Then he took up a book and began to read, and Bessie heard no more particulars of his visit to Greystone. Her curiosity was, however, satisfied that there was nothing very exciting to hear; it was only a sad little every-day story. She was very sorry for the little boy’s friends, and she said to herself she was glad that she had no children.
[CHAPTER III.]
“LITTLE MASTER.”
“For when the morn came dim and sad
And chill with early showers,
His quiet eyelids closed—he had
Another morn than ours.”
Thomas Hood.
HAD Mr. Guildford been a native of Sothernshire, he could not but have been familiar with the name of the Methvyns of Carling, one of the oldest and wealthiest families of the county. Had he been in the least addicted to local gossip, or less preoccupied, he could hardly have failed, even at Sothern, to hear casual mention of them and of their younger branch, the Methvyns of Greystone. But if he had ever heard of either Carling or Greystone, he had forgotten all about it; and as he was whirled along to Haverstock that cold February evening, his mind was a perfect blank as regarded Methvyns of anywhere. Nor did he feel much interest or curiosity respecting the summons he had received.
He had brought a book with him, but the lamp gave so feeble and uncertain a light that reading was out of the question. So for the half-hour of his railway journey, Mr. Guildford set himself to think instead; to work out in his head the results of a certain shadowy theory or suggestion bearing upon an obscure and hitherto but slightly considered department of medical science, which had lately come under his notice for the first time. It had interested and even fascinated him, but he had so often fancied himself on the brink of a great discovery, so often imagined that he saw the flashing of “some bright truth in its prism,” only to be disappointed, that he was already learning to be sceptical and cautious, keen to criticise and slow to pronounce. Outward circumstances too, helped to check his impetuosity, to moderate without damping his ardour—the apparent disadvantage of his leisure consisting mostly of odd snatches of time, liable at any moment to interruption; the being constantly recalled to matters of present fact, obliged suddenly to concentrate his powers on subjects seldom presenting anything in common with his chosen studies; all this was excellent training for an excitable, enthusiastic temperament naturally impatient of discipline or restriction. Gradually he acquired great inward self-control—mental independence of, or rather superiority to, his external surroundings for the time being. He learnt to choose and limit his subjects of thought; a habit as valuable to a man of his profession, as was in another direction the great soldier’s far-famed capability of “sleeping to order.”
So Mr. Guildford was really thinking—not merely dreaming, or passively receiving the impressions of the objects around him when the train stopped, and the railway officials’ equivalent for “Haverstock,” was shouted along the little platform. It was only a roadside station, badly lighted and dreary looking. Though not yet ten o’clock, there was a sort of middle-of-the-night air about the place, and the two or three men to be seen looked as if they had been wakened out of their first sleep. For a moment or two Mr. Guildford, as he stood alone mechanically watching the green light of the train that had brought him, as it disappeared in the darkness, felt bewildered and confused. But a voice at his side recalled him to what was before him.
“Are you the doctor, sir, if you please—the doctor from Sothernbay?” and turning at the question, Mr. Guildford saw that the speaker was a pleasant-looking man-servant, buttoned up to the chin in a thick driving coat; his tone was eager and anxious.
“Yes. I have come from Sothernbay in answer to a telegram I received this evening,” he replied. “Are you Colonel Methvyn’s man,—have you come to meet me?”