In a story, as in a voyage, one must occasionally travel with uncongenial companions. Now I have no reason for hoping that any of my readers care to keep Dr. Dill's company, and yet it is with Dr. Dill we must now for a brief space foregather. He was on his way to visit his patient at the “Fisherman's Home,” having started, intentionally very early, to be there before Stapylton could have interposed with any counsels of removing him to Kilkenny.

The world, in its blind confidence in medical skill, and its unbounded belief in certain practitioners of medicine, is but scantily just to the humbler members of the craft in regard to the sensitiveness with which they feel the withdrawal of a patient from their care, and the substitution of another physician. The doctor who has not only heard, but felt Babington's adage, that the difference between a good physician and a bad one is only “the difference between a pound and a guinea,” naturally thinks it a hard thing that his interests are to be sacrificed for a mere question of five per cent. He knows, besides, that they can each work on the same materials with the same tools, and it can be only through some defect in his self-confidence that he can bring himself to believe that the patient's chances are not pretty much alike in his hands or his rival's. Now Dr. Dill had no feelings of this sort; no undervaluing of himself found a place in his nature. He regarded medical men as tax-gatherers, and naturally thought it mattered but little which received the impost; and, thus reflecting, he bore no good will towards that gallant Captain, who, as we have seen, stood so well in his daughter's favor. Even hardened men of the world—old footsore pilgrims of life—have their prejudices, and one of these is to be pleased at thinking they had augured unfavorably of any one they had afterwards learned to dislike. It smacks so much of acuteness to be able to say, “I was scarcely presented to him; we had not exchanged a dozen sentences when I saw this, that, and t' other.” Dill knew this man was overbearing, insolent, and oppressive, that he was meddlesome and interfering, giving advice unasked for, and presuming to direct where no guidance was required. He suspected he was not a man of much fortune; he doubted he was a man of good family. All his airs of pretensions—very high and mighty they were—did not satisfy the doctor. As he said himself, he was a very old bird, but he forgot to add that he had always lived in an extremely small cage.

The doctor had to leave his horse on the high-road and take a small footpath, which led through some meadows till it reached the little copse of beech and ilex that sheltered the cottage and effectually hid it from all view from the road. The doctor had just gained the last stile, when he suddenly came upon a man repairing a fence, and whose labors were being overlooked by Miss Barrington. He had scarcely uttered his most respectful salutations, when she said, “It is, perhaps, the last time you will take that path through the Lock Meadow, Dr. Dill. We mean to close it up after this week.”

“Close it up, dear lady!—a right of way that has existed Heaven knows how long. I remember it as a boy myself.”

“Very probably, sir, and what you say vouches for great antiquity; but things may be old and yet not respectable. Besides, it never was what you have called it,—a right of way. If it was, where did it go to?”

“It went to the cottage, dear lady. The 'Home' was a mill in those days.”

“Well, sir, it is no longer a mill, and it will soon cease to be an inn.”

“Indeed, dear lady! And am I to hope that I may congratulate such kind friends as you have ever been to me on a change of fortune?”

“Yes, sir; we have grown so poor that, to prevent utter destitution, we have determined to keep a private station; and with reference to that, may I ask you when this young gentleman could bear removal without injury?”

“I have not seen him to-day, dear lady; but judging from the inflammatory symptoms I remarked yesterday, and the great nervous depression—”

“I know nothing about medicine, sir; but if the nervous depression be indicated by a great appetite and a most noisy disposition, his case must be critical.”

“Noise, dear lady!”

“Yes, sir; assisted by your son, he sat over his wine till past midnight, talking extremely loudly, and occasionally singing. They have now been at breakfast since ten o'clock, and you will very soon be able to judge by your own ears of the well-regulated pitch of the conversation.”

“My son, Miss Dinah! Tom Dill at breakfast here?”

“I don't know whether his name be Tom or Harry, sir, nor is it to the purpose; but he is a red-haired youth, with a stoop in the shoulders, and a much-abused cap.”

Dill groaned over a portrait which to him was a photograph.

“I 'll see to this, dear lady. This shall be looked into,” muttered he, with the purpose of a man who pledged himself to a course of action; and with this he moved on. Nor had he gone many paces from the spot when he heard the sound of voices, at first in some confusion, but afterwards clearly and distinctly.

“I 'll be hanged if I 'd do it, Tom,” cried the loud voice of Conyers. “It's all very fine talking about paternal authority and all that, and so long as one is a boy there's no help for it; but you and I are men. We have a right to be treated like men, have n't we?”

“I suppose so,” muttered the other, half sulkily, and not exactly seeing what was gained by the admission.

“Well, that being so,” resumed Conyers, “I'd say to the governor, 'What allowance are you going to make me?'”

“Did you do that with your father?” asked Tom, earnestly.

“No, not exactly,” stammered out the other. “There was not, in fact, any need for it, for my governor is a rare jolly fellow,—such a trump! What he said to me was, 'There's a check-book, George; don't spare it.'”

“Which was as much as to say, 'Draw what you like.'”

“Yes, of course. He knew, in leaving it to my honor, there was no risk of my committing any excess; so you see there was no necessity to make my governor 'book up.' But if I was in your place I 'd do it. I pledge you my word I would.”

Tom only shook his head very mournfully, and made no answer. He felt, and felt truly, that there is a worldly wisdom learned only in poverty and in the struggles of narrow fortune, of which the well-to-do know absolutely nothing. Of what avail to talk to him of an unlimited credit, or a credit to be bounded only by a sense of honor? It presupposed so much that was impossible, that he would have laughed if his heart had been but light enough.

“Well, then,” said Conyers, “if you have n't courage for this, let me do it; let me speak to your father.”

“What could you say to him?” asked Tom, doggedly.

“Say to him?—what could I say to him?” repeated he, as he lighted a fresh cigar, and affected to be eagerly interested in the process. “It's clear enough what I 'd say to him.”

“Let us hear it, then,” growled out Tom, for he had a sort of coarse enjoyment at the other's embarrassment. “I 'll be the doctor now, and listen to you.” And with this he squared his chair full in front of Conyers, and crossed his arms imposingly on his chest “You said you wanted to speak to me about my son Tom, Mr. Conyers; what is it you have to say?”

“Well, I suppose I'd open the matter delicately, and, perhaps, adroitly. I 'd say, 'I have remarked, doctor, that your son is a young fellow of very considerable abilities—'”

“For what?” broke in Tom, huskily.

“Come, you 're not to interrupt in this fashion, or I can't continue. I 'd say something about your natural cleverness; and what a pity it would be if, with very promising talents, you should not have those fair advantages which lead a man to success in life.”

“And do you know what he 'd say to all that?”

“No.”

“Well, I'll tell you. He'd say 'Bother!' Just 'bother.'”

“What do you mean by 'bother'?”

“That what you were saying was all nonsense. That you did n't know, nor you never could know, the struggles of a man like himself, just to make the two ends meet; not to be rich, mind you, or lay by money, or have shares in this, or stocks in that, but just to live, and no more.”

“Well, I'd say, 'Give him a few hundred pounds, and start him.'”

“Why don't you say a few thousands? It would sound grander, and be just as likely. Can't you see that everybody hasn't a Lieutenant-General for a father? and that what you 'd give for a horse—that would, maybe, be staked to-morrow—would perhaps be a fortune for a fellow like me? What's that I hear coming up the river? That's the doctor, I 'm sure. I 'll be off till he's gone.” And without waiting to hear a word, he sprang from his chair and disappeared in the wood.

Dr. Dill only waited a few seconds to compose his features, somewhat excited by what he had overheard; and then coughing loudly, to announce his approach, moved gravely along the gravel path.

“And how is my respected patient?” asked he, blandly. “Is the inflammation subsiding, and are our pains diminished?”

“My ankle is easier, if you mean that,” said Conyers, bluntly.

“Yes, much easier,—much easier,” said the doctor, examining the limb; “and our cellular tissue has less effusion, the sheaths of the tendons freer, and we are generally better. I perceive you have had the leeches applied. Did Tom—my son—give you satisfaction? Was he as attentive and as careful as you wished?”

“Yes, I liked him. I wish he 'd come up every day while I remain. Is there any objection to that arrangement?”

“None, dear sir,—none. His time is fully at your service; he ought to be working hard. It is true he should be reading eight or ten hours a day, for his examination; but it is hard to persuade him to it. Young men will be young men!”

“I hope so, with all my heart. At least, I, for one, don't want to be an old one. Will you do me a favor, doctor? and will you forgive me if I don't know how to ask it with all becoming delicacy? I'd like to give Tom a helping hand. He's a good fellow,—I 'm certain he is. Will you let me send him out to India, to my father? He has lots of places to give away, and he 'd be sure to find something to suit him. You have heard of General Conyers, perhaps, the political resident at Delhi? That's my governor.” In the hurry and rapidity with which he spoke, it was easy to see how he struggled with a sense of shame and confusion.

Dr. Dill was profuse of acknowledgments; he was even moved as he expressed his gratitude. “It was true,” he remarked, “that his life had been signalled by these sort of graceful services, or rather offers of services; for we are proud if we are poor, sir. 'Dill aut nil' is the legend of our crest, which means that we are ourselves or nothing.”

“I conclude everybody else is in the same predicament,” broke in Conyers, bluntly.

“Not exactly, young gentleman,—not exactly. I think I could, perhaps, explain—”

“No, no; never mind it. I 'm the stupidest fellow in the world at a nice distinction; besides, I'll take your word for the fact. You have heard of my father, have n't you?”

“I heard of him so late as last night, from a brother officer of yours, Captain Stapylton.”

“Where did you meet Stapylton?” asked Conyers, quickly.

“At Sir Charles Cobham's. I was presented to him by my daughter, and he made the most kindly inquiries after you, and said that, if possible, he'd come over here to-day to see you.”

“I hope he won't; that's all,” muttered Conyers. Then, correcting himself suddenly, he said: “I mean, I scarcely know him; he has only joined us a few months back, and is a stranger to every one in the regiment. I hope you did n't tell him where I was.”

“I'm afraid that I did, for I remember his adding, 'Oh! I must carry him off. I must get him back to headquarters.'”

“Indeed! Let us see if he will. That's the style of these 'Company's' officers,—he was in some Native corps or other,—they always fancy they can bully a subaltern; but Black Stapylton will find himself mistaken this time.”

“He was afraid that you had not fallen into skilful hands; and, of course, it would not have come well from me to assure him of the opposite.”

“Well, but what of Tom, doctor? You have given me no answer.”

“It is a case for reflection, my dear young friend, if I may be emboldened to call you so. It is not a matter I can say yes or no to on the instant. I have only two grown-up children: my daughter, the most affectionate, the most thoughtful of girls, educated, too, in a way to grace any sphere—”

“You need n't tell me that Tom is a wild fellow,” broke in Conyers,—for he well understood the antithesis that was coming; “he owned it all to me, himself. I have no doubt, too, that he made the worst of it; for, after all, what signifies a dash of extravagance, or a mad freak or two? You can't expect that we should all be as wise and as prudent and as cool-headed as Black Stapylton.”

“You plead very ably, young gentleman,” said Dill, with his smoothest accent, “but you must give me a little time.”

“Well, I'll give you till to-morrow,—to-morrow, at this hour; for it wouldn't be fair to the poor fellow to keep him in a state of uncertainty. His heart is set on the plan; he told me so.”

“I 'll do my best to meet your wishes, my dear young gentleman; but please to bear in mind that it is the whole future fate of my son I am about to decide. Your father may not, possibly, prove so deeply interested as you are; he may—not unreasonably, either—take a colder view of this project; he may chance to form a lower estimate of my poor boy than it is your good nature to have done.”

“Look here, doctor; I know my governor something better than you do, and if I wrote to him, and said, 'I want this fellow to come home with a lac of rupees,' he 'd start him to-morrow with half the money. If I were to say, 'You are to give him the best thing in your gift,' there's nothing he 'd stop at; he 'd make him a judge, or a receiver, or some one of those fat things that send a man back to England with a fortune. What's that fellow whispering to you about? It's something that concerns me.”

This sudden interruption was caused by the approach of Darby, who had come to whisper something in the doctor's ear.

“It is a message he has brought me; a matter of little consequence. I 'll look to it, Darby. Tell your mistress it shall be attended to.” Darby lingered for a moment, but the doctor motioned him away, and did not speak again till he had quitted the spot. “How these fellows will wait to pick up what passes between their betters,” said Dill, while he continued to follow him with his eyes. “I think I mentioned to you once, already, that the persons who keep this house here are reduced gentry, and it is now my task to add that, either from some change of fortune or from caprice, they are thinking of abandoning the inn, and resuming—so far as may be possible for them—their former standing. This project dates before your arrival here; and now, it would seem, they are growing impatient to effect it; at least, a very fussy old lady—Miss Barrington—has sent me word by Darby to say her brother will be back here tomorrow or next day, with some friends from Kilkenny, and she asks at what time your convalescence is likely to permit removal.”

“Turned out, in fact, doctor,—ordered to decamp! You must say, I 'm ready, of course; that is to say, that I 'll go at once. I don't exactly see how I 'm to be moved in this helpless state, as no carriage can come here; but you 'll look to all that for me. At all events, go immediately, and say I shall be off within an hour or so.”

“Leave it all to me,—leave it in my hands. I think I see what is to be done,” said the doctor, with one of his confident little smiles, and moved away.

There was a spice of irritation in Conyers's manner as he spoke. He was very little accustomed to be thwarted in anything, and scarcely knew the sensation of having a wish opposed, or an obstacle set against him, but simply because there was a reason for his quitting the place, grew all the stronger his desire to remain there. He looked around him, and never before had the foliage seemed so graceful; never had the tints of the copper-beech blended so harmoniously with the stone-pine and the larch; never had the eddies of the river laughed more joyously, nor the blackbirds sung with a more impetuous richness of melody. “And to say that I must leave all this, just when I feel myself actually clinging to it. I could spend my whole life here. I glory in this quiet, unbroken ease; this life, that slips along as waveless as the stream there! Why should n't I buy it; have it all my own, to come down to whenever I was sick and weary of the world and its dissipations? The spot is small; it couldn't be very costly; it would take a mere nothing to maintain. And to have it all one's own!” There was an actual ecstasy in the thought; for in that same sense of possession there is a something that resembles the sense of identity. The little child with his toy, the aged man with his proud demesne, are tasters of the same pleasure.

“You are to use your own discretion, my dear young gentleman, and go when it suits you, and not before,” said the doctor, returning triumphantly, for he felt like a successful envoy. “And now I will leave you. To-morrow you shall have my answer about Tom.”

Conyers nodded vaguely; for, alas! Tom, and all about him, had completely lapsed from his memory.