An hour later I left, and that afternoon arrived home to find that my father had been thrown from his horse, while riding towards Deene by a bridlepath, and was lying in a dangerous condition, with my old friend Dr Lewis, of Cliffe, and Dr Richardson, of Stamford, in attendance upon him. As may be imagined, my mother was in a state of terrible anxiety, and I at once telegraphed to my sister, who had left Beaulieu long before, and was now at Bournemouth. Next morning she arrived, but by that time my father had taken a turn for the better, and Dr Lewis, who was untiring in his attention, declared that the turning point was past and that he would recover. A good fellow was Lewis; a hardworking, careful, good-natured bachelor, who was known and respected throughout the whole countryside, because of his merry demeanour, the great pains he took with even the poorest, and the skill with which he treated one and all of his patients, from Countess to farm-labourer. Besides which, he was a remarkable whist player.
On the day of my arrival I feared the worst, but when I had been at Tixover for a day or two it was apparent that my father would recover, therefore all our spirits rose again, and one evening after dinner I went up to Mrs Walker’s to have a smoke with Yelverton.
He greeted me with the cordiality of the old days at Wadham as I was ushered in, produced the inevitable whiskey from the cupboard, and we settled down to chat.
He related to me the principal local events of the past month, but with the air of one who was already tired of rusticating.
I remarked upon his apparent apathy, and in reply he said—
“I regret that I left London. All my interests were centred there. It was only my health which compelled me to give it up. But I suppose I shall go back some day,” and he sighed and resumed the briar pipe he had been smoking when I entered.
On the table was a blotting-pad and some manuscript. He had tried that day to write his sermon, but was unable. He had been smoking and meditating instead.
“And as soon as you have got strong again you mean to leave us and go back to a London parish!” I exclaimed. “That’s too bad. I hear you are getting on famously here.”
“Getting on!” he repeated wearily. “Yes, and that’s about all. My work lies in London. I’m not fitted for a country parson, because I can’t be idle. I feel as if I must be always energetic; and too much energy on the part of a country curate generally causes his vicar annoyance. Many vicars think energy undignified.”
“But, my dear fellow,” I exclaimed, “if you’re not well—and I see you’re not well by your face and manner—why don’t you take things easily? You need not kill yourself, surely! London seems to have a remarkable attraction for you. Surely life is much healthier here.”