; there is nothing the matter with me.’
‘But the stocking was under the sofa-cushion, and you said, Not true, at first. Wait and look.’
‘Doctor, it is not true at all. That is, I have a sort of trouble or pain, but it is all about Eve. I have been very unhappy about the loss of her money, and that has fretted me greatly.’
‘I foresaw it would be lost.’
‘Yes, it is lost, but Eve shall be no loser.’
‘Look here, Miss Jordan, a beautiful face is like a beautiful song, charming in itself, but infinitely better with an accompaniment.’
‘What do you mean, Mr. Coyshe?’
‘A sweet girl may have beauty and amiability, but though these may be excellent legs for the matrimonial stool, a third must be added to prevent an upset, and that—metallic.’
Barbara made no reply. The audacity and impudence of the young surgeon took the power to reply from her.
‘You have not given me that fiddle,’ said Coyshe.
‘I am not sure you will carry it carefully,’ answered Barbara; nevertheless she resigned it to him. ‘When you part from me let the boy have it. I will not ride into Morwell cumbered with it.’
‘A doctor,’ said Coyshe, ‘if he is to succeed in his profession, must be endowed with instinct as well as science. A cat does not know what ails it, but it knows when it is out of sorts; instinct teaches it to swallow a blade of grass. Instinct with us discovers the disorder, science points out the remedy. I may say without boasting that I am brimming with instinct—you have had a specimen or two—and I have passed splendid examinations, so that testifies to my science. Beer Alston cannot retain me long, my proper sphere is London. I understand the Duke has heard of me, and said to someone whom I will not name, that if I come to town he will introduce me. If once started on the rails I must run to success. Now I want a word with you in confidence, Miss Jordan. That boy is sufficiently in the rear not to hear. You will be mum, I trust?’
Barbara slightly nodded her assent.
‘I confess to you that I have been struck with your sister, Miss Eve. Who could fail to see her and not become a worshipper? She is a radiant star; I have never seen anyone so beautiful, and she is as good as she is beautiful.’
‘Indeed, indeed she is,’ said Barbara, earnestly.
‘Montecuculli said,’ continued the surgeon, ‘that in war three things are necessary: money; secondly, money; thirdly, money. In love it is the same. We may regret it, but it is undeniable.’
Barbara did not know what to say. The assurance of the young man imposed on her; she did not like him particularly, but he was superior in culture to most of the young men she knew, who had no ideas beyond hunting and shooting.
After a little while of consideration, she said, ‘Do you think you would make Eve happy?’
‘I am sure of it. I have all the instincts of the family-man in me. A man may marry a score of times and be father of fifty children, without instinct developing the special features of domesticity. They are born in a man, not acquired. Pater-familias nascitur, non fit.’
‘Have you spoken to my father?’
‘No, not yet; I am only feeling my way. I don’t mind telling you what brought me into notice with the Duke. He was ill last autumn when down at Endsleigh for the shooting, and his physician was sent for. I met the doctor at the Bedford Inn at Tavistock; some of us of the faculty had an evening together, and his Grace’s condition was discussed, casually of course. I said nothing. We were smoking and drinking rum and water. There was something in his Grace’s condition which puzzled his physician, and he clearly did not understand how to treat the case. I knew. I have instinct. Some rum had been spilled on the table; I dipped the end of my pipe in it, and scribbled a prescription on the mahogany. I saw the eye of the doctor on it. I have reason to believe he used my remedy. It answered. He is not ungrateful. I say no more. A city set on a hill cannot be hid. Beer Alston is a bushel covering a light. Wait.’
Barbara said nothing. She rode on, deep in thought. The surgeon jogged at her side, his protruding water-blue eyes peering in all directions.
‘You think your sister will not be penniless?’ he said.
‘I am certain she will not. Now that my aunt has provided for me, Eve will have Morwell after my father’s death, and I am sure she is welcome to what comes to me from my aunt till then.’
‘Halt!’ exclaimed the surgeon.
Barbara drew rein simultaneously with Mr. Coyshe.
‘Who are you there, watching, following us, skulking behind bushes and hedges?’ shouted Coyshe.
‘What is it?’ asked Miss Jordan, surprised and alarmed.
The surgeon did not answer, but raised to his shoulder a stick he carried.
‘Answer! Who are you? Show yourself, or I fire!’
‘Doctor Coyshe,’ exclaimed Barbara, ‘forbear in pity!’
‘My dear Miss Jordan,’ he said in a low tone, ‘set your mind at rest. I have only an umbrella stick, of which all the apparatus is blown away except the catch. Who is there?’ he cried, again presenting his stick.
‘Once, twice!’—click went the catch. ‘If I call three and fire, your blood be on your own head!’
There issued in response a scream, piercing in its shrillness, inhuman in its tone.
Barbara shuddered, and her horse plunged.
A mocking burst of laughter ensued, and then forth from the bushes into the road leaped an impish boy, who drew a bow over the catgut of a fiddle under his chin, and ran along before them, laughing, leaping, and evoking uncouth and shrill screams from his instrument.
‘A pixy,’ said the surgeon. ‘I knew by instinct one was dodging us. Fortunately I could not lay my hand on a riding whip this morning, and so took my old umbrella stick. Now, farewell. So you think Miss Eve will have Morwell, and the matrimonial stool its golden leg? That is right.’
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