Carefully on the look-out for any discoveries which might enlighten
her, Fanny noticed with ever-increasing interest the effect which the
harmless Dane seemed to produce on my lord and the doctor.
Every morning, after breakfast, Lord Harry presented himself in the
bedroom. Every morning, his courteous interest in his guest expressed
itself mechanically in the same form of words: "Mr. Oxbye, how do you find yourself to-day?"
Sometimes the answer would be: "Gracious lord, I am suffering pain."
Sometimes it was: "Dear and admirable patron, I feel as if I might get
well again." On either occasion, Lord Harry listened without looking at
Mr. Oxbye--said he was sorry to hear a bad account or glad to hear a
good account, without looking at Mr. Oxbye--made a remark on the
weather, and took his leave, without looking at Mr. Oxbye. Nothing
could be more plain than that his polite inquiries (once a day) were
unwillingly made, and that it was always a relief to him to get out of
the room. So strongly was Fanny's curiosity excited by this strange
behaviour, that she ventured one day to speak to her master.
"I am afraid, my lord, you are not hopeful of Mr. Oxbye's recovering?"
"Mind your own business," was the savage answer that she received.
Fanny never again took the liberty of speaking to him; but she watched
him more closely than ever. He was perpetually restless. Now he
wandered from one room to another, and walked round and round the
garden, smoking incessantly. Now he went out riding, or took the
railway to Paris and disappeared for the day. On the rare occasions
when he was in a state of repose, he always appeared to have taken
refuge in his wife's room; Fanny's keyhole-observation discovered him,
thinking miserably, seated in his wife's chair. It seemed to be
possible that he was fretting after Lady Harry. But what did his
conduct to Mr. Oxbye mean? What was the motive which made him persist,
without an attempt at concealment, in keeping out of Mr. Vimpany's way?
And, treated in this rude manner, how was it that his wicked friend
seemed to be always amused, never offended?
As for the doctor's behaviour to his patient, it was, in Fanny's
estimation, worthy of a savage.
He appeared to feel no sort of interest in the man who had been sent to
him from the hospital at his own request, and whose malady it was
supposed to be the height of his ambition to cure. When Mr. Oxbye
described his symptoms, Mr. Vimpany hardly even made a pretence at
listening. With a frowning face he applied the stethoscope, felt the
pulse, looked at the tongue--and drew his own conclusions in sullen
silence. If the nurse had a favourable report to make, he brutally
turned his back on her. If discouraging results of the medical
treatment made their appearance at night, and she felt it a duty to
mention them, he sneered as if he doubted whether she was speaking the
truth. Mr. Oxbye's inexhaustible patience and amiability made endless
allowances for his medical advisor. "It is my misfortune to keep my
devoted doctor in a state of perpetual anxiety," he used to say; "and
we all know what a trial to the temper is the consequence of unrelieved
suspense. I believe in Mr. Vimpany." Fanny was careful not to betray
her own opinion by making any reply; her doubts of the doctor had, by
this time, become terrifying doubts even to herself. Whenever an
opportunity favoured her, she vigilantly watched him. One of his ways
of finding amusement, in his leisure hours, was in the use of a
photographic apparatus. He took little pictures of the rooms in the
cottage, which were followed by views in the garden. Those having come
to an end, he completed the mystification of the nurse by producing a
portrait of the Dane, while he lay asleep one day after he had been
improving in health for some little time past. Fanny asked leave to
look at the likeness when it had been "printed" from the negative, in
the garden. He first examined it himself--and then deliberately tore it
up and let the fragments fly away in the wind. "I am not satisfied with
it," was all the explanation he offered. One of the garden chairs
happened to be near him; he sat down, and looked like a man in a state
of torment under his own angry thoughts.