“Wickfield’s plans,” said the Doctor, stroking his face, and looking penitently at his adviser. “That is to say, our joint plans for him. I said myself, abroad or at home.”
“And I said,” added Mr. Wickfield gravely, “abroad. I was the means of sending him abroad. It’s my responsibility.”
“Oh! Responsibility!” said the Old Soldier. “Every thing was done for the best, my dear Mr. Wickfield; every thing was done for the kindest and best, we know. But if the dear fellow can’t live there, he can’t live there. And if he can’t live there, he’ll die there, sooner than he’ll overturn the Doctor’s plans. I know him,” said the Old Soldier, fanning herself, in a sort of calm prophetic agony, “and I know he’ll die there, sooner than he’ll overturn the Doctor’s plans.”
“Well, well, ma’am,” said the Doctor, cheerfully, “I am not bigoted to my plans, and I can overturn them myself. I can substitute some other plans. If Mr. Jack Maldon comes home on account of ill health, he must not be allowed to go back, and we must endeavour to make some more suitable and fortunate provision for him in this country.”
Mrs. Markleham was so overcome by this generous speech—which, I need not say, she had not at all expected or led up to—that she could only tell the Doctor it was like himself, and go several times through that operation of kissing the sticks of her fan, and then tapping his hand with it. After which she gently chid her daughter Annie, for not being more demonstrative when such kindnesses were showered, for her sake, on her old playfellow; and entertained us with some particulars concerning other deserving members of her family, whom it was desirable to set on their deserving legs.
All this time, her daughter Annie never once spoke, or lifted up her eyes. All this time, Mr. Wickfield had his glance upon her as she sat by his own daughter’s side. It appeared to me that he never thought of being observed by any one; but was so intent upon her, and upon his own thoughts in connexion with her, as to be quite absorbed. He now asked what Mr. Jack Maldon had actually written in reference to himself, and to whom he had written it?
“Why, here,” said Mrs. Markleham, taking a letter from the chimney-piece above the Doctor’s head, “the dear fellow says to the Doctor himself—where is it? Oh!—‘I am sorry to inform you that my health is suffering severely, and that I fear I may be reduced to the necessity of returning home for a time, as the only hope of restoration.’ That’s pretty plain, poor fellow! His only hope of restoration! But Annie’s letter is plainer still. Annie, show me that letter again.”
“Not now, mama,” she pleaded in a low tone.
“My dear, you absolutely are, on some subjects, one of the most ridiculous persons in the world,” returned her mother, “and perhaps the most unnatural to the claims of your own family. We never should have heard of the letter at all, I believe, unless I had asked for it myself. Do you call that confidence, my love, towards Doctor Strong? I am surprised. You ought to know better.”
The letter was reluctantly produced; and as I handed it to the old lady, I saw how the unwilling hand from which I took it, trembled.