once tinkled a little, I believe; but the prejudices of the ruling monarch were religiously obeyed.  Music was taboo at Barracombe.  Dancing was against their principles, and theatres they regard with horror, and have never been inside one in their lives.  Nothing took Sir Timothy to London but business; and if it were possible to have the business brought to Barracombe, his solicitor, Mr. Crawley, visited him here.”

The doctor spoke in lower tones, as he recurred to his first theme.

“I don’t think she found out for years, or realized what a prisoner she was.  They caught and pinned her down so young.  There are no very near neighbours—­I mean, not the sort of people they would recognize as neighbours—­except the Hewels.  Youlestone is such an out-of-the-way place, and Sir Timothy was never on intimate terms with any one.  Mrs. Hewel is a fool—­there was only little Sarah whom Lady Mary made a pet of—­but she had no friends.  Sir Timothy and his sisters made visiting such a stiff and formal business, that it was no wonder she hated paying calls; the more especially as it could lead to nothing.  He would not entertain; he grudged the expense.  I was present at a scene he once made because a large party drove over from a distant house and stayed to tea.  He said he could not entertain the county.  She dared ask no one to her house—­she, who was so formed and fitted by nature to charm and attract, and enjoy social intercourse.”  His voice faltered.  “They stole her youth,” he said.

“What do you want me to do?” said John, though he was vaguely conscious that he understood for what the doctor was pleading.

He sat down by the fountain; and the doctor, resting a mended boot on the end of the bench, leant on his bony knee, and looked down wistfully at John’s thoughtful face, broad brow, and bright, intent eyes.

“You are a very clever man, Mr. Crewys,” he said humbly.  “A man of the world, successful, accomplished, and, I believe, honest”—­he spoke with a simplicity that disarmed offence—­“or I should not have ventured as I have ventured.  Somehow you inspire me with confidence.  I believe you can save her.  I believe you could find a way to bring back her peace of mind; the interest in life—­the gaiety of heart—­that is natural to her.  If I were in your place, not the two old women—­not Sir Timothy’s ghost—­not that poor conceited slip of a lad who may be shot to-morrow—­would stand in my way.  I would bring back the colour to her cheek, and the light to her eye, and the music to her voice—­”

“Whilst her boy is in danger?” John asked, almost scornfully.  He thought he knew Lady Mary better than the doctor did, after all.

“I tell you nothing would stop me,” said Blundell, vehemently.  “Before I would let her fret herself to death—­afraid to break the spells that have been woven round her, bound as she is, hand and foot, with the prejudices of the dead—­I would—­I would—­take her to South Africa myself,” he said brilliantly.  “The voyage would bring her back to life.”