The Doctor's Family - Chapter 5

'The Doctor’s Family' (1861) by Scottish author Margaret Oliphant is a beautifully observed Victorian novella, set in the fictional English town of Carlingford, a little out from London.

In this chapter, we observe the strange household at their new lodgings at St Roque’s Cottage, a small, picturesque, cramped place on the common.

Nettie quickly settles in, industrious and unflinching — sewing frocks, minding the children and cheerfully setting the cottage to rights despite its limits.

Miss Wodehouse visits and gently worries aloud about Nettie’s self-sacrifice; their candid conversation explores duty, independence and the practical cost of caring for others...

Transcript

Hello there.

Thank you so much for joining me for this continued reading of The Doctor's Family,

The charming old novel from 1861 from Scottish author Margaret Oliphant.

If you've been listening along you'll know we're hearing about Dr Edward Ryder,

A young,

Serious,

Hard-working doctor in the fictional English town of Carlingford,

Not far from London,

And the tensions and pressures he's experiencing in relation to his brother and other extended family members.

If you haven't heard the preceding parts of this story and you'd like to,

You can certainly look for the playlist for The Doctor's Family and you'll find everything there in order.

But for now,

Let's just take a moment here to have a nice,

Deep exhale.

Letting go of the day,

Letting go of whichever baggage we might be bringing along with us into this moment.

For right now,

There's nowhere else we have to go,

Nothing else we have to be doing.

So we can just relax,

Get ourselves comfortable,

And enjoy the gently humorous tale of The Doctor's Family.

Sent Rocks Cottage was considered rather a triumph of local architecture.

A Carlingford artist had built it after the church,

Which was one of Gilbert Scott's churches,

And perfect in its way,

So that its gothic qualities were unquestionable.

The only thing wanting was size,

Which was certainly an unfortunate defect,

And made this adaptation of ecclesiastical architecture to domestic purposes a very doubtful experiment.

However,

In bright sunshine,

When the abundance of light neutralised the want of window,

All was well.

And there was still abundance of sunshine in Carlingford in October,

Three months after the entrance of Fred Ryder and his family into Mrs Smith's little rooms.

It was a bright autumn day,

Still mild,

Though with a crispness in the air.

The late season,

Showing more in the destitution of the flower borders than in any more sensible sign.

It was a pretty spot enough for a roadside.

Sent Rocks stood on the edge of a little common,

Over which,

At the other margin,

You could see some white cottages,

Natural to the soil,

In a little hamlet cluster,

Dropped along the edge of the grey-green unequal grass,

While between the church and the cottage ran the merest shadow of a brook,

Just enough to give place and nutriment to three willow trees,

Which had been the feature of the scene before Sent Rocks was,

And which now greatly helped the composition of the little landscape,

And harmonised the new building with the old soil.

Sent Rocks Cottage,

By special intervention of Mr Wentworth,

The perpetual curate,

Had dropped no intervening wall between its garden and those trees,

But,

Not without many fears,

Had contented itself with a wooden paling on the side nearest the willows.

Consequently,

The slope of grass at that side,

Which Mrs Smith was too prudent to plant with anything that could be abstracted,

Was a pretty slope,

With the irregular willow shadows swept over it,

Thin but still presenting a pale obstruction to the flood of sunshine on this special afternoon.

There,

A little group was collected,

In full enjoyment of the warmth and the light.

Mrs Rider,

Still faded,

But no longer travel-worn,

Sat further up in the garden,

On the green bench,

Which had been softened with cushions for her use,

Leisurely working at some piece of needlework,

In lonely possession of the chrysanthemums and Michaelmas daisies round her,

While on the grass,

Dropped over with yellow flecks of willow leaves,

Lightly loosened by every passing touch of wind,

Sat Nettie,

All brown and bright,

Working with the most rapid fingers at a child's frock,

And minding,

With a corner of her eye,

The possessor of the same,

The tiny Freddy,

An imp of mischief uncontrollable by other hand or look than hers.

A little lower down,

Poking into the invisible brook through the paling,

Was the eldest boy,

Silent from sheer delight,

In the unexpected pleasure of coating himself with mud,

Without remark from Nettie.

This unprecedented escape arose from the fact that Nettie had a visitor,

A lady,

Who had bent down beside her,

In a half kneeling attitude,

And was contemplating her,

With a mingled amaze and pity,

Which intensified the prevailing expression of kindness.

In the mildest face in the world,

It was Miss Woodhouse,

In her soft,

Dove-coloured dress,

And large,

Soft,

Checked shawl.

Her mild eyes were fixed upon that brilliant brown creature,

All buoyant and sparkling with youth.

These wonderful young people perplexed Miss Woodhouse.

Here was another incomprehensible specimen,

Most incomprehensible,

Perhaps,

Of all,

That had ever crossed her mild,

Elderly horizon,

With bewildering,

Unintelligible light.

My dear,

Said Miss Woodhouse,

Things used to be very different when I was young.

When we were girls,

We thought about our own pleasures,

And,

And vanities of all kinds,

Said the good woman,

With a little sigh,

And,

Indeed,

I can't think it is natural,

Still,

To see you devoting yourself like this to your sister's family.

It is wonderful,

But,

Dear,

Dear me,

It isn't natural,

Nettie,

Such self-devotion.

I do wish you wouldn't speak,

Said Nettie,

With a sudden start.

Self-devotion!

Stuff!

I am only doing what must be done.

Freddy can't go on wearing one frock forever,

Can he?

Does it stand to reason?

Would you have me sit idle and see the child's petticoats drop to pieces?

I am a colonial girl.

I don't know what people do in England.

Where I was brought up,

We were used to be busy about whatever lay nearest to our hand.

It isn't Freddy's frock,

Said Miss Woodhouse,

With a little solemnity.

You know very well what I mean.

And suppose you were to marry.

What would happen,

Supposing you were to marry,

Nettie?

It is quite time enough to think of that,

When there is any likelihood of it happening,

Said Nettie,

With a little toss of her head.

It is only idle people who have time to think of falling in love and such nonsense,

When one is very busy.

It never comes into one's head.

Why,

You have never married,

Miss Woodhouse,

And when I know that I have everything I possibly could desire,

Why should I?

Miss Woodhouse bent her troubled,

Sweet old face over the handle of her parasol,

And did not say anything for a few minutes.

It is all very well.

As long as you are young,

She said,

With a wistful look.

And somehow,

You young creatures are so much handier than we used to be.

Our little Lucy,

You know,

That I can remember quite a baby,

I am twice as old as she is,

Cried Miss Woodhouse,

And she is twice as much use in the world as I.

Well,

It is all very strange,

But dear,

You know,

This isn't natural,

All the same.

It is dreadful to say so.

It is dreadful to think so,

Cried Nettie.

I know what you mean.

Not Freddy's frock,

To be sure,

But only one's whole life and heart.

Should one desert the only people belonging to one in the world,

Because one happens to have a little income and they have none?

If one's friends are not very sensible,

Is that a reason why one should go and leave them?

Is it right to make one's escape directly,

Whenever one feels one is wanted?

Or,

What do you mean,

Miss Woodhouse,

Said the vehement girl.

That is what it comes to,

You know.

Do you imagine I had any choice about coming over to England,

When Susan was breaking her heart about her husband?

Could one let one's sister die,

Do you suppose?

And now that they are all together,

What choice have I?

They can't do much for each other.

There is actually nobody but me to take care of them all.

You may say,

It is not natural,

Or it is not right,

Or anything you please,

But what else can one do?

That is the practical question,

Said Nettie,

Triumphantly.

If you will answer that,

Then I shall know what to say to you.

Miss Woodhouse gazed at her,

With a certain mild exasperation,

Shook her head,

Wrung her hands,

But could find nothing to answer.

I thought so,

Said Nettie,

With a little outburst of jubilee.

That is how it always happens to abstract people.

Put the practical question before them,

And they have not a word to say to you.

Freddie,

Cut the grass with the scissors.

Don't cut my trimmings.

Pay for your own frock,

You little savage.

If I were to say,

It was my duty,

And all that sort of stuff,

You would understand me,

Miss Woodhouse.

But one only says,

It is one's duty,

When one has something disagreeable to do.

And I'm not doing anything disagreeable,

Added the little heroine,

Flashing those eyes,

Which had confused Edward Rider,

Those brilliant,

Resolute,

Obstinate eyes,

Always with the smile of youth,

Incredulous of evil,

Lurking in them,

Upon her bewildered advisor.

I am living as I like to live.

There was a pause.

At least,

There was a pause in the argument,

But not in Nettie's talk,

Which ran on in an eager stream,

Addressed to Freddie,

Johnny,

Things in general.

Miss Woodhouse pondered over the handle of her parasol.

She had absolutely nothing to say,

But thoroughly unconvinced and exasperated at Nettie's logic,

Could not yet retire from the field.

It is all very well to talk,

Just now,

Said the gentlewoman at last,

Retiring upon that potent,

Feminine argument.

But Nettie,

Nettie,

Think,

If you were to marry,

Miss Woodhouse paused,

Appalled by the image she herself had conjured up.

It is really a dreadful business,

Anyhow,

She added,

With a sigh.

So few people,

You know,

Can,

When they might.

There is poor Mr Wentworth,

Who brought me here first.

Unless he gets preferment,

Poor fellow.

And there is Dr Ryder.

Things are very much changed from what they used to be in my young days.

Is Dr Ryder in the same dilemma?

I suppose,

Of course,

You mean Dr Edward,

Cried Nettie,

With a little flash of mischievous curiosity.

Why?

He has nobody but himself.

I should like to know why he can't marry.

That is,

If anybody would have him,

When he pleases.

Tell me.

You know,

He is my brother-in-law.

Miss Woodhouse had been thinking of Bessie Christian.

She paused,

Partly for Dr Ryder's sake,

Partly because it was quite contrary to decorum,

To suppose that Bessie,

Now Mrs Brown,

Might possibly,

A year ago,

Have married somebody else.

She faltered a little in her answer.

A professional man never marries till he has a position,

Said Miss Woodhouse abstractedly.

Nettie lifted upon her eyes that danced with mischief and glee.

A profession is as bad as a family then,

Said the little Australian.

I shall remember that next time you speak to me on this subject.

I am glad to think Dr Edward,

With all his prudence,

Is disabled too.

When Nettie had made this unguarded speech,

She blushed,

And suddenly,

In a threatening and defiant manner,

Raised her eyes again to Miss Woodhouse's face.

Why?

Miss Woodhouse did not understand the look,

Nor put any significance into the words.

She rose up from the grass and said it was time for her to go.

She went away,

Pondering in her own mind those singular new experiences of hers.

She had never been called upon to do anything particular all her gentle life.

Another fashion of woman might have found a call to action in the management of her father's house,

Or the education of her motherless young sister.

But Miss Woodhouse had contented herself with loving Lucy.

Had suffered her to grow up very much as she would,

Without interference.

Had never taken a decided part in her life.

When anything had to be done,

To tell the truth,

She was very inexpert,

Expert,

Unready,

Deeply embarrassed with the unusual necessity.

Nettie's case,

So wonderfully different from anything she could have conceived,

Lay on her mind,

And oppressed her as she went home to Grange Lane.

As for Nettie herself,

She took her work and her children indoors after a while,

And tried on the new frock,

And scolded and rehabilitated the muddy hero of the brook.

But then,

With those light,

Fair emotions of hers,

She spread the homely table for tea,

Called in Susan,

Sought Fred in his room upstairs with a stinging word which penetrated even his callous mind,

And made him,

For the moment,

Ashamed of himself.

Nettie bit her red lip till it grew white and bloodless as she turned from Fred's door.

It was not hard to work for the children,

To support and domineer over Susan,

But it was hard for such an alert,

Uncompromising little soul to tolerate that useless hulk,

That heavy encumbrance of a man for whom hope and life were dead.

Dead.

She bit her lip as she discharged her sharp,

Stinging arrow at him through the half-open door,

And then went down singing to take her place at the table which her own hands had spread,

Which her own purse supplied with bread.

Nobody there showed the least consciousness of that fact.

Nobody fancied it was anything but natural to rely upon Nettie.

The strange household demeaned itself exactly as if things were going on in the most regular and ordinary course.

No wonder that spectators outside looked on with a wonder that could scarcely find expression,

And half-exasperated,

Half-admiring,

Watched the astonishing life of the colonial girl.

Nobody watched it with half the amount of exasperation which concentrated in the bosom of Dr.

Ryder.

He gazed and noted and observed everything with a secret rage,

Indignation and incredulity impossible to describe.

He could not believe it,

Even when it went on before his eyes.

Doctor,

Though he was,

And scientific to a certain extent,

Edward Ryder would have believed in witchcraft,

In some filter or potion acting upon her mind rather than in Nettie's voluntary folly.

Was it folly?

Was it heroism?

Was it simply necessity as she herself called it?

Nobody could answer that question.

The matter was as incomprehensible to Miss Woodhouse as to Dr.

Ryder,

But not of such engrossing interest.

Bessie Christian,

After all,

Grew tame in the Saxon composure of her beauty before this brown,

Sparkling,

Self-willed,

Imperious creature to see her,

Among her self-imposed domestic duties,

Filled the doctor with a smouldering wrath against all surrounding her,

Which any momentary spark might set aflame.