Cursed by a Fortune (eBook)

George Manville Fenn (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2016
420 Seiten
Krill Press (Verlag)
978-1-5183-6386-3 (ISBN)

Infos

George Manville Fenn was an English novelist and journalist who wrote across a variety of genres, both fiction and nonfiction. His works are still widely read today.

Textauszug

CHAPTER TWO.

..................

“MORNING, DOCTOR. HARDLY EXPECTED TO find you at home. Thought you’d be on your rounds.”

The speaker was mounted on a rather restive cob, which he now checked by the gate of the pretty cottage in one of the Northwood lanes; and as he spoke he sprang down and placed his rein through the ring on the post close by the brass plate which bore the words—“Pierce Leigh, M.D., Surgeon, etc.,” but he did not look at the ring, for his eyes gave a furtive glance at the windows from one to the other quickly.

He was not a groom, for his horse-shoe pin was set with diamonds, and a large bunch of golden charms hung at his watch chain, but his coat, hat, drab breeches, and leggings were of the most horsey cut, and on a near approach anyone might have expected to smell stables. As it was, the odour he exhaled was Jockey Club, emanating from a white pocket handkerchief dotted with foxes’ heads, hunting crops and horns, and saturated with scent.

“My rounds are not very regular, Mr Wilton,” said the gentleman addressed, and he looked keenly at the commonplace speaker, whose ears stood out widely from his closely-cropped hair. “You people are dreadfully healthy down here,” and he held open the garden gate and drew himself up, a fairly handsome, dark, keen-eyed, gentlemanly-looking man of thirty, slightly pale as if from study, but looking wiry and strong as an athlete. “You wished to see me?”

“Yes. Bit off my corn. Headache, black spots before my eyes, and that sort of thing. Thought I’d consult the Vet.”

“Will you step in?”

“Eh? Yes. Thankye.”

The Doctor led the way into his flower-decked half-study, half-consulting room, where several other little adornments suggested the near presence of a woman; and the would-be patient coughed unnecessarily, and kept on tapping his leg with the hunting crop he carried, as he followed, and the door was closed, and a chair was placed for him.

“Eh? Chair? Thanks,” said the visitor, taking it by the back, swinging it round, and throwing one leg across as if it were a saddle, crossing his arms and resting his chin there—the while he stared rather enviously at the man before him. “Not much the matter, and you mustn’t make me so that I can’t get on. Got a chap staying with me, and we’re going after the pheasants. I say, let me send you a brace.”

“You are very good,” said the Doctor, smiling rather contemptuously, “but as I understand it they are not yet shot?”

“Eh? Oh, no; but no fear of that. I can lick our keeper; pretty sure with a gun. Want to see my tongue and feel my pulse?”

“Well, no,” said the Doctor, with a slight shrug of his shoulders. “I can pretty well tell.”

“How?”

“By your looks.”

“Eh? Don’t look bad, do I?”

“Rather.”

“Something nasty coming on?” said the young man nervously.

“Yes; bad bilious attack, if you are not careful. You have been drinking too much beer and smoking too many strong cigars.”

“Not a bad guess,” said the young man with a grin. “Last boxes are enough to take the top of your head off. Try one.”

“Thank you,” was the reply, and a black-looking cigar was taken from the proffered case.

“Mind, I’ve told you they are roofers.”

“I can smoke a strong cigar,” said the Doctor, quietly.

“You can? Well, I can’t. Now then, mix up something; I want to be off.”

“There is no need to give you any medicine. Leave off beer and tobacco for a few days, and you will be all right.”

“But aren’t you going to give me any physic?”

“Not a drop.”

“Glad of it. But I say, the yokels down here won’t care for it if you don’t give them something.”

“I have found out that already. There, sir, I have given you the best advice I can.”

“Thankye. When am I to come again?”

“Not until you are really ill. Not then,” said the Doctor, smiling slightly as he rose, “for I suppose I should be sent for to you.”

“That’s all then?”

“Yes, that is all.”

“Well, send in your bill to the guv’nor,” said the young man, renewing his grin; “he pays all mine. Nice morning, ain’t it, for December? Soon have Christmas.”

“Yes, we shall soon have Christmas now,” said the Doctor, backing his visitor toward the door.

“But looks more like October, don’t it?”

“Yes, much more like October.”

“Steady, Beauty! Ah, quiet, will you!” cried the young man, as he mounted the restive cob. “She’s a bit fresh. Wants some of the dance taken out of her. Morning.—Sour beggar, no wonder he don’t get on,” muttered the patient. “Take that and that. Coming those games when I’m mounting! How do you like that? Wanted to have me off.”

There was a fresh application of the spurs, brutally given, and after plunging heavily the little mare tore off as hard as she could go, while the Doctor watched till his patient turned a corner, and then resumed his walk up and down the garden—a walk interrupted by the visit.

“Insolent puppy!” he muttered, frowning. “A miserable excuse.”

“Pierce, dear, where are you?” cried a pleasant voice, and a piquant little figure appeared at the door. “Oh, there you are. Shall I want a hat? Oh, no, it’s quite mild.” The owner of the voice hurried out like a beam of sunshine on the dull grey morning, and taking the Doctor’s arm tried to keep step with him, after glancing up in his stern face, her own looking merry and arch with its dimples.

“What is it, Jenny?” he said.

“What is it, sir? Why, I want fresh air as well as you; but don’t stride along like that. How can I keep step? You have such long legs.”

“That’s better,” he said, trying to accommodate himself to the little body at his side.

“Rather. So you have had a patient,” she said.

“Yes, I’ve had a patient, Sis,” he replied, looking down at her; and a faint colour dawned in her creamy cheeks.

“And you always grumbling, sir! There, I do believe that is the beginning of a change. Who was the patient?”

The Doctor’s hand twitched, and he frowned, but he said, calmly enough, “That young cub from the Manor.”

“Mr Claud Wilton?” said the girl innocently; “Oh, I am glad. Beginning with the rich people at the Manor. Now everyone will come.”

“No, my dear; everyone will not come, and the sooner we pack up and go back to town the better.”

“What, sell the practice?”

“Sell the practice,” he cried contemptuously. “Sell the furniture, Sis. One man—fool, I mean—was enough to be swindled over this affair. Practice! The miserable scoundrel! Much good may the money he defrauded me of do him. No, but we shall have to go.”

“Don’t, Pierce,” said the girl, looking up at him wistfully.

“Why?” he said angrily.

“Because it did do me good being down here, and I like the place so much.”

“Any place would be better than that miserable hole at Westminster, where you were getting paler every day, but I ought to have been more businesslike. It has not done you good though; and if you like the place the more reason why we should go,” he cried angrily.

“Oh, Pierce, dear, what a bear you are this morning. Do be patient, and I know the patients will come.”

“Bah! Not a soul called upon us since we’ve been here, except the tradespeople, so that they might get our custom.”

“But we’ve only been here six months, dear.”

“It will be the same when we’ve been here six years, and I’m wasting time. I shall get away as soon as I can. Start the New Year afresh in town.”

“Pierce, oh don’t walk so fast. How can I keep up with you?”

“I beg your pardon.”

“That’s better. But, Pierce, dear,” she said, with an arch look; “don’t talk like that. You wouldn’t have the heart to go.”

“Indeed! But I will.”

“I know better, dear.”

“What do you mean?”

“You couldn’t go away now. Oh, Pierce, dear, she is sweet! I could love her so. There is something so beautiful and pathetic in her face as she sits there in church. Many a time I’ve felt the tears come into my eyes, and as if I could go across the little aisle and kiss her and call her sister.”

He turned round sharply and caught her by the arm, his...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 9.1.2016
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Anthologien
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Klassiker / Moderne Klassiker
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Romane / Erzählungen
• Schlagworte: Austen • Bronte • classics • Dickens • Hawthorne • Prejudice • Sense
• ISBN-10: 1-5183-6386-5 / 1518363865
• ISBN-13: 978-1-5183-6386-3 / 9781518363863