Doctor Luttrells First Patient | Page 6

her meals and half-a-crown a week, and the lady will teach her
everything; that is pretty fair for a beginning, and as father says, the
money will just find her in shoe-leather and aprons. Father's looking

out for a place for Joe now."
"I wish Susan could have a place like mine, mother," returned Martha,
proudly. "They are real gentlefolks, that is what they are. 'Will you be
so good as to clean my boots, Martha?' or 'Thank you, Martha,' when I
dry the paper of a morning. Oh, it is like play living at the corner house,
and as for that darling Miss Baby----" but here words failed Martha.
It could not be denied that Olivia was unusually depressed that
afternoon, fog and damp always had this effect on her. Her nature
needed sunshine and crisp, bracing air.
There was no buoyancy and elasticity in her tread. When people looked
at her, as they often did, for her pliant, slim figure rather attracted
notice, she thought they were only commenting on her old black hat
and jacket. Only one article of her dress satisfied her; her boots were
neat and strong. Marcus had found her one wet day warming her feet at
the fire and had gone off to examine her boots without a word. Olivia
had flushed up and looked uncomfortable when he came back with the
boots in his hand.
"Do you want to be laid up with bronchitis or congestion of the lungs?"
he asked, rather sadly, as he showed her the thin, worn soles; "do you
think that will make things easier for me, Livy?" The next day he had
taken her himself to the bootmaker's and had had her fitted with a
serviceable stout pair.
Somehow in spite of her pleasure in the boots and Marcus's
thoughtfulness she had felt rather like a scolded child.
Her unusual pessimism had a moment's distraction, for as she passed
the print-shop, at the corner of Harbut Street, she saw her mysterious
old gentleman standing still on the pavement fixedly regarding a small
oil-painting.
Olivia had a good view of the lean, cadaverous face and peaked white
beard; the heavy grey eyebrows seemed to beetle over the dark sunken
eyes.

"After all he looks more like a Spaniard than a Russian," she thought,
and again her theory of the Roman Catholic priest came into her mind.
"If I could only see him without his hat, I should know if he had a
tonsure," and then with youthful curiosity she looked to see what
picture had interested him.
It was a small painting of the Prodigal Son, but was evidently by no
amateur, the face of both father and son were admirably portrayed. The
strong Syrian faces were mellowed by the ruddy gleams of sunset. A
tame kid was gambolling behind them, and two women were grinding
corn, with the millstone between them. On the flat white roof of the
house, another woman had just laid aside her distaff in a hurry. The
father's arms with their gold bracelets were clasping the gaunt, sharp
shoulders of the starving youth.
Olivia knew the picture well. Marcus had been very much struck with it,
it was good work, he said; the Syrian faces were perfect types, and he
had made Olivia notice the strong resemblance between father and son.
"That is the mother, I suppose?" had been her comment; "she has just
caught sight of them, there is a puzzled look in her eyes as she lays
aside her distaff, as though she is not quite sure that that wild-looking
figure in sheep-skin is her own long-lost son."
"It must be a grand thing to be an artist," was Marcus's reply to this.
"Goddard, I do not know the name; the picture is cheap, too, only 25
pounds, but I would wager any money that it was painted in Syria."
Olivia stole a second glance at the old man, but he never moved; then
she shivered, and walked faster. It was bitterly cold, a miserable
afternoon for Marcus, who was visiting his poor patients in the squalid
back streets and slums that fringed Brompton.
Mayfield Villas were about ten minutes' walk from Galvaston Terrace;
the villas had verandahs and long, narrow gardens, but most of them
had lodgings to let.
Mrs. Broderick and her maid occupied the first floor at number six, the

drawing-room and back bedroom belonged to the invalid, and Deborah
had a tiny room close by her mistress, the other room had been
converted into a kitchen; none of the rooms were large, but they were
well-furnished, and thoroughly comfortable. During her husband's
lifetime Mrs. Broderick had been comfortably off, and had had a good
house--the carved book-cases, Turkey-carpet, and deep easy-chairs, and
a few proof-engravings handsomely framed, all spoke of