A Woman's War by Warwick Deeping (ap literature book list .txt) 📖

CHAPTER XXX

MR. GEHOGAN, the gentleman from Ireland who

had attempted to possess himself of the scatterings

of James Murchison’s practice, had discovered no proper

spirit of appreciation in Roxton, and as though to register

his displeasure, had departed abruptly, so abruptly that

he had left behind him many unpaid bills. The house

in Lombard Street had held him and his progeny for

some seasons, and the family had left its mark upon the

place in more instances than one. Miss Carmagee and

her brother, who went over the house for some unexplained reason, concluded that clean paint and paper,

and many scrubbings with soap and water, were needed

for the effacement of an atmosphere of mediaeval sanctity.

The charwoman averred an excellent authority that the

late tenant had kept pigs in a shed at the end of the

garden, and had salted and stored the bacon in the bath.

The house itself had been left littered with all sorts of

rubbish. Dr. Gehogan’s youngsters had turned the

back garden into a species of pleasaunce by the sea.

There was a big puddle in the middle of the lawn, and

oyster-shells, broken bricks, and jam-jars had accumulated to an extraordinary extent.

 

About the end of April such people of observation as

passed down Lombard Street, discovered that the great

red-brick house was preparing for new tenants. Mr.

Clayton, the decorator, had hung his professional board

from the central first-floor window. Sashes were being

repainted white, the front door an aesthetic green. Paperhangers were at work in the chief rooms, and whitewash

brushes splashed and flapped in the kitchen quarters.

Questioned by interested fellow - tradesmen as to the

name and nature of the incoming tenant, Mr. Clayton

blinked and confessed his ignorance. He was working

under Mr. Porteus Carmagee’s orders. Mr. Clayton

had even heard that the house had changed hands, and

that the lawyer had bought it from the late owner, but

whether it was let, Mr. Clayton could not tell. Even

Mr. Beasely, the local house-agent, was no wiser in the

matter. Speculation remained possible, while the more

pushing of the local tradesmen were ready at any moment to tout for the new-comers’ “esteemed patronage.”

 

One afternoon early in May a large furniture van,

manoeuvring to and fro in Lombard Street and absorbing the whole road, compelled a stylish carriage and pair

to come to a sharp halt. The carriage was Dr. Parker

Steel’s, and it contained his wife, a complacent study in

pink, with a pert little white hat perched on a most elaborate yet seemingly simple coiffure. The footway opposite the Murchison’s old house was littered with straw,

and stray odds and ends of furniture, while two men in

green baize aprons were struggling up the steps with a

Chesterfield sofa. Through one of the open windows of

the diningroom, Betty Steel’s sharp eyes caught sight of

Miss Carmagee, rigged up in a white apron and unpacking china with the help of one of her maids.

 

The furniture van had made port, and Parker Steel’s

carriage rolled on into St. Antonia’s Square. Mrs.

Betty’s eyes had clouded a little under her Paris hat, for

unpleasant thoughts are invariably suggested by the faces

of people who do not love us. The ego in self-conscious

mortals is sensitive as a piece of smoked - glass. The

passing of the faintest shadow is registered upon its

surface, and its lustre may be dimmed by a chance

breath.

 

This house in Lombard Street had never lost for Betty

Steel its suggestion of passive hostility. Its associations

always stirred the energies of an unforgotten hate, and

though triumphant, she often found herself frowning

when she passed the place. Moreover, Miss Carmagee

had been the other woman’s friend, and in life there can

be no neutrality when rivals fight for survival in the business of success.

 

Betty Steel had come from the orchards that were white

about Roxton Priory, yet the glimpse of the stir and

movement in that red-brick house had blown the Maybloom from her thoughts. Did Kate Murchison ever

wish herself back in Lombard Street? What had become

of her and her children? Betty Steel woke from a moment’s reverie as the carnage drew up before her own

home.

 

The elderly parlor-maid, five feet of starch, to say

nothing of the cap, opened the front door to Mrs. Betty.

There was an inquisitive lift about the woman’s eyelids,

and Betty Steel, an expert in the deciphering of faces,

expected news of some sort or another.

 

“Any one in the drawingroom, Symons?”

 

“No, ma’am.”

 

“Well?”

 

“Dr. Steel is in the study. He wished me to say that

he would see you the moment you came home.”

 

Nearly twenty-four hours had passed since Betty Steel

had seen her husband. The physician had been called

up in the night, and had breakfasted away. She herself

had lunched with Lady Gillingham, so that their paths

had run uncrossed since yesterday.

 

“Has any one called?”

 

“No, ma’am.”

 

“You may bring up tea.”

 

The Venetian blinds were down in the consulting room,

an initial coincidence, for Parker Steel was a believer in

light. He was sitting at the bureau by the window, but

glanced over his shoulder as his wife entered.

 

“Is that you, dear?”

 

“Yes; what is it?”

 

She was playing with her silk scarf, and looking with

rather a puzzled air at her husband.

 

“I’ve just sent off a wire to town.”

 

“A wire?”

 

“Yes, to Turner, for a first-class locum. The man

will be here early tomorrow. Shut the door, dear shut

the door.”

 

There was an irritable harshness of voice and a jerkiness of manner that betrayed unusual lack of self-control.

Her husband’s back was half turned to her, and he was

scribbling on a sheet of paper that he had before him, but

she could see the frown upon his forehead and the nervous working of his lips.

 

“What is the matter, Parker?”

 

“Oh, nothing serious, only one of your prophecies

come home to roost.”

 

“My prophecies?”

 

“Yes, about overwork. I was a fool not to knock off

earlier. Some inflammatory trouble in my eyes.”

 

“Eyes?”

 

She echoed the word, showing for the first time some

stirrings of alarm.

 

“What is it?”

 

“Strain, nothing more. It came on quite suddenly.

I shall have to have a month’s absolute rest.”

 

He leaned back, and put a hand up to his forehead.

 

“Let me look.”

 

Betty went to him, and leaned her hands upon the side

rail of his chair.

 

“You won’t make much of them. See, I’m just writing out a few hints and directions.

 

“They look inflamed, Parker.”

 

He shrugged impatiently.

 

“Don’t bother about the eyes. See, I want you to give

these notes to Turner’s locum when he comes. The list

is complete, with a cross against the more important people. The work’s lighter again; he can manage it alone.”

 

“Yes,” but she still looked troubled.

 

“I shall get away by the 10.15 tomorrow morning.”

 

“Where are you going?”

 

“Oh to Torquay. I’ve wired to a hotel. Ramsden

is doing eye-work down there, you know. He will soon

put me right.”

 

Betty stood with her hands resting on the back of his

chair. His assurances had not wholly satisfied her. She

had a vague feeling that he was keeping something back.

 

“Parker.”

 

“Yes, dear.”

 

He appeared busy dashing down professional hieroglyphics on the paper before him.

 

“You are not keeping anything from me?”

 

“Anything from you!”

 

“Yes. It is nothing dangerous?”

 

“My dear girl, I ought to know!”

 

She sighed, looked at the darkened window, and then

stooping suddenly, kissed him softly on the cheek.

 

“Parker”

 

He had reddened and drawn aside, with an irritable

knitting of the brows.

 

“Leave me alone, dear, for a while. I want to put the

practice in order.”

 

Repulsed, she removed her hands from the chair.

 

“I was only anxious—”

 

“Don’t worry; there’s no cause. You will stay here

and look after things for me?”

 

“Yes. I can have Madge to stay.”

 

“And, Betty”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Don’t say much about the eyes. It doesn’t do for a

professional man to get a reputation for feebleness in his

physical equipment.”

 

“I shall not say anything.”

 

“Thanks. You see, I’m rather busy.”

 

She turned, looked round the room vaguely, her face

cold and empty of any marked expression. Then she

went slowly to the door, opened it, and passed out into

the hall. The house seemed peculiarly dim and lonely

as she climbed the stairs to her own room.