A very broad flight of shallow steps led to the heavy Gothic entrance, on either side of which life-sized wolves in stone supported the Cranstoun arms. For many hundred years the wolf’s head, grasped in a mail-covered hand, had been the device of the family, to whom tradition assigned many of the wolf’s characteristics of treachery and vindictiveness, while the motto, “Cranstoun, Remember!” was said to be derived from a bloodthirsty legend of long delayed vengeance in the days of the Norman Conquest.
As the carriage drew up before the entrance, the heavy oak doors were thrown open and Dr. Netherbridge ascended the steps, and entered the house. The hall was spacious and impressive as the exterior, hung with ancient swords and spears, and guarded by four glistening figures in complete armor, which, as the firelight from a wide hearth below a massive marble mantelpiece struck them, added to the sombre appearance of the house.
A stout, elderly man, evidently the butler, and two footmen stood in the hall. Sir Philip was out, they informed the doctor. He had been absent since the morning, and had caused a message to be conveyed to his house, together with a letter for Dr. Netherbridge, which he had wished to have immediately delivered.
“Has Lady Cranstoun been ill long?” the doctor inquired.
“For some time, sir. But her ladyship’s maid will be able to inform you as to all that, if you will be so kind as to follow me.”
Lady Cranstoun’s apartments were little less gloomy than the hall. No flowers, no dainty knick-knacks relieved their mediæval simplicity. In the bedroom and the adjoining sitting-room the floors were polished and spread with rugs, the walls covered with moth-eaten tapestry, while the massive bed and the chairs were formed of dark oak. An oak settle was drawn before the fire in the sitting-room, which communicated by a recess draped with heavy velvet curtains with the bedroom beyond. On a fur rug thrown across the settle, a figure in white draperies lay with face turned to the firelight. On a chair near, a white-capped nurse sat, holding in her hand a book from which she had been reading, while a dark-complexioned, pleasant-faced woman, evidently a servant, stood at a little distance, with hands tightly clasped, and a look of keen anxiety printed on her features.
“It is the doctor, my lady,” the servant said, approaching the motionless, recumbent figure of her mistress.
Lady Cranstoun uttered a low exclamation of impatience.
“Of what use is a doctor to me?” she murmured. “Send him away, Margaret! What good have they done me yet?”
“But this is a new doctor, my lady. If you would only let him see you.”