Chapter XV (2)

But there was a reason greater even than this for the falling off of the New Doctor in the estimation of the young ladies, until even the Miss Johnsons and the Miss MacClinkers, who had thrown themselves at his head in every way which was open to them when he first came, had now nothing too bad to say of him. And that was, that he dared—he actually dared—how shall I tell it!—he dared to fall in love with a young lady who was a stranger and sojourner in the place, while there were so many native virgins ready and willing to be fallen in love with! Need I, after this, describe the bitterness with which he was spoken of by all the female portion of Mudford society! It was really most audacious conduct! To think that neither the Miss Johnsons, nor the Miss MacClinkers, nor the Misses Ferris, nor the Miss Skinners, nor any among the marriageable young ladies of Mudford, would suit his taste, and that he must pitch upon that little Laura Playfair from London, who had now come down on her second visit to her cousins, the Skinners! And yet, highly as I disapprove of the Doctor’s behaviour, I cannot help saying that Miss Playfair was a very nice and very superior girl, and that, had I been a young man myself, I should——. But never mind; I won’t have the bad taste to draw comparisons on such subjects, but will only go on to say that Laura had not been two days in the place before the wretch Smith saw her, and procured an introduction to her and to the three Miss Skinners at the same time. Those three sisters immediately put their innocent heads together, and absolutely prevailed on their mamma, who is as stingy as the grave, to give a party, and invite Mr Smith to it! It is well known that young doctors in country towns must marry, if they wish to get into practice; and those shrewd and benevolent young ladies fondly hoped that one of them might be destined to make Mr Smith’s fortune, and to partake of it. Think of their feelings when it became most manifest that the wretch was paying the greatest attention to Miss Playfair, to whom the same was evidently not unacceptable! The indignation of the other young ladies of the place was scarcely less; but then, to be sure, they had considerable consolation in the thought of what a snubbing those forward girls the Skinners had received. I am afraid, from what I have heard, that the Skinners’s hearts were turned from Laura from that time forth; but they did not dare openly to break with her, for the Playfairs were rather rich people, and kept their carriage (a one-horse phaeton, I believe), and occasionally invited the Miss Skinners to Bayswater; and Laura had one brother a clergyman, and another in the army; and the Skinners had always been fond of talking largely in Mudford about their connections; so, of course, they still kept up appearances as well as they could; but I know that Miss Playfair had intended to stay much longer than she did stay; and I have no doubt that it was owing to this affair of Mr Smith that her visit was brought to an untimely close.

The ingenious reader must have remarked that I have several times hinted at sundry dark and mysterious rumours about our New Doctor, which do not seem to harmonise with the kind of events that I have been narrating; but it must be understood that these rumours at first obtained no very serious notice from any except the lower classes; and some short time—a few weeks, perhaps—passed away between the little matters I have narrated, and the general prevalence of the dark suspicions which followed.

Here I see that I must attempt a somewhat more detailed account of the Doctor’s house than I have hitherto given. It is a square detached building, situated in the outskirts of the place, facing the road, and having no garden-railing or other space of any sort in front of it. What it appears, however, to want in privacy here, is made up for by the retirement to be obtained at the back of the house, which, it will be remembered, had been cut off from the front by the heavy door which the Doctor had erected in the middle of the lobby, and which he kept constantly locked, himself carrying the key always about him. The front of the house is continued, so to speak, by two high walls, that, together with the house itself, form the front of a long parallelogram, of which the sides and back are also high walls of masonry. The area within consists of a small paved court, and of a large garden, of which neither old Mole nor his successor took any care, and which is, and was, a perfect wilderness of rank luxuriant weeds, of moss-covered apple-trees, and of gooseberry and currant bushes on which the fruit never ripens. The walls are covered with ivy instead of fruit-trees, diversified here and there by a piece of new masonry, where the Doctor had them raised higher; and the whole place is dark, gloomy, cold, and tree-shaded.

The rumours about the Doctor, which at first were vague, and confined to the lower and more credulous order of persons, after a time began to be talked of among all classes; and it is wonderful, after they once began to be openly spoken of, how rapidly they spread, and how generally they were believed. It was said, then, that strange sounds were occasionally to be heard proceeding from the New Doctor’s house. A hoarse strange voice was sometimes heard speaking rapidly and threateningly for a time, and then was suddenly hushed; and it was said that occasionally a shrill wild shriek of agony or terror might be heard issuing from the recesses of the building. And those two young villains, Higgs’s boys, who will never come to any good, I fear, when they stole a ladder one night, and got over the back wall of the Doctor’s garden—to find their ball, they said, but, I believe, to steal the few apples that were on the trees—were so frightened by the strange ghostly lights that were flitting about in the windows of the house, that they ran off in the utmost terror and affright, leaving the ladder, and Bob’s, the youngest boy’s, cap behind them. I and some others did not pay much attention to these stories, although it was impossible to help believing some part of them—and, indeed, I had myself, on more than one occasion, heard from Miss Cringle’s room strange sounds proceeding from the Doctor’s house;—but amongst children and the ignorant they made an immense impression; so that, after a time, the little boys and girls would run away, screaming with terror, when the New Doctor approached; and even amongst grown persons there were more than chose to own it, who would as soon go a mile out of their way as pass his house alone after dark.

But there was soon a story out about the New Doctor, which appealed to the feelings of all, educated as well as ignorant. Miss Cringle, who had got into such a state of nervous excitement about him and his house, that she was obliged to have a woman to sleep with her, got out of bed one night about twelve o’clock, went to the window, and saw—what, I believe, no one would have credited on her unsupported testimony (not because people would have been indisposed to believe _it_, but because they would have been sure to disbelieve _her_). She called Mrs Rourke, the woman who slept with her, to her side; and they saw——They both swore it was true, and I suppose there can be no doubt about it now:—they both saw a light in one of the Doctor’s first-floor windows—a most rare thing on that side of the house—and plainly, distinctly thrown upon the blind was the shadow of a woman, evidently young and handsome, and utterly unlike the old housekeeper, doing up her hair for the night; and in such a state of deshabille that it was evident she was just going to bed! Presently passed also across the blind the shadow of a man—of the New Doctor; and in a moment, as if he had instantly perceived the imprudence of the woman in placing the candle where it was, the light was moved, the shadows vanished, and no more was seen.

Here was a discovery! Not a wink did Miss Cringle sleep that night, and no sleep did she permit to Mrs Rourke: indeed, it was as much as the latter could do, to persuade her not to send at once and knock up her friends in the middle of the night, that they might know without delay what she had seen. But next morning, before the shutters were down from all the shop windows, the news was over the place. The servant-girls brought the story in with the milk; the postman was double his proper time in going his rounds, owing to his loitering about so long—a vice to which he is rather prone—to discuss the news. My landlady could not wait until I got down-stairs; but brought up my shaving-water with her own hands, in order that she might tell me the story, from outside the door, before I got out of bed; and Miss Cringle had such a _levée_ on that day as made her the most important person in Mudford. Indeed, I verily believe that all the women in the place went to see her, except the Miss Johnsons and the Miss MacClinkers, who have never forgiven to the present day the deadly offence Miss Cringle gave them.

It may be imagined how great was the indignation throughout Mudford; and no one can say that it was without sufficient cause. To think of this young bachelor Doctor coming amongst us, being admitted to our Institution, and even asked to lecture there; getting introduced to our wives and daughters, and meeting with kindness and hospitality at our hands (this was what people said; the reader will judge, from what he has read, how much attention and hospitality had really been shown him); going about looking us in the face, as if he had been an honest man, and all the while being guilty of such flagrant misconduct as this! It was really too bad! And then, to think of his conduct to Miss Playfair! There could be no mistake about that; for it was now a positive, declared engagement. This was worse than all; and I own that I myself felt desperately indignant with Mr Smith. The Miss Skinners, of course, told the young lady all about it, and were excessively kind in their expressions of sympathy: so anxious, indeed, were all the young ladies to condole with her, that I am informed she had nearly as many callers during the day as Miss Cringle; but the ungrateful girl made no reply to what the Miss Skinners told her, shut herself up in her own room for the whole of the day, positively refusing to see one of her visitors, and only stepped out in the evening to post some letters with her own hand. So great was the commotion in the place, that there was some talk at the Literary Institution of expelling the Doctor; but on the Secretary’s stating that the low state of the funds would prevent the returning his subscription, the idea was abandoned for the time. After all, he didn’t trouble us with his company there often, so it didn’t much matter. There was even some talk, I believe, of breaking his windows; but we had a very stern and inflexible Inspector of the County Police force stationed at Mudford, who, hearing of this project, at once gave it to be understood that he should not allow his private feelings to interfere with his duty; and that whoever was guilty of any unlawful or riotous act, should be immediately put in the lock-up: so that method of administering justice was at once abandoned.

I suppose there is no such thing as perfect unanimity in this world—I am sure there is not in the world of Mudford;—and there were not wanting persons who said that Miss Cringle was cracked, and in all probability Mrs Rourke was drunk. But so great was the prejudice against the New Doctor, that even those who professed this opinion were ready to own that if Miss Cringle and Mrs Rourke had not seen what they said they had, there was no doubt that they _might_ have seen it, or something worse; so that the Doctor’s reputation did not gain much by their advocacy. And I must say here, in justice to those two ladies, that if any persons doubted their story at first, they could not in their hearts doubt it long, for the Doctor did not even attempt to deny it. Most people cut him without a word; but some few, and among them myself, told him what was said, and thus gave him an opportunity of contradicting the story; but he would only shrug his shoulders and turn away his head, neither owning nor denying it.

I don’t think the New Doctor could have led a very pleasant life just at this time; and there seemed less chance than ever of his getting into practice at Mudford. Miss Play fair was gone, and the few acquaintances he had made all dropped off. Scarcely anybody spoke to him; and, indeed, he now rarely came out until evening; when, as we knew from Miss Cringle, he would walk up and down the road for about an hour; come back at the end of that time to his house, stay in a few minutes, and then go out again for another walk in the same place. It must not be supposed, however, that nobody at all employed him. Two or three people had sent for him; and I don’t know that I shouldn’t have done so myself, notwithstanding all, if I had been unwell; for self is the great thing in such cases, and employ Green or Higgins I never can nor will: and those who had been the New Doctor’s patients all spoke highly of his attention and ability. This, however, did not influence our opinion of him in the least, as it is well known that the most diabolical of all possible personages can behave like a gentleman when expedient to do so.

Several months had now elapsed since the New Doctor came to Mudford. Miss Playfair, as I have just mentioned, was gone: indeed, she did not remain long after Miss Cringle’s dreadful discovery. One of the letters which she had posted herself on the following day was, as we ascertained from the postmaster, for her father,—no doubt informing him of her intention to come home at once. The other was to Mr Smith himself:—of course, its contents were not known to us, but it was generally supposed that it upbraided him with his conduct, and bade him an eternal farewell. In two days more she had left Mudford for London.

The stories about the Doctor did not fall off either in quantity or in quality, as the novelty of the affair died away. Perhaps they would have done so in time, but the time was not yet long enough; and, so far, scarcely a day elapsed but some new report of a startling character was brought out about him—some of these rumours being, I believe, not without truth in them; others being absurd, shocking, and incredible. Even had I space or time, I could not bring myself to narrate one tithe of the tales about him and the unhallowed doings in his house that passed current among the vulgar. But I must relate two events which were nearly bringing him into serious collision with the laws of his country.

Dreaded as the New Doctor’s house was, there were some of the more daring spirits in Mudford in whom curiosity was stronger than fear; and these often went out at night, by twos and threes, and climbing by some means to the top of the wall around the Doctor’s garden, watched there by the hour together, in hope of getting materials for some fresh story with which to horrify the inhabitants on the next day.

One very dark night, that daring young scamp, Flibbert, the blacksmith’s son—the only one in the place, I believe, who would have had the courage to do it—went there alone, and placed himself on watch at the top of the wall; and not long after, he came running home to his father, pale, breathless, and horror-struck. He said that he had not been long at his post when the Doctor came forth from his back door, accompanied by his old housekeeper, who held a lantern in her hand, while the Doctor carried a pick and a spade. They went to a corner in the garden among the apple-trees, and there the old woman held the light, while the doctor set to work to dig a small grave! He took some time about it, not being very expert in the use of the tools; and all the while the boy remained on the wall, close to them, afraid to move, and scarcely daring to breathe. When it was finished, the Doctor returned to the house, the old woman still remaining with the lantern near the grave, and presently came forth again, bringing under his arm a rough deal box or small coffin. He brought the coffin to the edge of the grave, and was just about to put it in, when the boy’s hold on the wall having become somewhat relaxed, he made a slight movement to get into a better position. The Doctor heard the sound, and called out sharply, “Who is there?” The boy made no reply, but, dropping at once to the ground outside the wall, ran home as fast as he could go, and told his father what he had witnessed.

Flibbert at first thought of putting the matter into the hands of the police; but on second thoughts, having some vague notions about obtaining a reward for the discovery, he determined to go and make a search himself in the place where his son had seen the grave. Accordingly on the next night, accompanied by his son and a neighbour, he went to the Doctor’s garden, and, getting over the wall by means of a ladder, proceeded to the spot indicated by the boy. It was plain enough, at first sight, that the earth in that place had been recently disturbed; but not all their digging could discover anything in the shape of a box or coffin. They filled in the earth again, and were about to make a search in other parts of the garden, when a pale, spectral light, proceeding they knew not whence, shone forth about them, making them look to each other so pale, so ghastly, so horrible, that they fled in the utmost terror from the spot, and returned to it no more.

It may be imagined what were the comments of the people of Mudford on this story, the truth of which no one could doubt. Flibbert reported it to the Inspector of Police, who reported it to the Superintendent, who reported it to the Chief Constable; but that gentleman did not think they could interfere in the matter without further evidence, and only gave orders that the police should keep a watchful eye on Mr Smith, and take particular notice of his actions.

They say, “Give a dog a bad name, and hang him;” and I suppose that at this time the New Doctor would have been by common consent, with or without evidence, considered guilty of any crimes that might have been committed at Mudford. But shortly after the event just narrated, he really had a very narrow escape indeed from being sent to jail for a most serious offence.

We had a cattle-market at Mudford shortly after the affair of the garden, and in the evening old Jobbs the farmer was walking home to his house, a short distance out of the town, having in his pocket about a hundred pounds in gold and notes which he had received for some cattle sold in the market. He confesses that he was rather tipsy, but swears that he was quite sufficiently himself to know what he was about. That night he was knocked down close to his own gate, and robbed of all the money he had about him; and the suspicions that the New Doctor was the perpetrator of the deed were so strong, that the magistrates issued a warrant for his apprehension.

Of course, such an event as the examination of our notorious Doctor before the magistrates, called together all the people in the place who could possibly leave their houses; and the number of persons who tried to get into the magistrates’ small office, would have more than filled the long room at the White Hart. I was fortunate enough to get a place, and will state the evidence given as briefly as I can.

John Jobbs swore that he was going home on foot about half-past nine o’clock on the evening after the cattle-market, having in his pocket about a hundred pounds, which he had received for some oxen. He had been drinking several glasses of grog, and was rather “overtook,” but knew very well what he was about. About half-way between Mudford and his house, his foot slipped and he fell; and, not being exactly sober, could not get up again as readily as usual. At that time a person came by, and helped him to rise. He knew Mr Smith, the New Doctor, very well by sight, and swore that he was the man. Mr Smith offered to see him home, but witness, knowing his infamous character, refused, and at the same time seized the opportunity to give him a bit of his mind in tolerably strong language. Finding, however, that he had hurt himself by his fall, and was unable to walk alone, he at length consented, and the Doctor took him by the arm, put him as far as his own gate, continuing to receive bits of his mind all the way, and there said “Good-night,” and left him, or pretended to leave him. Directly after, however, while Jobbs was standing in the same place, considering how best to steady himself so as to escape a scolding from his wife, he heard somebody behind him, and immediately was knocked down by a severe blow on the head, which rendered him insensible; and when he recovered, he found that he had been robbed of all the money in his pocket. Jobbs’s statement was corroborated by his wife, who deposed to his having come in without his money, and with the mark of a severe blow on the head. When he arrived, she looked at the clock, and saw that it was half-past ten. The man who keeps the turnpike gate just out of Mudford, swore that he saw Mr Jobbs going home under as much as he could carry; and that Jobbs was followed shortly after by the prisoner, whom he knew quite well, as he often walked that way. He was certain that prisoner was the man.

I believe that the magistrates would have committed the Doctor; but at this juncture Mr Burns, a very respectable old man, forced his way into the office with his son; and both volunteering their testimony, swore that Mrs Burns had been taken suddenly and alarmingly ill on the evening in question; that they had sent for Mr Green and Mr Higgins, both of whom were out of town; and that then, believing Mrs Burns to be in a most critical state, they had sent in desperation for Mr Smith. The Doctor arrived at their house, they both swore, at nine o’clock, and remained there, not being overwhelmed, as he said, with practice, until twelve, when the patient had fallen into a quiet sleep. Both Mr Burns and his son swore so positively as to the time, and that the Doctor had never left the house from nine until twelve, that the magistrates could not but consider the _alibi_ sufficiently proved, and the prisoner was discharged.

This was certainly a very narrow escape for our New Doctor; and though the magistrates discharged him, the intelligent reader will not doubt that he was fully convicted in the minds of the public of Mudford; each individual of that great body having his or her own reason to give, more or less probable, and more or less charitable, for the evidence of Mr Burns and his son. Some believed that they had been mistaken as to time; others that they had perjured themselves; and many among the lower orders never doubted that the New Doctor had the power of being in two places at once, when to be so suited his purpose. For my part, I believed that Jobbs and the pikeman had been mistaken as to identity; but in this opinion I think I got no supporters. If anything could have increased the popular indignation against the Doctor, it would have been his escape in this manner from the hands of justice after having been so very nearly caught; and I am sorry to say that, on the evening after his discharge, he, Mr Burns, senior, and Mr Burns, junior, were burnt together in effigy.

Events with regard to the New Doctor had been following thick upon each other; and very soon after this robbery business occurred the most extraordinary event of all.

One morning I found waiting for me on my breakfast-table the following note:—

“Mr Smith presents his compliments to Mr So-and-so, and would feel greatly obliged by his company to-morrow morning at twelve, to take a glass of wine, and listen to a communication which Mr Smith wishes to make.”

I was perfectly electrified when I read this note; and before I had finished my breakfast, Jones, Johnson, and Ferris dropped in, each to show me a similar invitation, to inquire whether I had got one, and to tell me that, as far as was known, some seven or eight of them had been issued altogether. I believe the first impulse of all of us was to return an indignant refusal; but after some discussion and consultation with others, the desire to hear the promised communication eventually determined us on going,—though I believe that an invitation to take wine with a condemned criminal in Newgate, and hear his confession, would have had a less startling effect.

Next day came, and we walked up to the door together to the number of eight. We knocked and were admitted by the old servant; and for the first known time since the New Doctor had been in the place, the door erected in the lobby stood open, and we were ushered into a room at the back of the house, where he himself was waiting to receive us. The room was plainly furnished—indeed it was old Mole’s old furniture; but everything was tastefully arranged, and there were several pieces of lady’s work lying about, which told plainly enough of the presence of a woman.

At the Doctor’s invitation we took our seats; but, as had been previously concerted, we all refused to take any wine until we had heard the promised communication.

“Well then, gentlemen,” he said, “we will commence with this robbery affair, though it is the last, as far as I know, in point of date.”

And, taking a newspaper from his pocket, he showed us the confession of a criminal convicted of highway robbery at the assizes of a neighbouring county, which stated that he (the convict) was the man who had robbed the old farmer after the cattle-market at Mudford.

“So you see, gentlemen,” the Doctor said, “I am innocent of that crime at all events, and this paper has come to me most opportunely, so that I might convince you. And now for something else. I know well enough that there have been reports of a very black character in circulation about me; and among the rest, that I, a bachelor, have a lady closely shut up in this house. Is it not so?”

We all said that it was so, and that we should like to have it explained.

“Then, gentlemen,” said he, “please to understand that the lady in question is my wife, and that she was so before I came to Mudford.”

“Then, sir,” we all exclaimed with one voice, “how do you account for your conduct to Miss Playfair?”

“Wait a moment, gentlemen,” he said; “to explain that matter I must fetch something from the next room. I will be back again directly.”

He left the room, and we gazed on each other with looks of blank astonishment; but before we could say a word, he returned and resumed his seat.

Finding that he did not speak for some time, we began to grow impatient, and asked him for his promised explanation.

“Explanation?” said he, as if he had forgotten all about it. “What explanation, pray?”

“Why, your explanation about Miss Playfair!”

“Gentlemen,” he said, in the coolest manner possible, “I have nothing to say about Miss Playfair, except that she is a very charming and estimable young lady, and that I hope soon to make her my wife.”

“Your wife!” we exclaimed. “Why, you have a wife already in this very house!”

He looked from one to the other with an appearance of the greatest bewilderment; and then said, with the utmost coolness,

“O dear, no, gentlemen! You are mistaken, I assure you. I have no wife, and never had such a thing in my life.”

“Why, you told us but a minute since that the woman who has been in this house for we don’t know how long was your wife!”

“I beg your pardon,” he replied. “I never said anything of the sort. I have no wife, and never had one since I was born!”

We all started to our feet, exclaiming, “This is unbearable; we didn’t come here to be insulted!” and were about to leave the room and the house; but with a merry laugh the Doctor exclaimed—

“Stop, gentlemen! Stop a moment, I pray; and excuse my joking with you. The farce has lasted long enough.” And he touched the bell.

Immediately the door opened, and the New Doctor entered!

Yes, the New Doctor entered; and yet the New Doctor had been in the room before, and was there still. We looked from one to the other in the utmost astonishment. There were two New Doctors! but just exactly alike; the same features, the same figure, the same quality of voice, the same cut of beard and mustache, and the same style of dress, down to the minutest particular!

“Gentlemen,” continued the one who had been in the room before, “this is my brother, Henry Smith, the married man. I am Herbert Smith, the bachelor; and as you are now, I believe, satisfied that I did not rob old Jobbs, I may as well own at once that the _alibi_ by which I escaped was founded on a mistake. It was I who put the old farmer home to his gate, as a charitable action, and there left him, little thinking he was going to be so attacked immediately after by that scoundrel; and it was my brother who attended on Mrs Burns in her illness. It was the first time, I believe, that we ever ventured out at the same time in Mudford; but such a call was not to be disobeyed; and it was well for me that it happened as it did.”

It may be supposed how much we were all astonished: but having heard and seen so much, we were prepared for almost anything; and we thought that we might now venture to take a glass of wine. We did so, and the wine, being very good, warmed our hearts, so that we felt more favourably disposed towards the Doctor, or Doctors, than a short time before we should have thought possible.

“Now, gentlemen,” continued the one who had last spoken, “as we are about immediately to leave Mudford—for which Mudford, I fancy, will not mourn excessively—and should not wish to leave behind us a character altogether infamous, we have asked you, as being the most respectable and intelligent men in the place” (here we all bowed, and took another glass of wine), “to meet us here to-day, in order to hear a short explanation of this curious affair, which has given rise to such dreadful stories about us.

“My brother and I are orphans, and were brought up to the medical profession by an old uncle, very rich, very eccentric, and with an excessive fondness for money, which has gone on increasing rapidly with every successive year of his life. We are twin brothers; we were educated together, we passed through our professional studies at the same time, and a short time ago we lived near each other in London, neither of us having any fixed idea of where we should ultimately settle. Shortly before we came here, my brother got married, and at about the same time he got into debt. He had taken a number of shares in a speculation which has since proved a success; but before that happy time, a bank, in which he had deposited his money, broke: he lost all, and, being unable to pay up the calls, his shares in the speculation referred to were also forfeited. These disasters threw him deeply into debt; and our uncle, who was most obstinate when he had once made up his mind, and absolutely miserly in some matters, not only refused to assist him, but said that, if he disgraced the family by going to prison, he would not leave a farthing of his fortune to him or to me. We knew that he was quite capable of carrying out this threat, and were at our wits’ end what to do; for my brother’s creditors were so vindictive and watchful, that for him to escape to the Continent appeared out of the question, when Miss Playfair, to whom I had just become engaged——”

“What!” we exclaimed; “did you know Miss Playfair before you came here?”

“Yes,” he said; “and it was she who first put into our heads the notion of coming. She had been on a visit at Mudford once; and when she heard that Mr Mole’s practice was to be sold, an idea occurred to her. She suggested it to me, and we all talked it over between us, and at length determined to carry it out, my uncle being especially delighted with the plan, from a cunning feeling of pleasure at the trick itself, as well as from the prospect of escaping an advance of cash, and yet of the family avoiding the disgrace of Henry’s going to prison. The plan was, that I should buy Mr Mole’s practice, which did not require a large outlay, and that we should all come quietly down here together, making it at the same time be believed that Henry and his wife had escaped to the Continent. My brother and I being, as you see, very much alike, we thought that, by taking care not to go out together, nor to be seen at the same time—by trimming our beards and mustaches in precisely the same way, and by always wearing exactly the same kind of dress—we might cause it to be believed, especially by strangers, that we were one and the same person. My brother’s wife, almost ever since her marriage, had been an invalid, and was confined almost entirely to the house, so that there was no fear of our being found out through her; and for our housekeeper we chose an old servant of the family, on whose fidelity we could depend. There were several reasons which determined us on taking the proposed step. My brother’s wife was horrified at the idea of her husband being taken from her and sent to prison, and would have put up with anything rather than that; and Miss Playfair was coming down here again on a visit, so that we thought we should be able frequently to see each other—a thing which my uncle’s strange character, and the uncertainty of my prospects from him, made her parents rather object to at home. Besides this, my brother and I had jointly made some rather important discoveries in chemistry and electricity, and we wished to remain together in order to carry out a systematic course of experiments, and conjointly to write a work on the subject. More than all, as I said before, the notion took our uncle’s fancy so much, that he made quite a point of it, and we saw that we could not refuse to go on with the scheme without giving him the greatest offence, which, under the circumstances, we could not afford to do.

“But we had not sufficiently calculated the tattle and espionage of a small town; and had no foreboding of the dark rumours and suspicions about us to which our plot would give rise: else, I am sure, we should never have ventured to carry it out. Whatever had been the consequence, we could, I think, have gone on with it no longer after what has occurred: but, two days ago, we received a communication stating that our uncle had died almost suddenly, and had left all his property—a very considerable one—to my brother and myself: so that my brother can now pay all his debts, and meet his creditors in the gate; and we have each of us an income which enables us to dispense with the active practice of our profession. As, at the same time, it fortunately happens that our book and our experiments are completed, and my sister-in-law nearly recovered, we intend to leave this place to-morrow: but, before doing so, we thought it but right to ask you gentlemen to meet us here to-day, in order that you may understand what has appeared so mysterious about us, and explain the same, as I hope you will have the kindness to do, to your friends. Come, gentlemen, a glass of wine.”

“But,” said one of our party, “young Flibbert saw a grave in your garden, and a coffin, and all that. What was that, Doctor?”

“Oh,” said Henry, the married man, with a laugh, “that was my wife’s pet cockatoo! The poor thing died, and I promised my wife to give it decent burial in the garden; but when I heard the fellow on the wall, I fancied they would be for digging it up again; and, determined to disappoint them, I brought the bird back, and stuffed it, having acquired the art some years ago. Here it is, gentlemen.”

He opened a cupboard, and showed us the stuffed figure of a large white cockatoo, wanting only a glass case to be really a very handsome thing.

“Anything else, gentlemen?”

“Why,” said another of the party, “the strange lights that have been seen, and the strange sounds that have been heard; we should like to have them explained, if not too much trouble.”

“Well,” said he, “our experiments in chemistry and electricity produced some strange lights now and then; and we purposely frightened the fellows when they came to dig up the poor cockatoo; and I daresay we occasionally caused some strange sounds in the same way: but I fancy that for these latter the late lamented cockatoo is principally responsible. He was a deuce of a fellow to scream and chatter, though you wouldn’t think it, to look at him now. Take another glass of wine, gentlemen.”

We took one more glass, and then departed, feeling rather as if we were walking with our heads on the ground and our boots in the air. As we went out at the front door, I saw Miss Cringle at her window, panting to hear the news; and so I went up to communicate them to her, the others of the party not daring to breathe a word to anybody until they had told the whole story to their expectant wives. Of course, the tale was not long in circulating through Mudford; and I am afraid that, on the whole, it created a feeling of disappointment: for, though there was something very strange about it as it was, I think people in general would rather that the New Doctor had been a robber, and a murderer, and a villain of the deepest dye.

Next day the two Doctors, with Mrs Smith, and the housekeeper, and the stuffed cockatoo, all departed from Mudford, leaving instructions with Knox, the auctioneer, to sell the furniture for what it would bring. A few months after I got wedding-cards from Mr and Mrs Herbert Smith; and last Christmas I received a Stilton cheese and a barrel of natives from the same quarter.

And so ended the strangest affair which has ever occurred at Mudford during my long residence in the place.

POLITICS AT HOME AND ABROAD.

Seldom has the opening of Parliament been looked forward to with less of public or party excitement than at present. The country is in a remarkably tranquil mood, disposed to take all things very quietly. And yet the circumstances of the time are full of grave interest. An unparalleled disaster has befallen the gigantic fabric of our manufacturing industry; and abroad we behold an array of events which, a few years ago, would have sufficed to produce among us no small degree of uneasiness and excitement. But ever since the convulsions of 1848 broke up the long peace which settled on Europe after Waterloo—still more since the ambition of the late Czar led us to renew our experience of the realities of war—the people of this country have been becoming used to crises. Since 1859, especially, when the conviction was forced upon us that French Imperialism is still very much what it was in the days of our fathers, the public has begun to “discount” the contingencies of the future, and to insure itself against damage from their occurrence. We have made ourselves secure—at least as secure as needs be in present circumstances—against external attack; and we are well assured that we have no enemies at home—that never before were all classes of our people so united in bonds of mutual sympathy and goodwill, or so universally contented with our national institutions. A country so circumstanced is virtually impregnable; and therefore we can look forth from our happy island-home upon the troubles or wars of other States, not indeed in selfish indifference, but with a sense of security and a consciousness of power, which invest us with a tranquillity that may be mistaken for apathy.

The great and sad feature of the internal condition of the country is the cotton famine, which for a year past has weighed like a nightmare upon our manufacturing districts, extending its baleful influence over four millions of our people. The calamity came upon us so suddenly that there was little time to prepare for it. It is true, our liability to such a calamity had been pointed out, in language of serious warning, by one or two of our ablest political thinkers, and foremost among these by Sir Archibald Alison. But the parties most interested, the great cotton-lords and the manufacturers generally, despised the warning, and took no measures to avert disaster. Their faith in the doctrine of demand always producing supply blinded them to their danger. It was a noble fabric of industry, truly, which they had reared up—a mighty addition to the wealth and resources of the country—a vast field of employment for the ever-increasing population of our isles. The effect was as beneficial as if several thousand square miles of productive land had been gradually added to the narrow area of the British Isles—affording remunerative employment to hundreds of thousands of our people who must otherwise have emigrated, and proportionately adding to the power of the country and the resources of the State. But any thoughtful man, as he viewed the annually increasing growth of that great industry, must have trembled for its permanence; and now that the blow has fallen, every one must recognise the improvidence exhibited by the great chiefs of that industry. “We will buy only in the cheapest market,” they said: “an efficient demand will always secure an adequate supply.” And as long as there was the least hope of the cotton-dearth being over in a year or so, they resolutely declined to take any steps to obtain new sources of supply. They had overstocked the markets with their goods, and as long as there was a prospect of their old source of supply being available again by the time those surplus stocks had run off, it seemed to them better to content themselves with working their mills only half-time, than to procure future stability for their industry by an outlay of money. That outlay, indeed, would amply repay itself in the long-run; but no one likes putting his hand in his pocket; and month after month of increasing distress passed away without the manufacturers showing any disposition to move. Recently this inaction has partially given way; the continued dearth of cotton at length left the manufacturers no alternative but to open new sources of supply, or see their own fortunes ruined. The pressure of adversity is hard to bear, and we have no desire to scrutinise too closely the conduct of the manufacturers in this most trying crisis. Yet as a mere question of fact, as a singular political souvenir, it deserves to be noted that an influential body of these free-traders _par excellence_—men who had denounced bounties and privileges of any kind as alike unjust and impolitic—actually memorialised the Government to procure cotton for them in India, by encouraging the growth of cotton by means of bounties from the State! Mr Bright himself has recently advocated the same proposal. We trust, however, that the manufacturers are now convinced of the hopelessness as well as impolicy of such a project, and that they will do what every other class has to do—act for themselves, and with that energy and ability which so eminently distinguish them. The country has responded, and is still responding, nobly to the bitter cry of distress from Lancashire; but it is no part of the duty either of the public or of the Government to procure cotton for the mill-owners by the offer of State bounties.

Lamentable as is the distress which thus weighs upon so numerous and industrious a portion of our population, it is consolatory to know that never yet was a material calamity so redeemed by its moral aspect. National virtue never before was so strikingly displayed. We may thank Providence that the disaster has come in its present form. In the opinion of many good judges, the distress which now so lamentably prevails in the manufacturing districts, would have come upon us in the natural course of trade, as the result of the over-production of previous years. In such a case, it is not to be thought that public sympathy would have been so widely and heartily displayed, and that the accusing voices of the operatives would not have been heard against their masters. But happily the calamity has come in a shape which silences cavil, and unites the hearts and hands of all in the mitigation of the distress. The cause of the disaster was beyond our control; and the very over-production of previous years now proves advantageous—for the gradual sale of the surplus stocks at good prices (which in other circumstances would have continued to glut the market and check production) now helps to compensate the mill-owners for their losses, and enables them to act with liberality to the suffering operatives. And that, as a class, they do so act, we have the testimony of the noble Earl who, with princely munificence, generous sympathy, and statesmanlike intelligence, heads the movement for the relief of the distress. All classes, both high and low, are nobly doing their duty. The patient endurance of the suffering working-classes is heroic; the lively sympathy and active co-operation of the other classes of the community on their behalf are without a parallel. The change which has taken place, in this respect, during a single generation, is something marvellous. Formerly, under the pressure of hardships less great and equally beyond the power of any one to prevent, the working-classes became reckless and broke into outrage; and the rest of the community, which had done little by its benefactions to avert this outbreak of suffering, found itself compelled to take stringent measures against these organised conspirators against the public peace. Now all this is changed. It is needless, and it were unjust, to throw stones at the old times. What is now could not have been then. If we examine the causes of the great change which has supervened, we shall find it first in the increased intercommunication between all parts of the country; and, secondly, in the spread of education and intelligence. Railways and newspapers now bind together all parts and all classes of the country. Ignorance is the mother of apathy and disunion. When each city, or district, or class knew little of the character and concerns of the other parts of the country or classes of the community, it was vain to expect the ready sympathy and general co-operation on behalf of a suffering locality, such as, we rejoice to say, has become common now. Moreover, wealth has increased enormously in this country since the beginning of the century—and it is only the surplus wealth of a community that is available for the relief of distress. Let us thank God that we are as we are, without charging it as a social crime against our fathers that they acted differently. Let us rejoice that, heavy though the calamity be, it has at least become a means of uniting all classes of our people—classes who have so often warred with one another—in the bonds of sympathy and confidence; and that the British nation has at length perfected its social existence, by growing into a compact and harmonious community, every part of which knows intimately and sympathises heartily with the condition and concerns of the rest.