After an interval of nearly half an hour, Mr. Vimpany made his
appearance. Pausing in the doorway, he consulted his watch, and entered
on a calculation which presented him favourably from a professional
point of view.
"Allow for time lost in reviving my lord when he fainted, and stringing
him up with a drop of brandy, and washing my hands (look how clean they
are!), I haven't been more than twenty minutes in mending his throat.
Not bad surgery, Miss Henley."
"Is his life safe, Mr. Vimpany?"
"Thanks to his luck--yes."
"His luck?"
"To be sure! In the first place, he owes his life to your finding him
when you did; a little later, and it would have been all over with Lord
Harry. Second piece of luck: catching the doctor at home, just when he
was most wanted. Third piece of luck: our friend didn't know how to cut
his own throat properly. You needn't look black at me, Miss; I'm not
joking. A suicide with a razor in his hand has generally one chance in
his favour--he is ignorant of anatomy. That is my lord's case. He has
only cut through the upper fleshy part of his throat, and has missed
the larger blood vessels. Take my word for it, he will do well enough
now; thanks to you, thanks to me, and thanks to his own ignorance. What
do you say to that way of putting it? Ha! my brains are in good working
order to-day; I haven't been drinking any of Mr. Mountjoy's claret--do
you take the joke, Miss Henley?"
Chuckling over the recollection of his own drunken audacity, he
happened to notice Fanny Mere.
"Hullo! is this another injured person in want of me? You're as white
as a sheet, Miss. If you're going to faint, do me a favour--wait till I
can get the brandy-bottle. Oh! it's natural to you, is it? I see. A
thick skin and a slow circulation; you will live to be an old woman. A
friend of yours, Miss Henley?"
Fanny answered composedly for herself: "I am Miss Henley's maid, sir."
"What's become of the other one?" Mr. Vimpany asked. "Aye? aye? Staying
at a farm-house for the benefit of her health, is she? If I had been
allowed time enough, I would have made a cure of Rhoda Bennet. There
isn't a medical man in England who knows more than I do of the nervous
maladies of women--and what is my reward? Is my waiting-room crammed
with rich people coming to consult me? Do I live in a fashionable
Square? Have I even been made a Baronet? Damn it--I beg your pardon,
Miss Henley--but it is irritating, to a man of my capacity, to be
completely neglected. For the last three days not a creature has
darkened the doors of this house. Could I say a word to you?"