I’ll never sign a bill, doctor. I wouldn’t do it for my own mother.’
Thus the doctor’s expectations were put a final end to, so far as Jan went—and very certain expectations they had, no doubt, been. As to Jan, a thought may have crossed him that the doctor and his daughter Sibylla appeared to have the same propensity for getting out of money. Dr. West recovered his equanimity, and magnanimously waived away the affair as a trifle not worth dwelling on.
“How does Cheese get on?” he asked.
“First-rate—in the eating line,” replied Jan.
“Have you got him out of his idleness yet?”
“It would take a more clever man than I to do that, doctor. It’s constitutional. When he goes up to London, in the autumn, I shall take an assistant, unless you should be coming home yourself.”
“I have no intention of it at present, Mr. Jan. Am I to understand you that Sibylla has serious symptoms of disease?”
“There’s no doubt of it,” said Jan. “You always prophesied it for her, you know. When she was at Verner’s Pride she was continually ailing: not a week passed but I was called to attend her. She was so imprudent, too—she would be. Going out and getting her feet wet; sitting up half the night. We tried to bring her to reason; but it was of no use. She defied Lionel; she would not listen to me—as well speak to a post.”
“Why should she defy her husband? Are they on bad terms?”
“They are on as good terms as any man and wife could ever be, Sibylla being the wife,” was Jan’s rejoinder. “You know something of her temper and disposition, doctor—it is of no use to mince matters—you remember how it had used to be with her here at home. Lionel’s a husband in a thousand. How he can possibly put up with her, and be always patient and kind, puzzles me more than any problem ever did in Euclid. If Fred had lived—why, he’d have broken her spirit or her heart, long before this.”
Dr. West rose and stretched himself. The failings of Sibylla were not a pleasant topic, thus openly spoken of by Jan, but none knew better than the doctor how true were the grounds on which he spoke. None knew better, either, that disease for her was to be feared.
“Her sisters went off about this age, or a little later,” he said, musingly. “I could not save them.”
“And Sibylla’s as surely going after them, doctor, as that I am here,” returned Jan. “Lionel intends to call in Dr. Hayes to her.”
“Since when has she been so ill?”
“Not since any time in particular. There appears to be no real illness yet: only symptoms. She coughs, and gets as thin as a skeleton. Sometimes I think, if she could keep up a cheerful temper, she’d keep well. You will see what you think of her.”
The doctor walked towards the bureau at the far comer.
“Have you ever opened it, Mr. Jan?”
“It’s not likely,” said Jan. “Didn’t you tell me not to? Your own papers are in it, and you hold the key.”
“It’s not inconvenient to your room, my retaining it, is it?” asked the doctor. “I don’t know where else I should put my papers.”
“Not a bit of it,” said Jan. “Have another in here as well, if you like. It’s safe here.”
“Do you know, Mr. Jan, I feel as if I’d rather sleep in your little bed to-night than indoors,” said the doctor, looking at Jan’s bed. “The room seems like an old friend to me: I feel at home in it.”
“Sleep in it, if you like,” returned Jan, in his easy good-nature. “Miss Deb can put me into some room or other. I say, doctor, it’s past tea-time. Wouldn’t you like some refreshment?”
“I had a good dinner on my road,” replied Dr. West: which Jan might have guessed, for Dr. West was quite sure to take care of himself. “We will go in, if you like: Deb and Amilly will wonder what has become of me. How old they begin to look!”
“I don’t suppose any of us look younger,” answered Jan.
They went into the house. Deborah and Amilly were in a flutter of hospitality, lading the tea-table with good things that it would have gladdened Master Cheese’s heart to see. They had been up-stairs to smooth out their curls, to put on clean white sleeves and collars, a gold chain and such-like little additions, setting themselves off as they were now setting off the tea-table, all in their affectionate welcome to their father. And Dr. West, who liked eating as well as ever did Master Cheese, surveyed the table with complacency as he sat down to it, ignoring the dinner he had spoken of to Jan. Amilly sat by him, heaping his plate with what he liked best, and Deborah made the tea.
“I have been observing to Mr. Jan that you are beginning to look very old, Deb,” remarked the doctor. “Amilly also.”
It was a cruel shaft. A bitter return for their loving welcome. Perhaps they were looking older, but he need not have said it so point blank, and before Jan. They turned crimson, poor ladies, and bent to sip their tea, and tried to turn the words off with a laugh, and did not know where to look. In true innate delicacy of feeling, Dr. West and his daughter, Sibylla, rivalled each other.
The meal over, the doctor proposed to pay a visit to Deerham Court, and did so, Jan walking with him, first of all mentioning to Deborah the wish expressed by Dr. West as to occupying Jan’s room for the night, that she might see the arrangement carried out.
Which she did. And Jan, at the retiring hour—though this is a little anticipating, for the evening is not yet over—escorted the doctor to the door of the room, and wished him a good night’s rest, never imagining but what he enjoyed one. But had fire, or any other accident, burst open the room to public gaze in the lone night hours, Dr. West would have been seen at work, instead of asleep. Every drawer of the bureau was out, every paper it contained was misplaced. The doctor was evidently searching for something, as sedu-