CHAPTER I

IN WHICH DOCTOR WOTHERSPOON PRESCRIBES

A stately chamber, high, spacious and luxuriously furnished, from
priceless rugs on polished floor to richly carven ceiling; an elegant
chamber of an exquisite, almost feminine, refinement; yet nothing was
there so stately, so elegant, so altogether exquisite and supremely
refined as the gentleman who sat reading in the deep elbow chair beside
the open lattice; a tall, handsome gentleman whose garments, each a
miracle of sartorial achievement, clung to his shapely figure as if
they loved him, and whose pale, delicately featured face, adorned with
glossy whiskers à la mode, bore the proud stamp of birth and high
breeding and might have been commanding by reason of its clean-cut line
of nose and chin, but for the droop of over-sensitive lips, lack-lustre
eyes and general air of weariness and languor. Indeed, Sir Marmaduke,
Anthony, Ashley, John de la Pole Vane-Temperly looked precisely what he
was, to wit–the last and very finest of a long line of fine gentlemen,
bored to extinction with everything in general and himself in
particular.

A soft rapping at the door, and a discreet, gentleman-like person
entered softly, coughed delicately behind a finger and stood bowing
until the student condescended to become aware of him.

“Yes, Paxton?”

The gentleman’s gentleman bowed a little lower and murmured:

“Doctor Robert Wotherspoon, sir. Are you in, sir?”

Sir Marmaduke sighed, closed book on slim finger and inclined his head
languidly, whereat Paxton bowed himself out and presently returned to
announce:

“Doctor Wotherspoon!”

Hardly was the name uttered than in upon the chaste seclusion of that
stately apartment strode a shortish, thick-set man with a stamp of
heavy boots, a jingle of rusty spurs and swirl of spattered coat tails,
a heavy-breathing man who tossed whip and weather-beaten hat at a chair
(which they missed) and stumping up to Sir Marmaduke, halted to stare
down at him, legs wide apart and square chin in hairy fist.

“Tongue!” he snorted.

“My dear Bob!” exclaimed Sir Marmaduke, recoiling.

“Show it!” vociferated the doctor.

“My good Robert!”

“Pulse!” and Sir Marmaduke’s arm was seized and masterful fingers
forced themselves beneath delicate, frilled wristband, all in a moment.
“Now, p’tout y’r tongue!” barked Dr. Wotherspoon.

“Gad so, Bob–you mistake, I–“

“Not a bit, Tony–y’r bilious! ‘S liver! Eating too much! Doing too
little!”

“Horrible!” ejaculated Sir Marmaduke and, gently but resolutely freeing
his wrist, he shook his visitor’s hand. “In heaven’s name sit down,
Bob, and pray allow me a word–“

“‘S bile!” growled the doctor, thudding into the nearest chair.
“Prescribe skipping rope! Nothing like jumpin’ t’ shake liver–frees
ducts–“

“I wished to consult you about young Bellamy, your godson–“

“‘N’ your nevvy, Marmaduke!”

“True–confound him! I hear the young fool is in trouble again.”

“No–out! Boy’s bolted.”

“You mean he has positively absconded?”

“‘S it, Marmy! Hopped the twig–cut his stick–‘tleast, so Thornbury
writes.”

“Ay, Thornbury–a most excellent man of business–“

“‘N’ lively as a dried herring!”

“My dear Robert!” murmured Sir Marmaduke, lifting white hand with
sublime jesture of reprobation. “Really!”

“‘Es, really!” nodded the doctor. “Thornbury’s a creeter b’got ‘twixt
‘n inkpot ‘n’ a roll o’ parchment! A mummy, that’s what! Rupert
Bellamy (dev’lish name) is young ‘n’ wild as a colt! Now how may mummy
manage colt? Can’t! An’ that’s what again!” Saying which, Doctor Bob
wrenched snuff-box from pocket, opened it, dug thence a large pinch,
some of which he inhaled with three loud snorts; the rest he scattered
over himself and the immediate neighbourhood to Sir Marmaduke’s
manifest horror and discomfort. Said he:

“Pray remember, Bob, that after your godson’s–“

“‘N’ your nevvy! Y’r own sister’s only child, Marmy!”

“She is dead!” said Sir Marmaduke gently.

“An’ his father too!” nodded the doctor.

“Which is perhaps as well, Bob,” quoth Sir Marmaduke, frowning
slightly. “However, after Thomas’ lamentable failure at your own noble
profession, the worthy Thornbury agreed to admit him into his office,
purely out of regard to myself, and now–you say the youth has–“

“Bolted!” quoth the doctor. “But what–“

“Also he is in debt again.”

“Six hundred odd pounds!” nodded the doctor.

“So I understand. He wrote me a highly characteristic letter–“

“Which y’ ignored, o’ course!”

“Of course!” nodded Sir Marmaduke.

“Having paid ‘s debts once a’ready.”

“Twice!” sighed Sir Marmaduke. “What has become of him, Bob?”

“Dooce knows! Why trouble? Boy’s nothin’ t’ you–never was! Y’ never
trouble t’ see him.”

“Happily not since his infancy.”

“S’ if he wants t’ go t’ the dooce, dooce take him–eh, Tony?”

“By no means, Bob, for though he is an infliction he is also a relation
and I must act accordingly–“

“Pay’s debts?”

“Certainly.”

“Because o’ y’r name–eh?”

“Precisely!”

“An’ what o’ the boy?”

“He is a problem does not interest me.”

“Umph!” exclaimed the doctor. “Ha!”

“However, I shall reëstablish his credit, of course.”

“Because o’ y’r name–eh?”

“Yes, and–“

“Y’r name’s got a lot t’ answer for, Marmaduke Anthony!”

“What may you mean?”

“Bile ‘t present–y’r liver, Tony. Y’r yellow as a guinea!”

“Pooh–nonsense, man!” exclaimed Sir Marmaduke, glancing uneasily
towards an adjacent mirror. “To be sure I am aware of my forty-five
years–“

“Umph!” quoth the doctor.

“Life has long since lost its zest and savour–“

“Ha!” quoth the doctor.

“Existence,” sighed Sir Marmaduke, warming to his theme, “is become a
growing weariness, a dawning calamity, a nauseating prospect of
monotonous to-morrows stretching drearily away to the inevitable and
distressing end–“

“‘S bile!” snarled Doctor Bob. “Bile! Spleen! Liver!– That’s what!”

“Nay, my dear Robert, do but reflect,” sighed Sir Marmaduke, viewing
the doctor with his sad, lack-lustre eyes; “forty-five is a tragic age!
Youth’s pinions are clipped and where we were wont to soar, high above
consequences, scornful of difficulties and dangers, our eyes upon the
zenith, poor Middle-age must trudge it in the dust, his gaze bent
earthwards, Common-sense and Respectability his companions to point out
the ever-growing difficulties of his way– And I was
forty-five–yesterday, Bob!”

“Ho!” barked the doctor. “And what o’ that? Look ‘t me–I’m fifty,
sound wind ‘n’ limb–eat well, sleep well, drink well–‘n’ why?
Because I don’t trouble ’bout m’ own confounded carcass; too infernal
busy wi’ other people’s. Th’ only trouble wi’ you, Tony, is Marmaduke,
Anthony, Ashley, John de la Pole–‘n’ all the rest on ’em! Y’self an’
y’r name’s too much for ye–an’ that’s what!”

“And this morning,” sighed Sir Marmaduke, glancing at his companion
with twinkling eyes, “this morning my fellow discovered a grey hair
above my right ear!”

“Grey fiddlestick!” snarled the doctor. “Look ‘t me! Damme, I’m grey
all over, an’t I? Yet full o’ vigour ‘n’ energy!”

“You were distressingly energetic as a school-boy, I remember–“

“So were you!” retorted the doctor. “A very imp o’ mischief! D’ ye
mind scaling the church tower? D’ ye mind settin’ Farmer Barton’s rick
afire? Ha’ ye forgot y’r fight wi’ the big butcher boy?”

Sir Marmaduke’s gloomy brow cleared somewhat.

“I had him quite groggy in the fourth round!” he murmured.

“‘N’ licked him in th’ seventh!” cried the doctor. “Begad, ye were
spry ‘nough then–“

“But to-day I ‘m forty-five, Bob! A weary soul disillusioned with
everything, finding joy in nothing, not even–himself!”

“Try falling in love.”

“Never again, Bob!”

“B’cause a brainless little fool jilted ye–years ago!”

“Never again!” repeated Sir Marmaduke mournfully.

“Then marry without and get children–“

“Heaven forbid!” exclaimed Sir Marmaduke, shuddering. “To see myself
repeated in miniature would be most abhorrent!”

“Then travel.”

“Five years I wandered, Bob, and found teeming cities as desolate as
the wilderness.”

“Then why not shoot somebody? Y’ve had no duels lately–eh?”

“No, Bob! I regard duelling nowadays as a wearisome social function
and, moreover, being an accurate shot, the outcome is ever
distressingly certain. Hence, even this polite pastime fails me.”
Here Sir Marmaduke shook his head again and, though his eyes twinkled,
sighed more dismally than ever. “Forty-five!” he murmured.
“Grey-haired! Life a desolate waste! A sorry world and myself the
sorriest creature in it–“

“Spleen!” barked the doctor. “All cursed spleen! Your disease is
ease, Tony! Too much luxury, leisure an’ lucre! You ‘ve become such a
personage y’ are scarce human, so rich ‘n’ influential you ‘ve no need
for effort, ‘n’ effort’s life! Could a b’nef’cent fate pauperize ye,
strip ye o’ rank ‘n’ wealth, rig ye in homespun ‘n’ send ye into an
unfriendly world t’ make a living–ye’d starve–perish, an’ that’s
what!”

Sir Marmaduke smoothed arched eyebrow with slim finger and pondered the
question.

“Perish?” he murmured, at last. “I venture to think not, Bob!”

“Y’ ‘d perish!” snarled Doctor Robert, diving for his hat and whip.

“I should suffer,” mused Sir Marmaduke; “I should endure a thousand
discomforts, beyond a doubt, but–perish?”

“In six months–less!” snarled the doctor.

“Perish?” repeated Sir Marmaduke. “No–“

“Yes!” snapped the doctor, rising. “In less ‘n six months or–come
back younger than y’ went!”

“Younger? How so, Bob?”

“Lookee, Tony! T’ learn the virtues o’ Poverty and Adversity, t’ front
Misery undismayed, t’ learn the greatness o’ true humility is beyond
the powers of any splenetic fine gentleman; to comfort another’s
sorrows, t’ share ‘nother’s hardships needs just an ordinary man who
has n’ time t’ bother ’bout his bile ducts or grey hair and is never
older than he feels. And here’s the secret o’ youth, Tony
man–work–f’ others, if possible, but work! F’get y’self in other
folks’ worries, work wi’ ’em, suffer wi’ ’em, an’ you ‘ll be young
again ‘fore ye ‘re old. Goo’-bye t’ ye!” And, with a pounce, Doctor
Robert Wotherspoon seized Sir Marmaduke’s hand, shook it heartily and
jingling across the room, went forth like a tornado, the door slamming
behind him.

Sir Marmaduke drew a deep breath and leaning in the open window, heard
his old schoolfellow roar for his horse, watched him stump down the
steps and mount that unlovely, hard-worked animal and jog ungracefully
upon his busy way.

Such a rat-tailed, four-legged monstrosity! And eight or nine sleek
horses stamping impatient hoofs in his own stables!

Sir Marmaduke frowned at the smug trimness of carefully tended gardens
and wide-spreading park and away to the western horizon, all glorious
with sunset, his sombre eyes more wistful than ever.

At last he turned and, seated at his writing cabinet, indited certain
letters, watered, sealed and directed them; then, taking hat and cane,
he stepped out into the fragrant evening.