Doctor Vandyke :: :: University of Virginia Library

“First, to speak of Meta. She
`caught cold,' as fools say, at the governor's
ball, where, after the mad fashion
of young ladies in general, she went in a
gossamer dress, and shoes as thin as
paper—that is to say, her lungs, never
strong, became diseased — the disease
was not crushed in its infancy, as perhaps
might have been done; and the
consequence is, that the projected wedding
of your daughter Honoria promises
to be followed by a funeral.”

“Your intelligence deeply distresses
me!” exclaimed Colonel Brand. “I
had not supposed—”

“That things were so bad, you would
say?”

“I had not, sir.”

“Well, I put you in possession of the
exact state of the case.”

Colonel Brand knit his brows. Suddenly
he turned to the physician.

“But—” he said.

“You mean that Meta is not Miss
Brand?”

“You spoke also of Miss Brand, sir—
made, if I understood you aright, a very
surprising statement in regard to her.”

“I did. I said that Honoria Brand
was as good as dying—as bad, I should
have said; for death, whatever fanciful
people say, is bad, very bad—and not
good in any sense.”

“You astound me, sir! Honoria ill?
I was aware that the dissipations of the
capital, extremely late hours, and excitement,
had—”

“Colonel Brand,” said Dr. Vandyke.

“Sir!”

“Do you consider me a fool?”

“A fool? Really, sir, this conversation,
you will permit me to say, is assuming
an unusual—a very unusual character!”

“Because I speak to the point; and
speaking to the point, I grant you, is unusual
in this world of froth and circumloculation!
I say that you either regard
me as a ninny, or you wish to avoid hearing
what I am going to tell you—since
you know, as well as I know, that Honoria's
condition is due in no measure
whatever to either late hours, dissipation,
or excitement in society.”

“Indeed, sir,” said Colonel Brand,
drawing himself up with some hauteur,
“you are very good to take the trouble
of informing yourself so profoundly upon
the private affairs of my family.”

“I have the right to do so.”

“What right, sir?”

“The right of a man who was once
in love with your wife, and who swore
to her when the last parting came—when
she was about to marry—that if ever she
were in trouble, and I could help her, I
would speak out, caring for nothing, and
be a friend to her!”

The announcement seemed wellnigh
to take away the stately colonel's breath.
He gazed at the now fiery Dr. Vandyke,
who was glaring at him fixedly, with a
mixture of astonishment and hauteur
wonderful to see.

“You know now why I am meddling
in your family affairs,” said the eccentric
physician. “You call it meddling—well,
I reply that meddling is—meddling: and
I am simply affording you information—
laying before you the result of a medical
diagnosis, made last night, of your
daughter's condition. Act as you please
—it is no part of my business to try the
pathetic. I tell you that Honoria Brand
is the victim of what is called, in the
mummery of society, a decline—that is
to say, she is undermined by a slow fever
which is going to kill her; and the
fever is due, neither to dissipation, late
hours, nor excitement, but to the prospect
of marrying Lord Ruthven, when
she loves her cousin, Edmund Innis.”

The words were blurted out with little
ceremony. Dr. Vandyke was, evidently,
either too much in earnest to
care for forms, or aimed, by the very
rudeness of his address, to strike more
heavily, and produce the desired effect.
His words, indeed, seemed to impress
Colonel Brand strangely. He turned red
and then pale, his lip trembled slightly,
and he cleared his throat twice before
replaying.

“Your very—ahem!—extraordinary
communication,” he at length said, with
affected coolness and ceremony, which
his agitation belied, “leaves me at a loss,
sir, how to reply. I am, then, to regard
this communication as due to—”

“My affection for Lady Brand? Yes.
Let that be stated plainly. I was her
suitor—a poor suitor. She married you.
Well, I said nothing; did not make a
fool of myself by falling into a rage. I
said, `A woman chooses her own destiny—or
has it chosen for her—I will be
this one's friend in spite of all;' and I
prove myself her friend by saying to you,
`If you persist in this design of forcing
your daughter into the arms of Ruthven,
he will have a corpse for a bride!”'

Dr. Vandyke rose as he spoke, and
added:

“I have said all that I intended to
say, except to communicate a slight circumstance
of which you may be ignorant.”

“Your slight circumstance, if it
please you, sir,” said Colonel Brand,
with sudden ire, “your chivalric espousal
of the interests of my family, leads me
to anticipate newer and more startling
intelligence!”

“Pride—pride!” growled Dr. Vandyke,
sotto voce. “This figure in buckram,
dubbed `colonel,' is a simulacrum
worked by that mainspring! Pull the
string, he jumps to it!”

“You say, sir—”

“That I am a fool to come here, and
give you the result of my diagnosis of
your daughter's condition. I am an intruder—a
meddler! Well, at least, you
know all now. I tell you that Honoria
Brand is sinking day by day under this
terror—that her life is not worth twelve
months' purchase; that she loves one
man with absolute passion, and you think
to force her, without fatal results, into
the embrace of another! Do so, then—
you are master! I am not here to beg
you to do this or to do that. I have no
more to say—yes, one word more, to inform
you of the trifling circumstance to
which allusion was made by me just
now. Your proposed son-in-law, my
Lord Ruthven, is mad.”

“Mad!”

“I use the colloquial term. Insane,
if you prefer the word—I call him mad.”

Colonel Brand seemed utterly astounded.

“And what proof have you to allege
in support of this very astounding—this
most absurd statement, sir?”

“None but the fact—I say he is mad;
and, if you doubt it now, you will ascertain
the fact hereafter. Do not question
me further! I have already said more
than becomes the physician who has attended
a patient. The physician and the
priest are bound to silence. Act as seems
best to you—for myself, I wish you good-day,
sir!”

And Dr. Vandyke abruptly left the
room — he had already taken leave of
everybody—and hastened to his coach,
which he entered, slamming the door.

The vehicle rolled down the hill rapidly,
and passed through the great gate.

“Toward Williamsburg, sir?” said
the driver, drilled to ask those directions
which Dr. Vandyke never gave.

“No!” exclaimed the physician, almost
furiously—“to the mountain!”

And he pointed westward.

The obedient Jehu, without a word,
turned his leaders to the right, and followed
the road which Phil Cary had
pursued in his ride to Innis's dwelling.
No snow had fallen since the youth's
ride, and, save where the wind had obliterated
the tracks, the footprints of his
horse were still visible. But Dr. Vandyke
seemed perfectly familiar with the
route.

The coach ascended the mountain-road,
drawn rapidly by four powerful
horses, which plunged through the deep
snow, snorting and smoking.

“A cheerful landscape!” muttered
Dr. Vandyke, blowing his fingers to keep
them warm. “To live in this elevated
wilderness, and have your sweetheart
about to marry another—ough!” And
the physician knit his brows, and fell
back, shouting to his coachman: “Faster!—there
is the house I am going to!”

The small lodge of Innis was indeed
visible beneath the great pines; and in
fifteen minutes more the coach had
stopped before it.

Dr. Vandyke got out, and waded
through the snow, and knocked.

The door opened as he touched it.
Innis was seen standing on the threshold.

“Welcome, doctor!” he said; “I saw
you coming up the mountain, and was
awaiting you.”

“It is well,” returned Dr. Vandyke,

100

looking at the young man from under his
bushy brows. “I had sworn to break
down this door, if kicking would break
it down!”

And he entered.