Stories from the Diary of a Doctor.
By the Authors of "The Medicine Lady."
VI.—THE WRONG PRESCRIPTION.
AM generally far too busy to leave town for Christmas, but one December comes vividly now before my memory, when, feeling the need of change and partial rest, I was induced to spend a week with my friends, the Onslows, at their beautiful country seat in Hampshire.
The house was full of guests, several of whom I knew already. My host was an old college friend; his wife was a distant relation of my own. For the first day or two of my visit I almost forgot that I was a doctor, and enjoyed the merry season as thoroughly as the youngest present.
There were three guests in the house who from the very first aroused my strong interest. One of these was a bright-looking young fellow of the name of Oliver; the others were two young girls, one of eighteen, the other a child of ten.
The open secret quickly reached my ears that Oliver and Frances Wilton were engaged to be married. They were a devoted couple—at least, that was my first impression; I had reason afterwards to fancy that the devotion was mostly on the part of the lover, and that the young lady, beautiful as she was to look at, had that callous nature to which strong feeling was impossible.
Miss Wilton was a contrast to her little sister, who was a perfect whirlwind of impetuosity, high spirits, laughter, and noise. The little girl, whose name was Rosamond, was a favourite with everyone in the house, and as she happened to be the only child of the party, all kinds of liberties were permitted to her.
On the morning of my third day at Holmwood, I was strolling through the shrubberies after breakfast when I came face to face with my host, Jack Onslow, in earnest conversation with Captain Oliver.
"Look here," said Jack, the moment he met me, "you are the very man I want. Here's Oliver in a dreadful state of mind. tell him he cannot do better than consult you. You will quickly show him that he is merely suffering from an attack of the nerves."
"But you have noticed it yourself—confess that you have," said Oliver, turning and looking full at his host.
"Oh, I confess nothing," said Jack. "You had better confide in Halifax. Have a cigar, Halifax? Now I will leave you and Jim to have your conference together."
Whether Oliver would have confided in me at that moment I cannot say, but before I could accept Onslow's cigar or make any suitable reply, a shrill little voice was heard calling to us, and the next instant Rosamond Wilton, her hair streaming behind her and her eyes bright from excitement, rushed up.
"Jim, Jim," she exclaimed, addressing Oliver, "Frances wants you to do something for her. Oh, you needn't go to the house," as he was preparing to start off. "She wants you to go to the chemist at Market Lea at once. Take this note with you. The chemist will give you some medicine that you are to bring back. Please go at once, Jim."
"Is Frances ill?" asked Oliver.
"I don't know—I don't think she is quite well. Anyhow, she wants you to go at once—will you?"
"That I will, of course," said Oliver, his face brightening. "Tell her so, Rosamond."
Rosamond darted away, and I turned to the young man.
"I should like a walk," I said; "may I come with you?"
"With pleasure," he replied.
We started immediately, cutting across an open common as the nearest way to the little town. When I saw Oliver talking to Onslow, he seemed undoubtedly depressed, but now he had recovered his usual spirits. He was a handsome young man of about five-and-twenty, with bright eyes, a resolute face, and an upright bearing. He was a captain in a crack regiment, and I understood that he was rich. I was at least ten years his senior. He represented the happy boy to me, and certainly gave me no hint of any possible cause for melancholy during our brisk walk.
We reached the chemist's. I waited outside while Oliver went in to execute his commission. After about a moment's absence he joined me, perturbation now very evident on his face.
"Look here, Dr. Halifax," he said, "I wonder if you can help me."
