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 FAIR OAKS 
 
 EXPERIENCES OF AEXOLD OSBORNE M.D. 
 
 MAX LYLE. 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 SAUNDEES AND OTLEY, CONDUIT STKEET. 
 
 1856. 
 
 The Juthor reserves the right of Translation.
 
 (I 
 
 fZ3 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 OP 
 
 THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 '' CHAPTEPv I. 
 
 PAOE 
 
 THE KEY-NOTE . . . . .1 
 
 i 
 
 ^ CHAPTER n. 
 
 ^ A MAY EVENING . . . . .23 
 
 'iU CHAPTER m. 
 
 :^ 
 
 r IN THE HIGHLANDS . . . .33 
 
 J CHAPTER ly. 
 
 V A VOCATION DISCOVERED . . . .51 
 
 %>
 
 VI CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A FAILED CAREER . . . . .70 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE TWO FRIENDS . . . . .96 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 FACE TO FACE WITH NATURE . . . 109 
 
 CHAPTER Vin. 
 
 DOCTOR SHORTCUT . . . . .127 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 AT FAIR OAKS . . . . .141 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 AMENITIES OF PRACTICE .... 156 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE STORY OF A LIFE . . • .169
 
 CONTENTS. VU 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A CHILD-FATIENT. — PARISIAN LECTURES . .193 
 
 CHAPTER Xm. 
 
 A NIGHT RIDE ..... 211 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE CHANGED HOME . . . .228 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 A TEMPTATION. PAUL .... 248 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 IN HARNESS ..... 269 
 
 CHAPTER XVn. 
 
 A "delightful" DOCTOR . . . 286
 
 SiM\\ (BilllS; 
 
 OR, THE 
 
 EXPERIENCES OF AEXOLD OSBORNE, M.D. 
 CHAPTER L 
 
 THE KEY-NOTE. 
 
 Merry childish voices and happy laughter 
 rang out with a pleasant shrillness on the 
 evenino^ air. The sounds floated far on 
 the light breeze, which was waving the 
 fragile laburnums, and rustling the laden 
 lilacs and stately horse-chesnut trees, all 
 now in the fresh, full fragrance of blossom 
 and leaf. 
 
 For it was May — a lovely May. An 
 VOL. I. B
 
 2 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 unusually warm and brilliant sunset poured 
 on the scene something of the fervour and 
 glory of July. 
 
 Its rosy light streamed full on a cluster 
 of children at play. They were on a lawn 
 in the midst of an old-fashioned flower- 
 garden, and unconsciously formed a pic- 
 turesque group, as they gathered together 
 under the spreading branches of a large 
 copper-coloured beech. It was a magni- 
 ficent tree, and at this moment, when the 
 broad purple shades on the one side were 
 throwing out the delicate fairy-pink tints 
 which the leaves assumed where they 
 caught the sun's parting rays, it was a 
 perfect colour-study. 
 
 A handsome, roomy, stone house, of no 
 pretension to orthodoxy in architecture, 
 stood at one end of the lawn. The front 
 of the house faced the street, but was 
 separated from it by a spacious paved 
 entrance court, and a clump or two of
 
 FAIR OAKS. 3 
 
 fine old oaks. The Iodo^ drawiiio^-room 
 was at the back of the house, on the 
 ground-floor. It skirted the lawn, and the 
 windows reached down to the very turf. 
 
 The casements now stood open, and fre- 
 quent laughing communications passed be- 
 tween the occupants of the room and the 
 children outside. At intervals, sounds of 
 music, of singing in parts, floated out, 
 and mingling with the child-voices, passed 
 dreamily away on the breeze. The old- 
 fashioned o'arden was rich in flowerinof 
 shrubs, which greeted the senses in every 
 direction with clouds of fragrant colouring ; 
 and altogether it was a pleasant, peaceful 
 home scene — characteristically English. 
 
 So at least thought a silent spectator of 
 it — young Arnold Osborne, who had just 
 returned after a long absence, to this his 
 father's residence in a retired district of 
 one of our fairest English counties. 
 
 B 2
 
 4 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 Arnold had thrown himself on the grass, 
 with a book in his hand, though he cer- 
 tainly was not reading. He was now 
 musing, now listening to the music as it 
 rose and fell, now to the happy, eager talk 
 of the little ones on the lawn. They were 
 playing as only young children can play — 
 with heart and soul — with earnestness and 
 steady purpose-^" playing as if they were 
 to play on for ever," Arnold had just said 
 to himself, when the music abruptly ceased, 
 there was a little repressed stir in the room, 
 and a lady stepped out and hastily crossing 
 the lawn, called two of the children to her. 
 
 A few words she spoke, instantly subdued 
 their mirth ; the busy, bee-hive hum was 
 suddenly hushed ; something of solemnity 
 fell on all the young faces. Whispers passed 
 round from one child to another — 
 
 " The little Aubreys are to go home im- 
 mediately ; their mamma is taken ill — very
 
 FAIR OAKS. .7 
 
 ill. Dr. Osborne" (Arnold's father) "has 
 been sent for ; Kate and little Valerie are 
 to go directly." 
 
 Amid many regrets and lamentations, 
 two sweet-looking little girls took leave of 
 the rest, and followed the lady — Mrs. 
 Osborne — into the house. Kate Aubrey was 
 a bright, ardent, indomitable looking child ; 
 her younger sister fair and gentle, with 
 soft, regular features which enhanced the 
 composure of her look and manner. 
 
 Dr. Osborne was from home, but a 
 messenger was despatched to recall him ; 
 and in a few minutes the sisters were at 
 the front gate with the servant who had 
 brought the message. 
 
 " Why where is the carriage ?" asked 
 Arnold Osborne, who had accompanied the 
 children to the gate. 
 
 " It has had an accident ; Miss Gardner 
 said the children were to walk home."
 
 6 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 "To walk?" repeated Arnold, "why it 
 is a long way for them, and they are tired 
 already. However," he added, " if you are 
 really to walk, children, come along, I will 
 go with you and see you safe home ; " and 
 the little party started without farther 
 delay, down the pretty, picturesque " High 
 Street " of Fair Oaks. 
 
 The little town of Fair Oaks stood in 
 wdiat is popularly called a good neighbour- 
 hood. That is, there were many country- 
 seats within an easy distance of it ; and the 
 strict line of demarcation between town 
 people and " county people " — which 
 reason and propriety so rigidly enforce in 
 country society in England — was in this 
 case a good deal broken down. 
 
 Many officers with their families lived in 
 Fair Oaks, and there was a certain air, if 
 not of luxury, yet of ease and refinement 
 in the aspect of the place. In this, as in
 
 FAIR OAKS. 7 
 
 all other respects, it formed a contrast to 
 its neighbour and name-sharer, Fair Oaks- 
 Newtown — by that title designated on 
 the county map, and by strangers; but 
 in the district generally contracted to 
 Newtown. 
 
 Newtown was a thriving manufacturing 
 upstart place, some distance down the 
 river. This upstart was very large, very 
 enterprising, very raw, and very rich ; with 
 great show-factories, monster steam engines, 
 model lodging-houses, radical orators, and 
 plenty of smoke. It had that contrast of 
 luxury and squalor, that curious air of 
 general incoherence, which strikes the un- 
 accustomed eye in most of our great trade- 
 marts. 
 
 Newtown voted Fair Oaks very slow, 
 and Fair Oaks pronounced Newton very 
 vulgar ; so the two societies held aloof, and 
 despised one another cordially as neighbours 
 should do.
 
 8 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 And if Fair Oaks, with all its recom- 
 mendations, had sometimes a little exclusion 
 to put up with from the " county families," 
 it always retaliated by extra haughtiness to 
 " the manufacturing people " down the 
 river. On which people, however, it had 
 to depend for many of the conveniences of 
 life — for schools and spring fashions, French 
 teachers, dentists, and direct communication 
 with London. 
 
 The inhabitants of Fair Oaks, like those 
 of most small towns, identified themselves 
 with its glories ; they prided themselves on 
 its beauty, its views, its pretty streets, its 
 grand old oaks. They defended from the 
 scoffs of the radical Newtownites its one 
 deaf constable, and all its other institutions 
 — weather included. As for instance, it 
 never rained too much at Fair Oaks, but 
 some one or other of the inhabitants would 
 valorously assert that it was raining " much
 
 FAIR OAKS. 9 
 
 worse " at Newtown ; a style of consolation 
 never quite a failure, and often recom- 
 mended bj great moralists, — perhaps on 
 that ground, as in the abstract there is 
 certainly nothing moral in seeking conso- 
 Jation in the superior suffering of your 
 neighbours. 
 
 The Archway House, Arnold Osborne's 
 home, was the prettiest place in Fair Oaks 
 — itself one of those few remaining speci- 
 mens of a picturesque, secluded village- 
 town, which railways have yet lefc us. 
 
 There was something of an "old-world" 
 look about Fair Oaks — a cheerful tran- 
 quillity — a quaintness and - simplicity — 
 which individualized the place in the me- 
 mory of any who had once visited it. 
 
 Dr. Osborne's house was at one end of 
 the principal street, which was broad, clean, 
 and irregular, rich in gables, fantastic 
 chimneys, and heavy stone balconies ; stone
 
 10 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 abounded in the neighbourhood, and many 
 of the better houses were entirely built of it. 
 These retreated from the street, and held 
 it aloof with a front garden, or a paved 
 court and a tree or two. Others of less 
 pretension, straggled along the side path^ 
 encroaching on it not a little, with their irre- 
 gular bow windows, and trellised porches. 
 In many cases the upper storey overhung 
 the lower, or the old-fashioned carved 
 balconies, quite a feature of the place, pro- 
 jected fearlessly into the road. 
 
 Half-way down the street was an ancient 
 arch ; it spanned the road and framed in a 
 pretty, open, country view, backed by a 
 line of distant hills. This archway, which 
 gave its name to Dr. Osborne's house, was 
 evidently a mere fragment of some extensive 
 building now no more. The walls, of im- 
 mense thickness, were sound, and over the 
 arch were three or four good rooms, the
 
 FAIR OAKS. 1 1 
 
 windows commanding the street up and 
 down. These were the pleasantest bachelor 
 lodgings in all Fair Oaks, though there 
 was no access to them but by a steep, 
 narrow stone staircase which was placed 
 on the outside of the building, and was 
 overshadowed by a cluster of very ancient 
 oak trees. 
 
 On the other side of the archway, the 
 street continued as before — more gables, 
 more front-courts, more balconies, single 
 trees, and overhanging storeys, with peeps 
 of a smiling landscape, and a glittering 
 river at intervals. Altogether, a very 
 taking place was Fair Oaks, with its mani- 
 fold quaintnesses, and abundant greenery. 
 Travellers whirled along on the merry mail- 
 coach, which twice a week distributed 
 letters on that retired route, lost sioht of 
 it regretfully, and bore its features with 
 them on their journey. Many a hard,
 
 12 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 money - making man, passing from one 
 crowded, struggling city to another, sighed 
 as he turned to look again at tranquil 
 Fair Oaks ; many a weary heart said to 
 itself, " here we could be at peace," — ^a 
 mistake, perhaps — yet which of us has not 
 at some time or other made such a one? 
 
 Down this pleasant street Arnold and 
 his little companions proceeded. 
 
 They had a long walk before them. 
 Mrs. Aubrey's place — the Grange — was 
 two miles from Fair Oaks by the road, 
 and though the foot-path across the fields 
 which they now turned into, shortened the 
 distance, it was still considerable for the 
 children. 
 
 At first they were all silent, and little 
 Valerie looked anxious. But Kate could 
 never remain long without talking. The 
 new sensations of sorrow and anxiety she 
 could hardly yet accept. The bright child-
 
 FAIR OAKS. 13 
 
 smile, with which her play had been broken 
 off, had scarcely faded from her lips. As 
 yet she knew not how to adjust herself to 
 the unaccustomed, unexpected grief. 
 
 By the time they had got into the open 
 country she had begun an account of the 
 day's amusements for the especial edifi- 
 cation of Arnold ; and in it were so many 
 appeals to her sister, so many repetitions 
 of "Valerie knows," "Valerie will explain," 
 that there was no resisting it. By degrees, 
 Valerie was drawn into the whirlpool of 
 Kate's happy thoughtlessness, and a great 
 deal was found to say to Arnold. 
 
 Arnold Osborne was a connexion and 
 early friend of the Aubreys, and from time 
 immemorial the privileged confidant of the 
 children's plans, perplexities, and predi- 
 lections. He listened to them now with 
 great good nature, and without the air of 
 superiority and over -conscious affability
 
 14 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 common at his age — eighteen. From all 
 this he was quite exempt by a peculiarly 
 straightforward, manly character. 
 
 Kate's confidences this night included 
 various pathetic illustrations of the hard- 
 ships of her existence, under the exactions 
 of her governess, Miss Gardner, whose 
 passion for irregular French verbs and 
 compound multiplication was, Kate said, 
 in a phrase acquired from her nurse Rachel, 
 " wearing her life out." She looked so 
 happy and blooming while saying it, that 
 her two companions could not help 
 laughing. 
 
 Kate laughed too, and then reproved 
 them. '' Adrian," she said, " would not 
 have laughed — he knew it was all true — 
 she wished Adrian was there." 
 
 This was a fruitful theme to both 
 children. Adrian Aubrey was an orphan 
 cousin of theirs, and had been passing his
 
 FAIR OAKS. 15 
 
 holidays with them the preceding Christ- 
 mas. They were eager to tell Arnold, 
 who had been absent at the time, all 
 about him. They liked Adrian, they said, 
 — they liked the way he spoke, " the things 
 he said." When he had been last at the 
 Grange, there had been a children's party, 
 and all the boys had been talking of their 
 proposed professions. Adrian was asked 
 what he would be. Some one had an- 
 swered for him, that he would '' be " Lord 
 St. Aubrey some day, and that was enough. 
 
 And Adrian had been very indignant; 
 he had said it was not enough, he didn't 
 want to be Lord St. Aubrey, or Lord 
 Anybody — there was nothing " heroic " in 
 that ; Adrian wanted to make his own 
 way, to be something *' of himself," some- 
 thing " heroic." 
 
 " And so he will," cried Kate ; " he 
 will be a brave sailor and make ' great 
 discoveries.' "
 
 16 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 " Oil Kate ! not a sailor like other 
 sailors," said Valerie, impressively ; "a 
 navigator." 
 
 ^' Oh, I don't mean a common sailor — 
 though I like sailors, that I do — I meant 
 something like the people in books. He 
 wants to be another Robinson Crusoe." 
 
 '' No, Kate, Christopher Columbus, I 
 think." But no — Adrian had confided to 
 Kate, as a profound secret — one too im- 
 portant, as it appeared, to be retained — 
 that he had quite resolved to be another 
 Robinson Crusoe — he thought him so 
 brave, so clever, so sincere, a real man — a 
 hero ! Katie had been privately made 
 acquainted with his doughty resolve of 
 o-oino^ to sea in a boat of his own, and 
 being wrecked on a desert island as soon 
 as he shouhl be old enough — all of which 
 mysteries the indiscreet confidante now 
 made public.
 
 FAIR OAKS. 17 
 
 Valerie still stood up for the superior 
 attractions of Christopher Columbus ; but 
 both sisters were quite ready to admire 
 Adrian's independence, and his heroic aspi- 
 rations in any form. 
 
 Indeed the first instinctive judgments of 
 a child are generally sound and just. That 
 is, until we come in with our worldly max- 
 ims to cloud their serene vision, and distort 
 the true relations of things. If this truth 
 is not generally recognized, it is only be- 
 cause the sophisticating process commences 
 so early in our school-rooms and our nur- 
 series, that, commonly, the worldly bias is 
 given, and the first priceless simplicity im- 
 paired, long before our attention is directed 
 to the subject. Then some day it suddenly 
 strikes us, and we say, " Even children are 
 worldly from the first ;" which is not true. 
 
 Mrs. Aubrey's children had never been 
 exposed to the deteriorating action of vulgar 
 
 VOL. I. C
 
 18 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 nursery gossip ; they at once responded to 
 Adrian's unworldly feelings, and entered 
 into, without requiring to comprehend fully, 
 his vague aspirations after the intrinsically 
 great and noble. 
 
 Presently Kate began to tell Arnold, 
 that they had always settled among them- 
 selves that he, too, was to be something 
 " out of the common." 
 
 ^' You are so tall and so resolute, and," 
 she added with simplicity, " so handsome, 
 Arnold, ^ve think you would have made a 
 famous Paladin, or a brave Knight of St. 
 John's." 
 
 Kate was fresh from the " Young Cru- 
 sader;" her illustrations always betrayed 
 her latest studies. 
 
 Arnold only laughed ; and Kate spying 
 some tempting flowers in an adjoining field; 
 ran off to gather them. After she had left, 
 Valerie, looking up earnestly, said —
 
 FAIR OAKS. 19 
 
 " Adrian is right, is he not ?" 
 
 Arnold nodded. She paused a moment, 
 then said timidly, 
 
 '' Arnold, did you never wish to be ' some- 
 thing heroic ' too ?" 
 
 He smiled ; '' Perhaps I do wish it still, 
 little Valerie." 
 
 " You ? oh Arnold ! and yet you are going 
 to be a doctor !" 
 
 He laughed at her tone of dismay. " Is 
 that so altogether and hopelessly unheroic, 
 Valerie?" 
 
 " Yes, I think so. It sounds dreadfully 
 matter-of-fact and unromantic." 
 
 " Matter-of-fact, I grant you ; but we 
 live in a matter-of-fact age, and if we mean 
 to be of any use in the world, we must 
 adapt our ideas of heroism to the times 
 we live in — a sagacious observation, little 
 Valerie, which I suspect you don't half 
 understand." 
 
 C 2
 
 20 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Arnold ; I under- 
 stand quite well. You mean that you can't 
 now-a-days be a brave Paladin or a knight 
 of St. John's, as Kate wishes ; and therefore 
 you must just be what you can be, and do 
 your heroism " 
 
 '^f I have any " 
 
 "Oh, you have I'm sure — don't in- 
 terrupt me — do your heroic things in any 
 prosy way you can. It is dreadfully unro- 
 mantic." 
 
 " If you call my unfortunate profession 
 * unromantic,' I don't know that I can dis- 
 pute the term ; but you use that word and 
 ' unheroic,' as if they were one and the 
 same thing, which is a great mistake. How- 
 ever, you are too young to understand these 
 things now." 
 
 " Try me — let me hear — let me try — 
 Paul Glyn has much more patience. He 
 tries to explain what we don't understand."
 
 FAIR OAKS. 21 
 
 *^ Ah, you won't find many Paul Glyns 
 in the world, Valerie ! But I will try and 
 imitate his example. So now listen." And 
 he endeavoured to explain, in words suited 
 to her age, how it seemed to him that the 
 heroic was the true — the original — idea, of 
 all that which attracts us in the romantic ; 
 that it is the soul, the life, the essential — 
 while the romance is but its external and 
 accidental shape. Thus the two might go 
 together, or not ; but it was only the first — 
 the heroic — that was really worthy. 
 
 Valerie did not understand ; he had got 
 out of her depth. He saw this, and checked 
 himself, just as, carried away by a favourite 
 subject into forgetfulness of the age of his 
 little auditor, he was about to add, that it 
 was always difficult to connect the idea of 
 romance with the Present; each age had 
 found it so, and, generally speaking, each 
 aire in turn had taken its romance from the
 
 22 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 Past — the Remote; while, on the other 
 hand, the Heroic was of all time, and could 
 be made to enter into the most common- 
 place situations, the most ordinary struggles, 
 and duties, and difficulties of life. 
 
 Almost unconsciously to himself, Arnold 
 in these thoughts struck the Key-note of 
 his yet undeveloped character — that to 
 which his whole future career had to be 
 attuned.
 
 FAIR OAKS. 23 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 A MAY EVENING. 
 
 Occupied with his own thoughts, Arnold 
 walked on in silence. They were now not 
 far from the Grange, but before entering 
 the grounds, they had first to cross a 
 pretty stone bridge, which spanned the 
 river. The Old Bridge it was called. It 
 had on each side a broad, low parapet, 
 which offered inviting seats, being backed 
 by a balustrade of stonework of greater 
 height. These seats comnaanded fine views 
 up and down the river, and here Arnold 
 paused to let the children rest for a few 
 minutes.
 
 54 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 Valerie was glad to do so, but Kate the 
 untireable raced up and down the bridge 
 indefatigably. Presently she gave a little 
 scream of delight — 
 
 '' Oh, there is Paul ! dear Paul Glyn. 
 I must stop him, and bring him here ;" 
 and ere a word could be said, she had 
 bounded off, and fairly captured the indi- 
 vidual in question. 
 
 The meeting was highly demonstrative 
 on Katie's side ; she threw her arms round 
 Mr. Glyn, and insisted on being kissed 
 then and there. She speedily returned — 
 her beautiful face in a glow of triumph — 
 as she brought her captive to the bridge. 
 They all remained chatting, till Valerie, 
 from her nook of rest, announced that she 
 was quite rested, and ready to go on. 
 
 " I Avonder you can leave your dreaming 
 chair so soon," said Kate, who did not 
 wish to go. " Paul, that little nook in the
 
 FAIR OAKS. 25 
 
 corner is Valerie's dreaming chair; she 
 will sit there for an hour at a time, if 
 Rachel will let her, looking up the river, 
 and seeing fairy-land, she says." 
 
 Mr. Glyn smiled kindly on little Valerie, 
 who, blushinof and lauo^hinof at beino^ made 
 the subject of Kate's communications, still 
 sat in the gray stone nook, looking not 
 unlike a fairy herself, with her long, soft 
 curls of pale hazel brown, her slight 
 graceful form, and snowy white dress. 
 
 " Hark ! there is the cuckoo," suddenly 
 exclaimed Kate. 
 
 They listened. Clear as a bell the mo- 
 notonous note rang out; now here, now 
 there, suggesting bright spring thoughts. 
 
 " I like to hear the cuckoo," said Va- 
 lerie; " when I am in trouble with my 
 lessons, or anything, it helps me." 
 
 " How does it help you, little Valerie ?" 
 asked Mr. Glyn, gently ; he always spoke
 
 ^26 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 to children as if tliey were his equals, 
 or superiors. 
 
 ** Oh, its little merry note just fits the 
 words ' hope and try,' ' hope and try,' and 
 when I hear it, I do hope and try, and 
 fight on through my most difficult sums, 
 and all that. It's a fancy I have." 
 
 " Dear little Valerie ! I will remember 
 that," said Paul ; " who knows ? perhaps 
 the cuckoo will say, 'hope and try,' even 
 to me, some day !" He sighed. " And 
 now, good night, all of you. I shall be up 
 at the Grange to-morrow." 
 
 They parted. 
 
 " ' Even to me?' what does that mean?" 
 thought Valerie, as her little tired feet re- 
 sumed their walk homewards. 
 
 They left the bridge, and crossed the 
 high road to a gate which opened into 
 Mrs. Aubrey's grounds. It was a private 
 entrance, and had no lodge, being used
 
 FAIR OAKS. 27 
 
 only by the family as a short cut from the 
 village. Rachel came forward with the 
 key, and they entered a shady path, or 
 broad lane, which skirted the property at 
 the back of the house, and led by a very 
 steep ascent, impassable to a carriage, to a 
 side ofate of the o-arden. 
 
 This lane was shaded at intervals by 
 large trees, and bordered, or rather walled, 
 by high and broad hawthorn hedges, care- 
 fully kept, and now in full bloom. 
 
 As they were ascending this steep path, 
 restless Kate, returning unnoticed with a 
 fresh supply of flowery spoil, came softly 
 behind her sister, intending to give her, 
 what she called " a good fright." In this 
 she succeeded so effectually, that Valerie, 
 over-fatio'ued with her lonof walk, started 
 nervously, stumbled, and fell, spraining her 
 ancle rather severely. 
 
 In a moment Kate was all penitence
 
 28 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 and remorse, receiving with unwonted 
 meekness the strictures which Rachel had 
 great satisfaction in hastening up to admi- 
 nister on the occasion. 
 
 Valerie was greatly troubled by Kate's 
 distress, and insisted that she was not 
 much hurt. But as she valorously put her 
 foot to the ground, it was found she could 
 not stand. 
 
 Arnold said he would carry her; they 
 would be at home in ten minutes. 
 
 " But I am so heavy," said little Valerie, 
 who, in common with most fairies, thought 
 herself a terrific weight. 
 
 " What, for me ?" said Arnold, smiling ; 
 "for a brave Paladin — a knight of St. 
 John's !" and easily raising her light form, 
 he started up the hill. 
 
 The child was in pain ; she did not speak 
 till they were entering the house, when 
 she said softly —
 
 FAIR OAKS. 29 
 
 " Arnold, I did not understand what 
 you were saying about your profession — 
 about heroism this evening— before we met 
 Paul " 
 
 " No," he interrupted ; " it was stupid 
 of me — do not puzzle your little head 
 about it." 
 
 " Ah ! I should like to understand." 
 
 "Well, the next time I come down — I 
 am going to London to-morrow, you 
 know — I will tell you how I came to 
 choose this unromantic profession as one 
 of the highest, if not, indeed, the very 
 highest, which a man can follow — then 
 you will understand what I said. Will 
 that do?" 
 
 '* Yes, I shall like that, but it will be a 
 long time to wait; and — -just one word — 
 why is it a high profession ?" 
 
 " Because, rightly carried out, it neces-
 
 30 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 sarily involves so much that is good and 
 lofty ; making exertion, benevolence, self- 
 possession, thought for others, a part of 
 one's very life." He spoke gravely. *' You 
 understand that ?" 
 
 She raised her soft brown eyes of crystal 
 clearness to his, with a look of recogni- 
 tion, and said no more. 
 
 They found the Doctor had not yet 
 reached the Grange. Arnold consigned 
 Valerie to Miss Gardner's care, and pro- 
 ceeded to retrace his steps home. 
 
 As he was w^alking slowly down the 
 lane, he could not help pausing to enjoy 
 the soft May air, the subdued moonlight, 
 the countless sweet perfumes of the season 
 and the hour. A great silence lay on the 
 scene, broken only at intervals by the dis- 
 tant note of the cuckoo. He thought of 
 little Valerie's words, and smiled ; they
 
 FAIR OAKS. 31 
 
 suited his own character, which was ener- 
 getic and hopeful. 
 
 Before passing through the lower gate 
 of the Grange grounds, he turned round 
 for a last look. All was serenity and 
 beauty ; the close of the spring day as full 
 of ineffable calm, and fragrance, and hope, 
 as the close of a well-spent life ; telling at 
 once of fulfilment, and of futurity; com- 
 plete in itself, yet redolent of an eternal 
 to-morrow. 
 
 The silver glitter of the hawthorn sprays 
 in the moonlight, caught his eye. The 
 hedges were laden with that blossom, and 
 filled the air with their delicate spring 
 breath. 
 
 That evening, Arnold was particularly 
 struck with their profuse beauty. And after 
 events fixed the impression indelibly on 
 his memory; for the next day he left 
 home to pursue his professional studies;
 
 32 
 
 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 and many a spring had bloomed and faded, 
 and many a change taken place in his own 
 feelings and prospects, ere he again saw 
 the old hawthorns of the Grange in 
 flower.
 
 FAIR OAKS. 33 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 IN THE HIGHLANDS. 
 
 Merry Christmas had come round ere 
 Arnold was able to re-yisit Fair Oaks. 
 Adrian Aubrey, the embryo Robinson 
 Crusoe, was at the Grange for his holi- 
 days — a fine-looking boy, with a sunny 
 smile, and a bright, speaking face. 
 
 Arnold's visit was to be short, for he 
 was studying hard, and reluctantly sub- 
 mitted to any interruption. It belonged 
 to his character to be thoroughly in earnest 
 in anything he undertook. He had grown 
 much, and his fine features wore a more 
 grave and collected look, but the children 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 found to their delight, that he was other- 
 wise unchanged, and as ready to talk to 
 them as ever. Arnold was, as usual, when 
 in the country, often at the Grange, Mrs. 
 Aubrey having a great regard for her 
 young kinsman. 
 
 Mrs. Aubrey was an invalid, and, stran- 
 gers supposed, a widow ; for her husband, 
 Colonel Aubrey, on one pretext or another, 
 was generally on the Continent. He was 
 a gay, good-looking, egotistical man of the 
 world. 
 
 Of high connexions, and small income, 
 he had married for beauty, of which he 
 soon grew weary, and fortune, wdiich he 
 discovered too late he could not squander 
 at his pleasure. So he naturally looked 
 on himself as an exceedingly injured indi- 
 vidual, who had been most unjustifiably 
 swindled into matrimony. And though 
 the pretty young heiress, and representa-
 
 FAIR OAKS. 35 
 
 tive of the Greys of the Grange, one of 
 the oldest families in the county, had had 
 many a worthier, and many a wealthier, 
 suitor than Colonel Aubrey, he easily per- 
 suaded himself, that she had '^ taken him 
 in," and been actuated by selfish, ambitious 
 motives. 
 
 Unfortunately for herself it was not so ; 
 she had married for love — the poor little 
 foolish heiress — and deep was her silent 
 despair when she found out her real posi- 
 tion, and the true character of the man to 
 whom she had united her fate. Under the 
 disappointment her spirits first broke, and 
 then her health. She became a confirmed 
 invalid. 
 
 As for Colonel Aubrey, he declared that 
 Blankshire affected his chest — he must 
 positively reside on the Continent — he 
 would be charmed if Mrs. Aubrey would 
 go with him ; but her " local attachments" 
 
 D 2
 
 36 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 were so strong, he would not think of 
 asking such a sacrifice from her. And he 
 did not ask it. Three years after his mar- 
 riage, he went abroad alone, entered much 
 into society, and told his congenial com- 
 panions it was impossible for a man of 
 " his position," to exist in such a dull hole 
 as Blankshire. 
 
 This " position," which Colonel Aubrey 
 was fond of alluding to, consisted in his 
 near relationship to Lord St. Aubrey, to 
 whose earldom he was actually heir. But 
 then, Colonel Aubrey, who was one of 
 those fortunate individuals who possess the 
 art of forgetting anything it would be 
 disagreeable to remember, ignored the 
 fact that the Earl was many years the 
 younger of the two — and that it was hence 
 probable that young Adrian, who stood 
 next after the Colonel in the succession, 
 would be the next Earl St. Aubrey.
 
 FAIR OAKS. 37 
 
 And Colonel Aubrey, perfectly satisfied 
 with himself and his prospects, stayed 
 abroad, living on remittances from his 
 wife, and talking largely of his " posi- 
 tion." 
 
 And the little wife stayed at home as 
 she was bidden, and said nothing. Her 
 existence would have been intolerable to 
 her, but that small white feet had arisen, 
 and trodden for her the wine-press of life. 
 She had children to care for, to live in, to 
 be rewarded by. She gave herself up to 
 the care and education of Kate and Va- 
 lerie, and daily duties daily accomplished, 
 wrought their own return of peace and 
 consolation. 
 
 One day during the vacation just alluded 
 to, Arnold went up to the Grange. Mrs. 
 Aubrey w^as not in her usual sitting-room. 
 No one was to be seen but little Valerie, 
 who seized upon him, and insisted on his
 
 38 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 keeping her company in the deserted 
 school-room. 
 
 " Why, where are all the others ?" he 
 asked. 
 
 " Oh, mamma is in her room, resting. 
 I think she has had some bad news." 
 
 Arnold looked an inquiry. 
 
 " From Baden," aswered the child. 
 
 Arnold dropped the subject. Colonel 
 Aubrey was at Baden. 
 
 " And Miss Gardner ? and Kate ? and 
 Adrian ?" 
 
 " Miss Gardner is arranging the presents 
 and tapers on the Christmas tree. Mamma 
 gives us a Christmas tree on Katie's birth- 
 day — don't forget, you are to come — a real 
 German tree. Adrian is rigging his new 
 frigate, and Kate is helping him. She has 
 spoilt her blue shoes, by wading into the 
 water 'with it." 
 
 *'Is it the identical friofate in which
 
 FAIR OAKS. 39 
 
 Robinson Crusoe proposes to be wrecked?" 
 asked Arnold. 
 
 " Oh, nonsense, Arnold !" said Valerie, 
 laughing ; "at any rate they are very 
 busy, and they don't want me. x\nd — oh, 
 do come into the school-room, there is 
 such a fire — glorious ! and no one there, 
 and I've something very particular to say 
 to you." 
 
 Arnold suffered himself to be draofo^ed 
 into the cheerful school-room. 
 
 " These are our holidays, you know," 
 said Valerie ; " we have a week — not half 
 enough, Kate says. Adrian has six ! but 
 then, as Kate says, girls are always op- 
 pressed." 
 
 " Well done, Kate ! she is beginning 
 early. She looks oppressed and miserable, 
 does she not?" 
 
 " That's what Adrian says ; he says the 
 fact is clear, but Katie is a bad specimen
 
 40 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 of it — she looks so excessively happy. 
 They are a curious pair, Kate and Adrian; 
 but, Arnold, never mind them just now, I 
 want to remind you of your old promise, 
 to tell me what first put it into your head 
 to be a doctor." 
 
 " I'm afraid that would be a long story, 
 Valerie " 
 
 " Oh, I like long stories, and you pro- 
 mised — do tell me all about it." 
 
 " Well, I will see what I can do ; but 
 remember, I must be with my father by 
 twelve o'clock; he is to wait for me on the 
 Old Bridge." 
 
 '* Oh, there's plenty of time before twelve. 
 Here's a famous easy chair, and I'll take 
 this low one beside you. Now, Arnold, 
 beofin — beffin." 
 
 " My beginning will date from the time 
 I first went to Scotland — a long, long time 
 ago, Valerie; indeed, before you were
 
 FAIR OAKS. 41 
 
 born. When my mother died, I remained 
 at the Archway House till my father mar- 
 ried again ; then my mother's family 
 wished to take charge of me, and I went 
 to my grandfather's place, Glenmore, in 
 the Western Highlands — Argyleshire. 
 
 '' I shall not make you quite understand 
 my way of thinking, unless I tell you 
 something about Glenmore ; for the out-of- 
 door life we led there — the scenery, the 
 mountains, the lake, the small water- 
 fall — which we then considered a sort of 
 Niagara — all had a great deal to do with 
 it. The house was in a deep glen, nearly 
 surrounded by rough, rugged mountains, 
 rising one above another, and looking as if 
 they had been hurled down there at ran- 
 dom from a o^reat heiofht. Some were 
 nearly bare, others had thickets of black 
 pine, interspersed with silvery birch, and 
 the pretty mountain ash, with its scarlet 
 berries — the rowan-tree, we called it.
 
 42 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 '' These mountains always impressed me 
 very much as a child. They looked so 
 grand and threatening in storm and mist, 
 so protecting and friendly in the summer 
 days of rare sunshine, when the purple 
 heather was spread over them like a gar- 
 ment. You would have delighted in that 
 heather, Valerie ; I have never seen it so 
 profuse, or so beautiful, anywhere else. It 
 was that pretty, open, bell-shaped blossom, 
 which they call in our parts the Macdonald 
 heather. We were Macdonalds ourselves — 
 my mother's family — and to hear some of 
 the old Highland servants talk, you might 
 have supposed the heather had been created 
 for us. 
 
 " Well, as a boy I was never tired of 
 speculating on those great rocky mountains ; 
 there was something mysterious in their 
 height and their great silence. But you 
 have never lived among mountains; you
 
 FAIR OAKS. 43 
 
 don't know what a stedfast sense of silence 
 — silence that can be felt — there is in a 
 mountain land. I used to think the still- 
 ness deepened, not lessened, bj the slow, 
 solemn rustle of the pines, or the cry of a 
 wild bird passing over my head, which 
 were often the only sounds on the air. I 
 was always wondering what there was on 
 the other side of those mighty hills. ' No- 
 thing but what there is on this,' said my 
 grandfather one day, rather roughly, and 
 bade me remember his words, and apply 
 them to other thino^s besides the Arofvle- 
 shire mountains. But I was not con- 
 vinced. I have sometimes been an hour 
 at a time lying on the heather, longing to 
 get beyond those barriers, and laying all 
 sorts of plans for exploring the country 
 beyond, when I should be older. I never 
 doubted but I should make grand dis-
 
 44 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 " And did you ? have you ?" asked the 
 child, eagerly. 
 
 Arnold smiled. 
 
 " No, little Valerie, not as yet !" 
 
 She looked rather disappointed. 
 
 " Well, go on." 
 
 *' I have since thought that the life we 
 led there — I and my cousins — was good 
 for us ; that it braced our minds as well as 
 our bodies, and led us to look on things in 
 their reality as they are, rather than as 
 they seem. Can you understand that?" 
 
 " Not quite." 
 
 " Why, for instance, we cared little for 
 appearances, and we acquired a great law 
 of freedom and an independent way of 
 judging for ourselves rather than take the 
 opinions of others. I, at any rate, did so, 
 and I tell you about it here, because it 
 had a good deal to do with my choice of a 
 profession, which I am sorry to say was
 
 FAIR OAKS. 45 
 
 made in opposition to the wishes of all my 
 friends at Glen more. 
 
 " Well, when I w^as old enough, I was 
 sent to school in Edinburgh. How I 
 chafed under school regulations ! How I 
 missed the free air, the free life of Glen- 
 more ! I rebelled fearfully, got myself a 
 very bad character, and had almost made 
 up my mind to run away, when, for- 
 tunately, something occurred which gave a 
 new turn to my thoughts and energies." 
 
 "And that something was ?" 
 
 " Seeing a play." 
 
 " A real play ? Oh, Arnold, I have 
 never seen a play." 
 
 " Nor had I at that time. The father of 
 one of the boys came from England to see 
 him, and one evening took him and a party 
 of his schoolfellows, including me, to see 
 
 Mr. , the celebrated English tragedian, 
 
 who was acting in Edinburgh for a short
 
 46 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 time. It was a date in my life. As the 
 tragedy went on, I fell into a sort of silent 
 ecstasy. I forgot where I was, and who 
 were present. I forgot everything but the 
 scene on the stage — the great actor, his 
 chivalrous bearing, his noble deeds, and 
 lofty sentiments, which, of course, at that 
 time I identified with himself." 
 
 Valerie nodded her comprehension. 
 
 " I can't very well explain what was 
 going on in my mind, Valerie. I did not 
 understand it myself. I only know I felt 
 as if I had suddenly got into a different 
 atmosphere ; I felt free once more ; released 
 from all school trammels and petty tyran- 
 nies. I had a restored feeling of liberty, 
 of free breathing, of springiness, as if I 
 were treading the dear old heathery hills 
 again. 
 
 " When the play ceased, and the curtain 
 dropped, I sat thinking, or rather dreaming.
 
 FAIR OAKS. 47 
 
 SO long, that one of the boys shook me 
 with no gentle hand, before he could make 
 me understand that the others had all gone, 
 and we must make haste to follow. I felt 
 impatient at being spoken to ; I wanted to 
 be alone to think over the crowd of new 
 ideas thronging in on my mind. In my 
 room that night, I recalled all that had 
 passed; how the great tragedian had swayed 
 that large assembly — rousing and exciting, 
 hushing and melting the people at his will. 
 " I thought what a grand thing it was to 
 sway men's spirits in this way : and to 
 make them better and kinder with it too ! 
 For it seemed to me to do that — I mean 
 to say" (seeing little Valerie looked puzzled), 
 " that the audience seemed then to un- 
 derstand and to respond to high thoughts, 
 and applauded generous actions, which at 
 another time they would only have laughed 
 at. That was the impression I had, though
 
 48 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 perhaps I could not have put it into 
 words. 
 
 "For instance, the good-natured, red-faced 
 man who had given us this pleasure, was — 
 as I noticed before my own ecstasy absorbed 
 me — almost in tears at a scene where the 
 hero rejects all considerations of interest, 
 in the most magnanimous way ; and enforces 
 very lofty scruples on the subject of money- 
 getting and fortune-pushing. And the 
 red-faced man wiped his eyes, and cried 
 'Bray-vo !' till he was hoarse. 
 
 " Now, but one hour before, we were dining 
 with him at his hotel, and his little son had 
 expressed some scruples of conscience about 
 the profession he was destined for — the 
 Church. And the red-faced father had 
 said — and said very angrily too— 
 
 " ' Don't be a fool. Bob. There's a fine 
 living kept for you. You must put your 
 scruples in your pocket, or you'll never get 
 on in the world.'
 
 FAIR OAKS. 49 
 
 " How he was changed now ! All scruples 
 and no pocket ! 
 
 " Then again ; there sat next to me a tall, 
 cowardly bully from the school. " 
 
 " Describe him." 
 
 " Oh, it's not worth while — a pale, freck- 
 led, broad-shouldered fellow who had cheated 
 me at marbles that morning, and beaten 
 most unmercifully a little mite of a boy who 
 had rashly pointed it out. I had got a sound 
 thrashing for standing up for the little 
 fellow, and talking, foolishly enough, about 
 honour and justice to the young tyrant. 
 Well, at the play, there he had sat, thun- 
 dering out applause at all the most elevated 
 sentiments of bravery and humanity ; and 
 particularly enjoying some indignant bursts 
 against cowards and oppressors. For the 
 time he seemed another beino:. I don't 
 say the influence exercised by the great 
 actor was very lasting. I never heard that 
 poor Bobby had any more consideration 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 shown to his scruples afterwards; and I 
 did hear that our bully was busy cheating 
 again next morning. But I had been too 
 much excited to be easily cooled; and 
 without dwelling on this sad falling off, I 
 still thought it would be a grand thing to 
 be an actor, and rule and raise men's minds 
 
 as Mr. did. I was as much in love 
 
 with the heroic, and the romantic too, as 
 even you, Valerie, could desire ; and as this 
 was the only experience of romance that my 
 secluded life had yet afforded, it was natural 
 it should make a deep impression, and that 
 I should decide in my own mind that I, too, 
 would be an actor. So I did not run away 
 from school, but studied as I never had 
 studied before, to qualify myself for this 
 grand career."
 
 FAIR OAKS. 51 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 A VOCATION DISCOVERED. 
 
 " In the long summer holidays I went back 
 to Glenmore, and resumed my old rambles 
 among the hills. We were a large party. 
 Besides my grandfather, my two old maiden 
 aunts, and various Macdonald cousins, — 
 there was my youngest aunt, who was 
 married to Captain Lindsay, and who with 
 her children, lived at Glenmore while her 
 husband was at sea. 
 
 "We children were all treated with 
 justice and impartiality ; but were very 
 little noticed by the elders of the family, 
 for we were ruled on the old, strict, Scotch 
 system. 
 
 E 2
 
 52 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 "My grandfather and my aunts meant 
 kindly ; but they treated us all like little 
 machines, and enforced the most unquesti- 
 oning obedience, even to quite unreasonable 
 commands. I am sure the idea of compa- 
 nionizing us children in any way, or of sup- 
 plying us with any amusement beyond what 
 we could find for ourselves, never entered 
 their heads. As we were seldom addressed 
 but when there was somethino- to find fault 
 with, the mere ' not to be noticed' was all 
 we aimed at." 
 
 " That does not sound very pleasant." 
 " No ; but it was the common plan in 
 Scotland in former days, and the Glenmore 
 family kept it up. The young people were 
 always the least considered of the party. 
 But you must not fancy they meant any 
 unkindness : it was, according to their ideas, 
 ' all for our own good.' We were well 
 supplied with everything they thought ne- 
 cessary for health and comfort ; and provided
 
 FAIR OAKS. 53 
 
 we were neat, and punctual at prayers, and 
 at meals, we had liberty to do much as we 
 pleased with our holidays. We rode our 
 ponies over moor and mountain ; we went 
 out shooting and fishing with the keepers ; 
 and roamed where we liked without hind- 
 rance or comment. At Glenmore it was 
 thought the natural life for boys of our age. 
 The keepers, and indeed all the people about, 
 were retainers of the family. They had 
 passed their lives on the property, as their 
 fathers had done before them ; they were 
 a respectable class of men, and I don't think 
 we got any harm from them, except, per- 
 haps, a somewhat overweening estimate of 
 the importance of the clan Macdonald. 
 
 " One fine Midsummer day, I wandered up 
 the glen, with one of my few books, and 
 seated myself by a tiny mountain lake, 
 which we called the Eaglet's Tarn. There 
 I sat reading, and pondering my heroics so 
 long, that the dinner-hour passed un-
 
 54 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 noticed. Suddenly, it flashed across my 
 mind how late it must be ; and starting up, 
 I ran down the hill as fast as my feet would 
 carry me. 
 
 " I knew I had got into a famous scrape, 
 and I confess to feeling rather unheroically 
 alarmed as I reached the house. When I 
 got to the hall-door, I paused to screw up 
 my courage. It was so long in coming up 
 to the needful point, that I began to wonder 
 that my Aunt Judith had not spied me 
 from the w^indow, and sallied forth to 
 commence the warfare in Gaelic, which 
 she always spoke w^hen she was very 
 angry." 
 
 '* Did they not speak broad Scotch ?" 
 
 '^ No, no ; not in the Highlands. They 
 spoke Gaelic chiefly, and English with great 
 purity and something of the preciseness of 
 those who are usins: a foreiofn tono-ue. 
 
 " Aunt Judith loved warfare, and as her 
 sense of justice would not allow her to
 
 FAIR OAKS. 55 
 
 scold without distinct cause, she always 
 made the most of an opportunity when it 
 came. Poor Aunt Judith ! She was a kind 
 woman too. Where was I ? oh, at the hall- 
 door : it stood open as usual, and at last I 
 ventured in. 
 
 " There was no one about ; a most un- 
 usual circumstance. The dining-room door 
 was ajar, but not a sound came from thence. 
 I peeped in; dinner was served; but no 
 one sat at table. What could be the 
 matter ? why such silence ? So unlike the 
 usual free, cheerful, loud-voiced stir of 
 Glenmore. 
 
 "A sudden dread came over me — an 
 agony of fear — some one must be dead ! 
 I suppose only children have these unrea- 
 soning agonies of apprehension, of resistless 
 blinding fear. I stood rooted to the spot. 
 Presently I heard a slow heavy tread in the 
 room above. The sound was like that of 
 people moving a weight; there was a muffled,
 
 56 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 sliu filing noise, with repressed voices — all 
 so terribly subdued. 
 
 " I could bear it no longer. I felt I must 
 see a known face ; must hear an accustomed 
 voice, and get some explanation of what 
 was going on. My own disgrace was for- 
 gotten ; the greater fear overcame the less ; 
 I longed to meet those I had just been 
 shunning. I darted from the dining-room 
 and rushed up stairs. The room from which 
 the sound proceeded was my grandfather's. 
 In a desperation of fear, I dashed open the 
 door. Every one was too busy to resent 
 the intrusion. I don't think they even saw 
 me. I soon knew all. My grandfather 
 was not dead " 
 
 " Oh ! Arnold, I am glad," broke in 
 Valerie, " I thought he was." 
 
 " So did I, when I first saw him. He 
 had had a paralytic stroke, and was quite 
 unconscious. All was alarm and confusion 
 in the house. Aunt Judith was the first to
 
 FAIR OAKS. 57 
 
 recover herself, and to send a man on horse- 
 back for her eldest brother, and another 
 with all speed for the doctor. 
 
 " My grandfather was a just man ; liberal 
 and upright, and much beloved on the pro- 
 perty. I can't tell you the grave, settled 
 sorrow that overshadowed all around, when 
 it went forth that Glenmore was ill — was 
 dying. 
 
 "Well, to shorten this long story " 
 
 " Oh, you needn't shorten it, I like it — 
 only I don't see what it has to do with 
 making you a doctor." 
 
 " A fair rebuke, Valerie ; but resume your 
 attentive face for five minutes, and you will 
 see it really had a great deal to do with 
 making me a doctor. I am j ust going to intro- 
 duce to you a doctor — the hero of my tale. 
 
 " I was telling you of my grandfather's 
 seizure. Well, after long waiting, for the 
 distance was great, the doctor arrived. 
 He was a thin, shrivelled, insignificant, 
 little man, with very shaggy red hair "
 
 58 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 " Oh, Arnold !" broke in Valerie, indig- 
 nantly, '' a hero ! you call that a hero ?" 
 
 "Even so," said Arnold, laughing; "not 
 very like Katie's brave paladins, and 
 Knights of St. John, but my hero, never- 
 theless, the greatest good -doer I had then 
 met. Dr. Campbell had a hesitating 
 manner, and a look of indecision, almost 
 of vacancy, in general conversation, but in 
 the sick room these disappeared altogether. 
 
 " For some weeks Dr. Campbell was 
 daily, or twice a day, at Glenmore. Dis- 
 tance, weather, fatigue, were as nothing to 
 him, when his services were needed. And 
 I learnt that not in this case only, but in 
 that of the humblest cottager, he was a 
 true friend and helper in every season of 
 distress. 
 
 " To us, in our anxiety, he seemed almost 
 the dispenser of life and death. His visit 
 was the event of the day ; his opinion of the 
 patient was what we all waited breathlessly
 
 FAIR OAKS. 59 
 
 to hear. His slightest word of anxiety, 
 or satisfaction, brought tears, or smiles 
 around. 
 
 " We all felt a support in his know- 
 ledge; a sort of protection in his very 
 presence. 
 
 " I, and my cousins, took to going out 
 every morning, long before Dr. Campbell 
 could possibly arrive, to a rising ground 
 which overlooked the ,road by which he 
 must approach the house. And the mo- 
 ment we caught sight of him, on his rough 
 little pony, as shaggy and shambling as 
 himself, off we started for the house, 
 each striving to be first with the welcome 
 news. 
 
 *' No one thought now of his unpolished 
 manners, or uncouth appearance. I re- 
 member I secretly endured horrible pangs 
 of conscience, for having once called him 
 ' a scrubby little fellow,' and wagered with 
 my cousin Donald that I could thrash him
 
 60 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 out and out, and would do it some day. I 
 forget what offence he had given me ; but 
 I was now full of remorse for my boast, and 
 lived in daily terror least Don should re- 
 mind me of it, and teaze me by publicly 
 revealing my rash bet. At this time Don 
 never looked at me for two seconds to- 
 gether, but I thought the awful disclosure 
 was coming, and felt almost ready to 
 throw myself out of the window to escape 
 it, and the consternation it would excite. 
 
 " At length my grandfather recovered. 
 What a weight was lifted off our life ! 
 How thankful they all were — how much 
 softened by what had passed — by the trial 
 in common — the common joy — the great 
 and unwearied kindness of the Doctor. 
 We all seemed the better for it — for him. 
 
 " Somehow, it made me think of my 
 admired actor. But, somelioiv^ again, the 
 actor did not seem to me nearly such a 
 satisfactory hero now. I was beginning
 
 FAIR OAKS. 61 
 
 to feel the unreality of that acted great- 
 ness, as compared with the grave, true, 
 earnest life-work that had been going on 
 at Glenmore, with the shaggy little doctor 
 as prime mover. 
 
 *' I only felt these things then ; I was 
 too young to reason on the subject, and 
 much that I am now telling you, has of 
 course been connected by after-thought. 
 But at any rate, one thing I recognized, 
 that the doctor's life was finer than the 
 actor's, for it was true ; and its good 
 effects and influences lasting — not dying 
 out in a day, like the excitement of my 
 tall school tyrant." 
 
 " I understand all this," put in Valerie. 
 
 " Very well. This was ray first experi- 
 ence of the great worth and influence of 
 the medical profession, and I have never 
 lost, I trust I never shall lose, the impres- 
 sion it made on me. 
 
 ** I thought over these scenes again and
 
 62 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 again. I did not tell any one what was 
 passing in ray raind — in that house no one 
 cared for a child's thoughts ; but I had 
 finally made my choice of a profession 
 now, and every night as I went up the 
 long, creaking, wooden stairs, to my little 
 bed-room, I said resolutely to myself, ' I, 
 too, will be a doctor.'" 
 
 " Oh, yes," said Valerie, " I see ; if I 
 were a man, I think I would be a doctor 
 too. Tell me some more." 
 
 " There is little more to tell. I had said 
 this to myself so often, that I felt pledged 
 to the plan before any one else suspected 
 it. It had grown to be a sort of compact 
 with my lionour to carry it out. 
 
 ** That memorable vacation was just 
 closing, when my uncle Lindsay, Captain 
 Lindsay of the Navy, came home from sea. 
 He was kind and high-spirited, and no- 
 ticed us boys far more than the rest of 
 the party were accustomed to do. So we
 
 FAIR OAKS. 63 
 
 all took to him very much, and greatly 
 admired his handsome, fearless face, and 
 his frank, overbearinor wavs. 
 
 " One afternoon 1 was reading intently 
 in the dining-room. Day was waning, and 
 I had carried my book into a deeply- 
 recessed window, to profit by the last rays 
 of the setting sun. Heavy curtains draped 
 the recess, and I don't think my grand- 
 father and uncle Lindsay, who were talking 
 at the other end of the room, knew that I 
 was there. Presently I was roused by the 
 sound of my own name. I turned my head, 
 and heard uncle Lindsay say — 
 
 " ' I've a plan in my head, Glenmore. 
 I'll take Arnold with me when I leave. 
 I've taken a fancy to him — he'll make a 
 capital sailor.' 
 
 " It was just like uncle Lindsay to dis- 
 pose of me in this friendly, tyrannical way. 
 I was taken quite by surprise; I leaned 
 forward to see how my grandfather took
 
 64 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 the announcement. I remember bis ap- 
 pearance. The watery sunshine which 
 broke across the rainy sky fell right on 
 his stately old head, and softened it into 
 an expression of gentle benignity, as he 
 smiled with a look of deep pleasure at his 
 son-in-law, and said in his grave, deliberate 
 way— 
 
 *' * I thank you, Lindsay. It is kindly 
 thought of — my poor Flora's only child !' 
 
 '* ' Yes !" cried uncle Lindsay, heartily, 
 * and as good as an orphan — the mother 
 dead, the father an Englishman. But I'll 
 look after the lad as my own — I'll push the 
 fellow. My Lords owe me a good turn or 
 two, and I'll take it out of them for Flora's 
 boy.'" 
 
 "Who are 'my Lords?'" asked little 
 Valerie. 
 
 Arnold laughed. " Oh, the Lords of the 
 Admiralty, of course, the only ones Cap- 
 tain Lindsay cared for. You may suppose
 
 FAIR OAKS. 65 
 
 I heard these benevolent projects with no 
 great pleasure. I was hesitating what I ought 
 to do, when uncle Lindsay went on — 
 
 '* ' I took a liking to the fellow the mo- 
 ment I set ejes on him. I liked the cut of 
 his jib — ril turn him out a iirst-rate, I pro- 
 mise you, Glenmore — fit to take a North Pole 
 command in time.' 
 
 " Uncle Lindsay had had the command of 
 a North Pole expedition himself, and had lost 
 three fingers from frost-bite on that occasion ; 
 and it was the greatest glory and happiness 
 he could propose for any one, to prophesy for 
 them a North Pole command. I knew things 
 must be serious when it came to this ; I saw 
 the great jeopardy of my beloved plan, and 
 that they were coolly about to seal my fate 
 without any reference to my own wishes. I 
 started up ; I must speak, and that quickly, 
 or it might be too late. I pulled aside the 
 curtain, and called out hastily, in no very 
 diplomatic tone — 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 66 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 *^ ' I can't be a sailor ! Uncle Lindsay, thank 
 you for thinking of me; but I can't be a 
 sailor. No ! never.' 
 
 '' ' Halloo !' shouted uncle Lindsay, as if 
 he were hailing a ship at sea ; ' who have we 
 got there ? Come here, sir ; let's have no non- 
 sense. What d'ye mean ?' 
 
 '' He looked rather stormy, but I went up 
 boldly enough, and repeated what I had said. 
 Then I added, hastily — ' And it's all settled 
 besides. I've quite made up my mind — I'm 
 going to be a doctor.' 
 
 " ' A doctor ?' he repeated, with great con- 
 tempt, * what on earth do you mean, sir?' 
 
 " I tried to explain my feelings a little ; 
 but he scoffed and sneered at everything I 
 said, till I got chafed, and would say no 
 more. 
 
 " My grandfather interfered. He was sur- 
 prised and vexed at my announcement, and 
 at my conduct, but he saw uncle Lindsay was 
 not taking the right way to alter my deter-
 
 FAIR OAKS. 67 
 
 mination. My grandfather was much softened 
 by his ilhiess ; and though he had no idea of 
 allowing a boy to carry any point in opposi- 
 tion to his elders, it was not without gentle- 
 ness that he now said — 
 
 " ' The lad is young, Lindsay ' 
 
 " ' Old enough to be as obstinate as a 
 mule, Glenmore !' retorted my uncle. * I 
 
 tell you what, young sir,' turning to me 
 
 " ' No, no ; let it be — let it be,' said my 
 grandfather, who, I dare say, saw that I was 
 hardening under this arbitrary treatment. 
 ' Arnold, you must be a good lad, and well 
 guided in this matter. Take time, we'll talk 
 it over another day.' He turned to his fiery 
 son-in-law — who was ejaculating his determi- 
 nation not to let himself be * flabbero^asted bv 
 a little jackanapes of a land-lubber' — and re- 
 peated firmly, ' No — no more at present, 
 Lindsay.' 
 
 " My grandfather spoke with dignity, and 
 Captain Lindsay, highly enraged, and not 
 
 F 2
 
 68 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 liking to vent his displeasure before his father- 
 in-law, turned on his heel, and muttering to 
 himself something about insubordination, and 
 milk-sops, and * the Service,' with his haughtiest 
 quarter-deck stride, he swung out of the 
 room. My aunts were perfectly amazed, when 
 they heard of my rebellion — Aunt Lindsay 
 especially ; she could hardly believe it, for she 
 had never contradicted her husband in her 
 life. One and all, they commanded me to 
 make an ample apology to uncle Lindsay, and 
 prepare to go to sea forthwith. 
 
 " But uncle Lindsay was as little in the mood 
 for accepting apologies, as I for making them. 
 He said I had disappointed him, I had no 
 spirit, I was not worthy to be a sailor, and 
 he was sorry he had ever thought of making 
 me one. 
 
 " All this was very galling of course, and 
 it was a grief too, to have fallen in the esti- 
 mation of my brave, spirited uncle Lindsay ; 
 however I remained firm, and I think I
 
 FAIR OAKS. 69 
 
 valued my plan the more, that I had suffered 
 somewhat for it. It was my first sacrifice ; 
 but Valerie, it is twelve, I must go." 
 " Just finish — two words more." 
 " Oh, after long discussion, and much vexa- 
 tion at Glenmore, the matter was referred 
 to my father. He said I might take any 
 profession I chose, if I was for three years 
 steady to the choice ; and as I was steady, it 
 was all what uncle Lindsay would call 
 ' smooth sailing ' after that. Now I must 
 really be off — my father will be waiting. 
 I will not forget your party to-morrow. 
 Good bye."
 
 70 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 CHAPTEE V. 
 
 A FAILED CAREER. 
 
 One bright, cold day, during this Christmas 
 vacation, Arnold went to spend some hours 
 with his friend Paul Glyn. He started with 
 his father, who had a visit to pay in the same 
 direction. As the gig came round to the 
 Archway House, Arnold sprang in, seized the 
 reins, and drove merrily along the High Street, 
 then through several lesser ones to the high 
 road, and so on towards the Old Bridge, 
 from whence he caught a glimpse of the 
 Grange, and the hawthorn hedges, now looking 
 brown and barren in the wintry sun. Before 
 quite reaching the bridge, their road turned 
 up a steep ascent to Paul's little cottage, which
 
 FAIR OAKS. 71 
 
 was on a hill, nearly opposite to the Grange, 
 though at a considerable distance, and sepa- 
 rated from it by the river. 
 
 Along the crisp, frost-laid road, Arnold in 
 high spirits drove rapidly ; but when they came 
 to the hill Dr. Osborne insisted that the mare 
 should take her own time about it, and they 
 ascended at a leisurely pace — falling into 
 earnest conversation as they went. It was 
 the perfection of a winter day. The sky was 
 of a clear, bright blue, with here and there a 
 light flake of snowy white cloud to deepen it 
 by contrast. The sun shone generously ; there 
 was no wind — and the air, though cold, was 
 pleasant and exhilarating. 
 
 It was one of those invigorating days which 
 awaken all the better impulses and healthier 
 emotions of our nature — rousing its aspira- 
 rations, and calling forth its energies. There 
 are those to whom such days come almost as 
 a communication from the unseen world ; their 
 best and bravest thoughts rise up at the sum-
 
 72 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 moris, and stand forth free — shaking off at a 
 bound all bands of worldliness and personal 
 anxiety. 
 
 At these times difficulties and obstacles in 
 the path of Right seem but incitements, 
 stepping-stones, to be trampled under foot, 
 and forced to aid and forward our progress in 
 spite of themselves. At such times, all things 
 seem possible to us — rather, let us say, they 
 are possible ! And all natures not wholly 
 dull to good impulse, know what it is to resolve 
 nobly under such influences. 
 
 As for young Arnold, he threw himself into 
 the spirit of the hour with characteristic energy. 
 He dwelt on his plans, his prospects, his good 
 resolutions, and earnest aims, with such hope- 
 fulness and undoubting security of success, as 
 made his father first smile, and then sigh ; 
 though his eye rested with pride on the frank, 
 resolute, young face beside him, which met 
 his glance with a look telling better than 
 words, the entire confidence between them.
 
 FAIR OAKS. 73 
 
 There was indeed mutual respect and con- 
 fidence between these two. The younger 
 man's was the larger intellect, and the higher 
 nature ; but he was deeply attached to his 
 father, and fully recognized and honoured his 
 uprightness, kindliness, and practical good 
 sense. 
 
 Arnold was the only child of Dr. Osborne's 
 first marriage ; but the second Mrs. Osborne 
 had a family — what is generally called " a fine 
 family ;" boys and girls being very numerous, 
 noisy, common-place, and large grown. There 
 was no second Arnold among these. Mrs. 
 Osborne herself, was a large, handsome, com- 
 mon-place woman, with a good-natured manner, 
 and a selfish disposition. Dr. Osborne was a 
 very indulgent father, and a most benevolent 
 physician. The great fault of his character 
 was a somewhat too easy, insouciant, good 
 nature. He disliked change. Arnold's views 
 and aims regarding their mutual profession 
 often touched him ; but he was glad to thrust
 
 74 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 away thoughts and feelings which it would 
 have been a perpetual fatigue and inconvenience 
 to him to have carried out into practice. Like 
 all persons of his stamp, he did not like theories 
 that went beyond theories; he did not like to 
 be disturbed ; he was very well satisfied with 
 things as they were. 
 
 Whenever Arnold found that his father 
 would not sympathize in his flights, he would 
 betake himself to Paul Glyn — a medical man 
 long retired from practice, and an old friend 
 of the family. 
 
 It was an intimacy any young man might 
 have gained by ; and Arnold consciously rose 
 under its influence. For Paul Glyn's was a 
 rare and a fine character. Though still com- 
 paratively young, he led a very retired life, 
 and mixed little in society ; but for Arnold 
 there was always a welcome at the cottage. 
 
 How one like Paul Glyn, pleasing in ap- 
 pearance and manner, full of information and 
 accomplishments, should, in the prime of life,
 
 FAIR OAKS. 75 
 
 have come to Fair Oaks, to shut himself up 
 there, and lead the life of a hermit, was a 
 perpetual puzzle to the gossips of the little 
 town. And as Dr. Osborne, the only person 
 who could have enlightened them, preserved 
 a provoking silence on the subject, the mystery, 
 after many years, still retained all its fresh- 
 ness. The simple fact was that Paul Glyn 
 was a disappointed man, jand too proud to 
 allow it. 
 
 With all his gifts, his professional career 
 had been a complete failure ; and yielding to 
 a morbid susceptibility — the only great fault 
 of his fine nature — he early drew back in 
 disgust from the world, and buried himself, 
 his wrongs, his griefs, and his books, in the se- 
 clusion of Fair Oaks ; an unwise step, as we 
 can see, and one but too well calculated to 
 foster his weakness. 
 
 So he felt afterwards. But year after year 
 passed without his having the courage to change 
 his habits. Let us, however, say for Paul —
 
 76 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 what for himself he did not say, for he judged 
 himself as he judged no other man — that there 
 was some extenuation of his weakness in the 
 events of his life. Circumstances, which for 
 some men are so benignantlj adjusted for the 
 remedying of their natural faults, had, in his 
 case, been precisely what seemed most calcu- 
 lated to repress his good qualities, and 
 blight his happiness and usefulness. Such 
 things are ; to us, inscrutable ; but the facts 
 are there, and to deny, is not to remove 
 them. 
 
 For instance : Paul's nature, in its very 
 loftiness and rare delicacy, ill fitted for suc- 
 cessful struggle with the stern realities of life, 
 called for bracin^: and tonino: from the be- 
 ginning. It was his great need. It was never 
 supplied. In early youth much might have 
 been done ; but Paul's early youth was super- 
 intended by an elder brother, a confirmed 
 invalid, whose character too much resembled 
 his own to afford the necessary correction.
 
 FAIR OAKS. 77 
 
 The parents were dead, and the two brothers 
 stood almost alone in the world. 
 
 At the proper age, Paul entered on the 
 study of medicine. It was not a profession 
 he would have selected, but circumstances 
 were against him here also ; the brothers were 
 not rich ; he could not be allowed a choice. 
 
 He passed his examination more than 
 successfully — brilliantly — received the com- 
 pliments and congratulations of more than 
 one eminent medical man, and heard flattering 
 auguries of future success. 
 
 It never came, that success. Paul did not 
 get on as a doctor. His cast of mind was 
 metaphysical, rather than practical ; and he 
 was utterly deficient in that steady, self- 
 reliant hardihood of speech and action, which 
 the medical man who intends to rise in 
 practice must feel, or assume. The " rough 
 and ready " doctor, like the rough and ready 
 soldier, is often the one most distinguished by 
 fortune. Paul Glyn was not such. With his
 
 78 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 keen and delicate perceptions, he dared not 
 practise the " hit-or-miss" system of treat- 
 ment; he saw too vividly all the remote 
 possible consequences of the slightest error to 
 risk anything willingly ; he was not prepared 
 to take many a random shot on the chance 
 of one hitting the mark. And when he failed, 
 he could not carry off his failure with due 
 professional impertitrbability. Paul certainly 
 was not born to be a doctor ! 
 
 He soon found he could not satisfy either 
 his patients or himself; he had not their 
 confidence, for he had not his own. He 
 became more and more irresolute and self- 
 mistrustful. Each failure prepared the way for 
 others ; with his character this was inevitable 
 — for at each failure his high ideal and ex- 
 aggerated self-reproach bore him down and 
 paralyzed fresh exertion. 
 
 And Paul began to dislike a profession 
 which brought him into daily perplexities of 
 judgment; into daily contact with problems
 
 FAIR OAKS. 79 
 
 he could not solve, and suffering he could not 
 relieve. He began to experience that deep 
 distaste of his circumstances — that weary 
 restlessness — which assail a man who feels 
 himself intellectually superior to his position, 
 while practically, or in the opinion of others, 
 he is unequal to it. 
 
 Xor was there any one to re-assure him — 
 to reconcile him to himself — to bid him hope 
 and battle ; to make him recognize and trust 
 his own powers — professional or otherwise. 
 Not one. He lived alone in the great London 
 desert. His brother, in a remote village, had 
 lapsed into almost childish feebleness. There 
 was no use in troubling him with painful 
 communications. So Paul was utterly alone. 
 He took refuge in severe study, until this 
 objectless study sickened him. He grew more 
 and more reserved, solitary, and fastidious. 
 All his best qualities and affections were un- 
 claimed ; no one seemed to need them ; they 
 began to rust from disuse. The great heart
 
 80 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 and the high intellect seemed to avail him 
 nothing. 
 
 A sense of injustice now often oppressed 
 him, and perhaps made him unconsciously 
 unjust in turn. He was too sensitive to be 
 very good-tempered in the vulgar acceptation 
 of that much-abused word — the mere " taking 
 things easily." Paul took nothing easily. 
 He saw too far, and felt too keenly for that ; 
 and now he was becoming irritable and excit- 
 able about trifles, to a degree which depressed 
 and humiliated him deeply. 
 
 And so things went on for some years. 
 
 But at last there arose for him a consolation 
 and a life-hope. Paul loved. And she he 
 loved was worthy. There was hope, there 
 was happiness still in the world, and for him 
 — even for him. To Paul Glyn this was 
 nothing less than a revelation — his earthly 
 redemption. He felt like one rescued at the 
 eleventh hour from a sinking v^^reck. The 
 whole world was changed to him, by the one
 
 FAIR OAKS. 81 
 
 sweet face that reflected bis every mood. 
 The heart-homelessness was over. 
 
 This attachment wrought in him much good. 
 His love gave him self-respect ; it brought out 
 his better qualities ; his outer growth of fail- 
 ings and irritabilities fell from him like a 
 garment. To be consecrated in another soul, 
 is the strongest inducement to consecrate 
 oneself. He learnt to respect himself in her ; 
 no longer despising what she could esteem. 
 For it was enough that one like her should 
 have discovered the nobility of a nature whose 
 aspirations were so imperfectly rendered in 
 the external life — that she should have looked 
 beyond the irresolution and incompleteness of 
 his daily life, and found him out worthy ; 
 found that within, which she could reverence, 
 and accept, and abide by. 
 
 Paul walked forth now, unJer a new heaven, 
 over a new earth. He thanked God from the 
 depths of his being, for this his great happi- 
 ness. It reconciled him to all the past. It 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 inclined him to see wisdom, and mercy, and 
 guidance, even in all that past suffering, and 
 agony of loneliness, which made this new, 
 sweet gift of love so unspeakably and touch- 
 ingly precious to him. 
 
 And now they were to be married ; to take 
 up life together; to part no more; to help 
 one another to the end. The time drew very 
 near. 
 
 The week before that fixed for the marriage 
 she went to make a farewell visit to some 
 relations in the country. Paul could not 
 leave London to accompany her — his practice 
 had increased with his increasing happiness 
 and consequent energy. But he was not 
 uneasy about her leaving him. He was too 
 happy for that. 
 
 The morning she left, he went to the rail- 
 way station to see her for a few minutes. 
 The evening before, he had said he would 
 not ; it could be of no use going to see her 
 in the bustling crowd of passengers and 
 railw^ay porters. He would not go.
 
 FAIR OAKS. 83 
 
 But he went. A sudden impulse came 
 over him to look at her again for a moment. 
 He could not withstand it, and railing at 
 his own folly, and anticipating the ridicule 
 of her merry sisters, he took up his hat, and 
 ran off to the station. It was already late. 
 But he was in time to see her — to catch her 
 smile, and place her himself in the carriage. 
 To the last moment he lingered, and when 
 there was no pretext for lingering longer, it 
 was with a sudden, unexpected reluctance, 
 that he turned to go. He did not speak it, 
 but she understood. 
 
 " I come back so soon," she w^hispered. 
 
 '' Yes, so soon," he repeated, comforted ; 
 and the train beginning to move, he left the 
 platform, and walked home happy. 
 
 " A gloomy day," he heard passers-by say- 
 ing; but for him there was a flood of sunshine 
 streaming over all the land. She was coming 
 back so soon. 
 
 The blindness of human hearts, even over 
 
 G2
 
 84 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 their chief treasures. If these two could 
 have looked into the morro\Y, they would have 
 suffered no parting to come between them. 
 But he only said, " She is conning back so 
 soon." She came back no more. 
 
 A malignant fever broke out in the friend's 
 house where she was staying. One of the 
 family, a deformed, half-idiotic girl, took it. 
 And Paul's betrothed fell ill at the same 
 time — both dangerously ill. 
 
 The poor stunted idiot, w^hose life was one 
 long burden, whose death would have been a 
 release, recovered, and went about her dull, 
 blank, meaningless round of existence as 
 usual. Whilst she, the fair young bride, in 
 her full bloom and sweetness, rose up no 
 more. 
 
 She died. And into that quiet, unmarked 
 grave, were folded the whole hope, and joy, 
 and future, of another life besides her own. 
 
 And they had to tell Paul Glyn that he 
 was alone again — alone now for ever. That
 
 FAIR OAKS. 85 
 
 while he was yet blessing God for his be- 
 trothed, she was no longer his, but Death's. 
 
 When they told him she was gone, he 
 would not believe it. He could not. How 
 realize that this, his only one, had gone away 
 and left him who so needed her, to struggle 
 on alone ? his brief bright dream so ruthlessly 
 destroyed ? It could not be. God would not 
 suffer it — he said so boldly. For he felt as 
 if the spirit in which he had received the 
 blessing — the good it had worked, and would 
 yet further have worked in him — the thought- 
 ful recognition of the Giver in the gift — all 
 should have protected it. 
 
 And by slow degrees he understood that it 
 had not. 
 
 Then that stricken soul doubted God. 
 Casting away scornfully the child -like faith 
 that had been born to him of his happiness, he 
 rebelled against the inscrutable decree ; beat- 
 ing up wildly, with a frantic, futile despair, 
 aorainst this stroke from the Unseen Hand.
 
 86 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 Those about Paul talked of the duty of 
 submission. He bade them be silent. There 
 was no submission in his heart, there should 
 be none on his lips ; he who had never lied 
 to man, was not going to lie to God — if God 
 indeed there was. 
 
 It may be that all great suffering has, in its 
 original tendency^ something of an atheistic 
 element. The first, mistaken, natural cry of 
 the broken heart is — " There is no God ;" 
 or, " there is no good." Perhaps, though 
 men do not so hold — a greater atheism this 
 than the other, for it includes it — denying, 
 so to speak, both God and man. 
 
 Happy they who have never been tempted 
 to such unfaithfulness, who have never known 
 what it is to be tried to the limits of their 
 strength, nay, as it seems, beyond their 
 strength, and driven to complain that we do 
 indeed '' plead in a wilderness, where there 
 are no laws." As Paul Glyn now did. 
 
 Those around, reproved him •, they bade
 
 FAIR OAKS. 87 
 
 him repent, and spoke fluently of this grievous 
 trial, as a father's correction for that end. 
 He answered fiercely, that he had nothing to 
 repent of, and father, "Father?" mockery! 
 there was none. 
 
 They drew no veil over his erring thoughts 
 — they had no mercy on his erring words ; 
 they told abroad in a pleasant, conversable 
 way how very profanely Mr. Glyn talked, 
 and how shocked they, these good people, 
 were at his impiety. And feeling comfort- 
 ably, that they were not as he, they turned 
 to again, and preached yet more complacently 
 of faith and submission. Well indeed for 
 those who know these things in a true, per- 
 sonal experience ! Paul's advisers did not, 
 and he turned with contempt from their 
 cold strictures on sorrow they had never 
 known ; from their parrot repetition of pre- 
 cepts which had never touched their own 
 lives. He, at least, would be true. 
 
 Of Paul Glyn's deeply passionate nature,
 
 88 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 these people knew nothing ; his capacity of 
 suffering was altogether beyond their fathom- 
 ing. Irritated by their condemnation, their 
 utter incomprehension, he withdrew from 
 every one. He shut himself up in his room 
 where he gave way to bursts of maddening 
 grief. A true, wise friend would have been 
 priceless in that hour, and might have been 
 the means of saving him from much further 
 misery, for Paul now ceased to struggle with 
 his feelings. He whose past had been so self- 
 questioning, so faithful, so self-controlled, 
 now wholly threw up the contest with circum- 
 stances, he sat moodily in his solitary room, 
 giving himself up to his despair, renouncing 
 all endeavour at self-command. What matter 
 in a w^orld where there was one fate for the 
 base and for the upright — one common miser- 
 able issue for the just and for the unjust — 
 where all was confusion and most cruel 
 chance — where he heard of a redemption for 
 the Universe, and found only despair and 
 desolation for the individual ?
 
 FAIR OAKS. 89 
 
 Not reverent words these? Truly no. There 
 was now no place for reverence in the stormy 
 chaos of that tortured soul. 
 
 As we have said, Paul now made no effort 
 to endure, but gave himself up to a reckless 
 despair. And from that renunciation of self- 
 control there sprang, as ever, the inevitable 
 Nemesis. In this case, thus : the mind he 
 had refused to control ran riot, and, for a 
 time, his intellect was seriously affected. 
 
 There were none to care much what 
 happened to him. Those around were weary 
 of his violence; his presence in the house was 
 dangerous, so they said ; in fact it was worse 
 — it was an inconvenience. The doctor had 
 no need to use hints, when he talked of having 
 Paul put in confinement. They were all of 
 one mind about it. They would have hustled 
 the poor, proud, erring intellect with all 
 speed into the first lunatic asylum, where, 
 indeed — like many another — its ruin would 
 have been speedily completed — its fate hope- 
 lessly sealed.
 
 90 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 But he was not forsaken. In that hour of 
 extremest need, help came whence it might 
 least have been looked for. 
 
 Abel Glyn, the ailing, weakly brother, half- 
 invalid, half-hypochondriac, had had in his 
 remote village little notion of Paul's true 
 state. Much had been kept back from him, 
 and it was only when his signature, as the 
 nearest relative, was applied for, with a 
 view to Paul's confinement, that Abel Glyn 
 wakened up to a sense of the urgency of 
 the case. 
 
 With unlooked-for spirit he refused to sign 
 the application, or in any way to sanction the 
 proposed measures. Dragging himself from 
 the darkened chamber, which he had not left 
 for years, Abel Glyn came up at once to 
 London, to protect his far more gifted brother 
 — whom their early lost mother, in dying- 
 hour, had bidden him care for as his own 
 child. Whom, indeed, poor Abel in his 
 feeble way had ever sought to serve ; whom
 
 FAIR OAKS. 91 
 
 he most truly loved and reverenced as one of 
 the best and highest of God's creatures. 
 
 He had known nothing of Paul's needs; 
 he had thought all was well with him. The 
 brothers had not met for years. And thus 
 now were they re-united. 
 
 Abel Glyn, faint with fatigue and unwonted 
 exertion, quivering with emotion, nerved him- 
 self to sit alone night and day by Paul's bed- 
 side, listening with what calm he could, to 
 the awful ravings of delirium. He stayed 
 where no other would stay, he did what no 
 other would do; grieved and distressed beyond 
 measure, but without a thought of personal 
 danger, though Paul's violence was great, and 
 the very hired menials refused to come near 
 the room, and one after another slunk off, and 
 left him alone. 
 
 A feeble, timid, poor-spirited man, this 
 Abel Glyn, but now solemnized into strength 
 by the great need of him he loved, and strong 
 in the courage which a deep love never fails
 
 92 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 to give, he did all that the wisest and 
 strongest could have done in this emer- 
 gency. 
 
 The doctor still treated the case, though 
 under protest, for he was much displeased with 
 Abel's opposition to his proposed measures, 
 and steadily persisted in the assertion that 
 they had been, and were still, absolutely neces- 
 sary; that without them the patient would 
 never recover his reason. He was not a bad 
 man, this doctor, but he had no interest in the 
 patient, and having staked his professional 
 reputation that the patient would die soon, 
 and die delirious, he naturally wished his 
 sagacity to be vindicated by the event. 
 
 Yet even he was moved by Abel's conduct 
 — was touched to see that frail, spectral man 
 sit watching there, with so brave a calm, with 
 so sublime a patience, by that wrecked brother. 
 To any word of caution as to over-fatigue, or 
 other danger, Abel only shook his head 
 absently, " No, no; all will be well with me —
 
 FAIR OAKS. 93 
 
 if only — if only " He dared not say 
 
 what. 
 
 At last came a crisis — a paroxysm worse 
 than usual — a deep sleep — and Paul awoke, 
 apparently calm. Abel looked on fearfully, 
 and held his breath. 
 
 "If only — if only?" — Yes! it was so! 
 Paul was conscious. His intellect was saved. 
 
 With a smile of recognition, his own old, 
 sweet smile, Paul held out his hand to his 
 brother — tried rather, for he had not strength 
 to do it. But it was enough — Abel Glyn 
 burst into tears. He had his reward. " Mother, 
 thou seest!" was the thought of his heart, 
 as he raised a thankful face to heaven. 
 
 So Paul recovered. 
 
 A long and painful illness was the portal 
 through which that weary, reluctant spirit 
 was driven back into the battle of life. 
 
 But his brother Abel's conduct had a most 
 beneficial effect on his mind. It restored his 
 belief in God and good ; that did not again
 
 94 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 desert him, though long listlessness followed 
 his attempts to resume the common course of 
 daily life. 
 
 He was roused by the illness of his brother. 
 That frail life had heroically lavished itself on 
 its task of love, and filial duty. That accom- 
 plished, there seemed nothing more for it to 
 do on earth. Abel Glyn — looking with calm 
 delight on the face of the brother he had 
 saved — passed quietly away to be again with 
 the mother whom he had so faithfully obeyed. 
 
 Paul had long felt his profession a burden, 
 and now that poor Abel's death placed a 
 small income at his command, he threw up 
 practice and left London immediately. He 
 did not ask if this was wise, or right ; he felt 
 morbidly impatient of his position and only 
 cared to alter it and go where he should not 
 be known. He went abroad for some months, 
 finding a species of relief in incessant change 
 of scene. 
 
 When he returned to England he happened
 
 FAIR OAKS. 95 
 
 to meet Dr. Osborne, whom he had known in 
 early life, and was persuaded to take up his 
 quarters at Fair Oaks for a short time. 
 
 Rock Cottage happened to be vacant; its 
 extreme seclusion took his fancy. He had 
 not an acquaintance in the county except 
 Dr. Osborne, but at the moment this was a 
 recommendation. He took a long: lease of the 
 house, and entered at once on a life of retire- 
 ment and study, which time, and the inevitable 
 growth of his own reserve, rendered permanent. 
 
 He felt he had been worsted in his struo^Qrle 
 with the world ; he did not care to renew the 
 contest.
 
 96 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE TWO FRIENDS. 
 
 Such were tire antecedents of Paul Glyn, who 
 now came forward to meet Dr. Osborne and 
 Arnold at the garden gate. Mr. Glyn's appear- 
 ance was very pleasing, though he was under 
 the middle size, and slight even for his stature. 
 His head was remarkably fine and well de- 
 veloped, with a high, thoughtful forehead, 
 shaded by soft hair of a pale brown, already 
 prematurely touched with gray. The features 
 were straight and regular, the expression re- 
 fined and benignant. 
 
 He welcomed his visitors with great cor- 
 diality. After some talk at the gate, Dr. 
 Osborne, who had a patient to visit further
 
 FAIR OAKS. 97 
 
 up the hill, took leave, promising to call for 
 Arnold on his way home. 
 
 " Now be careful when you come to the 
 chalk-pit," said Paul, anxiously, as Dr. Os- 
 borne turned to go. " That road is a disgrace 
 to the parish — a most dangerous place." 
 
 " It is a dangerous road, certainly," replied 
 the Doctor ; " and on a dark night I should 
 not much like it, but in broad daylight there 
 is little risk. No, I should not admire it for 
 a night-expedition certainly." 
 
 He spoke lightly, but in after years they 
 had cause to recall his words to their memory. 
 
 As the sound of the wheels died away, the 
 friends turned, and crossed the neat garden, 
 which Paul kept in order with his own hands, 
 and now insisted on Arnold's stopping to in- 
 vestigate and admire at every step. He was 
 proud of his skill ; like all amateur gardeners, 
 he seemed to attribute to himself the blossom- 
 ing of his roses and dahlias. 
 
 " Only the organ-blower's share," he said, 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 laughing, as Arnold accused liira of taking 
 to himself the whole credit of the performance. 
 They entered the cottage. It was small, 
 but admirably fitted up ; everything told 
 of refined and educated tastes. The study, 
 where Paul usually sat, was a small octa- 
 gonal room ; a plain crimson paper covered 
 the walls, which were profusely lined with 
 book-cases, surmounted by marble busts. A 
 soft, mossy looking green carpet was spread 
 over the floor ; a bright wood fire blazed and 
 crackled on the hearth, and ample crimson 
 curtains draped the one window, which framed 
 in a pretty view of Fair Oaks and its surround- 
 inir hills. 
 
 '' Paul, your room is the perfection of com- 
 fort," said Arnold, dropping luxuriously into 
 a large easy chair by the fire. " I do believe 
 you shut yourself up here for the express pur- 
 pose of studying how to make life comfortable." 
 
 '' For the express delectation of IMr. Arnold 
 Osborne, I suppose you also believe, seeing
 
 FAIR OAKS. 99 
 
 you have taken instinctive possession of ray 
 own special chair. Get up, sir, if you please, 
 I can't talk out of my own chair. Now then, 
 I am ready," as Arnold, after some opposition, 
 allowed himself to be jostled out of the arm 
 chair. " Now we will allow you to report your 
 proceedings since you were last at Fair Oaks." 
 
 Arnold did not wait a second bidding; he 
 liked nothing better than telling everything to 
 Paul, who indeed had always encouraged him 
 to do so. 
 
 Bat this morning Paul was perverse. He 
 saw the boy reckoned on his sympathy in 
 his plans and prospects. And he would not 
 give it — a sort of whimsical perverseness not 
 uncommon with persons of very deep and 
 sensitive feelings. They are often ashamed 
 of those feelings, and if they see that their 
 sympathy is counted on as a certainty, they 
 will sometimes withold it, or rather the ex- 
 pression of it. They draw back; they will 
 not have their course ready marked out for 
 
 H 2
 
 100 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 them ; they do not choose to be always con- 
 sidered so very tender-hearted ; they like to 
 assert themselves occasionally, by a certain 
 temporary display of ferocity. It is very in- 
 consistent, but human nature is full of incon- 
 sistency. Many a kindly disposition thus does 
 itself great injustice in the eyes of others, and 
 that, often, precisely when the feelings are 
 really most softened. 
 
 It was so with Paul now. He felt par- 
 ticularly drawn to young Osborne that naorn- 
 ing. He had not seen him for many months, 
 and he was struck with the appearance and 
 manly bearing of the lad. He noticed with 
 something of a father's pride, the stalwart 
 form, the handsome face, the deep-blue eye so 
 frank and fearless ; noted, too, the thought 
 and power indicated in the broad, open fore- 
 head, square at the temples; the firmness 
 and sweet temper impressed on the Avell-cut 
 lips. He thought to himself what rich promise 
 there was in that young face, what indepen-
 
 FAIR OAKS. 101 
 
 dence and resolution — qualities he especially 
 admired, as feeling his own deficiency in thera. 
 
 But Paul would show nothing of all this. 
 He met with a sort of banter, oi persiflage — 
 very trying to the young — the communica- 
 tions of his eager visitor. While Arnold 
 talked, Paul listened, sitting far back in his 
 huge easy chair almost lost to sight, receiving 
 all that was said with a provoking assumption 
 of cool deliberation, and superior worldly 
 wisdom. He criticized, and contradicted, 
 and '* cui bono " 'd, from the cavernous depths 
 of his monster chair, and was, by way of 
 being immensely cynical that day, particular- 
 ly philosophic, impassive, and incredulous. 
 
 He reminded Arnold that he was " very 
 young," — the most exasperating thing that 
 can be said to a youth on the verge only of 
 manhood; that he would know better when 
 he was older; pronounced him "excited;" 
 suggested that " the weather " had got into 
 his head, as if it had been champagne, and 
 the boy had taken too much of it ; and finally
 
 102 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 put the climax to ]iis offences, by ruthlessly 
 disparaging the chosen profession of his young 
 friend. "It is all very fine in theory," said 
 the ci-devant doctor (for doctor he was, 
 though he chose to sink the distinguishing 
 prefix, and call himself "Mr." Glyn)— " it 
 is all very well in theory, but what is it in 
 practice ? that is, the point. What doctor 
 believes in his own perscriptions ? Not one 
 I'll be bound." 
 
 " You do," said Arnold. 
 
 "Not I!" contradicted Paul; "neither 
 Avill you when you come to write them." 
 
 '' Indeed I shall." 
 
 " Indeed you will not. You'll find that 
 killing and curing are matters of chance. 
 There's no such thing as medical science. 
 Enter that in your note-book, you'll never 
 enter anything truer." 
 
 " Paul!" 
 
 "Yes, I say so, who should know. AVhat 
 have we not yet to learn of the human frame,
 
 FAIR OAKS. 103 
 
 and of the true properties of the drugs we 
 stupidly pour into it ? Everything ! In sur- 
 gery, I grant you, there's some sense; but 
 medicine ! M.D.-ship ! Bah !" 
 
 And Paul waved his hand with dignity, as 
 if he were sweeping the whole College of 
 Physicians into Mr. Carlyle's dust-bin. He 
 was beginning to be convinced by his own 
 assertions. 
 
 " But," said Arnold, " the profession of 
 medicine is " 
 
 " The profession of humbug," interrupted 
 Mr. Glyn, blandly. " You may take it as a 
 general rule that no doctor does any good ; 
 the mercy is when he doesn't do a great deal 
 of harm. I have no patience with doctors 
 and their devotees." 
 
 '^ But what I wish to say " 
 
 " What you wish to say," interposed Paul, 
 oracularly, " has been a great deal better said 
 by a much higher authority — * The science of 
 medicine is a series of blunders, and ' "
 
 104: FAIR OAKS. 
 
 '' I was not going to say anything of the 
 kind." 
 
 ..." ' and,' " continued Paul, calmly, " ' he 
 who makes the fewest, is the best physician.' 
 Now we have high medical authority for that 
 remark." 
 
 "Have we?" cried Arnold, with some 
 interest. "Who? What? who made it ?" 
 
 " I did," said Paul, solemnly. " Is it not 
 very good ?" ^ 
 
 " Oh, Paul ! you are too tiresome." 
 
 "Too true, you mean. Truth is often 
 oppressive and tiresome. But we won't 
 quarrel," he added, with an air of forbearance, 
 " you may be a doctor and welcome for me ; 
 only don't tell me you believe all that farrago 
 of nonsense we are put through in the schools. 
 Don't try to deceive me — it don't take me 
 in!" 
 
 ^ Mr. Paul Glyn only gives a new application of Napo- 
 leon's remark on the art of war.
 
 FAIR OAKS. 105 
 
 " Take you in ?" repeated Arnold. 
 
 " Yes, I tell you it don't. Why, have not 
 the leading physicians of the day agreed that 
 the less they do, the better for the patient?" 
 
 " Come now, Paul," said Arnold, good 
 humouredly, but colouring a little, " that will 
 do. That is quite enough for one day. Do 
 be yourself. I think you, who profess to know 
 human nature " 
 
 " Who ? I ? Not I indeed ! I never profess 
 to know anything " 
 
 " Yes, you do might see that this is 
 
 not quite the way to treat a subject that is, 
 and ought to be, uppermost in my regard." 
 
 '' * Is, and ought to be!' What dignity 
 — what self-assertion ! Quite professional 
 already !" Paul shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " Well, there is clearly no use in my staying 
 here to-day," said Arnold, rising. 
 
 ^' I ask your pardon, respected colleague 
 (that shall be). Pray stay, I will recant. 
 The medical profession is a glorious calling,
 
 106 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 grounded on benevolence, rooted in certainty, 
 producing infallible " 
 
 " Good by, Paul. I'm off." 
 
 "Going? don't." 
 
 " I shall come back some day when you're 
 more reasonable." 
 
 " Shade of Esculapius ! What have I done ? 
 Whathave Isaid ? What is it, young Hotspur ?" 
 
 " What is it?" repeated Arnold, with his 
 frank smile, *' why it's this — that I came here 
 with a lot of things to say to you, a lot of 
 questions to ask, and advice to get, and as I 
 find that the friend I looked for is not here, 
 and an eccentric individual, full of perversi- 
 ties, and insobrieties, has taken his place, I'm 
 off. Good by." 
 
 Arnold, as he spoke, had reached the door. 
 
 *' Stop! come back !" shouted Paul. " Come 
 back, I say, this moment. See now, I'll shove 
 away my books, and we'll go and take a 
 famous walk — eh ? You know my insobrieties, 
 as you uncivilly phrase it, always leave me
 
 FAIR OAKS. 107 
 
 when I'm face to face with IS'ature. I don't 
 like to iiisult Xature." 
 
 ^' Though you don't mind insulting me," 
 said Arnold, laughing. 
 
 " Oh, nonsense. I treat you as a friend — 
 my equal nearly — in a year or two, my equal 
 quite, and then I shall be twice as rude to you 
 as I am now." 
 
 "What a pleasing prospect!" replied x\rnold, 
 amused at the contrast between the speech, 
 and the soft, womanly smile, which Paul could 
 never succeed in getting rid of, even in his 
 most truculent displays. 
 
 They were still speaking, when Paul was 
 called away hastily to see some one on busi- 
 ness. He left on his chair a book he seemed 
 to have been reading lately. With the usual 
 impulse of a book-lover, Arnold took up the 
 volume. As he opened it, his eye fell on a 
 name on the blank leaf — " Anne Vernon," 
 and a far-away date, in pale, faded ink. It 
 was a woman's handwriting, and there was 
 character in it — firm, free, yet refined.
 
 108 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 Instinctively Arnold closed the book and 
 replaced it on the chair. He felt as if he 
 ought not to have seen it ; he did not even 
 look at the title of the work. 
 
 He had hardly laid it down, when Paul 
 re-entered ; he had recollected leaving his 
 book, and had come for it. He glanced 
 hastily at the chair, and seemed relieved to 
 find the book where he had laid it. Putting 
 it into his pocket without speaking, he went 
 back to the person who was waiting for him ; 
 leaving Arnold silently wondering who this 
 Anne Vernon could be, whose book Paul 
 could not bear out of his own keeping for a 
 moment. Wondering — but little guessing 
 that in that faded name and its history, lay 
 the germ of that morning's waywardness — lay 
 the solution of all Paul Glyn's inconsistencies 
 and peculiarities, the explanation of his 
 present life and character, to our readers 
 already given, but by young Arnold not 
 known for many a year after.
 
 FAIR OAKS. 109 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 FACE TO FACE WITH NATURE. 
 
 Paul Glyn said truly that his perversities 
 left him when he was face to face with Nature. 
 His contradictory mood passed away like a 
 cloud before the sun, and he speedily came 
 round to his better self. He looked as if he 
 were receiving into his very soul the beauty 
 of the day — the scene — the Nature he so 
 loved ; turning to gaze again at each fair spot, 
 as one looks and refuses to part from the face 
 of a friend. 
 
 After they had talked for some time on 
 general subjects — '' And now, x\rnold," he 
 said, kindly, " tell me what are the difficulties 
 you spoke of? Let me help you, if I can. If 
 you can still put any faith in me, tell me all."
 
 110 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 Arnold did so; and Paul, who was ever 
 wiser for his friends than for himself, gave 
 him many useful hints on his position. Paul's 
 judgment was excellent, and the cordial sym- 
 pathy with which he could place himself in 
 the actual situation of others and look at 
 their circumstances from their own point of 
 view, gave weight to all he said. He did not 
 deal in ready cut-and-dried maxims of pru- 
 dence and proverbial philosophy. On the 
 contrary, any one who consulted Paul felt that 
 his case was really individualized. It needs 
 this to make advice influential to any thought- 
 ful mind. 
 
 Arnold found now, as he had often found 
 before, real help and strength from intercourse 
 with Paul. 
 
 As they were returning from their walk, 
 they came in sight of a long funeral proces- 
 sion. It was that of a late wealthy landed 
 proprietor of the neighbourhood, and much 
 dreary pomp had been expended on it.
 
 FAIR OAKS. Ill 
 
 " Let US take the lower road," said Paul, 
 " I detest a pompous funeral." 
 
 '' So do I," said Arnold, ''it always strikes 
 me as so grotesque a mingling of the solemn 
 and the farcical." 
 
 ** That too, but I meant differently. A 
 splendid funeral attaches to life. Have you 
 ever noticed that ?" 
 
 " No.. .yes, I can fancy it now you point it 
 out. To life in its pomps and vanities too !" 
 
 " Just so." 
 
 " It is not the mere dread of death, thus 
 brought before us, for an ordinary funeral has 
 no such effect." 
 
 " It has not. On the contrary, I think 
 many a weary, struggling heart, meeting a 
 quiet funeral wending its steady way through 
 the jostling crowd of a great city, must be 
 tempted to envy the unknown fellow-sufferer, 
 w^hose trials and tasks are all past and ended. 
 No, it is not the mere idea of death that can 
 account for it."
 
 112 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 " How then, Paul ?" 
 
 " I hardly know, though I have often ex- 
 perienced the feeling. Perhaps it is that a 
 sumptuous funeral brings the world's gifts 
 and honours so tangibly before us. They are 
 elevated for a moment into undue prominence. 
 They beconae for the time an object. We are 
 reminded of the past privileges and distinc- 
 tions of the departed, and feel something of 
 a craving to participate in them, ere we, too, 
 go hence and are seen no more. Ah, now we 
 are quit of it ; that is well. It made me feel 
 quite immorally discontented and worldly." 
 
 " I should hardly think, Paul, that you 
 have need to be much on your guard against 
 worldliness. You don't seem to seek anything 
 the world can give — money — fame — position 
 — anything." 
 
 " Perhaps not — and yet But what non- 
 sense ! why should I desire any success ? I 
 have no one to be ambitious for. And for 
 myself, what does it signify ? what does any- 
 thing signify ? "
 
 FAIR OAKS. 113 
 
 ** In itself — for itself — nothing, if you 
 will. Not that I think so. Bat, Paul, suc- 
 cess is a good thing ! Does it not imply 
 vigour, perseverance, sagacity beforehand? 
 Does it not bring increased courage and self- 
 reliance afterwards? Oh, Paul ! " he ex- 
 claimed, ardently, " it is well to succeed — 
 to insist on succeeding !" 
 
 "You are right, Arnold," said Paul, gravely; 
 *^you are quite right. You will experience 
 the truth of your own words by success, as I 
 have done by failure." 
 
 " Paul, you speak of your career as if " — 
 he hesitated — " as if it had been all failure. 
 I feel it cannot have been that. I could 
 not believe you if you said so. Yet if you so 
 view it, why not redeem the past ? Why not 
 resume your profession, and return to an 
 active life? You do not really think of the 
 profession what you said just now ?" 
 
 " Well, perhaps not ; no." 
 
 " Then why not try again? Dear friend, 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 you are in the prime of life — how can you 
 bear to waste it, you who have such gifts? 
 Forgive me, if I seem to praise you. I have 
 no right — you, so far above me — but I cannot 
 bear to see your days wasting away here ; 
 you, who might have years of happiness and 
 wide usefuhiess yet." 
 
 Paul shook his head. 
 
 '' Neither now." 
 
 *' Nay, Paul," resumed Arnold, "are you 
 not wrong to persist in this course? You who 
 might be anything you pleased, as I have 
 heard my father say." 
 
 Paul sighed. 
 
 ''It is too late. That I did well to for- 
 sake my calling and the duties of active life, 
 in earlier days, I will not say — to fly from 
 difficulties, rather than battle them down. 
 You would have done very differently, Arnold . 
 It was miserable weakness, but it is now too 
 late to repair it." 
 
 "It is never too late ! There is no ' too
 
 FAIR OAKS. 115 
 
 late!'" cried Arnold, energetically. *'I see 
 plainly that this featureless life of yours is 
 not suited to you." 
 
 " It was not — it is now. We adjust our- 
 selves to our prison cell, and after a time we 
 become too cramped to leave it. You re- 
 member," he said, with a faint smile, " how, 
 when the prisoners were liberated from the 
 Bastille, one man, long confined, entreated to 
 be restored to his dungeon. It had become 
 his home, his world — he was unfit for any 
 other. So it is with me. Are there no Bas- 
 tilles for the mind ?" 
 
 " Ah, Paul ! none we may not escape from." 
 " I like to hear you say so. And of you it 
 may be true, but not of me. No, Arnold, I 
 have always felt that the true bitterness, the 
 real misfortune of painful and adverse circum- 
 stances, lies not so much in themselves, as in 
 their effects. The pain of many a grievous 
 trial may die away — not so its effect on our 
 character. It may pass, but what has it made 
 
 I 2
 
 116 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 of US first ? We cannot go back, and take up 
 our life, there, where we left it." He paused, 
 then went on — as to himself — " Excessive 
 trial may bear good fruit, but it is fruit that 
 takes a long time in coming to maturity." 
 
 Arnold glanced at him inquiringly. 
 
 Paul replied to the look. " Yes, many 
 must feel — I am sure I do — that it will require 
 another world, and a different existence, to 
 show us in what we have gained by it." 
 
 They walked on in silence. 
 
 Paul resumed, "Do you remember those 
 Gobelins tapestries ? You went to the manu- 
 factory when you were in Paris. You saw 
 how all the workers sit at the wrong side of 
 the canvass, working always from the wrong 
 side ; seeing only the knots, and ends, and 
 jaggednesses, and confusion of the thing. 
 And only when their work is over, finding out 
 what it is they have really effected. Well, it 
 is so with us. In this Life we are all working 
 from the wrong side of the canvass. But when
 
 FAIR OAKS. 1 1 7 
 
 the task is finished, and we come to look at it 
 from over the way there" — he pointed upwards, 
 with a smile — '' we may possibly find it fair 
 beyond our present belief or conception. It 
 may be so. /, at least, have need to hope it 
 will be so !" 
 
 " And," returned Arnold (in his own mind 
 applying the words to Paul), " and in the 
 meantime, the looker-on sees, even now, that 
 beauty which the workman himself cannot 
 perceive." 
 
 Paul saw Arnold's meaning, but he would 
 not notice it. He said, smiling, "I think 
 the true lookers-on must be the Angels ! You 
 know we are all on the wrong side of the 
 canvass here !" 
 
 They had now reached Rock Cottage. 
 Paul congratulated himself on being at home 
 again, for they had taken a long walk, and he 
 had recently been ill. As he entered, his old 
 housekeeper met him, and told him a mes- 
 senger was waiting to learn if he could go and
 
 118 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 see a poor woman at some distance — a certain 
 Betty Green — a great encroaclier on Paul's 
 charity. For though Paul disliked practice, 
 and as a rule declined it, for the poor his 
 services were always ready. 
 
 *'But I told the girl," said Mrs. Jackson, 
 " that my master couldn't noways go till after 
 dinner. It's past your hour, sir. I'll go and 
 send it up." 
 
 " No, no," replied Paul ; " stay, don't send 
 it up. I will go at once." 
 
 " Oh, sir, do be persuaded ; you look main 
 tired, and it's bitter cold — and Betty Green 
 is such a cantankerous old body — always a 
 worritting — always ill, sir" — Mrs. Jackson 
 looked personally aggrieved — " al-ways. And 
 I'll be bound she's no worse than usual — do 
 rest awhile, sir." 
 
 " No — no, thank you ; send back the mes- 
 senger. I will follow immediately. Arnold, 
 take a book. I shall not be long." 
 
 Arnold, however, preferred accompanying 
 hira ; and they started at once.
 
 FAIR OAKS. 119 
 
 As they toiled up one of the steep, ill-raade 
 roads of the district, Arnold rallied Paul on 
 making such exertions in '' the cause of hum- 
 bug — knowing that he couldn't do any good, 
 and it would be a mercy if he didn't do a 
 great deal of harm." 
 
 Paul submitted to these quotations from his 
 previous discourse with great equanimity, and 
 began a philosophic dissertation on the plea- 
 sures and advantages of inconsistency ; the 
 exceeding " largeness" of never making up 
 your mind on any subject, and thus getting 
 the cream of the argument on both sides ; 
 and was just proceeding to demonstrate 
 that inconsistency, " rightly viewed," was, in 
 fact, the highest form of consistency, when 
 they reached the sick woman's hovel, and he 
 was transformed at once from argument to 
 work — and very efficient and able work too. 
 
 " Doctors are of some use in the world," 
 thought Arnold, with a smile, as he stood by 
 in silence, noting what passed. The queru-
 
 120 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 lous old woman was soon relieved, and that, 
 in spite of herself; she found fault with 
 everything Paul did and said, grumbled at his 
 injunctions, and heard with sullen ungracious- 
 ness his promise of sending her some wine 
 and nourishing diet, which she much needed, 
 and had not the means of procuring. 
 
 Arnold could not help admiring Paul, as 
 he saw him endeavouring to conciliate, and 
 soothe, and relieve, even in spite of herself, 
 this somewhat repulsive specimen of hu- 
 manity — taking so much pains to please 
 her — himself so weary, and so gentle. He 
 felt for the hundredth time how much there 
 was to look up to, and be proud of, in this, 
 his friend ; how all Paul's peculiarities were 
 as dust in the balance, weighed against his 
 deep sympathies, his generous helpfulness, his 
 admirable patience. 
 
 As they walked home, he could not help 
 saying— 
 
 " It is no wonder that I think highly of the
 
 FAIR OAKS. 121 
 
 profession, Paul, when my chief experiences 
 of it have been with such men as my father 
 and you." 
 
 " Continue to think highly of it, Arnold. 
 Better so. Now, here we are at home again, 
 and you are required to make Mrs. Jackson 
 happy, by doing mighty execution on her 
 edibles." 
 
 The time passed away ; dinner was over ; 
 yet still Dr. Osborne did not return. They 
 stood at the window, conversing, and watch- 
 ing the road, till the short winter day closed. 
 The rapid twilight passed into night ; the 
 village lights, modest home-stars, sparkled 
 cheerily in the frosty air. The weather was 
 fine, and there was no cause for anxiety about 
 Dr. Osborne, who had a very extensive and 
 scattered practice. As it was evident he had 
 met with some unexpected detention, xVrnold 
 resolved to wait no longer, but to set off on 
 foot, and walk home. 
 
 Paul went a short way down the road with
 
 122 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 his young friend, and then took leave. But 
 he did not go home at once ; he stood leaning 
 on a stile, watching Arnold's active form as it 
 disappeared down the steep road. 
 
 Paul stood there long, lost in reflection. 
 He could not but contrast his own mis- 
 managed youth, and failed manhood, with 
 young Osborne's natural strength of cha- 
 racter, and advantages of circumstance. 
 
 Something in the hour — the quiet country 
 scene — the very atmosphere — he could not 
 have said what — vividly recalled to him his 
 own past life. It unrolled itself before him, 
 with a coherence and distinctness he could 
 not have effected by any effort of his will. 
 
 Who can trace connectedly the mysterious 
 associations of memory? Like some mighty 
 chain traversing the great waters of life, we 
 may see its starting point, and its issuing 
 point, but the innumerable connecting links 
 are sunk fathoms deep from every eye. Yet, 
 who has not at times been unexpectedly en-
 
 FAIR OAKS. 123 
 
 thralled in that mystic chain, which in secret 
 every heart trails after it through life ? We 
 have all known times when the long-past un- 
 accountably revives, when by-gone sorrows 
 suddenly arise, and reassert themselves. 
 Truly, there are griefs which are immortal. 
 We have thought them laid for ever in the 
 grave of the departed years, but no tomb can 
 hold them. Suddenly, without warning or 
 solicitation, the buried griefs arise, and stand 
 up before us as real, as fresh, as strong, as 
 full of bleeding life as ever. 
 
 It was so now with Paul Glyn. As he 
 stood leaning there, his whole career passed 
 rapidly before him. The errors, hopes, dis- 
 appointments, sufferings of past years, stood 
 forth as of yesterday — defiling before him, 
 like a defeated army before a foiled com- 
 mander. He saw unrolled before him his 
 timid childhood ; gleaming on that, his pale 
 mother early at rest ; then his only brother ; 
 poor Abel ! gone ; his own failed efforts — his
 
 124 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 solitary future — all were there. The one 
 crowning sorrow of his life would not be 
 absent; that, too, insisted on recognition, 
 and, "Anne, Anne! My Anne!" he mur- 
 mured, raising his eyes to heaven, as if re- 
 proaching it, that still it held her from him. 
 
 The great, tranquil heavens beamed on, 
 serene and stately ; the soft stars came out, 
 pale in the broad light of the white winter 
 moon ; from the height of their calm, stain- 
 less beauty, they gazed down unmovedly on 
 the stained and suffering earth — on the frail, 
 lonely man who wept there before them ; 
 unmovedly, as on all the accumulated sin and 
 sorrow of centuries of dead generations — why 
 not? 
 
 " Why not, indeed !" so he said, and his 
 loneliness smote upon his soul like the cold 
 embrace of death. Face to face with Nature 
 he was now, but the accustomed consolations 
 failed him. He shrank back in dismay from 
 his solitariness in the great universe. His
 
 FAIR OAKS. V25 
 
 isolation appalled him. And still the cry, the 
 great and exceeding bitter cry of his heart 
 was ever, ever, '' Anne, Anne ! Mi/ Anne !" 
 Had she but lived, how different had been 
 his whole existence — how had she not been 
 spared — his own — his only one ! The old 
 harassing questions arose, '' What was Life ? 
 What was Fate ?" How awful was the crush- 
 ing directness of the invisible chariot-wheels, 
 which drave on heavily whithersoever they were 
 bound, and tarried for no man's sorrow, spared 
 no man's dearest hopes if they lay in their 
 course. Long he stood there, lost in painful 
 reverie ; unmindful of the night wind which 
 now moaned aloud, and threatened a coming 
 storm ; unmindful of the soft snow-flakes 
 which singly began to fall around him at in- 
 tervals. He was so deep in thought, that he 
 did not either see or hear that Dr. Osborne 
 had approached, until he was touched by him 
 on the shoulder. Dr. Osborne had been un- 
 avoidably detained ; he called now on his way
 
 126 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 home to take Arnold, if still at the cottage. 
 Finding his son had gone home, he took leave 
 of Paul. They parted. John Osborne to his 
 cheerful, happy home; Paul Glyn — was he 
 less worthy? — to his solitary study. It looked 
 more drearily solitary than ever that night.
 
 FAIR OAKS. 127 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 DOCTOR SHORTCUT. 
 
 We must pass on more rapidly. Arnold, for 
 some years, prosecuted his studies in London, 
 where his position was supposed to give him 
 every advantage for that purpose. For he 
 was there as a pupil of Dr. Procrustes Shortcut 
 — " the great Dr. Shortcut," as his admirers 
 always called him. 
 
 Dr. Shortcut being an early friend of Dr. 
 Osborne's, and under obligations to him, had 
 consented to receive his son as an in-door 
 pupil. The professional advantages thus 
 secured to the young aspirant were believed 
 by Dr. Shortcut himself, and other medical 
 authorities, to be beyond calculation. Arnold
 
 128 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 hardly found them so considerable as he had 
 expected; though the other students envied 
 ** that fellow Osborne" his luck. 
 
 For many of them were walking the 
 hospitals, with certainly but scanty aid or 
 teaching from their superiors. In the case of 
 Dr. Shortcut, who had charge of a leading 
 hospital, the students' privileges consisted in 
 paying their entrance fees ; in trooping after 
 the Doctor, from bed to bed, and ward to ward, 
 during his hasty rounds ; of hearing a brief 
 remark now and then on the more striking 
 peculiarities of a case, and of reading over 
 each bed the name of the disease the patient 
 laboured under, or (which came to the same 
 thing) of that which Dr. Shortcut had settled 
 he or she did labour under. Dr. Shortcut 
 was very peremptory in deciding this point. 
 He did not waste time about it. He was not 
 to be baffled by any amount of contradictory 
 symptoms. He had a name ready for any 
 possible array of symptoms, and the name
 
 FAIR OAKS. 129 
 
 once o'iven, he had no more idea of chano-ino; 
 it than of changing the patient's baptismal 
 appellation. He was never puzzled, not he, 
 and never mistaken, this clever Dr. Shortcut, 
 and of course his reputation spread far and 
 wide. In his hospital charge, his chief solici- 
 tude appeared to be — not so much to' cure 
 the patients, as to make out a clever, coherent 
 diagnosis of their cases. 
 
 Then, if anything went vv^rong with the 
 patient (patients are so perverse, and will 
 sometimes die against all rule) the doctor 
 would point to his notes — 
 
 " There is my diagnosis, gentlemen ; " — 
 just as the bankrupt to his accounts — 
 
 " There are my books, gentlemen, judge 
 for yourselves;" which, as we know, makes 
 everything right again, and restores all the 
 missing funds to their lawful owners — or at 
 least explains why it doesn't — which is such 
 a satisfaction. 
 
 Dr. Procrustes Shortcut, like most very 
 
 YOL. 1. K
 
 130 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 successful practitioners, had his specialite; 
 like every great man he had his weakness. 
 Dr. Shortcut's specialite — and his weakness — 
 was Phthisis — Consumption. He was always 
 looking out for symptoms of consumption, 
 and doctors — clever doctors — can generally 
 find what they look for. 
 
 So Dr. Shortcut was perpetually detecting 
 hitherto unsuspected phthisis. He had drawn 
 up heavy statistical tables to prove — statis- 
 tical tables will prove anything — that seven- 
 tenths of the whole population of the metro- 
 polis were labouring under disease of the 
 lungs, more or less dangerous and desperate 
 — a discovery he used to refer to with great 
 satisfaction. Not that Dr. Shortcut was an 
 unfeeling man — he did not want people to 
 die of consumption — at least not if they came 
 to him ; — he would be happy to cure them if 
 it could be done, but they must mount and 
 ride his hobby first. 
 
 When he got a fresh patient, all the
 
 FAIR OAKS. 131 
 
 symptoms that could by possibility be re- 
 ferred to consumption, were seized upon and 
 brought into prominence, while those that 
 opposed the theory were ignored. Like many 
 other men he only valued facts as they sup- 
 plemented his own theories ; and if the 
 symptoms would not square with the theory, 
 w^hy *' tant pis " for the symptoms — they 
 proved phthisis all the same — undeveloped if 
 you like, " incipient," " obscure," " latent," 
 but still phthisis. 
 
 Many patients who had gone to Dr. Shortcut 
 for quite other things, were informed, to 
 their extreme astonishment, that they were 
 going into a consumption, or that they would 
 infallibly have gone into one, had they not 
 had their alarming *' phthisical tendencies " 
 detected in time by him. 
 
 Now and then a sturdy patient might 
 oppose the physician's dictum — but this was 
 rare, and, as Dr. Shortcut observed to Arnold, 
 " always showed a narrow mind and extreme 
 
 K i2
 
 132 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 ill-breeding." In fact Dr. Shortcut did not 
 allow his patients any opinion on the subject. 
 He pronounced it a vulgar error, a mere 
 superstition to suppose that a patient — a 
 person without the advantages of scientific 
 training, could correctly describe his own 
 sensations. So if the statement did not 
 accord with his, Dr. Shortcut's, views, he had 
 recourse to a simple and philosophic expe- 
 dient, which he called " supplying the con- 
 nexion of ideas,"- — a process, the merits of 
 which we need not pause to point out. 
 
 And on the w^hole, patients are meek, and 
 follow, one after another, like a flock of sheep, 
 in the way the doctor would have them go. 
 Those who were " narrow-minded" enough to 
 have an opinion of their own, could not get 
 on with Dr. Shortcut ; they speedily departed, 
 and were seen no more in his handsome waiting- 
 rooms. But crowds of patients remained, and 
 beguiled the tedious hours, and kept up each 
 other's spirits and confidence, by interchanging
 
 FAIR OAKS. 133 
 
 relations of the wonderful cures which Dr. 
 Shortcut, " they heard," had effected. And, 
 as we have said, his reputation spread far and 
 wide. 
 
 With such a practice, and such a standing 
 in the profession, of course Dr. Shortcut con- 
 sidered himself to be makino- a o^reat concession 
 in receivinof Arnold, and allowino^ hini to dis- 
 cuss for about twenty minutes every evening 
 any hospital or other professional data, that 
 had struck him during the day. He said, and 
 thought, that he " treated that young man 
 like his own son." 
 
 One evening, Arnold, who was going over 
 his notes of the hospital-cases of the morning, 
 was struck by what seemed to him an error 
 in the diagnosis of one of them. He ventured 
 to point it out. 
 
 " Surely, sir, they have made some mistake 
 in this entry ? The new patient in the Upper 
 Ward, Number Nineteen, has not the leading 
 symptom entered here."
 
 134 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 " Number Nineteen?" said the Doctor, with 
 the air of identifying and individualizing for- 
 tunate Number Nineteen in his learned head ; 
 ** Nine-teen ? — oh, yes, he has." 
 
 " He said not." 
 
 " Oh, he forgot ; these people have no co- 
 herence in their ideas ; they look to us to 
 supply the connexion — must make that all 
 right for 'em. A clear case of phthisis." 
 
 " But Number Nineteen says he has not, 
 and has never had " 
 
 "Number Nineteen's a fool," interrupted 
 the doctor, " knows nothing of diagnosis, 
 that's clear. Why, Mr. Arnold, sir, the diag- 
 nosis falls through without that symptom ! " 
 
 " Then perhaps, sir," said the pupil, catch- 
 ing at what he considered the logical inference, 
 "then perhaps — no such symptom being de- 
 tected — the case after all is not phthi " 
 
 The Doctor broke in. He had not heard, 
 nor even suspected the rebellion. 
 
 " Just so — not detected — that's it. As you
 
 FAIR OAKS. 135 
 
 say, with his other syraptons he must have 
 that one. Not detected. A very just obser- 
 vation of yours, Mr. Arnold. I am glad to 
 see you are beginning now to recognize latent 
 phthisis." 
 
 " I beg your pardon, sir. I meant — that 
 is — I had supposed that the symptoms, which 
 are rather obscure and contradictory, pointed 
 to " 
 
 " Phthisis ? Just so. ' Obscure ? ' I should 
 think so ! Labyrinthal ! No outlet but 
 phthisis — there's the clue — that explained 
 every thhig in a moment. Ah, Mr. Arnold, 
 nothing like phthisis — a wonderful study that, 
 sir." And the doctor rubbed his hands enthu- 
 siastically. 
 
 Arnold, we know, was still very young, and 
 of course not exempt from the professional 
 bias. He felt it a great impertinence to be 
 arguing with Dr. Shortcut ; but his love of 
 truth, and a humane feeling towards the poor 
 workman in question, who he felt would never
 
 136 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 recover if treated on this diagnosis, carried 
 him on. It was to no purpose. Dr. Shortcut 
 seemed unable to realize the astounding fact 
 that his pupil was opposing his views. He 
 interrupted, and agreed, and did everything 
 hut understand. 
 
 Arnold changed his ground for a last attack. 
 
 " On the other hand, sir, I see they have 
 not entered the head symptoms the patient 
 complained so much of, and " 
 
 "How COULD they, sir? what! enter 
 those? Mr. Arnold, sir," said the doctor 
 severely, " you seem to forget we diagnozed 
 phthisis." 
 
 " But still, sir — really, sir " 
 
 *' Impossible, impossible. The diagnosis 
 don't admit of it. Why, to enter such symp- 
 toms in a diagnosis of phthisis, would be a 
 nosological absurdity." 
 
 ** But, sir, what if it should not be " 
 
 *' But, sir, I tell you it is. It's phthisis, or 
 it's nothing. There's no other diagnosis pos- 
 sible."
 
 FAIR OAKS. 137 
 
 " Yet, the patient says he feels " 
 
 ** Oh, nonsense, sir," cried the doctor, 
 losing all patience, "how should he know 
 what he feels ? Really, Mr. Arnold, you 
 shouldn't encourage patients to talk, and lay 
 down the law in this way. Quite unprofes- 
 sional, quite. TJiey to be telling us what they 
 have, and what they haven't, indeed! why, 
 what are we there for, but to tell them that ?" 
 
 ** Well really sir, I suppose people must 
 know their own sensations, and " 
 
 " No, they do not, sir. That is precisely 
 what they do not know. It requires a 
 scientific training to recognise your own sen- 
 sations. And I'll tell you what, Mr. Arnold," 
 the doctor was getting into a towering pas- 
 sion, " I'll tell you what, sir, I won't have 
 this sort of thing going on in my hospital. 
 It won't do, sir, it won't do ; why, there's an 
 end of all scientific diaornosis, if we're to have 
 patients picking and choosing their symptoms 
 in this way !" And not another word would 
 Dr. Shortcut listen to on the subject.
 
 138 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 These, and other somewhat similar experi- 
 ences, were rather disheartening to the young 
 student ; but he had faith in his chosen pro- 
 fession, and worked on steadily. 
 
 He noticed with great repugnance the con- 
 duct of some of the medical men he met, 
 with whom to get into good practice was the 
 end-all of their existence — men who could 
 overlook the needs of the poor and unknown, 
 and pamper the fancies of the wealthy and 
 the distinguished. One admits unwillingly 
 that there are such men in a profession like 
 medicine. But there are good and bad every- 
 where, if we may be excused such a platitude, 
 one often overlooked. 
 
 Arnold was now tempted to overlook it, 
 and to consider these specimens the special 
 growth of the profession. In comparison 
 with such men, Dr. Shortcut was a star of the 
 first magnitude. For he, at least, was earnest, 
 and able, though like many another able man, 
 led astray by a favourite theory. And he had
 
 FAIR OAKS. 139 
 
 the great redeeming point of a high feeling 
 for his profession, a real enthusiasm for it, 
 while the men we speak of had nothing of 
 the kind. 
 
 For them Arnold could make no allow- 
 ances. He was, in fact, as yet too joung 
 to be very ready to make allowances. Had 
 he had more experience, he might have 
 found it possible, without lowering his own 
 tone of thought, to practise more forbear- 
 ance to others. He would have been better 
 able to appreciate the temptations of many 
 a medical man, without private means — 
 and, perhaps, with a family to provide for 
 out of the precarious resources of patients' 
 fees. 
 
 And, indeed, among those whom Arnold in 
 his youthful ardour despised, were some who 
 had begun life with intentions almost as lofty 
 as his own, but who had not had sufficient 
 principle, sufficient moral strength to battle 
 down their circumstances. They had started
 
 140 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 well, but had ceded, one by one, their scru- 
 ples, as difficulties and temptations had arisen. 
 Like the bear-pursued of our breathlessly- 
 heard nursery tale, dropping here a glove — 
 there a cloak — here a scruple — there a prin- 
 ciple — glad, if at the last they may escape 
 with mere life. 
 
 In after years Arnold learned something of 
 this; learned, too, that on many points on 
 which he disapproved of the conduct of mem- 
 bers of the profession, it was not they alone 
 who were to blame ; that many faults existed 
 in the treatment of medical men — many ano- 
 malies in their social position, all of which had 
 to be duly taken into account, in passing judg- 
 ment on their conduct.
 
 FAIR OAKS. 141 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 AT FAIR OAKS. 
 
 We may now pass on to the time when 
 Arnold had finished his term of study, and 
 taken out his degree. He proposed going 
 abroad, and making himself practically ac- 
 quainted with the foreign schools of medicine, 
 before commencing practice ; a plan which it 
 would perhaps be well were oftener fol- 
 lowed. 
 
 He was preparing to start for Paris, when 
 a letter from home delayed his departure. 
 His father wrote under considerable anxiety, 
 being summoned to Hamburgh by the mis- 
 conduct of an agent there, who had the ma- 
 nagement of his money matters. While all
 
 142 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 had been peace and plenty at the Archway 
 House, a dark cloud had long been gathering 
 over it. Dr. Osborne's private fortune, which 
 was considerable, was almost entirely invested 
 in foreign securities, and any dishonesty on 
 the part of this agent would involve the 
 whole prospects of the family. For his pro- 
 fessional income Dr. Osborne had always 
 expended. There was no provision made 
 from that. 
 
 A journey to Hamburgh, in order to have 
 a personal interview with this agent, was a 
 measure which had long been desirable ; but 
 Dr. Osborne, with his usual carelessness about 
 money, had put it off from time to time, and 
 been too readily satisfied by the man's assur- 
 ances that everything was going on well. It 
 was with a pang of self-reproach that John 
 Osborne now recalled the past, as fresh suspi- 
 cions on the subject were conveyed to him. 
 
 He wrote to Arnold to come and supply 
 his place at Fair Oaks during his absence,
 
 FAIR OAKS. 143 
 
 and as there was still an interval of some 
 weeks to the commencement of the Paris 
 Session, the arrangement was easily made. 
 In the September of a tine autumn season, 
 Arnold found himself established as his 
 father's substitute at the Archway House, 
 the place where we first met him, some five 
 or six years before the time we now treat of. 
 
 Dr. Osborne went off to Hamburgh, un- 
 easy as to the result of the coming investiga- 
 tion, and vexed with himself for having so 
 long delayed it. Perhaps the good doctor's 
 vexation was chiefly caused by the trouble 
 his procrastination had involved him in, for 
 when once he had quieted his conscience by 
 the journey, and made a few strenuous, un- 
 successful efforts to master the law intricacies 
 of the case, he seemed to consider the object 
 of his expedition nearly fulfilled. 
 
 He was, in fact, no match for the astute 
 lawyer he had the honour to call agent. Dr. 
 Osborne had left home ^ith the full intention
 
 144 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 of winding up his affairs at Hamburgh, and 
 closing his account there. But the plausibili- 
 ties of the agent shook his resolve. He 
 could not prove any distinct misconduct. 
 There was an explanation for everything, and 
 the explanations, from their abundant techni- 
 calities, were more confusing than the points 
 they professed to elucidate. Dr. Osborne 
 experienced to the full that feeling of blind 
 bewildering helplessness, which most persons 
 unlearned in law undergo in contests of this 
 kind. He tried in vain to bring home to the 
 man the charges which were vaguely rumoured 
 of his misconduct. Every move of the kind 
 was successfully checkmated by the tact and 
 self-possession of his antagonist. 
 
 If the client showed dissatisfaction, the 
 lawyer shook his hand cordially, and protested 
 he loved candour ; if he expressed suspicion, 
 he asked him to dinner. So that it was 
 always the unlucky doctor himself, who ap- 
 peared in the position of the transgressor.
 
 FAIR OAKS. 145 
 
 All this was new and irksome to Dr. 
 Osborne, and what with the difficulty of 
 clearing up matters, and considerations of the 
 trouble and risk of fresh investments, and the 
 brief time which he had to spare from profes- 
 sional duty, he half regretted having entered 
 on the business at all. There was still a pos- 
 sibility, he reminded himself, that all this 
 trouble and anxiety might be unnecessary — 
 that the present investments might indeed be^ 
 as the lawyer declared, " safe and unexcep- 
 tionable:" he began to feel it would be an 
 immense relief to be convinced of it. When it 
 comes to this, conviction generally follows. 
 
 Dr. Osborne was convinced. 
 
 He was not a weak man, not weaker than 
 most men, but he felt out of his element in 
 this contest ; he longed to be quit of it ; he 
 felt he was acting at a disadvantage, and he 
 was impatient of the position. It is wonderful 
 the amount of loss and future evil most men 
 will run the chance of, to avoid a present 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 disagreeable exertion — one immediate, de- 
 cided, unpleasant effort. 
 
 Dr. Osborne finally went home, satisfied to 
 leave things as he found them ; and for the 
 present all seemed well. 
 
 Meanwhile, Arnold was going on quietly at 
 Fair Oaks. 
 
 His first patient happened to be Colonel Au- 
 brey, who being, in his own phrase, " despe- 
 rately hard up," had steered hom.e on a finan- 
 cial cruise ; and pending the result was doing 
 invalidism, by w^ay of keeping up the neces- 
 sity for returning speedily to the Continent. 
 
 He got all he wanted from the Grange 
 rents, and then took his departure. But not 
 before he had made such a parade of devotion 
 to his wife, and pressed her so earnestly to 
 accompany him abroad — knowing perfectly 
 well she could not travel ten miles — that the 
 little world of Fair Oaks was enchanted. 
 
 Words go so much further than deeds with 
 ordinary people, provided the deeds do not 
 affect themselves.
 
 FAIR OAKS. 147 
 
 So they said now at Fair Oaks, that Colonel 
 Aubrey was evidently a most devoted hus- 
 band, and so good-looking, too ; a charming 
 person, indeed, so well-bred, so lively and 
 agreeable. Mrs. Aubrey was a fortunate 
 woman. It was not his fault poor man, if 
 his delicate health obliged him to live abroad. 
 That he was in bad health there could be no 
 doubt, for young Dr. Osborne had been 
 obliged to go to the Grange to see him every 
 day, and had twice been called up there at 
 night. 
 
 " Poor Colonel Aubrey!" 
 
 And he had been so anxious his wife should 
 join him. The Rector and the Apothecary, 
 and Miss Laurel had all heard him say so, 
 " with their own ears," (an impressive speci- 
 fication — as if we were generally in the habit 
 of hearing with those of other people) — and 
 it could not be doubted that Mrs. Aubrey 
 was very whimsical — full of fancies — very 
 peculiar — temper, most likely. 
 
 L 2
 
 148 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 " Poor Colonel Aubrey!" 
 
 Mrs. Aubrey had never been very popular 
 in the neighbourhood. She laboured under 
 the disadvantage of being greatly superior to 
 those around her. It is a fault a small com- 
 munity does not readily pardon. 
 
 And now Miss Laurel, the gossip en chef oi 
 the place, and all the Mrs. Browns and Joneses 
 of the neighbourhood, were glad of the oppor- 
 tunity of saying what a trial it must be to a 
 pleasant, sociable man, like Colonel Aubrey, 
 to have a wife such an invalid — always ailing, 
 always shut-up. " Always dying, and never 
 dead," added Miss Laurel, sharply. The last, 
 they seemed to think, was the only satisfactory 
 atonement Mrs. Aubrey could make to them 
 and to society for having been so long ill. 
 " And," proceeded the discriminating Miss 
 Laurel, "if Mrs. Aubrey had been as ill — half 
 as ill — as she fancied, she must have died 
 long ao'O. That was clear." 
 
 They went on from one thing to another —
 
 FAIR OAKS. 149 
 
 how reserved Mrs. Aubrey was — how peculiar 
 — certainly " odd." Something very odd in her 
 look and manner. Temper ? ah well, perhaps 
 that, and something worse. For Mrs. Jones 
 had appositely remembered that there had 
 once been a man of the name of Grey confined 
 in the private Lunatic Asylum at Fair Oaks- 
 Newtown. And Mrs. Aubrey's name had 
 been Grey — not a common name Grey, at 
 least not such a very common name. Some 
 relation most likely; perhaps an uncle or a 
 brother. Had Mrs. Aubrey a brother ? One — 
 he died long ago. That was it. Of course 
 that was it. And now it went the round of 
 Fair Oaks that Mrs. Aubrey's only brother 
 had died in a Lunatic Asylum, and that she 
 herself was — ahem! — very peculiar. Ah! 
 every one had their troubles, and if all were 
 known Colonel Aubrey had his. So the 
 gossips shook their sagacious heads in sym- 
 pathy with poor dear Colonel Aubrey, and 
 said how well he had behaved.
 
 150 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 The young doctor it must be confessed, 
 took very little interest in his patient. His 
 innate truthfulness gave him an instinctive 
 dislike to Colonel Aubrey. He did not know 
 his professions to be false. Yet he instinctively 
 felt them to be so. It was a relief to him, 
 when that gallant officer gathered up his 
 spoil and departed for Baden *' for his 
 health." 
 
 After that Arnold was a good deal at the 
 Grange, where Kate and Valerie — now nearly 
 grown up — were pleasant companions. Valerie 
 was as serene and collected as ever. Kate 
 very engaging, but impetuous and somewhat 
 hasty in temper and extravagant in her likes 
 and dislikes. 
 
 It is usually so with a girl of more than 
 ordinary intellect. Valerie was an exception 
 to the rule; but generally speaking, very 
 gifted young people are not harmonious in 
 character. Largeness of nature takes a pro- 
 tracted development ere it can fairly and
 
 FAIR OAKS. 151 
 
 justly assert itself and be recognized. The 
 development goes on slowly and meanwhile, 
 the felt capabilities are out of all proportion 
 with the power of expression in a young person 
 and, in a girl more especially, not in keeping 
 with the position. Her elders consider her 
 presuming, and in need of perpetual " putting 
 down ; " her companions deny her superiority, 
 or forced to concede it, say to each other how 
 much better it is to be agreeable than " so 
 dreadfully clever." 
 
 But if Kate Aubrey's character was not 
 yet harmonious, she was saved from much of 
 error and much of pain — that keen, humi- 
 liating, youthful pain — by the judicious train- 
 ing of her watchful mother. She was not as 
 many clever girls are, forced into self-assertion 
 by injustice, or driven into self-consciousness 
 by perpetual charges of conceit and forward- 
 ness. So Kate with all her faults, remained 
 very winning, because perfectly artless and 
 unconscious. With her mother and Valerie
 
 152 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 she found her right atmosphere ; while Arnold, 
 Paul Glyn, and Adrian, who still came some- 
 times to the Grange for a visit, varied the 
 home circle, and made sufficient society for a 
 girl of her age. 
 
 '* There is something indescribably charming 
 about those girls," said Arnold to Paul Glyn, 
 as the two strolled homewards together, after 
 spending an evening at the Grange. " It is 
 not merely their beauty, though they are both 
 pretty; but there is such an atmosphere of 
 truth and purity about them. I should not 
 know how to describe them to a stranger, yet 
 every one who knows them must feel what I 
 mean." 
 
 " Yes I think so ; at least every one capable 
 of appreciating them." 
 
 *' I fancy," continued Arnold, " one great 
 charm is that they are so unlike other 
 girls." 
 
 " Unlike ! I should think so indeed !" ex- 
 claimed Paul, half angrily ; then laughing at
 
 FAIR OAKS. 153 
 
 his own warmth, he added, '' I don't like my 
 pearls at the Grange to be confounded for one 
 moment with the Birmingham jewellery of 
 ordinary society." 
 
 Arnold smiled. Paul went on. 
 
 *'I think the genus 'young lady' must be 
 brought up with very false impressions of what 
 men like and admire ; for I observe no man 
 wishes to praise a woman very highly, but he 
 immediately says she is so ' utterly unlike' 
 women in general." 
 
 " As you have just done, Paul." 
 
 "True, and you." 
 
 "Even so. And I daresay we are both 
 right. Girls are educated on false prin- 
 ciples. But the Aubreys have been admirably 
 brought up." 
 
 " There it is. It has been a standing marvel 
 with me all my life, how ordinary, common- 
 place women can dare to bring up children — 
 girls especially. To see the way in which that 
 awful responsibility is met! However, Pm
 
 154 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 not going to moralize on the subject ; here we 
 are at the Bridge, and our roads part. Only 
 Arnold, don't you let yourself be prematurely 
 bullied into matrimony — most doctors are. 
 Take your own time about it ; and if you do 
 decide to marry, just search this kingdom 
 from one end to the other, and if you find 
 anything fairer or sweeter than Kate and 
 Valerie Aubrey, I'll forgive you for not se- 
 curing one of them. Not else ! Good 
 night." 
 
 " Well, if i^/^«^ is not bullying! " returned 
 
 Arnold, laughing. 
 
 "Good night — good night," was all Mr. 
 Glyn's reply, as he walked quickly up the hill 
 to his own cottage, and Arnold left alone 
 proceeded home. He did not dwell on Paul's 
 words. He knew Colonel Aubrey far too well 
 to suppose he would ever let a daughter of his 
 marry a professional man. 
 
 And marriage was not in Arnold's thoughts. 
 He w^as very happy among his early friends,
 
 FAIR OAKS. 155 
 
 and very busy. At first also everything went 
 on well, professionally. 
 
 But a doctor's life has many vexations and 
 worries peculiar to it, and some of these he 
 had now to experience.
 
 156 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 AMENITIES OF PRACTICE. 
 
 One mild, dull, September afternoon, during 
 Dr. Osborne's absence, Paul Glyn was walk- 
 ing leisurely bome to his cottage. He was 
 revolving with kindly pleasure some favour- 
 able remarks made on his friend Arnold — who 
 seemed to be getting quite popular as a 
 doctor — when he unexpectedly encountered 
 him on the Old Bridge. 
 
 Paul spoke what was uppermost in his 
 mind, warmly congratulating Arnold on his 
 success. 
 
 " Ah, you needn't congratulate me," said 
 Arnold, misanthropically, "unless indeed, you 
 have heard of my failures, and your compli- 
 ments are so many sarcasms in disguise ; you
 
 FAIR OAKS. 157 
 
 are capable of it, Paul ! Two failures in one 
 week — quite enough to keep down one's 
 vanity." 
 
 "Two failures? What — professional fail- 
 ures?" 
 
 " Two failures with patients, but rather 
 social — so to speak — than medical ones." 
 
 '' Oh, a fig for social failures," cried Paul, 
 yalorously. " I like them ! they give me a 
 high opinion of the fail-er." 
 
 " Well," returned Arnold, laughing, " I 
 only hope my father will take your enlarged 
 view of this subject, for I have lost him two 
 of his best patients. No, you needn't look 
 alarmed, I haven't made away with them — not 
 so bad as that. But the fact is, Mrs. 
 Osborne says I am ruining my father's 
 practice, and I rather think she is right." 
 
 "Oh, Mrs. Osborne — is — Mrs. Osborne!" 
 exclaimed Paul, who did not like common- 
 place, loud-voiced women, w^ere they ever so 
 handsome. " Never mind Mrs. Osborne ; she
 
 15g FAIR OAKS. 
 
 doesn't judge you kindly — not fairly even. 
 If that's all, its nothing." 
 
 " But it is not all. And I think you do my 
 step-mother injustice. She has always been 
 kind in her way; and as I tell you, she's 
 right enough now." 
 
 " Why, what has happened ? Come home 
 with me, and tell me all about it." 
 
 " No, that will I not," cried Arnold, seat- 
 ing himself on the parapet of the bridge, " I 
 am too tired to climb your hill ; but sit down 
 here, and I'll tell you in ten minutes. I was 
 sent for yesterday to old Lord Wither- 
 ingham ; ever since he has come into that 
 enormous property he has been — by way of 
 — an invalid. It seems to suit Mr. Wither- 
 ingham, the nephew, who manages everything, 
 to keep the old man occupied about his 
 health. 
 
 " There is nothing serious the matter. I 
 knew that, and having some bad cases in the 
 village I went to them first. Then to With-
 
 FAIR OAKS. 159 
 
 eringham Park. They would not admit me 
 to the patient. Mr. Witheringham had been 
 riding through the village ; he had happened 
 to see me going about there, after being sent 
 for to the Park. He thought proper to call 
 me to account, with an air and a tone not 
 to be endured ; really insufferable, because 
 his remarks were grounded not on the pre- 
 tence even of his uncle's case requiring early 
 attention, but obviously, almost avowedly, on 
 his station, their position, and the like." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " Well, as I say, if his remarks had pro- 
 ceeded from any anxiety I could have over- 
 looked a great deal. You know I'm the last 
 man in the world to stand up for any fooleries 
 of professional assumption ; but on the other 
 hand, to be spoken to like a servant is what I 
 don't mean to submit to. I claim the treat- 
 ment of any other gentleman, neither more 
 nor less." Arnold looked still displeased. 
 
 " And you answered ?"
 
 160 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 "I answered that I had one rule for all 
 patients — the most urgent cases first — and 
 from that rule I had not the slightest inten- 
 tion of departing; and the end of it was 
 that here I am dismissed, and Dr. Smith, 
 from Newtown, promoted to the honour. In 
 my own practice I should not give the whole 
 concern a secoad thouo^ht: but actinof for 
 another is so different; and what with that 
 thought, and perhaps the offence to my own 
 dignity " — he smiled — " I confess to being 
 rather unphilosophically discomposed to-day." 
 But the cloud was already passing as he 
 spoke. 
 
 " And afterwards ?" said Paul. 
 
 " Oh * afterwards ' is no better," said 
 Arnold, now laughing, " worse I think ; for 
 it is that worthy old fellow, Captain Boxer, I 
 have mortally offended, and my father I 
 know has a real regard for him." 
 
 " How did it happen ?" 
 
 " He sent for me to see his little boy, who
 
 FAIR OAKS. 161 
 
 is very ill. "Wlien I went in, old Boxer 
 began an angry tirade against doctors, setting 
 forth remorselessly all their offences, espe- 
 cially their arrogance, and senseless assump- 
 tion of infallibility. You could not have 
 railed better yourself, Paul. There was 
 some truth in what he said, and I thought I 
 had found an independent, sensible sort of a 
 man to deal with. 
 
 "Then we went to the child's room. All 
 the symptoms were detailed ; most contra- 
 dictory and unaccountable they were. It 
 would have needed my friend Dr. Shortcut 
 himself, to diagnose for us ; for only by ignor- 
 ing half the symptoms, as they were stated 
 to me, could one make anything of the re- 
 mainder. I was fairly puzzled. Then Cap- 
 tain Boxer asked me downriofht what the 
 complaint was. I said I didn't know." 
 
 "You did?" 
 
 " Well, yes, I did. Paul ! you of all men 
 are surely not going to recommend humbug?" 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 " No ; but your practice is somewhat 
 novel — novelty dazzles. Go on." 
 
 " Well, he pressed for some definite opinion, 
 which I could not honestly give, and the 
 testy old tar broke out into a tremendous 
 rage ; the fact being, as I since have found, 
 that a fatal disease is suspected, and the 
 father is in great anxiety and doubt between 
 two opposing opinions he has had — both 
 equally oracular. I was to have solved the 
 difficulty and I had only increased it. Cap- 
 tain Boxer's secret anxiety made him furious. 
 You know his temper. He said, and swore, 
 he'd be hanged if he'd pay a doctor to ' help 
 him to doubt,' and he'd recommend me to make 
 up my mind before I went near him again, 
 not seeming to be in the least sensible of the 
 inconsistency of this conduct with his pre- 
 vious declamation." 
 
 " Well, you pointed that out ? You reasoned 
 with him?"
 
 FAIR OAKS. 163 
 
 ^' Reasoned with a mad buffalo ? No, 
 thank you. There was no chance of the 
 slightest good being effected then. He would 
 listen to nothing. He would not have let me 
 see the child again, even if I had wished it. 
 No, I came away, and heard him vowing no 
 Osborne should darken his doors again." 
 
 " Upon my word, Arnold, you will weed 
 your father's note-book very prettily at this 
 rate. He will be the holder of a most select 
 practice — the Wordsworth of medicine, with 
 ' Fit clienMe though few.' " 
 
 " Well," rejoined Arnold, " I am thankful 
 I am not to practise at Fair Oaks. What 
 treatment to meet with ! " 
 
 " I suspect, Arnold, all doctors in extensive 
 practice have occasionally to put up with this 
 sort of thing ; but we don't hear of it — for 
 they very wisely act on the Spanish pro- 
 verb " 
 
 "Which says ?" 
 
 " Which says, ' If a donkey kicks you, don't 
 
 M 2
 
 164 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 tell it !' And," pursued Paul, philosophically, 
 " to say the truth, I think this sort of ex- 
 perience though not delightful is occasionally 
 good for a doctor." 
 
 '* What do you mean?" 
 " I mean that doctors are so mucli made of 
 in most cases, so much flattered and looked 
 up to, that they require a little lowering now 
 and then; Doctors are generally very con- 
 ceited ; — ever noticed that?" 
 
 " Paul, you delight in talking nonsense." 
 " It is not nonsense — it is moral philosophy. 
 I state a fact, and the rationale of it is this : 
 doctors take to themselves personally and in- 
 dividually, the social weight attaching to their 
 profession — a stupid mistake ! and I say it is 
 not amiss that they should sometimes be un- 
 deceived. You, individually did not need the 
 lesson. But it will do you no harm. It's an 
 experience the more !" 
 
 " You will defend Captain Boxer next." 
 " No ; but I am sorry for him. His anger
 
 FxlIR OAKS. 165 
 
 will soon be spent and he will be so sorry for 
 this violence. You see, Arnold, I happen to 
 know Richard Boxer's past history, and that 
 makes a great difference in one's estimate of a 
 man ; it teaches us to make allowance. But 
 never mind that just now. What were you 
 going to say ? " 
 
 *' Why how absurd, how utterly absurd, is 
 the way people go on with their doctors. 
 Here am I barely twenty-four — having passed 
 my examination but a few weeks, and it is 
 not permitted me to doubt ! Any block- 
 head who contrives to scramble through his 
 examination may set up for a Solomon on the 
 faith of it. What can be more ludicrous? 
 Are doctors inspired ? " 
 
 "By no means. Dr. Osborne ; rather the 
 reverse." 
 
 " And yet they are to profess what only 
 inspiration could justify. Paul, I see even 
 you think I was wrong in my open confession 
 of ignorance."
 
 166 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 " Hardly that. But the fact is, the as- 
 sumption of sagacity, penetration, almost of 
 infallibility, is so common in the profession — 
 has been kept up so long, that it is now forced 
 on us whether we will or no. As Captain 
 Boxer just now would fain have placed to 
 your credit, a quick penetration you did not 
 possess." 
 
 " But every doctor should refuse to sanction 
 in his patients those unjust and selfish claims, 
 which appear to exalt, but in reality degrade 
 the profession." 
 
 *' True ; but the practice of medical men is 
 generally the reverse ; and the public prefer 
 it so." 
 
 " In which way," replied Arnold, '' the 
 public and the profession mutually react on 
 one another for evil, instead of for good." 
 
 " True again ; but the public does not 
 seem quite to know its own mind with 
 regard to doctors. People require from 
 the profession a species of infallibility — the
 
 FAIR OAKS. 167 
 
 assumption of which they ridicule in the 
 individual." 
 
 " Yes, and further — the very same people 
 will exact at one moment what they resent at 
 another. In trifling complaints patients may 
 be independent and self-willed enough ; then 
 the physician's authority is set at nought as 
 mere assumption. But let there come some 
 dangerous emergency and they fling them- 
 selves helplessly on their doctor. On the very 
 mind and means which were treated as inade- 
 quate before." 
 
 "Yes," replied Paul, "just as we have 
 known men live Protestants and die Roman 
 Catholics ; they want the sentiment of an in- 
 fallible church for their extremity; but, Arnold, 
 surely that is Captain Boxer coming this 
 way?" 
 
 Arnold started up, and looked down the 
 road. 
 
 " Old Boxer, by Jove ! No, I can't stand 
 a meeting with him just now. It would be
 
 168 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 too awkward. He hasn't seen us yet, I'll go 
 home the other way. You know he did be- 
 have very ill !" And Arnold laughing walked 
 away. 
 
 True it was that " old " Boxer — he was 
 not forty — had behaved very ill; but his 
 brief anger was soon spent, and he would not 
 have met the young doctor without making 
 an ample apology for his violence. 
 
 However, Captain Boxer is one of the 
 individualities of the Fair Oaks society, and 
 as such must be duly introduced. And as he 
 is always getting himself into social difficulties 
 and dilemmas, we will give a short notice of 
 his antecedents, on the strength of Paul 
 Glyn's charitable dictum, that we make more 
 allowance for a man when we are acquainted 
 with the peculiarities of his position and 
 circumstances.
 
 FAIR OAKS. 169 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 THE STORY OF A LIFE. 
 
 A GLOOMY old Manor House, where came no 
 visitors — a moody, severe father, passionate to 
 frenzy — a pale, timid elder sister, early fading 
 to her grave : such were the environments of 
 Richard Boxer's childhood — his miserable 
 childhood. No judicious kindness, no watch- 
 ful forethought, softened the natural rugged- 
 ness of his inherited disposition. Generous, 
 passionate, dauntless — his spirit early rose up 
 against the wretched existence imposed on 
 him — against the injustice and tyranny of 
 his father. 
 
 The only ties he had ever known to his 
 home, were his sister, who sought rather than
 
 170 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 gave protection in her intercourse with the 
 child; and a little girl, Bessie Lake, with whom 
 he was occasionally allowed to play. Bessie 
 Lake was the vicar's child ; and her family the 
 only one the Boxers had any intimate inter- 
 course with. While these ties lasted, Richard 
 endured. But the pale sister waned away, 
 and was seen no more, while he was still very 
 young ; and not long after, the vicar got pre- 
 ferment in a far county, and little Bessie's 
 bright, consoling presence was to be withdrawn 
 from the moody boy. Then he made a great 
 resolve, which he confided to her, his sole con- 
 fidante ; he told her that the very next time 
 his father raised his hand against him, he 
 would run away from home and go to sea. 
 
 To little Bessie this appeared an awfully 
 hazardous and wicked plan ; but the boy re- 
 sisted all her tears and childish arguments. 
 It did not seem wicked to him, he said ; and 
 as to the danger, the more of that the better. 
 
 Little Bessie pleaded in vain ; yet her lively
 
 FAIR OAKS. 171 
 
 interest in her playfellow, and her innocent 
 distress at parting, did good to the desolate 
 boy. To pacify the loving child-heart, he 
 made a solemn promise to come home and 
 marry her, as soon as he should have made 
 money enough to do so. The " enough," it 
 would have puzzled both children to specify, 
 but the vague prospect comforted them both; 
 and they parted with perfect trust and confi- 
 dence in the Future they had planned. 
 
 And soon after, came a day of more than 
 usually cruel and unjust punishment ; with 
 no gentle Bessie now to plead for submission 
 and stay. Richard felt he could endure no 
 longer. His father's conduct bordered on in- 
 sanity. The grim old Hall was a prison. 
 Richard Boxer one fine night ran away from 
 the house that was no home to him ; succeeded 
 in making his way to Fair Oaks-Newtown, 
 and from thence down the river to a large sea- 
 port. There he got employment on board a 
 merchant vessel, left the country for a long
 
 172 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 voyage, and for many years nothing was beard 
 of him in the county. 
 
 Richard had fair natural abilities; and his 
 education, deficient as it was, was superior in 
 scope to that of any of the common sailors — 
 this, with his great strength, spirit, and per- 
 fectly reckless courage, made an opening for 
 him in the rude life he had adopted. As 
 years passed on he rose step by step, and at 
 last obtained the command of a merchant ship. 
 He had not however yet made a fortune ; 
 was not, as he thought, yet justified in claiming 
 Bessie. 
 
 But that hope was never long absent from 
 his mind. It grew with his growth, and 
 strengthened with his strength. It was the 
 incitement and the reward of every good 
 exertion. He had heard nothing of her since 
 he left home, for his fear of being discovered 
 and claimed by his father, held him back from 
 inquiries that might give a clue to his own 
 situation.
 
 FAIR OAKS. 173 
 
 He had entered himself under an assumed 
 name when he first sought employment ; and 
 his new career separated him so entirely from 
 all old associations that when, after manv 
 years, his father died, the family solicitors had 
 to advertize for the lost heir. 
 
 Richard had not expected to be the heir, 
 for though he was the only son, and the pro- 
 perty had been long in the family, it was not 
 entailed ; and be knew his father was one who 
 never forgave. Nor had he forgiven. He had 
 said and sworn he would disinherit his re- 
 bellious son — and be fully meant to do so. 
 But the common, superstitious fear of making 
 a will, had delayed the execution of his design 
 until it was too late. 
 
 A severe stroke of paralysis suddenly pros- 
 trated him. When speechless and knowing 
 himself to be dying, he had made signs for 
 writing materials, with which he scrawled tbe 
 name of bis solicitor. Pending his arrival he 
 endeavoured to make a note of instructions
 
 174 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 for his will. He had not relented. He would 
 make his resentment, his revenge, felt from 
 his very grave. 
 
 Those about him understood his meaning, 
 but he was incapable of connectedly enforcing 
 it. His struggles to do so, only accelerated 
 his death ; in a paroxysm of impotent fury he 
 expired. Ten minutes after, the solicitor 
 arrived. There was no will. Richard Boxer 
 came in as heir-at-law. 
 
 The new proprietor came home little 
 changed, only developed in character, as in- 
 deed with such a fate as his had been, was to 
 be expected. His new position did not im- 
 prove him, it only awakened him to a full 
 sense of his deficiencies. 
 
 His disposition was generous, but his 
 temper was ungovernable, and his manner and 
 bearing rough and unpolished. He felt it all 
 most keenly, and shrank with a secret sensi- 
 tiveness, none gave him credit for, from the 
 advances of the neighbouring proprietors. One
 
 FAIR OAKS. 1 75 
 
 by one they drew aside, attributing his con- 
 duct to overweening pride, and bad temper. 
 
 But this was not the worst. His new ex- 
 perience of life fell like a blight on all his 
 bright, cherished dreams of Bessie. She 
 would think of him as he saw others did — 
 what folly, what childish romance, had his 
 long life-hope been ! 
 
 Sadly enough he recast his plans, re- 
 solving that as soon as the necessary law 
 forms had been gone through, he would let 
 the property for a term of years and go 
 abroad again. 
 
 But first he would see Bessie Lake once 
 more — only once. He understood now that 
 the early troth was a thing of which she had 
 probably learned to be ashamed. She had 
 doubtless forgotten the fancy of her child- 
 hood, perhaps loved some other, happier- 
 starred, more suited to a fair and gentle 
 creature like her. He would not shame her 
 by any reference to the Past. He would but
 
 176 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 see her — see what she was now, refresh his 
 soul with one sight of his early love, and then 
 leave her for ever. 
 
 He had no difficulty in obtaining her 
 father's address. It was in a remote, rural 
 district. Thither he journeyed. 
 
 One sultry summer's noon found him at 
 the house. He lino^ered lonof in the heated 
 road outside the garden, afraid to enter, yet 
 unable to go away. He felt abashed by the 
 recollection of the terms on Avhich the 
 childish parting had taken place, it w-ould all 
 be so different now ; abashed more than all 
 by the consciousness of his own deficiencies, 
 keenly felt before, never yet so keenly as now. 
 
 While he lingered outside the gate, a beau- 
 tiful girl came up the garden w^alk, bearing a 
 large basket of newly gathered roses, June 
 roses, not more fresh and blooming than her- 
 self. He knew her at a glance; it was Bessie. 
 
 How grown, how improved, yet how un- 
 changed.
 
 FAIR OAKS. 177 
 
 She went into the large, leafy arbour near 
 the gate, and began to arrange the flowers in 
 some high, old-fashioned vases, which stood 
 on a table ready for them. 
 
 From the road behind the hedge, Richard 
 unseen, could see her. If he had thought 
 before that he must not claim her, he knew it 
 now — hopelessly. How sharply he felt the 
 contrast between them, as weary, travel- 
 stained, heart-sick, he leaned against a post 
 in the dusty road, watching her every move- 
 ment ; noting her serene, womanly grace, as 
 she stood arranging her roses, her air of refine- 
 ment, her very dress, comparing with it all 
 his own homely figure, his rugged looks, and 
 rough ways. 
 
 It could be of no use speaking to her, it 
 could end but one way. And though for that 
 he had come prepared, yet seeing her, he could 
 hardly submit. Why had he come ? As in 
 mute despair, he silently smote his hands to- 
 gether, their appearance struck him for the 
 
 VOL. T. N
 
 178 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 first time, large, brown, brav/ny — he hated 
 them ; a likely wooer he for the pretty young 
 creature before him ! 
 
 So he told himself bitterly. At any rate, 
 he would not trouble her with his ungainly 
 love. She should not need to shrink from 
 him. He could never stand her surprise, her 
 displeasure, her probable contempt. He 
 would spare himself and her, by retracing at 
 once his dreary journey home, and she need 
 never know that he had looked on her since 
 her childhood. 
 
 He would go, he said — go at once. He 
 turned to do so. But the early love would 
 not so easily be withstood. It rose up and 
 strove against self-distrust and pain, and all 
 proud shames, dragging at his very heart- 
 strings as he moved away. And even while 
 he resolved to go, he found himself, he knew 
 not how, passing in through the open garden- 
 gate, and standing, silently, before Bessie in 
 the arbour.
 
 FAIR OAKS. 179 
 
 Her head was half turned from the en- 
 trance ; busied with her flowers, she did not 
 perceive him. He stood breathless, gazing 
 at her; a thousand mixed and painful emo- 
 tions coursing one another through his mind. 
 Hard, rebellious thoughts of the interval be- 
 tween them, of the cruel father who had 
 caused that interval by driving him from 
 home, and thus making him what he was — 
 unfit for Bessie. Despair at losing her; with 
 deep, undying love, that refused beforehand 
 to blame her — that would not, could not 
 blame her, do or say what she might. 
 Altogether a very passion of misery, for most 
 profound and concentrated were the affections 
 and feelings of this rugged man — few, and 
 life-deep. 
 
 He could not turn his eyes away from her. 
 How fair and fresh she looked, standing there, 
 far back in the leafy arbour, in her simple 
 white dress ; within, the cool abundant 
 greenery ; without, the sultry June sunshine 
 
 N 2
 
 180 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 flooding all the ground — how innocent, how 
 childlike still. The dark hair smoothed 
 evenly off from her clear brow ; the soft eyes 
 with their long black lashes drooping on the 
 cheek — still the same sweet, pitying face, that 
 used to shine comfort on his uncouth boyish 
 shames and agonies, long, long ago. 
 
 This was Bessie, and he must leave her. 
 The long years of love and patient waiting 
 were to go for nothing now. After all, after 
 all to give her up ! Stung by the thought, he 
 suddenly stretched out his arms towards her. 
 " Bessie !" he involuntarily exclaimed in his 
 despair, and then repented, and would have 
 gone, but it was too late. 
 
 She started, and turned round. His arms 
 fell ; he stood silent, pale, awaiting her 
 scorn. 
 
 Waitins: — not lonof. 
 
 For a moment she looked bewildered. Then 
 a flash of recognition passed into her eyes. 
 A deep flush spread over her whole face.
 
 FAIR OAKS. 181 
 
 Without a shade of hesitation, she sprang 
 forward, and in an instant had thrown herself 
 into the great, rugged arms, sobbing and 
 smiling at once. 
 
 " Richard ! dear Richard ! I knew jou 
 would come ; I always expected you. Oh, I 
 knew you would come !" 
 
 Richard Boxer gasped for breath; his 
 brain reeled. Was it all a dream ? Could it 
 be possible? the strong man was faint with 
 the reaction of his despair ; he could not 
 speak. Bessie, alarmed, led him to a chair 
 and brought water. She knelt by him as she 
 used to do when they were children together. 
 
 " The sun is so powerful," she said, anxi- 
 ously, " and you have walked far," in her 
 simplicity never suspecting the true cause of 
 his emotion, the revulsion within his soul ; 
 never dreaming that he had doubted her for a 
 moment, or looked on their engagement as 
 any other than the solemn betrothal her 
 childish faith had deemed it. She doubted
 
 182 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 nothing, she inquired nothing ; he had said he 
 would come for her, and he had now come — 
 it was simply the fulfilment of his promise. 
 
 By degrees he understood it. He suffered 
 himself to realise that she had loved him, 
 only him, from her childish years; had trusted 
 implicitly to his , promise ; counted on his 
 coming ; waited for it ; relying on him 
 ever. In very respect for her guilelessness, 
 he would not speak of his own doubts -and 
 misgivings; would not pain her by telling 
 how near he had been to leaving her for ever. 
 It would have seemed an insult to her confid- 
 ing faith to contrast it thus. And he saw 
 she would not understand him if he did, for 
 Bessie evidently did not appreciate the dif- 
 ference which he felt between them. He felt 
 that she did not, felt that her glance rested 
 satisfied on the dark, bronzed face, as the face 
 loved from childhood ; no shadow in her clear, 
 cordial eyes, in her ready, trusting smile. 
 
 The rouofh sailor was overcome. The o^reat
 
 FAIR OAKS. 183 
 
 tears forced themselves into his eyes. Inca- 
 pable as he had thought himself for years of 
 such emotion, he could hardly restrain them. 
 As he strove to do so, he met her glance, 
 gentle and pitying as an angel's ; he could not 
 withstand it. Bowins: his head on her shoul- 
 der, he wept like a child — wept long — re- 
 viving, humanizing tears, that washed away 
 all bitter and resentful feelings, and left only 
 peace, and joy, and forgiveness — blessed fruits 
 of her simple faith and love. 
 
 Then they spoke together of all the Past, 
 and for a time he gave himself up entirely to 
 the delightful sense of his happiness. At last — 
 
 " But your parents, Bessie ? " he said, 
 reluctantly suggesting a difficulty. 
 
 " Oh, they know. As I grew up," she said, 
 simply, " I thought it wrong to have such a 
 secret from them. I told them all. They 
 said " She hesitated. 
 
 " Do not fear to tell me," he said with a 
 new smile that altered his whole face, it was 
 so happy, so confiding.
 
 184 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 " Well the truth is, Dick, they did not see 
 things quite as I did. They said our engage- 
 ment was childish nonsense, that you would 
 
 never think seriously of it, or in short, 
 
 many things." 
 
 " Well, and then ?" 
 
 '* And then I begged and prayed and was 
 so certain of your faith, I almost convinced 
 them. My father gave in ; you know how 
 kind he is. My mother would only say that 
 ' if you ever returned, which she was certain 
 you would not, and ' if ' you were faithful to 
 your promise, (' if,' Dick !) then she would not 
 oppose us. She thought it great folly my 
 expecting you, but she will be as pleased as 
 any one that I have proved in the right. Oh, 
 they have been very good to me. Let us go 
 to them at once." 
 
 They went into the house. The vicar and 
 his wife were simple kindly people. Surprised 
 as they were to see Richard, they received 
 him hospitably as the son of their old neigh-
 
 FAIR OAKS. 185 
 
 bour, and one in whom Bessie's affections were 
 bound. 
 
 As they talked together, Richard found 
 that in this remote village they knew nothing 
 of his father's death, of his own improved 
 prospects. It touched him deeply to find that 
 it was the disinherited son, with nothing but 
 his own exertions to depend on, that Bessie 
 and her parents were welcoming into the 
 family. 
 
 He did not care to undeceive them ; he 
 made no explanations ; he was too happy as 
 it was. He left the house for his inn in the 
 village that night, a better man than he had 
 ever been before. 
 
 And soon after Richard Boxer married 
 Bessie Lake and took her away to live at the 
 grim, dreary old Hall — grim and dreary no 
 longer, with her bright, sunny presence within 
 its walls. 
 
 Richard's character improved much under 
 her influence ; happiness is a great improver
 
 186 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 — happiness, we saj — not mere prosperity. 
 And Bessie continued very blind to his defi- 
 ciencies. The simple truth and quiet depth 
 of her own nature revealed to her the price- 
 lessness of love. Satisfied with that great 
 possession, she did not see, or did not regard 
 things that would have irked a worldly and 
 conventional character. She ever looked on 
 Richard as in their childish days, when the 
 superiority had been all on his side as the 
 older of the two. If his violence pained 
 another, it was her part to make peace, to 
 reconcile him to others and himself ; never to 
 upbraid him, never to add reproaches to his 
 own ready self-condemnation. 
 
 Her goodness and affection were not thrown 
 away. To make Bessie happy, to reward her 
 faith, to remove every vexation from her path, 
 became to him his daily life. And many a 
 woman wdio pretended to pity Bessie Lake's 
 lot and to despise her choice, might well have 
 envied her that deep, unswerving love which
 
 FAIR OAKS. 187 
 
 sheltered and brightened her path day by day, 
 
 and year by year. 
 
 Richard's rough ways and hasty temper 
 
 were never wholly cured ; it is only in 
 
 romances — not in real life, that such radical 
 
 change of nature is effected. To his dying 
 
 day he remained rough and hasty. 
 
 But to her at least he failed not. No 
 
 harsh word ever fell on her. He had said he 
 would never give sweet Bessie Lake one 
 moment's cause to regret her child-like faith 
 in him. And he never did. 
 
 And when trouble and anxiety came to her 
 through her own family — when her kind, 
 weak father became the victim of a desisfnino- 
 speculator, and his fortune went, and his very 
 honour had well-nigh followed it, it was 
 Richard Boxer who saved the desperately 
 tempted and falling man. 
 
 Unsolicited, he came forward. He took 
 up the affair as his own, assuming all the 
 responsibilities, redeeming all the rashly-
 
 188 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 given securities, and saving his Bessie's father 
 from disgrace and crime. Though to do so, 
 he had first to mort^^a^e, and then to sell 
 many of his broad acres — even the gem of his 
 property, his favourite farm of Brooklands — 
 the finest in all the county. 
 
 Bessie did not know it. Richard would 
 not sulFer her to be told. He effected the 
 transfer to a neighbouring proprietor secretly, 
 and puzzled her by proposing first one 
 retrenchment and then another. Last en- 
 croached on were her own personal indul- 
 gences. But the time came when even these 
 must be retrenched, and the numerous luxuries 
 with which he had loved to surround her, 
 withdrawn. 
 
 Bessie wondered a little at these unwonted 
 doings. She almost feared a new, strange 
 love of money was springing up in lier 
 husband's character. But she thrust that 
 thought from her with a generous distaste, 
 and did not press for an explanation which
 
 FAIR OAKS. 189 
 
 he so evidently wished to avoid — trusting him 
 yet wholly. Little knowing with how much 
 fresh cause ! Little guessing that the rich 
 annual income of the fair Brooklands farm 
 was his no longer ; that it had all gone to 
 redeem Mr. Lake's liabilities — freely, un- 
 grudgingly given — because he was her father. 
 
 But of course it could not long be a 
 secret in the county, that Lord Witheringham 
 had added pretty Brooklands to his already 
 overgrown estate. 
 
 All Fair Oaks wondered, and talked, and 
 questioned and exclaimed. And there were 
 not wanting some to whisper that Richard 
 Boxer had gambled away to Lord Withering- 
 ham's notoriously gambling nephew and heir, 
 this part of his patrimony. 
 
 Bessie could not but hear of it. And Miss 
 Laurel would fain have instilled the poison of 
 suspicion into the young wife's mind. But 
 she found she only lost her time. Mrs. Boxer 
 was very stupid, Mrs. Boxer would take no
 
 190 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 hints. She had been shopping in Fair Oaks 
 when she first heard the strange transfer 
 spoken of. She withdrew her little son from 
 the gossipping crowd in the linen-draper's 
 shop — the only large shop in Fair Oaks, 
 and a favourite resort — and drove home im- 
 mediately. 
 
 Without stopping to take off her bonnet, 
 she went straight to her husband. He was in 
 the library, reading some business letters. 
 
 " It is not true, dear Richard ? " 
 
 " What is not true?" he said, smiling. 
 
 " That you have sold Brooklands to Lord 
 Witheringham ? It is but Fair Oaks' gossip ? " 
 
 His honest face flushed uneasily. 
 
 " It is true, my dearest." 
 
 " Oh Richard ! and you never told me !" 
 
 A rare shadow crossed her brow. He 
 threw down his letters, and rose up. 
 
 ** It was to spare you pain — it was meant 
 in kindness, Bessie. Brooklands went for a 
 good and right purpose, and the purpose was
 
 FAIR OAKS. 191 
 
 answered. I still would rather not tell you 
 the circumstances — but as you will." 
 
 He took both her hands in his as she stood 
 before him. She looked irresolute. 
 
 " Am I to tell you, Bessie?" 
 
 She hesitated and coloured. She wished to 
 know from a natural curiosity, not from sus- 
 picion. She looked straight into his face. 
 There was no doubting of him possible to her. 
 She smiled again. 
 
 " No, Richard, do not tell me. I am 
 satisfied." 
 
 *' Always the same ! Ever my own true, 
 trustful Bessie," he said, as he kissed her 
 forehead. " And it is all rio:ht ao-ain?" 
 
 " It is all right," she said. 
 
 And from that day no one dared speak of 
 the Brooklands farm, or the mysterious motive 
 for its sale, before Bessie. 
 
 And when long after an accident revealed 
 the truth to her, it was with an emotion of 
 deepest love and thankfulness, beyond all
 
 192 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 words to convey, that she discovered the 
 secret of Richard's generous reserve. 
 
 This episode must be pardoned, for Captain 
 Boxer being- a great offender against social 
 conventionalities, some extenuation from his 
 antecedents had to be pleaded — some regard 
 for his real character sought — in justification 
 of our venturing to introduce him into polite 
 society.
 
 FAIR OAKS. 193 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 A CHILD-PATIENT. — PARISIAN LECTURES. 
 
 A DAY or two after Arnold's complaint to 
 Paul of Captain Boxer's conduct, a circum- 
 stance occurred, which renewed the inter- 
 course so abruptly broken off. 
 
 Arnold heard his young step-brothers — 
 noisy school-boys — talking together about 
 the "famous row " which had taken place 
 some time before at the '* Classical Insti- 
 tution," which they, in common with most of 
 the gentlemen's sons in that neighbourhood, 
 attended. They had a great deal to say of 
 it, and of the "pluck " of little Charlie Boxer 
 
 YOL I.
 
 ]94 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 in keeping secret the blow he had received. 
 It carae out that this blow and the circum- 
 stances under which it had been given, would, 
 if made known, lead to the expulsion of one 
 of the boys ; and the young Osbornes, in 
 their school-boy morality, quite lost sight of 
 the offence in the risk run by the offender, 
 and were loud in pity for him, and admiration 
 of little Charlie's "pluck." 
 
 They were on the lawn, and did not see 
 their elder brother, who, sitting reading at 
 an open window, heard quite enough to con- 
 vince him that this concealed blow was the 
 probable cause of the child's mysterious 
 illness, and the required clue to those symp- 
 toms which, for want of it, had so perplexed 
 him and the other medical men. 
 
 Forgetting his displeasure in the hope of 
 saving the child, Arnold resolved to send a
 
 FAIR OAKS. 195 
 
 servant over to the Hall at once, to leave a 
 note with this information for the benefit of 
 whomsoever he might find in attendance on 
 the patient. He knew all the medical men 
 of the neighbourhood, and had no doubt of 
 the hint being very welcome. On returning 
 home from some visits, he was vexed to 
 find this note still on the hall-table. Mrs. 
 Osborne had sent the man in an opposite 
 direction. Arnold had heard in the village 
 that morning that little Charlie was worse. 
 He determined to ride over himself to escape 
 further delay. He wished to avoid seeing 
 Captain Boxer; but as he was leaving the 
 note at the hall, the master of the house 
 came out to him. 
 
 "You cannot already have received my 
 letter?" said Richard, looking awkward and 
 constrained. 
 
 O 2
 
 196 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 " No, I have had no letter. But I have a 
 new light on little Charlie's case, and hearing 
 how ill he was, I could not help bringing the 
 information for the benefit of the medical 
 man in attendance." 
 
 " There is no one in attendance. I had 
 just written to beg your return ; to ask vou 
 
 to forget if you can — that is to overlook " 
 
 Richard did not know how to o'O on. 
 
 " We won't talk about that just now," 
 said Arnold, good-naturedly, alighting at 
 once and throwing the reins to a groom. 
 " Let us cure little Charlie first, and finish 
 our quarrel afterwards. May I see him 
 alone?" 
 
 He went up. Charlie was looking sadly 
 emaciated and changed, even since the doctor 
 had seen him. The rosy face had w^asted 
 away ; the dark eyes looked too large for it.
 
 FAIR OAKS. 197 
 
 and the sunny rings of fair hair, and the 
 snowy linen collar, stiffly turned down, looked 
 painfully childish, and out of keeping with 
 the worn, anxious expression of the sharpened 
 features. 
 
 But the brave little English heart was firm 
 to its notions of honour. Charlie would tell 
 nothing. The wan face crimsoned as he was 
 questioned about the blow ; but he was reso- 
 lutely silent. It was only when he found the 
 doctor already knew all the circumstances, 
 that he gave up the attempt to retain his 
 painfully-kept secret. 
 
 Arnold found on examination that this 
 undetected injury, and the delay in treating 
 it, were quite enough to explain the whole 
 case ; and that there would now be no diffi- 
 culty in curing the child. Charlie's recovery 
 was pretty certain.
 
 198 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 Arnold gladly went with this good news to 
 Captain Boxer, whose anxiety about his boy 
 had been distressingly great; increased too 
 by the absence of Bessie, who was with a 
 dying sister, and did not know what was 
 going on at the Hall. 
 
 Richard was moved by the unexpectedly 
 favourable intelligence; touched too, by the 
 frank, kindly sympathy of the young doctor. 
 " This is your revenge !" he said, with 
 feeling, as Arnold finished his announcement. 
 " No," replied Arnold, trying to turn it off. 
 " My revenge will be the bringing in another 
 of my obnoxious race. We want a surgeon 
 here, and if you approve I should like to have 
 
 Mr. , from Newtown." 
 
 This was agreed to, and Arnold after 
 doing what he could, rode home, where he 
 found a hearty apology from Captain Boxer
 
 FAIR OAKS. 199 
 
 had been lying some time on his table, having 
 arrived just after he had gone oat. 
 
 A decided improvement took place in 
 Charlie's case, under Arnold's arrangements ; 
 and ere long the little fellow was quite well, 
 and at school again, ready for fresh adven- 
 tures. 
 
 It was the last case of any interest that 
 Arnold had at the time, for his father's return 
 released him from practice, and enabled him 
 to start for Paris, where he arrived early in 
 November, in time for the winter session. 
 
 He got quarters in the house of a medical 
 man, connected with the University and an old 
 acquaintance of his father's, and gave himself 
 up to close study, and attendance on the 
 classes. He found some hundreds of young- 
 Frenchmen professing the same intentions, 
 but varying greatly in the degree to which
 
 200 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 they followed their studies, which, in fact, 
 appeared to be very much a discretion. 
 
 With few exceptions the medical students — 
 as is usual in France — were of the shop-keep- 
 ing class ; or to use a better sounding word, of 
 the bourgeoisie : with that year at least — a 
 sprinkling of Germans, English, and Russians. 
 
 In the French schools, Arnold found as 
 many diversities of theory, as much contra- 
 diction in practice, as at home. The one 
 Infallible United Church of Medicine seemed 
 as far off as ever, though the claim to it was 
 not wanting. 
 
 Thus, in the morning, Arnold would find 
 himself listening to a brilliant lecturer of Eu- 
 ropean reputation, whose whole principles 
 might be gathered into one word — " Observe; " 
 who declared that a man knew nothing but 
 what he had personally ascertained — that no
 
 FAIR OAKS. 201 
 
 statement, however well attested, should be 
 received without " the rigid scrutiny of sus- 
 picion. What we need," he would say, " is a 
 better theory ; for a better theory we require 
 more facts, new facts, accumulated facts. 
 Observation, not action, is the duty of the 
 present Age. We have no facts ! For, the 
 facts of the last Age have become the exploded 
 fallacies of this one. Every Age must find 
 its own facts. Every individual must test 
 them personally. These well-investigated 
 facts will enable us to rectify our Theories ; 
 then all will be well — for what is right in 
 Theory, can never be wrong in Practice. 
 Observe then, my friends, observe diligently, 
 and be not hasty to act ; or rather, be assured 
 that Observation is, in fact, the highest 
 Action." 
 
 Then, with barely time to note a hasty
 
 202 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 digest of this lecture, Arnold had to hurry 
 away to the class of another celebrated pro- 
 fessor, held by no means inferior to the first. 
 And then he would hear an earnest exhortation 
 to Action — Action above all things. 
 
 " Time passes ! " cries the lecturer ; " while 
 we theorize. Humanity suffers. Let us act ! 
 No accumulation of facts can save a single 
 life. Already we possess more facts than we 
 know how to apply. Let us exercise actively 
 the means we are acquainted with, resting 
 satisfied that what proves right in practice, 
 cannot be wrong in theory. Accept as your 
 intimate conviction that facts are the mere 
 skeleton of our art ; Action is its vital breath. 
 Let Action, then, be the watchword of your 
 medical career ! " The whole poured forth 
 with assured certainty, as if no one could pos- 
 sibly differ from him. After which, if the
 
 FAIR OAKS. 203 
 
 young Englishman was not too much bewildered 
 for further receptivity, he had the opportunity 
 of attending the class of a third professor; 
 with whom neither facts nor theories found 
 much favour. This was M. le Professeur 
 Chauve-Souris — a profound thinker, or at least 
 a very confused one — pale, black-bearded, 
 meditative — genie colossal, his disciples said. 
 
 M. Chauve-Souris always insisted on the 
 necessity of " meeting the calm, unforced de- 
 velopments of Nature, with a like philosophic 
 calm ; " he was all in favour of the medicine 
 of expectation — the expectant system. He 
 styled himself a philosophic practitioner ; and 
 his philosophy seemed to consist in doubting 
 everything, and doing nothing. 
 
 " Well," thought Arnold to himself, '^ if I 
 were writino^ the Adventures of a Doctor in
 
 204 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 search of a Catholic medical creed, I could 
 not wind up my travels in Paris." 
 
 Among the surgeons, it was much the same 
 as with the physicians, as regarded all minor 
 points ; but he found an obliging unanimity on 
 one subject — Operation. All the leading men 
 operated remorselessly; all agreed in what 
 in England would be thought very reckless 
 practice. 
 
 " When they do agree, their unanimity is 
 wonderful,'' quoted Arnold from Mr. PufF, 
 as he followed in the wake of the house surgeons 
 of a leading hospital, and noted the eagerness 
 with which they all lent themselves to the most 
 hazardous operations. They seemed to delight 
 in novel experiments of the most difficult and 
 dangerous character ; and, provided the patient 
 did not actually die under the knife, the ope-
 
 FAIR OAKS. 205 
 
 ration was immediately " constate''' 2i^ a "perfect 
 success." 
 
 Hospital work — deny it who will — is in the 
 very nature of things, hardening to the feel- 
 ings; and when the solution of a surgical 
 problem is rated, practically at least, above a 
 patient's life, we may guess the consequences. 
 
 And yet these men were not unfeeling. 
 They merely accepted as a recognized fact 
 that the interests of science were to be their 
 paramount consideration ; that granted, they 
 were humane. And to be just, Arnold found 
 among them a higher feeling for science per 
 se — a greater readiness to make personal 
 sacrifices for the common cause, than he had 
 experienced in England. 
 
 He was struck, too, with their manner to- 
 wards the hospital patients, as so much less 
 harsh, less official, than what he had seen at
 
 206 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 home. In most of the leading members of the 
 profession, there was a kindliness, and hon- 
 homie of address, which soothed and encou- 
 raged the patient to a degree which a hard- 
 mannered practitioner can neither effect nor 
 understand. 
 
 Among a thousand little examples of kind- 
 linesss and consideration, a trifling one may 
 be noticed as an instance. In the admirable 
 Hospital for Children, Arnold particularly 
 noticed a little country lad, whom a severe 
 operation had half killed. Arnold had been 
 present at it, and had felt indignant at the airy 
 nonchalance of the operator — ^light of tongue, 
 as of hand, he was making jokes the whole 
 time. Arnold had felt repelled ; he could 
 hardly forgive the surgeon, though the ope- 
 ration proved quite successful, and in all 
 probability saved the patient's life.
 
 FAIR OAKS. 207 
 
 The next day he saw the child again ; 
 pale indeed, and exhausted, bat looking hap- 
 piness itself, over a little bunch of winter 
 flowers. 
 
 "You like those flowers?" said Arnold, 
 kindly. 
 
 "Ah, yes, they do me so much good!" 
 said the child. " We had such in our 
 garden at home, in the country. They make 
 me long to get well again — they give me hope 
 — courage." 
 
 " And how came they here ? " 
 
 " It was Monsieur le Docteur brought them. 
 It was so aimable of M. le Docteur to think of 
 bringing them for me." 
 
 Arnold thought so too, and wondered when 
 one of his own countrymen would have thought 
 of such a thing. 
 
 " I shall get well now," said the little fellow,
 
 208 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 hopefully ; " last night I desired only death, 
 it was such suffering — such suffering! But 
 to-day I want to get well, and see again my 
 garden — my village — my own country of 
 Provence." 
 
 "And so you will," said the Englishman, 
 encouragingly. 
 
 " I think so now ; for since I hope again, I 
 keep quiet and patient to keep off' the fever — 
 ah yes, I shall get well now." 
 
 He did get well, and wenc back to his 
 dear Provence ; thouoh what share the 
 flowers had in his recovery, deponent sayeth 
 not. 
 
 It was impossible for any intelligent ob- 
 server to follow the hospital staffs in their 
 rounds, without being struck by their mode of 
 investigation. Arnold thought it above all 
 praise, so lucid, so logical, so minute and con-
 
 FAIR OAKS. 209 
 
 nected ; yet so free from what a sister pro- 
 fession calls "leading questions." Our young 
 doctor was perhaps unduly swayed by certain 
 reminiscences of his friend Dr. Shortcut ; but 
 he certainly contrasted these scenes favourably 
 with parallel ones at home. 
 
 He recalled many a case in a hasty hospital 
 round, where all the principal symptoms of the 
 disease suspected, had been suggested to the in- 
 valid. When the style of questioning left the ill- 
 educated, ill-at-ease hospital patient, with his 
 scanty ideas and scanty powers of expression, 
 little choice but general assent. 
 
 In the general arrangements, too — the in- 
 terior, practical working of the hospitals — he 
 found much to admire. Each department 
 was so thoroughly systematized, that nothing 
 was left to chance ; or, as is too often the case 
 with us, to the indiscreet discretion of nurses. 
 
 VOL. 1. p
 
 210 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 Thus, a good and equal treatment was secured 
 to all, not depending on the particular nurse, 
 or even doctor, who happened to attend the 
 case. 
 
 Arnold Osborne had gone abroad not 
 wholly free from the common English foible 
 — an idea of the superiority of his country- 
 men in everything. But he was too real 
 a truth-seeker not to be open to conviction ; 
 and his experiences in Paris bore good fruit 
 in his after practice.
 
 FAIR OAKS. 211 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 A NIGHT RIDE. 
 
 It would be tedious to follow Arnold through 
 all his medical experiences abroad. He im- 
 proved rapidly in knowledge of his profession, 
 and the old Professor with whom he resided, 
 was loud in praise of his diligence, energy, 
 and capacity. 
 
 He had been six or seven months in Paris, 
 and all was going on well, when bad news 
 from home unexpectedly disturbed his arrange- 
 ments, and cut short his residence abroad. 
 
 One fine afternoon, his studies over, Arnold 
 
 P 2
 
 212 FAIR OxiKS. 
 
 took up his hat, and was sallying forth for a 
 walk, when the porter of the house stopped 
 him, and placed in his hand a letter just re- 
 ceived to his address. 
 
 Arnold saw at a glance that it bore the 
 Fair Oaks' postmark, and was in his step- 
 mother's handwriting. A dim apprehension 
 of coming evil fell on his mind. He tore open 
 the seal. Mrs. Osborne wrote in a state of 
 distraction, which made her letter almost un- 
 intelligible. All he could gather was that 
 his father had been thrown from his horse, 
 and that Mrs. Osborne urged and implored 
 her step-son's immediate return. 
 
 There was no need of uroinc^. To run 
 into the Professor's room with the open letter, 
 to throw together a few travelling requisites, 
 and set off for the Northern Railway Station, 
 was the work of a few minutes. He arrived
 
 FAIR OAKS. 213 
 
 in time for the departing evening train, and 
 crossing the channel that night, was at Fair 
 Oaks the following evening, indeed before an 
 answer by post would have been received. 
 
 It was a dull, backward spring ; late 
 enough for all the early blossoms to be over, 
 the hawthorn he noticed especially was all 
 gone; while, as yet, no summer riches re- 
 placed the loss. Everything looked gray, 
 gloomy, and depressing in the agricultural 
 district through which his road lay. Even 
 pretty Fair Oaks looked unlike itself in the 
 cold, misty twilight, as Arnold, his mind bur- 
 dened with vague anxieties, threw himself 
 out of the post-chaise which had brought 
 him from the Newtown Railway Station, and 
 entered the Archway House. 
 
 A most painful surprise awaited him, for 
 Mrs. Osborne's incoherent scrawl had not
 
 214 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 prepared him for the full extent of the family 
 calamity. 
 
 Three nights before, Dr. Osborne had been 
 summoned to an urgent case, in the direction 
 of Mr. Glyn's cottage, but a mile or two 
 further on. The road lay by the chalk-pits ; 
 that very road which he had once, laughingly 
 and unforebodingly, said he should not like 
 to traverse on a dark night. 
 
 He now had to traverse it, on a dark night 
 and a stormy one. The summons reached 
 him so late, and the road was so bad, that a 
 delay till morning might perhaps have been 
 deemed excusable. 
 
 However, Dr. Osborne was a very consci- 
 entious physician. He did not seek excuses 
 to avoid a disagreeable professional duty. 
 The case was urgent and he went at once. 
 
 Through the now silent village, past the
 
 FAIR OAKS. 215 
 
 old gray bridge, up by Paul's cottage, against 
 hail and wind, he rode on till he came to the 
 narrow, dangerous bridle-path, which sliirted 
 the deeply excavated chalk- pit. It was un- 
 fenced, and only by the flashes of lightning 
 could the road be followed on that clouded 
 night. But he got safely past, for he reached 
 his patient, to whom he was truly a messenger 
 of mercy that night. 
 
 Dr. Osborne remained a good while at the 
 house, and leaving the patient much relieved, 
 prepared to return home. The storm had some- 
 what abated, and the risk was less than it had 
 been in coming. He took leave of the 
 family and started for Fair Oaks some hours 
 after midnight. 
 
 Morning came, and he had not reached 
 home. But this created no alarm, for Mrs.
 
 216 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 Osborne supposed he had been detained by the 
 precarious state of his patient, a Mr. Webster, 
 a man in advanced life. And when before 
 breakfast a note was brought from Captain 
 Boxer requesting the Doctor's attendance, 
 Mrs. Osborne sent the groom who had ridden 
 over with it, up to Mr. Webster's, desiring 
 him to call on the way at Mr. Glyn's in case 
 her husband might have slept there, as he had 
 sometimes done before, when detained very late 
 in Paul's neighbourhood. 
 
 " Dr. Osborne has not been here," said 
 Mr. Glyn, giving back the note to Captain 
 Boxer's groom, who had found him early at 
 work in his garden. 
 
 The man stared stupidly. 
 
 "You must ride on to Mr. Webster's. 
 Were not those Mrs. Osborne's directions ?"
 
 FAIR OAKS. 217 
 
 The groom looked stolid, and said nothing. 
 
 Mr. Glyn repeated the order rather im- 
 patiently. 
 
 " There's no use going to Mr. Webster's, 
 sir," at last he said. 
 
 " Why, what do you mean ?" 
 
 " I mean, sir, that I've just met Mr. Web- 
 ster's gardener going into Newtown Market, 
 and being old friends, and from the same part 
 of. " 
 
 " Never mind that, go on." 
 
 " Well, sir, he told me how ill his old 
 master had been, not expected to live through 
 the night, for, indeed, the whole family 
 thought " 
 
 " Never mind what they thought," said 
 Paul ; " the Doctor — what of Dr. Osborne ?" 
 
 " I was coming to that, sir, but you cut a
 
 218 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 man so short. The Doctor stayed a long 
 while, and did a power of good " 
 
 "Well, well?" 
 
 " And it was nigh morning before he could 
 get away, and he left for home, the gardener 
 said, when dawn " 
 
 "Left for home?" 
 
 " When dawn was nigh, sir. " 
 
 " You are certain ?" 
 
 " The gardener saw him, sir, with his own 
 eyes, for he had had to rise early himself this 
 
 morning to see to. 
 
 " Was the Doctor riding ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir ; riding along quite cheerily, on 
 the road to Fair Oaks, and never has reached 
 home." 
 
 Paul turned pale. 
 
 " The chalk-pit !" he exclaimed, with a 
 flash of painful light on his mind.
 
 FAIR OAKS. 219 
 
 '' Oh, no, sir ; Mr. Glyn, don't say that, 
 sir. There'd be no hope then." The man 
 was startled out of his stolidity; the chalk- 
 pit was a word of ill-omen throughout the 
 district. 
 
 Paul cut him short. 
 
 " Put up your horse here. Come down the 
 lower path with me instantly. We can see 
 nothing over the cliff from the upper road." 
 
 As they went down the winding road, 
 which led to the excavations under the cliff, 
 they met some cottagers tramping in from 
 the fields to breakfast. 
 
 Paul stopped them to ask if they had 
 heard anything of his friend. 
 
 They had heard nothing ; they had met no 
 one. But when they found it was Dr. Os- 
 borne who was missing, they one and all 
 turned back to aid in the search ; some per-
 
 220 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 haps from curiosity, but some from gratitude 
 and true interest in the case, for Dr. Osborne 
 had been a good friend to more than one of 
 these poor men. And the feeling of gratitude 
 is still powerful in the humblest classes of 
 Englishmen, little as they too generally have 
 to call it forth. Let those who doubt it, in- 
 dulge themselves with an opportunity of 
 judging. 
 
 The labourers turned back and followed 
 Paul down the hill ; a silent, anxious party — 
 seekers, fearing to find. 
 
 The road, after many windings, debouched 
 right in front of the chalk-pit, which had been 
 cut away from under the hill above. They 
 paused suddenly. 
 
 For there before them, deep down in the 
 ghastly white hollow, which the scattered 
 patches of rank green vegetation oozing with
 
 FAIR OAKS. 221 
 
 the night's rain, made slimy and treacherous 
 to their steps, lay a panting horse, bruised 
 and blood-stained. 
 
 And a few feet from the terrified animal, 
 which had evidently not attempted to stir 
 from the spot where it had fallen, lay the 
 hapless rider, without cut or visible injury, 
 except one small, sharp wound on the left 
 temple, dead — quite dead. 
 
 They hardly thought it could be so at first, 
 he looked so calm, so unaltered, so much like 
 one in sleep, or passing trance. And one 
 after another, the horny hands of the la- 
 bourers were gently laid on the bared wrist, 
 thinking to feel the pulse of life yet lingering. 
 One by one, they drew back, convinced. 
 
 Paul alone, did not attempt any trial ; he 
 knew at the first glance that all was over ; 
 that the old, old, ever-new mystery of death
 
 222 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 had been enacted that night on the lonely 
 hill-side ; God and angels the only specta- 
 tors. No human presence with the sufferer ; 
 none of those who loved him, and lived happy 
 in his love, to stand by him in his extremity, 
 to support the fainting spirit, and treasure up 
 the last words, and last wishes. 
 
 " That he, of all men, should die thus 
 alone," thought his friend; "he, the very 
 soul of all cordial home and social ties. And 
 for his son, his family, no alleviating, after- 
 thought, only a pained craving to know what 
 never now can be known ; only this sudden, 
 wrenching severance of closest bonds, with 
 its life-long regret — * Would at least we had 
 been with him !' " 
 
 In what manner the fatal accident had oc- 
 curred, could only be matter of conjecture ; 
 whether the rider had mistaken the path, or
 
 FAIR OAKS. 223 
 
 the horse lost its footing, or startled by the 
 wild lightniDg flashes, madly leaped the low 
 barrier into the gulf below, there was none to 
 tell. 
 
 They only knew that there, out on the 
 solitary roadside — a heavy, senseless mass — 
 lay all that remained on earth of true, kindly 
 John Osborne ; the warm heart cold now for 
 the first time, the kind face rigid and mean- 
 ingless. 
 
 They raised and led away the stunned 
 horse, his limbs quivering, his great watchful 
 eye dilating with fear and pain. Then they 
 raised the dead man, sadly, silently, tenderly 
 — as if he could yet be disturbed by touch or 
 tumult ! — and set out — a sorrowful procession 
 — for Paul's cottage. No direction given — 
 none needed — no word spoken, no sound on 
 the soft, still morning air, but the trailing
 
 224 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 hoof of a riderless steed, and the dull 
 measured tramp of men bearing a heavy 
 burden. 
 
 And then Paul Glyn had to put aside his 
 own heart- felt sorrow, and strengthen himself 
 to go forward and try to find words in which 
 to make known to John Osborne's nearest 
 and dearest ones, how he who had gone forth 
 from their sight, in stalwart health and 
 strength but a few hours before, would return 
 to them never again. 
 
 Paul went. 
 
 Most saddening errand ! To draw near the 
 pleasant home — Ids home — looking so fair 
 and tranquil in the early light — the flowery 
 lawn rich in morning fragrance — a cluster of 
 little happy, expectant faces, gathered in the 
 window, turned all in one direction. Not 
 seeing Paul, as he stole by, and went round
 
 FAIR OAKS. 225 
 
 to the servants' entrance, hoping to prepare 
 the household — not seeing him, poor little 
 faces ! still looking wistfully out — out, all 
 down the long straggling street for another 
 form than his. 
 
 As he glanced furtively up at the children, 
 he thought of the chalk-pit and shuddered. 
 He felt like a guilty thing, stealing along to 
 bring such black shadows on those young 
 lives. 
 
 He reached the side-entrance, but he was 
 not able to give any preparatory w^arning. 
 For the moment his ring at the bell sounded, 
 a joyful relieved tumult broke forth within — 
 " Papa — papa has come, he is at the side- 
 door ;" and with merry jostling and laughing, 
 and the patter of many small feet, out trooped 
 the little ones to meet their father at the 
 door ; shrinking back with a surprise that was 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 almost a foreboding, as they found out their 
 mistake. Behind them the wife — wife no 
 longer — a sudden pallor blanching her face 
 as she drew Paul into the cheerful morning- 
 room, where a bright, clear fire shone in the 
 grate, and the snowy damask, and the laid-out 
 breakfast, all telling of preparation for the 
 absent, showed how utterly unprepared for 
 evil tidings the family was. 
 
 To see all this, and to feel the while what 
 it was he had to reveal, tried Paul's sensitive 
 nature to the utmost. 
 
 Mrs. Osborne had not spoken ; she did not 
 resume her seat, but stood by the open door, 
 half-vacantly steadying herself by the handle, 
 as if she must fall if she relinquished it. She 
 could only articulate the one word of impatient 
 inquiry, "Well?" 
 
 Paul glanced at the children around, then
 
 FAIR OAKS. 227 
 
 at the door-way, where wondering servants 
 beofan to orather. He would have shut them all 
 out. Mrs. Osborne understood his purpose, 
 and by an impatient gesture forbade it. She 
 could not brook another moment's suspense. 
 Mr. Glyn saw this, saw that nature was taxed 
 almost beyond endurance, that delay would be 
 no kindness, and he spoke. Not lingering 
 over torturing preliminaries, but in few words 
 of infinite tenderness — as wisely, as kindly, 
 as such tidings could be given, he spoke that 
 which he had come to announce. And weep- 
 ing and dismay filled the pleasant home. 
 
 But we will not dwell longer on this sad 
 home-tragedy of sudden death — this every- 
 day tragedy if you will — but so fearfully and 
 unfailingly new each time, to those in turn 
 visited by it. 
 
 Q 2
 
 228 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE CHANGED HOME. 
 
 To this saddened home came Arnold Osborne. 
 His feelings, when he found that his father 
 was gone, that — in the common phrase that 
 tells so much — " all was over," we dare not 
 meddle with. 
 
 Little leisure was given him for the indul- 
 gence of his grief, for everything regarding 
 family and business arrangements was thrown 
 on him. His step-mother, who had entirely 
 relied on her husband in these things, was 
 now distracted and helpless.
 
 FAIR OAKS. 229 
 
 Mrs. Osborne, as we have before said, was 
 a common-place sort of woman, well-meaning 
 enough in a general waj, that is, when 
 her own interests and feelings did not inter- 
 fere. With her, as with most ordinary 
 characters, self was the master-thought. 
 Narrow minds, few ideas, limited interests, 
 must result in selfishness. People think a 
 good deal about themselves, who know nothing 
 else to think about. 
 
 So Mrs. Osborne was very selfish in a quiet, 
 steady way ; not betraying herself much in 
 ordinary circumstances, but revealing her 
 character unmistakeably under excitement. 
 She had good-natured, friendly manners, and 
 was generally voted '^ a kind, motherly wo- 
 man." 
 
 Her supposed good temper, and her good 
 looks had captivated John Osborne, a man
 
 230 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 infinitely her superior in every way. He 
 had been most generously indulgent in his 
 treatment of her and her foibles, so that 
 during her married life, her ruling faults had 
 been but rarely provoked into action. She 
 had had everything her own way, and been 
 very happy after her own fashion, and violent 
 was now her grief. She was displeased with 
 Arnold's wordless depression, for her own 
 sorrow found vent in unceasing lamentation. 
 
 And after what we have said, we need 
 hardly add, that she was wholly deficient in 
 that sympathy which can enter into the cha- 
 racter of another and recognise feelin^fs not 
 expressed on its own model. 
 
 Thus, while Arnold w^as unspeakably op- 
 pressed and weighed down by his father's 
 death, Mrs. Osborne was secretly upbraiding 
 him in her own thoughts for hardness and
 
 FAIR OAKS. 231 
 
 indifference ; and finding cause of offence in 
 all he said or did, in all he left unsaid or un- 
 done. His outward calm, and endeavours 
 after self-control, she could neither imitate 
 nor understand ; they were an hourly irrita- 
 tion to her. 
 
 Some natures improve under affliction; 
 perhaps those are of the higher grade — poor 
 Mrs. Osborne's certainly did not. She be- 
 came increasingly irritable and suspicious. 
 Feelings of distrust and womanly jealousy 
 towards her husband's first-born, showed 
 themselves as they had never done before. 
 In secret she had always experienced some- 
 thing of these feelings, but at least she had 
 controlled them. Now they were indulged 
 in, and such emotions grow rapidly by in- 
 dulgence. 
 
 Mrs. Osborne besran to think her own small
 
 232 * FAIR OAKS. 
 
 brood grievously injured by Arnold's position 
 and seniority. She asked herself what her 
 own future was to be ; how had her husband's 
 affairs been left ? A great change in her own 
 situation and income was likely ; but to what 
 extent ? Was this step-son wholly to super- 
 sede her and her children? Mrs. Osborne 
 soon persuaded herself she was an exceedingly 
 injured individual, a conviction easily arrived 
 at by most persons, and which appears to 
 bring a sort of satisfaction of its own. 
 
 Words followed thoughts. The widow told 
 her troubles to her own friends, and especially to 
 her unwise, gossiping neighbour, Miss Laurel, 
 her confidante on most subjects. Many re- 
 ports prejudicial to the unconscious Arnold, 
 were circulated through Fair Oaks, and the 
 condolences which Mrs. Osborne received, in- 
 creased her discontent by appearing to justify
 
 FAIR OAKS. 233 
 
 it; till at last, the poor selfish woman, be- 
 tween her real sorrow, and her imaginary 
 wrongs, became so irritable and exacting, that 
 no temper less calm and generous than her 
 step-son's, could have endured her conduct. 
 He set it all down to the excess of her grief, 
 and became more forbearing as her fretfulness 
 increased ; quite unsuspicious of the feelings 
 towards himself, which were at work in her 
 mind. 
 
 But things could not long go on thus. 
 
 One evening, soon after the faneral, the 
 truth broke upon him. 
 
 The day in question had brought heavy 
 news to the Archway House. The agent, 
 before referred to, had absconded ; Dr. Os- 
 borne's death, and the consequent necessity 
 of giving an account of the trust, having
 
 284 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 accelerated the catastrophe, which, sooner or 
 later, was inevitable. 
 
 And it was discovered that with the ex- 
 ception of a comparatively trifling portion — 
 which having been invested in English se- 
 curities, had escaped misappropriation — the 
 whole of Dr. Osborne's fortune had been 
 swept away. 
 
 A new trial this to the Osbornes, at least 
 to all those old enough to understand it; 
 severest trial to the least mercenary nature 
 among them — Arnold's. For it threatened 
 all his most cherished plans. How could he 
 now carry on his studies abroad before com- 
 mencing practice ? How could he now meet 
 the expensive uncertainties of a physician's 
 first years in London ? 
 
 Very keenly the young doctor felt that a
 
 FAIR OAKS. 235 
 
 disappointment here, would be the disap- 
 pointment of his life's aim. To give up 
 study now for drudging practice, would be to 
 take up his medical career at a great disad- 
 vantage. His intellectual powers were not 
 yet fully developed. He felt this, and longed 
 to rise above his present mental level ; longed 
 to get culture in diligent study, research, 
 travel; in short to win his full stature. A 
 just aim ! 
 
 And again : to give up London — the best, 
 in some sense, the only field for a career — 
 was to give up all hope of the position he 
 aspired to in his profession. Arnold was 
 ambitious, with a certain worthy ambition. 
 He had looked forward to a recognised rank 
 in his profession, to a brave contest with ex- 
 isting abuses, to a leading part in all useful
 
 236 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 reform, all broad benevolent enterprise ; had 
 looked also — why not? — to an honourable 
 name among honourable men. 
 
 For years he had resolutely kept these 
 things in view, gathering himself up for a 
 vigorous life-battle; preparing for it, day 
 by day, with a chivalrous earnestness. This 
 career of honourable usefulness had been his 
 ideal. And like every good ideal steadily 
 pursued, it had been to him a daily elevation 
 of character and conduct. Through his whole 
 student life, at home and abroad, he had 
 steered his solitary course to this future — 
 unswervingly — with the calm earnestness 
 of pre-occupation. Early and late he had 
 studied. No fatigue had been shunned, no 
 sacrifice, no exertion that might enlarge his 
 sphere of knowledge and consequent useful-
 
 FAIR OAKS. 237 
 
 ness. All the strength of a resolute charac- 
 ter had been loyally put forth in the course 
 he had prescribed to himself. 
 
 Every year his aim had risen in his estima- 
 tion, for every year he thought more highly 
 of his profession in the abstract; felt more 
 and more its enormous capabilities for good ; 
 and aspired more earnestly to work them out. 
 The very abuses which he could not ignore, 
 gave a stimulus to his exertions ; his weapons 
 duly prepared, the day should come when he 
 would strike a blow at them, and help to 
 justify his profession by repudiating and aid- 
 ing to extinguish all that now disfigured it. 
 
 All have their early aspirations. These, 
 not unworthy, were Arnold Osborne's. 
 
 And now? 
 
 And now it seemed to have been all in 
 vain. It seemed that to obtain the means of
 
 238 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 sheltering and supporting his father's family, 
 he must sacrifice his own future ; resign 
 study, travel, the expected career, and sink 
 at once into the daily drudgery of a country 
 doctor's life, in the narrow sphere of Fair 
 Oaks; accept its petty interests and petty 
 rivalries, and be thankful if they could be 
 turned to account in the immediate realisa- 
 tion of pounds, shillings, and pence. 
 
 That evening, a cold, misty, cheerless time, 
 Arnold was alone in his own room, lost in 
 thought. He sat at the window, gazing out 
 wearily on the desolate garden, the damp 
 lawn, the leafless beech tree, feeling the 
 scene, rather than seeing it, as he revolved, 
 gloomily enough, the painful changes a few 
 days had made in his whole prospects. 
 
 He longed to escape from the impending 
 fate.
 
 FAIR OAKS. 239 
 
 One outlet for him there was ; some men 
 would have said two. One of these, that 
 which Arnold would not admit the thought 
 of, even in his great desire of escape, was 
 this. 
 
 The money saved, was, as it chanced, the 
 portion which Dr. Osborne in his prosperous 
 days, had assigned to his eldest son, in whose 
 name it had been invested, and at whose dis- 
 position it ^as now placed. 
 
 But Arnold knew it had been so left, under 
 the impression that the rest of the family 
 were well provided for. Legally it was his, 
 but the idea of appropriating it to himself 
 never occurred to him as possible. 
 
 Another expedient remained, and that he 
 earnestly desired to avail himself of. It was 
 to cede to his step-mother all that remained 
 of the property, and then to return to the
 
 240 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 Continent, and by the most rigid economy and 
 self-denial, by the work of his own head, or 
 hands if necessary, obtain the means of pro- 
 secuting his studies. That point effected, he 
 should be independent — poor enough, it is 
 true — but at least free ; free to aspire, free to 
 rise, free to think, and act, and resolve, and 
 carve his own way to eminence ; he would 
 trust himself or that ! he asked no better 
 lot. 
 
 But this plan Mrs. Osborne violently op- 
 posed. The income thus provided for her, 
 would be so very different from what she had 
 been accustomed to in her husband's life- 
 time — it would involve so many personal in- 
 conveniences, so many retrenchments — that 
 she was extremely displeased at the sugges- 
 tion. She was indignant that Arnold should 
 think of leaving Fair Oaks, when by remain-
 
 FAIR OAKS. 241 
 
 ing he would secure at once his father's 
 lucrative practice, and be enabled to retain 
 for her and her children the Archway House 
 and all its comforts. 
 
 Arnold, on his side, did not feel that she 
 had any right to dictate to him in the matter ; 
 it was with his own conscience that he had to 
 settle the point, and balance the contending 
 interests — his own, and those of his father's 
 second family. 
 
 And this evening he was attempting to do 
 so. Twilight came and went unnoticed. Still 
 he sat alone, in the now dark room, his head 
 leaning on his hands. All was quiet, save the 
 occasional slow plash of heavy rain drops, or 
 the sudden outbreak of the wind as it moaned 
 sullenly round the house. All seemed desolate 
 without, and within ; the Archway House was 
 indeed a changed home now. 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 242 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 He knew not how long he had sat thus, 
 when he was roused from his reverie by a noise 
 behind him. He turned from the window, and 
 saw his room-door abruptly flung wide open, 
 and the large, showy figure of his step-mother 
 on the threshold. Her face was flushed with 
 anger, as with unnecessary vehemence she 
 swung-to the door, and put down her can- 
 dlestick on the table. 
 
 " Here is news ! " she burst forth, " pleasant 
 news indeed ! And you to thank for it, 
 Arnold ! While you are sitting there, making 
 this selflsh fuss about accepting the best prac- 
 tice in the county, it is slipping out of your 
 hands. Already gone perhaps !" 
 
 Arnold was too much surprised by Mrs. 
 Osborne's appearance and manner to reply, 
 and she went on angrily — 
 
 " Here is Dr. Badgerby from Newtown has
 
 FAIR OAKS. 243 
 
 taken the large house opposite the market- 
 place, and is going to establish himself — here 
 — in Fair Oaks ! in your poor dear father's 
 practice ! What's to become of me, Heaven 
 knows ! Ah ! if your poor dear father could 
 but see us!" Mrs. Osborne began to weep 
 stormy tears. " What are we to come to ! 
 Euin staring us in the face ! " — a mere rheto- 
 rical flourish be it observed. " And you sitting 
 there doins: nothino- ! " 
 
 " Mother ! " was all Arnold could say to this 
 unexpected assault. 
 
 "Yes, doing nothing, I say, with your 
 selfish whims and fancies about study. Study, 
 forsooth ! stuff and nonsense ! what has a 
 doctor to do with study when once he has 
 passed? And while, as I say, the best prac- 
 tice in the county is asking, yes actually ask- 
 ing your acceptance, you will let it be lost to 
 
 R 2
 
 244 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 the family. You will let us all fall to beggary, 
 ay, or to the workhouse, rather than sacrifice 
 one of your selfish whims to save us ! " 
 
 ** Mother ! " repeated Arnold, shocked at 
 her vehemence. 
 
 But Mrs. Osborne went on. She found it 
 a relief to give vent to her long pent-up feel- 
 ings towards her step-son. She goaded him 
 almost to desperation with her taunts, inuendos, 
 and reproaches. She had not felt so angry for 
 a long time. The subject excited her as no 
 other could do, for poverty — as she considered 
 it — threatened her ; and having known in 
 early life how sore and stinging a thing that 
 is, she was determined to avoid it at any 
 cost. 
 
 As she poured forth her ungenerous and 
 unjust accusations, Arnold rose up slowly — 
 
 "Mother," he said sadly, "you must not
 
 FAIR OAKS. 245 
 
 say these things. For my father's sake, do 
 not say such things." 
 
 But no — she ''believed" she had a right to 
 say what she pleased ; she " supposed" she 
 had a right to say what everyone was saying. 
 Everyone was talking of the folly of renouncing 
 such a practice ; everyone was talking of 
 Doctor and Mrs. Badgerby, and their new 
 house ; a very fine house, quite a gentleman's 
 house — so repectable — and Mrs. Badgerby, 
 such a superior person — and Dr. Badgerby so 
 clever — certainly very clever — sure to succeed 
 — a most excellent doctor, as no one could 
 deny. 
 
 Mrs. Osborne worked herself more and more 
 into a passion, as she recapitulated all the ar- 
 guments in favour of the Badgerbys ; arguments 
 which at another time she would not have 
 admitted for a moment.
 
 246 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 Arnold entreated her to be calm. 
 
 No, she would not be calnn. It was all 
 very well for Arnold to be calm. Arnold 
 had taken care of himself. Arnold was pro- 
 vided for ; he would take all that remained 
 of his father's property, while her poor 
 children 
 
 " Never ! You know that, Never ! " ex- 
 claimed Arnold, fairly roused, and his eyes 
 flashing indignantly. 
 
 No, she did not know that, she knew 
 nothing, she would admit nothing. Arnold 
 had already injured the whole family by the 
 ridiculous expenses his father had indulged 
 him in, in education, &c. There was Freddy 
 (her own eldest son, an arrant blockhead as 
 Mrs. Osborne very well knew, but she did 
 not find it convenient to recognize the fact 
 at that moment) — dear Freddy — why was he
 
 FAIR OAKS. 247 
 
 not the doctor ? — there he was — sent to sea — 
 banished from home, poor fellow — he should 
 have had Arnold's education — he would never 
 have brought down the respectability of the 
 Osbornes, and driven his relations into the 
 workhouse (Mrs. Osborne had quite settled 
 that pleasing little episode) — he would never 
 have brought the whole family to poverty, for 
 any selfish whim of his. Such conduct was 
 perfect dishonesty ! And with that Mrs. 
 Osborne swung out of the room with a bang 
 of the door, which echoed and re-echoed 
 through the stillness of the house.
 
 248 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 A TEMPTATION PAUL. 
 
 Arnold was once more left alone. His first 
 thoughts were very bitter. His whole nature 
 revolted against the violence and injustice of 
 Mrs. Osborne's language and conduct. He 
 rebelled against her assumption of authority. 
 Before she had entered, he had almost resolved 
 to sacrifice his own prospects to those of his 
 step-mother's children. But her conduct was 
 little inducement to the effort. Let her take 
 every penny, but at least leave him his liberty, 
 his intellectual powers, his individuality, his
 
 FAIR OAKS. 249 
 
 life. Were they all to be laid down for this 
 selfish, narrow-minded woman? 
 
 Sorely tempted was Arnold to throw off the 
 tie, to break these galling bonds, and go forth 
 into the world, alone and free. 
 
 Strong hearts, that have gone through some 
 great temptation, can alone estimate the 
 struggles of this strong heart, which had so 
 steadfastly concentrated itself on one object, 
 and now found that object threatened with 
 destruction, while yet it was still within the 
 power of realization — if only some scruples of 
 conscience could be cast aside. 
 
 Poor Arnold ! Like many another, he had 
 high notions of duty in the abstract, but he 
 had never expected that it was to be in this 
 shape that she would bring her claims ; never 
 contemplated this as the form in which his 
 loyalty was to be tested ; and, like many
 
 250 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 another, he felt that any other trial would 
 have been preferable to the actual one. 
 
 But principle is not cultivated as a daily 
 habit in lesser things, to fail us in the greater; 
 men must have yielded to many a smaller 
 temptation ere they are overwhelmed of a 
 great one. Arnold had not done so. He had 
 never trifled with his moral perception, and 
 its cultivated clearness stood him in good 
 stead in the hour of trial ; reminding him of 
 the claims of his dead father, the just claims 
 the young children had on him who now 
 occupied that father's place, bringing home to 
 him the wrong to his conscience, to his moral 
 sense in secret (though not in public), if he 
 now fell away from his own sense of duty — 
 his own standard of right. 
 
 And before the gray dawn was breaking 
 into day, his mind was made up to cast aside
 
 FAIR OAKS. 251 
 
 all personal considerations, and take up man- 
 fully the burdensome duty before him. 
 
 Arnold, almost unconsciously, was walking 
 restlessly up and down his room while deciding 
 his own fate, and his step-mother, whose room 
 was immediately under his, could not but be 
 aware that he was getting no rest that night. 
 She was beginning to repent of her violence, or 
 at least to regret it, wiich is not quite the same 
 thing, and at each re-commencement of his 
 restless walk, a fresh relenting came over her. 
 She recalled the cheerless state of his cold, 
 fireless room ; she remembered that he had 
 not joined any of the family meals that day. 
 " He must be starving with cold and hunger," 
 thought Mrs. Osborne. These were trials she 
 could understand. She began to pity lier 
 step-son, and to plan for the better providing
 
 252 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 of his creature-comforts. She who had re- 
 morselessly demanded the tribute of his whole 
 prospects in life, now began to be seriously 
 uneasy lest he should take cold. 
 
 Mrs. Osborne was getting so uncomfortable 
 under her own reflections, that she resolved 
 to rise and go at once to her step-son, and 
 persuade him to take refreshment and rest; 
 even if, to tranquillize him, she had to retract 
 her accusations, lower her claims, and make 
 some concession to his feelings and wishes. 
 
 The prompting, such as it was, came from 
 her better nature, and with the re-action 
 common to feelings that have been more than 
 ordinarily excited, she was impatient to act 
 on it. Hastily throwing on her things she 
 went out into the passage which led to the 
 upper staircase.
 
 FAIR OAKS. 253 
 
 As she did so the footsteps ceased. She 
 listened. All was still. She waited some 
 moments. Not a sound from Arnold's 
 room. 
 
 *' After all, he has gone to bed, and I am 
 worrying myself about nothing," she said to 
 herself; her ill-humour returning, as her un- 
 easiness was removed ; and she hastily went 
 back to her room and her slumbers, reminding 
 herself that it would be quite time enough to 
 make any concession to Arnold when they 
 should meet at breakfast. 
 
 Indeed, on second thoughts, it was not very 
 aofreeable to S'O on a mission which avowed 
 her to have been in the wrong; the impulse 
 had passed, and she readily convinced herself 
 that a few hours' delay could make *'no differ- 
 ence" either way. 
 
 Eash words for any mortal. A few hours
 
 254 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 often make the whole difference between life 
 and death — happiness and misery. 
 
 Mrs. Osborne did not execute her plan that 
 night ; and the next morning it was too late. 
 Arnold had left the house. 
 
 When his absence was discovered, Mrs. 
 Osborne carried off her surprise and uneasi- 
 ness very well, but her private thoughts were 
 anything but agreeable. She wished that she 
 had been less violent, or that at least she 
 had gone back to her step-son's room, as she 
 had proposed doing. Her regret was not for 
 her misconduct, but for its consequences. She 
 feared she had disgusted Arnold and defeated 
 her own object. He had left the house, as 
 she supposed, not to return. 
 
 Mrs. Osborne cried a good deal that day, 
 punished the children all round, and made 
 many appeals to her departed husband.
 
 FAIR OAKS. ^55 
 
 In the evening she was in the act of angrily 
 chiding the eldest girl, and, in a mere ebulli- 
 tion of temper, snatching from her a favourite 
 toy writing-box, when she saw in it a note 
 directed to herself. She did not recognise 
 the writing; Mrs. Osborne never did dis- 
 tinguish between different handwritings, but, 
 much surprised to see an unopened letter 
 there, she seized on the missive. 
 
 " Why, Emmar Elizar ! " she exclaimed, 
 " how ever did this come here ? " 
 
 " It was not I, mother ; it was Johnny," 
 sobbed " Emmar Elizar." " He found it in 
 Arnold's room, and I asked for it to take care 
 of. I meant to show it you another time. 
 I knew it was from poor Arnold, that is gone 
 to drown himself." (Such was the legend in 
 circulation in servants' hall and nursery.) 
 
 "Drown himself! Nonsense, child ; hold
 
 ^56 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 your tongue," retorted Mrs. Osborne, turning, 
 however, a little pale as she spoke. A weak, 
 superstitious woman, she was actually afraid 
 to open and read the note so discovered, with 
 the child's augury in her ears. The little 
 girl sobbed aloud. The children all loved 
 their tall, kind, elder brother. 
 
 At last Mrs. Osborne mustered her courage 
 and read the note. It contained no assurance 
 of impending suicide, by water or otherwise ; 
 no denunciation of her conduct and threat of 
 an injured ghost haunting her for the rest of 
 her life, as she had half expected. The letter 
 was merely a matter-of-fact statement that the 
 writer, Arnold, acceded to her wishes, and, 
 after two or three days' absence, to recover 
 himself a little from late painful events, would 
 return home prepared to enter at once on his 
 new professional duties.
 
 FAIR OAKS. 257 
 
 With infinite relief Mrs. Osborne read these 
 words, and the first proof she gave of recovered 
 spirits was a hearty cufFto the weeping Emmar 
 Elizar, who had been anxiously watching her 
 mother's countenance, and, misinterpreting 
 the signs of the times, had just set up a 
 dismal howl, under the full impression that 
 her beloved brother was indeed, as she phrased 
 it, "gone and drowned." 
 
 Arnold had left the note on his table, 
 whence Master Johnny had abstracted it, 
 and — Mrs. Osborne's frame of mind all that 
 day not encouraging confidential communica- 
 tions — had shown it to no one but his sister 
 Emma. Emma dared not break the seal, but 
 she had taken care of the letter, and meant 
 to show it to her mother at a more favourable 
 season ; for all the children knew that Mrs. 
 
 VOL I. S
 
 258 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 Osborne was that day excessively angry with 
 their supposed-to-be-defunct brother. 
 
 When at early dawn Arnold had noiselessly 
 let himself out of the house, he started to 
 walk across the fields towards Newtown, to 
 meet an early coach which passed in that 
 direction. He had no plans ; he hardly knew 
 where the coach went ; he only felt that he 
 must get away from Fair Oaks, from Mrs. 
 Osborne for a time, and secure a few days' 
 quiet before entering on his new mode of life. 
 
 But he would not go without letting his old 
 friend, Paul Glyn, know his movements. It 
 was very early — the sun not risen, though the 
 long level lines of red that streaked the eastern 
 horizon showed its near approach. Not an 
 hour for visiting, certainly; but to Paul he 
 knew that he might go at any time. 
 
 Always appearing quite disengaged, Pau
 
 FAIR OAKS. 259 
 
 never seemed in the least surprised by those 
 unseasonable or unexpected acts which annoy 
 and discompose most persons. He possessed 
 the faculty of meeting unusual events as 
 quietly as every- day occurrences ; the rare 
 forbearance not to persecute a friend in un- 
 explained difficulties with expressions of aston- 
 ishment and curiosity. 
 
 How often when we would fain ask help 
 and counsel in our perplexities, are we held 
 back by the fore-knowledge of the foolish 
 wonder we shall excite — the irruption of ex- 
 clamation and inquisitiveness we shall arouse. 
 To be stunned with ejaculations, and badgered 
 with cross-questions, is hardly an inviting 
 prospect to a troubled soul. So generally, 
 we bear each our own burthen silently, mak- 
 ing no claim one on another, and going without 
 
 S 2
 
 260 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 help and sympathy that would be most precious 
 if rightly and considerately exercised. 
 
 Paul, who never seemed surprised at any- 
 thing, was a stronghold to Arnold at this time, 
 and was sought by him with a feeling of ap- 
 proaching rest and relief. 
 
 As young Osborne toiled up the hilly road 
 to the cottage, the upper part of the bluff 
 headland above the fatal chalk-pit was sud- 
 denly lighted up by the rising sun. As it 
 glowed and reddened in those bright rays it 
 caught Arnold's eye. He shuddered. There, 
 then, had fallen his father; his earliest friend. 
 On that spot had his life been rendered up ; a 
 sacrifice to duty, as true, as distinct, as many 
 a one to which the world assigns the hero's 
 wreath, or the martyr's crown. 
 
 Arnold turned aside and hid his face in his
 
 FAIR OAKS. 261 
 
 hands, as he thought of his father falling over 
 that precipice — unaided — alone. But pre- 
 sently, the very thought of his end nerved him. 
 
 He roused himself, and turned deliberately 
 to the fatal cliff. Folding his arms as he 
 leaned back against a large tree by the way- 
 side, he steadily resolved, and re-resolved, to 
 walk in his father's footsteps ; to be faithful 
 to duty, as that father had been ; to thrust 
 aside all weak repinings, all vain regrets — to 
 toil manfully for that father's children, that, 
 so far as in him lay, they should never ex- 
 perience the full bitterness of their grievous 
 loss. 
 
 ** I ivill do my duty ; so help me God ! " 
 he exclaimed, and the self-renunciation of a 
 life was in the resolve. 
 
 As he so resolved, a great calm fell on his 
 heart. Secret good influences seemed to draw
 
 262 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 near, to surround and strengthen his soul : he 
 was able to rise above all personal conside- 
 rations ; he saw his position in a new light. 
 Now for the first time he was really satisfied 
 with the sacrifice he had made, and felt the 
 honest heart-strengthening glow of conscious 
 faithfulness to duty. 
 
 With a tranquillised spirit he now went 
 forward, and soon reached the cottage. 
 
 He was received as he expected. Paul 
 ordered in coffee, as quietly as if his friend 
 were in the daily habit of coming in for that 
 refreshing beverage at sunrise. And not till 
 Arnold had rested and taken the much-needed 
 refreshment, did he feel called on to give Paul 
 any explanation of this early visit. 
 
 Then he told all. 
 
 And Paul sympathised so thoroughly in his 
 friend's position; entered so appreciatingly
 
 FAIR OAKS. 263 
 
 into the circumstances ; approved so heartily 
 of his decision, that it put new life into Arnold 
 to listen to him. 
 
 One proof of friendship which Mr. Glyn 
 gave, was peculiarly grateful to Arnold. 
 
 Paul Glyn felt that young Oshorne was not 
 yet calm enough to enter on practice in the 
 circle where his father had so recently moved ; 
 and he insisted on his taking at least a month's 
 leave of absence, before attempting to settle 
 at the Archway House. 
 
 " Go over to Paris," he said, " settle your 
 affairs there first; then make a short tour 
 where you will. Only don't come back 
 here, till you are looking and feeling a 
 great deal better. Never mind the patients ; 
 I will see to them ; I will keep the clientele 
 together." 
 
 " Ah, Paul ! " said Arnold, touched by what
 
 264 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 he knew to be a great exertion on the part of 
 such a recluse, — " you who so thoroughly 
 dislike practice ! " 
 
 " I shall like it now, Arnold ; and there 
 will be no difficulties in our way, for your 
 step-mother will quite approve. She knows 
 as well as we do that novelty has peculiar 
 charms in Fair Oaks; and Mr. Glyn in practice 
 will certainly be a novelty." 
 
 Paul was talking on, to ward off thanks. 
 " I advise Dr. Badgerby to look to his laurels 
 — leeches, I should say. No, no, Arnold, let 
 us say no more about it. I will go down to 
 the Archway House this evening, and settle it 
 all. By the bye, there was something I had to 
 tell you about Colonel Aubrey" — and he 
 turned the conversation to other subjects. 
 
 Arnold had stayed so long talking with his 
 friend, that he had missed the early coach.
 
 FAIR OAKS. ^65 
 
 But with his new plan of going abroad, this 
 was immaterial, and he remained at the cottage 
 till the afternoon. After being associated so 
 much with Mrs. Osborne, it was a great relief 
 to have a few hours' intercourse with Paul. 
 It was like getting his intellect out of '' bonds 
 and imprisonment." 
 
 But now it was drawing near the time for 
 departure. The conversation flagged, as it 
 often does when parting is nigh. Paul, too, 
 was occupied by secret plots for supplying 
 Arnold with money, which he suspected he 
 must need. He had great hesitation in offer- 
 ing it — for with instinctive delicacy, he shrank 
 from thus marking the sudden change which 
 had taken place in their relative positions. 
 He tried to introduce the subject in an easy 
 off-hand way ; in which he signally failed. 
 He began a long way off — talked in the stu-
 
 ^6G FAIR OAKS. 
 
 pidest rambling way of the inconvenience of 
 having money in the house — the risk, in so 
 keeping it in that retired situation. 
 
 " There is a good bank at Newtown," said 
 Arnold. 
 
 Oh, he had no faith in " those little provin- 
 cial concerns," Paul declared, none — what was 
 it best to do ? 
 
 As he spoke he met Arnold's eye. There 
 was a look of amusement in it, and Paul 
 coloured as if he had been detected stealing 
 money instead of offering it. 
 
 But he felt he was in for it, and with an 
 effort to recover himself and speak easily, he 
 bungled on. 
 
 " Your father once lent me a considerable 
 sum of money, Arnold " 
 
 " No, he did not," said Arnold, quietly. 
 
 " Arnold ! " cried Paul, in vexation.
 
 FAIR OAKS. 267 
 
 Arnold could not help laughing. Paul's 
 simplicity and kindliness moved him, but he 
 only said — English fashion — 
 
 " Paul, you are a humbug !" and clasped 
 his hand cordially. 
 
 Nothing more was said on the subject, but 
 they understood one another. Arnold knew 
 that money was at his service ; and Paul felt 
 that it was not accepted. 
 
 With a lightened mind, Arnold left the 
 cottage ; Paul walking with him to meet the 
 coach. 
 
 '' You have done me a world of good, Paul," 
 said young Osborne, as they were separating. 
 
 Paul smiled, and shaking hands in silence, 
 he turned homewards. 
 
 Arnold sprang up on the coach, more cheer- 
 ful? and hopeful than that morning he could
 
 268 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 have believed it possible for him ever to be 
 again. 
 
 " After all," he thought, *' things may not 
 be so bad as I fancy them. And folly it would 
 be to despond, while God and good men 
 endure ! "
 
 FAIR OAKS. 269 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 IN HARNESS. 
 
 Paul Glyn fulfilled his promise. He assumed 
 Arnold's place during his absence, and had 
 quite a success in Fair Oaks. Every one 
 wished to be attended bj this exclusive doctor, 
 who could never be got to take patients before. 
 His engagements, of course, threw him into 
 frequent communication with Mrs. Osborne, 
 who was no great favourite of his. He had 
 always thought her superficial in feeling and 
 character ; but, even with this opinion of her, 
 he was surprised to find how very quickly she 
 got over her husband's death.
 
 270 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 Mr. Glyn thought she must have been in- 
 sincere in her first display of grief. But here 
 he was mistaken. She had been quite sincere 
 in the expression of her feelings at the time, 
 but she had no depth of character; her 
 emotions were soon exhausted. She had sor- 
 rowed to the full extent of her shallow nature, 
 and her grief was over. Her prospects were 
 satisfactory; she had carried her point with her 
 step-son ; her position was little changed ; the 
 pleasant Archway House still her home. Mrs. 
 Osborne was exceedingly comfortable, and 
 very well satisfied with her circumstances. 
 So she ordered the deepest possible mourning, 
 and talked in the most edifying way of sub- 
 mission to Providence ; and Miss Laurel said 
 her poor dear friend Mrs. Osborne was in a 
 sweet frame of mind. And many others 
 said so too.
 
 FAIR OAKS. 271 
 
 Mrs. Osborne had declared on her husband's 
 death, that she should never care for anything 
 again. And perhaps she thought so. But 
 she did care, and that very speedily. 
 
 Her first consolation came from that happy 
 modern invention — fashionable mourning. To 
 have this all arranged as she was assured it 
 ought to be, there was so much to be planned, 
 selected, purchased, that she had no time left 
 to give to her sorrow. Mrs. Osborne liked 
 dress ; she became almost exhilarated over her 
 present occupation. She seemed to forget 
 the cause of it, in its interest. Then she 
 would remember it and cry a little, and then 
 go off again into a world of her own, of which 
 crape, bombazine, and " widows' silks," were 
 the constituent materials. 
 
 " And this is the sorrow wherewith true- 
 hearted John Osborne is sorrowed for!"
 
 272 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 thought Paul Glyn, with some bitterness, as, 
 one morning dliring Arnold's absence, he came 
 in unexpectedly on Mrs. Osborne and a female 
 conclave of dressmakers' and milliners' girls. 
 
 In the midst of the group stood Mrs. Os- 
 borne, in a state of pleased excitement, talk- 
 ing very loudly — certainly not mournfully — 
 as she tried on various bonnets before the 
 dining-room chimney glass, and received dis- 
 interested assurances of looking remarkably 
 well, first in one, and then in an other. 
 
 Paul was wroth with her in his heart ; but 
 he should rather have condemned the custom 
 which led to this unseemly levity. For cer- 
 tainly we do, now-a-days, mourn after a 
 marvellous fashion. 
 
 Mrs. Osborne took refuge in tears when 
 Mr. Glyn entered, partly because, since her 
 widowhood, she had always cried when any
 
 FAIR OAKS. 273 
 
 visitor came in, and she had a sort of notion 
 it was expected ; partly from real vexation at 
 his findino^ her thus eno-ao^ed. 
 
 Paul, like all very sensitive persons, felt 
 dislike most acutely, and his dislike to the 
 buxom widovs^ grew so much with intercourse, 
 that he was delighted when Arnold's return 
 relieved him from the association. 
 
 Arnold made no long stay abroad, and 
 came home prepared, in his strong, calm, 
 quiet way, to fulfil the duties of his new 
 position. 
 
 We all know that the first months, some- 
 times years, of medical practice, bring many 
 difficulties and discouragements to the young 
 doctor. If Arnold Osborne had imagined, 
 as many a one does, that the goodness 
 of his motives, the disinterestedness of his 
 labours, were to ensure him success and ex- 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 emption from disappointment, he was speedily 
 undeceived. He was allowed to be tried, like 
 others — it seemed to him more than others — 
 by many unsuccessful efforts ; by his own errors 
 of judgment in regard to his young charges, 
 or the treatment of his cases, by vexatious 
 circumstances at home and abroad. He was 
 surprised to find that from his best impulses 
 and feelings often arose his greatest annoy- 
 ances. 
 
 Poetical justice is seldom realized in this 
 world. Success and failure alternate in most 
 lives ; and perhaps the chief distinction be- 
 tween man and man is simply which of the 
 two he will suffer to predominate. The most 
 unfortunate career need not be all failure; 
 the most brilliant will not be all success. 
 
 But the young and ardent mind does not 
 willingly accept this truth. Arnold, at this
 
 FAIR OAKS. 275 
 
 period of his life, could not do so. He thought 
 that good aims and good work ought to com- 
 mand success. He could sacrifice a great deal 
 for a good purpose, and, that effected, think 
 nothing of the loss ; but to sacrifice and fail, 
 and have to submit to failure, was what his 
 spirit rebelled against. It was incompre- 
 hensible to him. 
 
 Particular instances of failure press heaviest 
 on the highest natures. With them one failure 
 dims a thousand successes. The immortal 
 within has no pity on the mortal. 
 
 Yet after all in this our battle-field of 
 life, the fortunes of the Romans must content 
 us ; tliose Romans of whom we always think 
 as conquerors, because, though frequently de- 
 feated, as in this or that battle, they generally 
 remained victors in the final issue of a war. 
 And the issue of the war, the final result of 
 
 T 2
 
 276 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 the struggle, is all that has real importance 
 for us also. If all be well then, all is well 
 now. The intermediate steps, bj themselves, 
 are nothing — important only in what they 
 lead to. We must learn to look past them to 
 the end itself. Like those ancient heroes, we 
 should do well to hold that a battle lost is 
 not a campaign lost ; nor a failed campaign a 
 hopeless war. Those mighty men could be 
 vanquished, but they refused to remain van- 
 quished. Therefore were they conquerors ! 
 Therefore do they yet retain, in our school- 
 teachings of this very day, the grand epithet 
 of " the Victorious Romans ! " 
 
 Arnold was a long timie before he arrived 
 at these convictions, which, in after life, 
 taught him to make more allowance for 
 others, even some allowance for himself — a 
 harder thing for a high conscientiousness.
 
 FAIR OAKS. 277 
 
 Meanwhile, he was secretly impatient with 
 himself and others ; one and all falling so far 
 below his ideal standard. He despised him- 
 self at each failure. To the young and 
 ardent each failure seems final. And as we 
 have said, he had many at first, in his plans 
 and family matters, in his arrangements for 
 the children, even in his professional career. 
 
 And all, need we say it? remorselessly 
 chronicled, for purposes of private exaspera- 
 tion by his step-mother, who openly denied 
 but secretly felt his superiority, and rejoiced 
 in anything that, to her view, lessened the 
 difference between them. 
 
 That lady had speedily reconciled herself 
 to the part she had taken in Arnold's affairs. 
 She had never made the proposed amende for 
 her conduct, and therefore found it desirable 
 to justify it.
 
 278 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 She began by telling Miss Lanrel and her 
 other friends, that she had acted entirely with 
 a view to Arnold's interests in the matter, 
 that it was " all for his own good," she had 
 detained him at Fair Oaks. By degrees she 
 proceeded to take credit for having done so. 
 As the practice extended, she boasted that it 
 was she who had kept him in this desirable 
 position, and induced him to give up his 
 *' foolish, flighty notions." And before long 
 she was talking as if she had laid him under 
 great obligations in the matter. 
 
 She said Arnold had been very fortunate 
 to have a prudent, sensible friend at the 
 moment of decision ; and many others re- 
 peated it after her. 
 
 Arnold did not contradict them ; but he 
 was becoming more and more estranged from 
 the selfish woman who orio'inated these re-
 
 FAIR OAKS. 279 
 
 marks. With his father the charm of home 
 had departed. He lived as little as possible 
 in his own house ; passing his leisure hours 
 chiefly with Paul or the Aubreys, where the 
 welcome he received contrasted painfully with 
 his reception at home. 
 
 In fact he was beginning to dread daily the 
 hour for returning home : a miserable state 
 of things. The children had at first been an 
 interest and a resource for his evenings. But 
 Mrs. Osborne, relieved from the check of her 
 husband's good sense, and making a point of 
 opposing and thwarting her step-son in every- 
 thing, mismanaged them so much, that Ar- 
 nold insisted on all the elder ones being sent to 
 school. On this point he would not listen to 
 anything she could say. He felt he was in 
 the right, and having the power to enforce
 
 280 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 his resolve by sundry pounds, shillings, and 
 pence considerations, suited to Mrs. Osborne's 
 idiosyncrasy, the measure was speedily ef- 
 fected. 
 
 Gloomy enough the Archway House ap- 
 peared to him, when the three elder children 
 were gone. The affectionate and ever weep- 
 ful Emma Eliza was as much overcome at 
 parting with her eldest brother, as she had 
 been on the night of his supposed suicide. 
 Mrs. Osborne, aware that this was the chief 
 cause of her regret at going, declared she 
 had no patience with that tiresome peevish 
 child ; for her part she could not be troubled 
 with her; and it was Arnold who had to "do" 
 all the consolation, and finally to drive the 
 child himself, (svith her smart little new 
 trunk) to Newtown, where she was to remain 
 at school for six months.
 
 FAIR OAKS. 281 
 
 The boys he took up to a good school near 
 London, where little Charlie Boxer had been 
 for some time. With the superior stoniness 
 of their sex, the boys rather enjoyed leaving 
 all their relations ; and being, as they de- 
 clared, very handsomely " tipped " by their 
 step-brother, they voted him " a brick," and 
 were deposited in a very satisfactory state of 
 serenity, in the large play-ground of the 
 Blackheath Academy. 
 
 Arnold returned to his dull home, feeling 
 that he must work harder than ever now that 
 his noisy little companions were gone. 
 
 Work was already waiting him. He had 
 gone to town and returned within two days, 
 but during this time Mrs. Aubrey had had 
 one of her bad attacks, and Dr. Osborne had 
 to go to the Grange immediately on his 
 arrival.
 
 282 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 For a week or ten days he had to see her 
 several times a day. After that she rallied 
 and seemed to make some progress ; but her 
 doctor was far from satisfied with her state. 
 
 He wished to have a consultation on the 
 case ; but this, Mrs. Aubrey, with all her gen- 
 tleness, decidedly opposed. In her feeble 
 state she dreaded seeing a new doctor. 
 
 " I should particularly dislike seeing a 
 stranger just now," she said, " and indepen- 
 dently of that, a consultation would lead to 
 nothing." 
 
 "It is hardly fair to settle that before- 
 hand," said Dr. Osborne, smiling. 
 
 " The truth is, I have been the subject of 
 too many consultations to attach much im- 
 portance to them. You shake your head, 
 Arnold ; but you know that in nine cases out 
 of ten, a consultation is merely the lifting of
 
 FAIR OAKS. 283 
 
 the burden of responsibility from one pair of 
 shoulders to two." 
 
 " As in the present case," replied Arnold. 
 
 " No, this is the tenth," she said, playfully, 
 " and it is just because I know there is no 
 such motive, that I do not feel called on to 
 yield my own wishes." 
 
 ^*But there mif^ht be some suo-o^estion 
 made — there may be some error in my treat- 
 ment, and " 
 
 " I don't think there is ; and if there were, 
 you would not hear of it in a consultation. 
 I have, as you know, had a great deal to do 
 with doctors, and I have always found that if 
 I went alone to a new one, in London or 
 elsewhere, and recounted my latest treatment, 
 I was informed that it was all wrong, that I 
 had been mismanaged, ' the case totally mis-
 
 284 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 taken.' But by some remarkable coinci- 
 dence, whenever the physician in attendance 
 has brought in another for consultation, the 
 treatment has invariably been found to be 
 'most judicious' — 'everything that could 
 be desired.' " 
 
 " I never heard you so severe before, Mrs. 
 Aubrey." 
 
 '' I speak feelingly, because I have suffered 
 from that of which I speak." 
 
 " There may be some truth in your accusa- 
 tion, I fear; though, indeed, I have had as yet 
 too little experience of consultations to know 
 it personally. And I could get you from 
 
 London, Dr. , who is quite untrammelled 
 
 by the fear of man, and will tell the truth, 
 the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, 
 to king or kaiser. However," he added, see-
 
 FAIR OAKS. 285 
 
 ing she looked very tired, *'for to-day we will 
 say no more about it. Try and rest, and we 
 will finish our discussion another time." 
 
 They were not required to do so, for the 
 point was decided, and a consultation settled, 
 in a manner they had not foreseen.
 
 286 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 A "delightful" doctor. 
 
 Colonel Aubrey had been informed of his 
 wife's iUness. Dr. Osborne had considered it 
 right that he should know of it ; though there 
 was little chance of his wishing to come to 
 England to see her. 
 
 By return of post an extremely polite, proper, 
 and well- worded reply was received from him. 
 He could not leave Baden he said, earnestly 
 as he wished it, deeply as he deplored his 
 absence at such a time. Every alleviation 
 that money could command, must be procured
 
 FAIR OAKS. 287 
 
 for Mrs. Aubrey. Dr. Osborne would enter 
 into his feelings ; Dr. Osborne would readily 
 understand that with the highest confidence 
 in him, a consultation might be satisfactory to 
 the feelings of the family. Dr. Osborne would 
 be good enough to request the attendance of 
 Dr. Darling, from London (the fashionable 
 physician of the day). Colonel Aubrey 
 adding, in his usual ostentatious spirit, a desire 
 that Dr. Badgerby should also attend. 
 
 Colonel Aubrey liked the importance — the 
 fuss of these arrangements. He wished to 
 have it said in Fair Oaks that he had done 
 everything possible for his wife — had spared 
 no expense of any kind — (the said expense 
 being all borne by her) — had called in first- 
 rate advice — Darling from London — nothing 
 like Darling — consultation — three doctors — 
 &c., &c.
 
 288 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 Arnold had nothing to oppose to this ar- 
 rangement. He felt, himself, the desirableness 
 of having a consultation, and though he would 
 
 have preferred calling in Dr. , rather than 
 
 Dr. Darling, it would not do to make any 
 difficulties on that score. Colonel Aubrey's 
 polite letter was very peremptory ; no one 
 could dispute his right to decide the matter ; 
 and Arnold could only hope that Dr. Darling 
 — whose reputation was of the highest — might 
 be of service to the poor patient, whose strength 
 was evidently failing rapidly. 
 
 That Dr. Badgerby should be of the consul- 
 tation, was not quite agreeable ; for one of 
 the most irritating circumstances of his po- 
 sition at Fair Oaks, was the sort of involuntary 
 rivalry into which he was thrown with that 
 individual. Arnold shrank from anything of 
 this kind ; but Dr. Badgerby, a clever, pushing.
 
 FAIR OAKS. 289 
 
 vulgar man, persisted in assuming that position 
 towards him whenever they met. It rather 
 elevated him to have it understood he was in 
 a position to be in rivalship with Dr. Osborne. 
 He envied Arnold — a man so much younger 
 than himself — the excellent practice he had 
 stepped into ; and though his jealousy was 
 carried on under an air of bantering fami- 
 liarity, Dr. Osborne could not help perceiving 
 it, and of course their intercourse, though 
 ostensibly friendly, was not very agreeable 
 to either doctor. 
 
 However, Arnold had no choice in the 
 present case, and Dr. Badgerby's attendance 
 at the consultation was duly requested. He 
 Avas just the man to be much flattered at the 
 prospect of meeting Dr. Darling, who was a 
 great personage in his eyes. 
 
 This Dr. Butterworth Darling was a very 
 VOL. I. U
 
 290 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 popular physician. He had started in 
 life with tolerable parts, limited means, and 
 unlimited self-reliance. From very humble 
 antecedents he had gradually worked himself 
 up to a leading position in the professional 
 world. He was now a widely-known physician, 
 with the most fashionable practice in London. 
 No other doctor claimed such ambitious con- 
 sultation fees ; no other doctor had such an 
 imposing list of aristocratic names on his note- 
 book ; such a range of patrician equipages at 
 his door. 
 
 In a word, Dr. Darling was the fashion. 
 Ladies declared they "adored" him. Anxious 
 mothers thought their ailing children saved, 
 when his attendance was secured. And " Dr. 
 Darling recoinmends," and *' Darling quite 
 approves," were final dicta in many a lordly 
 mansion. 
 
 As we have hinted, this much-sought phy-
 
 FAIR OAKS. <291 
 
 sician was by no means particularly clever. 
 He had nothing like our friend Dr. Shortcut's 
 talent or earnestness, but he was good-looking, 
 well-mannered, and worldly-wise. Like all 
 doctors he succeeded sometimes, and he knew 
 how to make the most of such successes. 
 His really strong points were an intuitive per- 
 ception of character and an unfailing tact. 
 The manner in which he adapted himself to 
 his different patients was edifying to witness. 
 Of course, a man of his sagacity had early 
 discovered that people in sickness are very 
 different individuals from the same persons in 
 health. People who are sensible enough in 
 their normal state, often become the very 
 reverse of sensible in illness. As for instance, 
 few persons can suffer much without thinking 
 that no other case equals their own in im- 
 portance and interest. As Charles Lamb 
 
 U 2
 
 292 FAIR OAKS. 
 
 says, the invalid bottles up his sympathy, and 
 stores it carefully away, like wine of a special 
 vintage, for his own use only. Doctors 
 know that this is true — of women most 
 especially; and that they cannot administer 
 a more effectual irritant to any lady they 
 attend, than by showing themselves much 
 occupied and interested by some other case 
 than her own. 
 
 Now Dr. Darling's patients were chiefly 
 ladies, and it was a remarkable fact that each 
 one thought herself his chief care — ^his most 
 interesting case. Each told her intimates 
 how ** peculiarly " attentive Dr. Darling had 
 been to her ; taken up her case " so 
 thoroughly " — shown so much interest in it — 
 made it quite an exception to his ordinary 
 practice — and so forth. And each would 
 smile a little conscious smile of superiority
 
 FAIR OAKS. 99 o 
 
 and secret good understanding with the 
 doctor, if she heard her neighbour say the 
 same. 
 
 After all perhaps it did no harm; and it 
 helped to keep in good humour and placidity 
 many ladies who would have been very 
 fractious invalids, and extremely disagreeable 
 inmates in their respective families, under less 
 judicious treatment. 
 
 Acute cases. Dr. Darling did not like. He 
 seldom treated one alone. He always said 
 with his pleasant smile, " In the multitude of 
 counsellors there is safety;" and so there is — 
 for the counsellors. However, as the practice 
 of calling in a second or third doctor is one 
 very popular with patients and their families 
 — wliose importance it marks (and with the 
 doctors called in, of course), — he lost nothing 
 by that plan.
 
 294) FAIR OAKS. 
 
 But it was chronic cases without danger 
 which he really enjoyed; and, now that he 
 could choose his own practice, he retained 
 only such as he liked. He liked wealthy 
 patients, titled patients, distinguished patients 
 of all kinds. Others were discouraged by 
 beinsr told that their cases were " nervous — 
 entirely nervous," which is disheartening ; or 
 they found themselves strongly recommended 
 to the sea-side, or the South of France, or the 
 German baths; or ^' candidly" informed that 
 he feared that it was not in his power to 
 afford them relief — which they said was " so 
 liberal and disinterested of him." 
 
 In the select circle he retained, our doctor 
 found more imaginary than real illness. He 
 found ennui, repletion, whim, temper, indolent 
 habits, the re-acting depression of late hours 
 and excitement, nervous irritability, and 
 morbid self- care.
 
 FAIR OAKS. 295 
 
 In such cases Dr. Darling was invaluable ; 
 so sympathizing, so bland, so soothing ; 
 " understands my case so perfectly," the self- 
 indulgent Belgravian would say; as Darling- 
 would earnestly entreat her to spare herself, 
 not to risk her health by undue exertions, to 
 be guided by her own feelings, her own in- 
 clinations in everything. "No guide like 
 Nature!" the doctor would say — waxing 
 philosophical — and, he must repeat, it was a 
 duty the patient owed to herself and her 
 family, to be most careful in avoiding every 
 unpleasant exertion. 
 
 Can we wonder that Dr. Darling was the 
 most popular physician in London, and was 
 on all sides voted '' a delightful doctor ?" 
 
 With the profession he stood better than 
 might have been expected. A considerate, 
 courteous manner, and a rigorous adherence to
 
 S96. FAIR OAKS. 
 
 all the minutise of professional etiquette, 
 gained for him with his brethren — as they will 
 gain for any doctor — the character of *'a 
 most gentlemanly practitioner." Besides, he 
 w-as always calling them in to consultations 
 on marchionesses. It wouldn't do to run 
 him down. 
 
 So Dr. Butterworth Darling sailed forward 
 on the tide of prosperity, leaving far behind 
 all those who had started on their course at 
 the same time as he had done. 
 
 He accepted the consultation on Mrs. 
 Aubrey's case, and an early day was fixed 
 for the important meeting. 
 
 END OF VOLUME I.
 
 p(
 
 "
 
 I
 
 II 
 
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