the matter that I could discover except a good deal of palpitation, and as I gained his confidence he admitted that he had been overworked of late coaching pupils for an examination. Nervous dyspepsia, thought I, and after a little more conversation I was about to leave him in a comparatively placid state when he startled me by bouncing off the bed, and before I could stop him had darted to the head of the stairs, where he clung to the rails listening intently, the rattle of a loose banister voicing his nervous tremor the while. His ears, more attentive than mine, had caught a knock at the cottage door, and it was not until apparently satisfied as to the identity of the milkman, whose conversation with Mrs. Oakenfall I could now hear, that he relaxed his convulsive hold upon the rails and flung himself upon the bed again.
"I was expecting someone from the college," was his explanation, delivered with an awkward smile. But I noticed that the sweat was standing in great drops upon his face, while the vessels of his neck pulsated fiercely.
"You must really take things more quietly," was my remonstrance—a lame one, no doubt, but the situation was embarrassing.
Promising to send him a tonic I groped downstairs, managing to elude Mrs. Oakenfall on the way, and drove off more than a little puzzled. Alcoholism is certainly a many-sided affection, but terrifying as are the wild ideas of delirium tremens the schoolmaster’s emotion I had seen to arise from actual occurrences, and he was besides far too sensible in the intervals to give colour to any such diagnosis. I was so intent on the matter that I paid no heed to someone hailing us, and had I been alone I should probably have driven on, but the stopping of the cart woke me to a sense of my responsibilities.
Trevatt had pulled up at a farmhouse I had noticed several times in my rounds, never failing to admire the charming picture it made, regrettable as was the main cause; I learned at one time and another that it had been the homestead of a large farming estate which had fallen upon evil days, much of the land having been merged in neighbouring farms while the house remained a melancholy derelict. It was in the red-brick and timber style so common thereabouts, but ruin had clothed it with a special grace, and the ivy that crept unrestrained to the very roof softened the ravages of weather and neglect. Deserted for many a year, it had lately been hired by an artist who was content to overlook its discomfort for the sake of its picturesque appearance, its cheapness having perhaps not a little to do with his selection. This was the man who stood, a black-bearded figure, at an open lower window.
"Please come in, doctor. I've hurt my foot."
The low-ceiled room I entered, its blackened beams fairly bristling with hooks, had evidently been the kitchen and living-place of the farm, and the huge cavern of a fireplace along one side was still furnished with broad oak settles, cosy enough no doubt when the fire blazed on the hearth and the wind whistled outside, but now there was a sense of musty dampness about the place, and the small windows with their little diamond-panes gave exceedingly little light for an artist's studio; for that it was indeed the studio was evidenced by the trade-marks of the craft all round about; but this I will say, that it was the neatest studio I have ever seen.
"Sorry to trouble you," said the artist as he hobbled across the room, leaning heavily on a stick; and then, sliding on to a ricketty old sofa, he drew off his sock and showed me one of the worst sprains I had seen or am ever likely to see. As I examined it carefully, to make sure there was no fracture, he explained how he had been sauntering through a dark avenue the day before, and had slipped on some wet leaves.
"Do you mean that long drive just at the end of your road?" said I. "It would make a good background for a tragic composition, don't you think?"
"Yes, yes, yes!" he exclaimed, starting, and half rising; adding, with a groan as the sprain reminded him of his crippled condition, "very tragic, as you say."
"You are no Englishman," I thought, as he spoke, so soft was the inflection of his voice, the gestures so forcible and animated.
"Excuse me," I said aloud. "What is your name?"
"Smithson," was the dogged reply, and I straightway entered it in my visiting list, but I was unconvinced: the eyes, now that I scanned him closely, were too liquid, and that lustrous black hair and olive complexion were never owned by a pure-blooded Smith or Smithson either.
Now I am not an artist, but I had smoked too many pipes in my friend Havery's studio
