University of Virginia Library

25. XXV.
TREATMENT.

When Dr. Vandyke came down-stairs
on the next morning, he found Lady
Brand in the library, and requested her
to walk upon the lawn and converse
with him for a few moments.

The lady rose quickly, drying with
her handkerchief some tears that were
in her eyes, and the two persons walked
out beneath the great oaks and disappeared.

They did not return for an hour. As
they came back toward the house, it was
obvious, from the expression of Dr. Vandyke's
countenance, that the result of
the colloquy had been such as to afford
him extreme satisfaction. The melan
choly air which had characterized him
on the preceding evening had disappeared;
his demeanor was animated,
and he murmured:

“I know, or think I know! Now,
to find if my knowledge will prove of
any avail!”

On the same evening, he went to
Honoria's chamber with Lady Brand.
The girl lay still and quiet in her great
white bed, her eyes dreamy and full of
apathy.

Dr. Vandyke uttered a cheerful laugh.
“Well, my dear child,” he said, as he
approached her, “the roses are coming
back to their native soil—your cheeks.”

Honoria raised her great eyes, set
like stars in the wasted face, and looked
at the speaker in a dreamy way. Then
she tried to smile, but closed her eyes as
though the effort overcame her.

“I have never seen anybody get well
so quickly,” said Dr. Vandyke, in a
cheery voice.

Honoria made no reply.

“You have been quite sick, my
child,” continued the doctor, in his hearty
tone, “and we have all felt much solicitude;
but nothing in this world is unalloyed—not
even unhappiness. Sickness
has its comforts; one of these is
the sympathy of our friends, and everybody
has been to see you. Those who
could not be admitted, have left messages,
and my young friend Edmund Innis
commissioned me—”

The pale face suddenly flushed, and
the great eyes opened. At that name,
some of the apathy disappeared.

“His message is, that you must soon
get well, and—”

The doctor bent down and added:

“He says you are his sunshine, and
that he cannot live in darkness.”

It is to be hoped that this flat falsehood
was blotted from the book of the
recording angel. It caused Honoria to
look up eagerly, and brought back to her
face something almost like animation.

Dr. Vandyke saw his advantage, and
pressed it.

“Well, little Miss Sunshine,” he said,
laughing, “I hope you will begin to
shine down-stairs very soon now, and,
when I return to visit this respectable
family, I expect to find you tripping
over the lawn, or dancing gavottes and
reels to the music of the fiddle.”

Honoria shook her head.

“You are not going away, doctor?”
she said.

“Yes.”

“And leave me?”

“Why not?”

“I am not well,” she said, wearily.

“You will be in a week.”

“No, no!”

Dr. Vandyke gazed at her with his
subtile and penetrating glance, and from
the quiet change in his expression it was
evident that he had made up his mind to
act promptly and with vigor.

“Why do you indulge this melancholy
mood, my dear child,” he said,
“you are rapidly recovering. You sleep
well, do you not?”

“Yes,” came in a hesitating voice.

“No fancies, and imaginary sounds, I
suppose—no low breathing—ha! ha!—
from behind your bed?”

Honoria shuddered, closing her eyes.

“That was the most absurd and
laughable idea imaginable,” said Dr.
Vandyke; “or at least to be frightened
by it. A breathing!—why, there it is
now!”

Honoria half started up.

“O doctor!” she exclaimed.

“What is it? I'll find!”

And, raising the counterpane, the
astute Dr. Vandyke drew forth a small
spaniel, the pet of Lou Brand, who
had placed the dog there while Honoria
was asleep, in compliance with the request
of the physician.

That personage burst into a hearty
laugh.

“Well, after all, you were right, my
dear!” he said, “there was a frightful
low breathing—Carlo, to wit.”

It could be seen at a glance that this
prosaic and commonplace explanation
of one source of her nocturnal terror
had made a profound impression upon
Honoria. She did not speak, but her
eyes spoke volumes.

“This habit that dogs have of creeping
under beds to sleep or protect themselves
from flies, is one of the greatest
objections to making household pets of
them,” said the doctor.

And, turning to Carlo, he added,
laughing:

“Come, my interesting young friend,
will you be good enough to entertain us
by your peculiar wheeze, attributable
doubtless to dog-asthma?”

As though in response to these
words, Carlo, who had stretched himself
upon the floor, uttered a low, asthmatic
sound, as though he experienced a difficulty
in breathing.

Dr. Vandyke looked sidewise at Honoria.
She was silent, but he saw that
her mind had received the impression
which he aimed to produce.

“Go out now, if you please, Mr.
Carlo,” he said, “and play in the sunshine.
There is a superb amount of it
to-day.—And, by-the-by, madam,” he
continued, addressing Lady Brand, “is
there not too much light in this chamber?
It may be painful to your daughter's
eyes.”

Lady Brand went to close the blinds.

“But no,” said Dr. Vandyke, “'tis
better, perhaps — more cheerful; and
these shadows moving to and fro on the
wall are cool and refreshing. What singular
shapes they take!—the bough of
the great oak yonder resembles an arm
grasping a dagger, and, if a good strong
wind were to arise, I can fancy that the
shadow, especially by moonlight, would
appear fearful—would become, in fancy,
a gigantic arm and poniard raised to
strike.”

Honoria started again. She was gazing
at Dr. Vandyke, with her whole soul
in her eyes.

“What are you looking at, my dear
child?” he said, cheerfully. “You really
make me afraid with your intense gaze!
'Tis as bad as the look of the old fellow
up yonder, who has been staring me out
of countenance since my entrance. Look
at him!”

And, taking a broomstick, Dr. Vandyke
got up on a chair, thrust the stick
into Lord Ruthven's face, and assumed
the persuasive attitude of a public lecturer
upon science, with accompanying
diagrams.

“Behold the queer conformation of
the human eye, so well depicted here!”
he said, poking the portrait in the eye
with a movement so awkward that it was
wellnigh impossible not to laugh. “It
seems to follow you—speak to you—go
to the right or left, it still looks at you—
stares at you: this absurd, painted, human
eye!—Really, madam,” he said to
Lady Brand, “I would take this grum
and disagreeable fellow out. Did you
say the wall was disfigured behind
it?”

He suddenly thrust the picture to one
side and showed the wall.

“See, it is nothing; remove it, madam,
or each time you enter this room you
will have this old Sir Blunderbuss following
you with his eyes.”

“I will remove it to-day, doctor, as
you suggest.”

“Oh, 'tis not so important. For myself,
all the pictures in the world may
stare at me.—Shut your stupid eyes, my
dear Sir Blunderbuss!”

And administering a final poke with
the broomstick into the face of the picture,
Dr. Vandyke descended, laughing, to
the floor.

As he did so, he glanced furtively at
Honoria. She was smiling, either at
the absurd antics of the peculiar personage,
or with a sense of relief from old
fears connected with the portrait, thus
turned completely into ridicule.

Dr. Vandyke prepared for the final
scene of his acting. Suddenly he mounted
into the great high-backed chair
standing in front of the fireplace, leaned
his arms on the huge back, rested his
enormous head, with its long, elfin gray
locks, upon the folded arms, and grinned
amiably. His expression was so ludicrous
indeed that Honoria uttered a slight
laugh.

A quick glance from Dr. Vandyke
toward Lady Brand seemed to warn her
that her aid in the performance was
now required. She moved to the space
between the chair and the mirror, and
turned toward the latter, when, with the
agility of a cat, Dr. Vandyke bounded
over the back of the great chair, and lit
upon her shoulder.

Honoria uttered a scream, and cried:

“O doctor! The frightful thing!—
the horror!”

“The nonsense and tomfoolery, my
dear child,” said Dr. Vandyke, with a
laugh, and lighting on his feet; “call
things by their right names, and let us
have done with absurdities.”

Honoria was looking at him with animated
eyes. A sudden revulsion seemed
to have taken place in her feelings—a
change in her mental condition. There
was no longer in her eyes that vacant
and apathetic expression which had
made the heart of the experienced physician
sink within him—a natural and
healthful light began to animate her
glance; the medicine for the mind was
having its effect, like the medicine for
the body.

No sooner had Dr. Vandyke descried
this longed-for alteration in Honoria, than
he said to Lady Brand:

“I will go and write some letters
now, madam, and I think Honoria had
best sleep a little. Place the bell beside
her hand, and show me where I may
write.”

Lady Brand quietly obeyed, and went
toward the door. Dr. Vandyke followed
her, but suddenly turned.

“I had nearly forgotten you, my
grum friend,” he said to the portrait of
Lord Ruthven.

And, mounting with agility upon a
chair, he placed one foot upon an abutment
of the mantel-piece, and unceremoniously
pulled down the fearful portrait,
which he tucked under his arm and
bore from the apartment.

As soon as the door was closed, Dr.
Vandyke's face assumed its habitual expression
of coolness, and, taking a large
handkerchief from his coat-pocket, he
wiped his forehead.

“Acting fatigues!” he said; “but
the end is reached—or nearly.”

“Yes, yes, doctor!”

He deposited the picture in a corner,
and gave it a kick.

“I would put that rubbish in the garret,
madam,” he said, “and hang above
Honoria's fireplace a flower-piece or
cheerful landscape. All depends now
upon trifles. Let her reflect, and allow
my medicine to work. To-morrow I
hope to finish the cure.”