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.




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