Part 3 (2/2)
The fact is”--Miss Phoebe hesitated, casting about in her mind for the best way of breaking the news,--”the fact is, my brother is a widower.”
”Very sad, I'm sure!” murmured Geoffrey Strong. ”Was it sudden? these shocks are terribly trying. How did she--”
”Oh--no! you misapprehend me, Doctor Strong. Not sudden, nor--nor what you would call recent. It is some years since Nathaniel's wife died.”
”Old gentleman going to pa.s.s away himself?” said Geoffrey, but not aloud; he was aware of his tendency to headlong plunges; it was manifestly better to wait further explanations and not commit himself.
”My brother has an only daughter,” Miss Phoebe went on, ”a girl of twenty. She has been at college (I strongly disapproved of her going, but the child is headstrong), and has worked beyond her strength.
She--that is, her father, is anxious for her to come and pa.s.s a month or two with us; he thinks the sea air will benefit her.”
”No doubt it will!” said Geoffrey, still awaiting the catastrophe. It was a great bore, of course, in fact a nuisance, but it couldn't be helped.
”This--this is what has troubled us, Doctor Strong. We fear, my sister and I, that the presence of a young--person of the other s.e.x--will be disturbing to you.”
Miss Vesta looked up quickly, but said nothing. Geoffrey looked bewildered for a moment, then laughed aloud, colouring like a schoolboy. ”Why, Miss Blyth, what must you think of me?” he said. ”I am not particularly given to--to the society of young ladies, but I am not such a misogynist as all that.”
Miss Phoebe did not know what a misogynist was, and did not like to ask; there were so many dangerous and levelling doctrines about, as her father always said. Whatever it was, she was heartily glad that Doctor Strong did not believe in it.
”Vesta is a good child,” said Miss Vesta. ”She makes no noise or trouble in the house, even when she is well. We shall of course see that your convenience is not interfered with in any way, Doctor Strong.”
”If you talk like that, I shall pack my trunk and go to-morrow,” said Geoffrey, decidedly; ”and I don't want to go a bit. It's I who am likely to be in the way, so far as I can see; but you won't send me off just yet, will you?”
When Geoffrey Strong smiled, people were apt to do what he wished, unless they were ill-conditioned people indeed, and Miss Phoebe and Miss Vesta were far from ill-conditioned.
”I've never been so happy anywhere,” the young man went on in his eager way, ”since--since my own home was broken up. I'd stay if you would let me, if there were twenty--I--I mean, of course it will be delightful to--may I have another m.u.f.fin, please? Thanks!” Geoffrey had broken short off, being a person of absolute honesty.
”I trust your niece is not seriously out of health,” he said, in conclusion, with his most professional air. ”Is any malady indicated, or merely overfatigue?”
Miss Phoebe put on her spectacles and took up the letter. ”There is a word,” she said, ”that I did not understand, I must confess. If you will allow me, Doctor Strong, I will read you a portion of my brother's remarks. A--yes! 'Vesta seems very far from well. She cries, and will not eat, and she looks like a ghost. The doctor calls it neurasthenia.'”
Doctor Strong uttered an exclamation. Miss Phoebe looked up in dismay.
”It is nothing contagious, I trust, Doctor Strong?”
”No! no! nothing of the kind. Go on, please! any more symptoms?”
”I think not. She has no appet.i.te, he says, and does not sleep well. He says nothing of any rash.” Miss Phoebe looked anxiously at the young doctor. To her amazement, he was leaning forward, m.u.f.fin in hand, his face wearing its brightest and most eager look.
”Is that all?” he said. ”Well--of course that's not professional. Very likely the physician there will send a written diagnosis if you ask him. You see, Miss Blyth, this is very interesting to me. I want to make a study of nerves,--that's all the word means, disordered nerves,--and it will be the greatest pleasure to me to try to be of service to your niece; if you should wish it, that is.”
”Oh, Doctor Strong! you are _too_ kind!” said both ladies in duet.
They were so relieved, they overflowed in little grateful courtesies.
He must have more cream; he was eating nothing. They feared his egg was not quite--was he positively sure? it would sometimes happen, with the greatest care, that eggs were not quite--a little sc.r.a.p more bacon, then! or would he fancy some fresh cream cheese? and so on and so on, till the young doctor cried out, and said that if he ate any more he should not be able to mount his bicycle, far less ride it.
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