A Woman's War by Warwick Deeping (ap literature book list .txt) đ
- Author: Warwick Deeping
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Mrs. Bains was a woman with a sanguine temper, a
temper that made her an aggressive enemy, but a very
loyal and active friend. Her black eyes twinkled with
motherly concern as she watched Murchison pull off his
gloves and stuff them into his hat.
âThey tell me that I have been working too hard,â he
said, with a smile.
âLorâ, sir, you do work; you donât do your cooking with
no pepper. I was taking it to myself, sir, the power of
worry weâve give you over the child.â
âA good fight is worth winning, Mrs. Bains. I am
proud of the victory.â
âAnd I reckon none else would âaâ done it, and so says
the neighbors. Will you step up-stairs, sir? Donât mind
my man, heâs just scrubbing the soot off âim.â
A pair of huge fore-arms, a gray flannel shirt, and a red
face covered with soap-suds saluted Murchison from the
steaming copper in the scullery.
âGoodmorninâ, sir; âope youâre well.â
âBetter, Bains, thanks. Washing the war-paint off,
eh?â
âThatâs it, sir,â and the sweep grinned good-will and
sturdy admiration; âthe kidâs doing fine, I hear.â
âCould not be better, Bains.â
âI reckon youâve done us a rare good turn, sir.â
Murchisonâs eyes smiled at the manâs words.
âIâm glad we won,â he said; âa childâs life is worth
fighting for.â
âIt be, sir, it be,â and the sweep swished the soap-suds
from his face till it shone like the sun brightening from
behind a cloud.
Murchison climbed the stairs to the front bedroom, a
room liberally decorated with cheap china and colored
texts. The patient, a little girl, christened Pretoria by
her patriotic parents, lay on the bed beneath the window.
The satiny whiteness of the childâs skin contrasted with
the cherry-pink night-gown that she wore. It had been
a case of diphtheria, a case that would probably have
ended in disaster before the days of serum. Murchison
had sat up half one night, doubtful whether he would not
have to tracheotomize the child.
âHallo, Babs, howâs that naughty throat?â
He sat down on the edge of the bed and chatted boyishly to Pretoria, whose shy eyes surveyed him with a
species of delighted adoration. The hero worship that
children give to men is pathetic in its ideal trustfulness.
âIâm better, thank you, sir.â
âThatâs right; you are beginning to know all about it,
eh? Tongue fine and red. Sheâll be a talker, Mrs. Bains.
Taking her milk well, yes. Keep her lying down.â
Mrs. Bainsâs big, red hands were fidgeting under her
white apron.
âBegging your pardon, doctor, but the childâs been
a-bothering me since you called last, to know whether
she maynât give you some flowers.â
Mrs. Bains reached across the bed to where a cheap
mug on the windowsill held a posy of pink daisies.
âTheyâre just common things,â said the sweepâs wife,
with an apologetic smile.
The childâs hand went out, and there was a slight
quivering of the bloodless lips.
âFor the doctor, with Pretoriaâs love.â
Murchison took the flowers tenderly in his strong, deft
hand.
âWhoâs spoiling me, I should like to know? Arenât
they beauties? Supposing I put two in my button-hole?
Thank you, little one,â and he bent and kissed the childâs
forehead.
âYou wonât drop âem in the street, sir?â
The pathetic touch of unconscious cynicism went to
the manâs heart.
âWhat, lose my flowers! You wait, miss, to see
whether I donât wear some of them tomorrow.â
The little white face beamed.
âYouâre that kind to humor the kid, sir,â quoth Mrs.
Bains, with feeling, as she followed Murchison down the
stairs.
An hour later Mr. William Bains was hanging his clean
face over the garden fence as an example to the neighbors, when a smart victoria stopped at the upper end of
Mill Lane. A dapper gentleman sprang out, and came
quickly down the footway as though the reek of the tannery disgusted his polite nostrils. He glanced right and
left with stiff-necked dissatisfaction, his sleek, fashionable
figure reminding one of some aristocratic fragment of
Sheraton plumped down amid battered oddments in some
dealerâs shop.
Mr. William Bains scanned him, and grunted, noting
the effeminate sag of the shoulders and the glint of the
patent-leather boots. There was a certain insolent gentility in the dapper figure that made the man of the brawny
fore-arms feel an instinctive and workmanlike contempt.
âCan you inform me where a Mrs. Randle lives?â
The sweep caught the white of Dr. Steelâs left eye, and
jerked his pipe-stem laconically at the next cottage down
the lane.
âNo. 10.â
âObliged,â and Parker Steel passed on.
Five minutes later the door of No. 10 Prospect Row
was clapped snappishly on the doctorâs heels. It opened
again when the smart physician had regained his carriage and driven off. A thin woman, with an old cloth
cap perched on her mud-colored hair, came out bareelbowed. Her face warned Mr. Bains of the fact that she
was the possessor of a grievance.
âSee the gent come along?â
The sweep nodded.
âSort of kid-gloved gentleman that makes a respectable
woman think of this âere charity as an insult. Mrs.
Gibbins sent him to see my Tom. Iâm thinking she
might as well mind âer business.â
Mr. Bains cocked his pipe and chuckled.
âDr. Steelâs one of the smart âuns,â he said.
âToff! Iâd like to give âim toffee! Comes into my
âouse with âis âat on, and looks round âim as though âe
was afraid to touch the floor with âis boots. Shâld âear
âim talk, just as though âis voice âadnât any stomach in it.
I told âim we had Murchison, Mrs. Gibbins or no Mrs.
Gibbins. âE looked me over as though I was a savage,
and said, âHaw, yes, Dr. Murchison âas all the parish
cases, I believe.â âAnd a good job, sir,â says I. Lorâ,
I wouldnât as much as scrub âis dirty linen.â
Mr. Bains fingered his chin and sucked peacefully at
his pipe.
âI likes brawn in a man,â he said, âand a big voice,
and a bit of spark in thâ eye.â
âDonât give me any of yer âtrousers stretchersâ or yer
fancy weskits Murchisonâs my man.â
âGrit, blessed grit to the bone of âim.â
âAnd a real gentleman. Takes âis âat off in a âouse.
Tâother chap âainât no manners.â
It is a cheap age, and cheap sentiment satisfies the
masses, a mere matter of melodrama in which the villain
is hissed and the âstage childâ applauded when she
points to heaven and invokes âGawdâ through her cockney nose. Sentiment in the more delicate phases may
be either the refinement of hypocrisy or the shining out
of the godliness in man. The trivial incidents of life may
betray the true character more finely than the throes of
a moral crisis. The average male might have dropped
Miss Pretoriaâs flowers round the nearest corner, or
thrown them into his study grate to wither amid cigar
ends and burned matches. James Murchison kept the
flowers and gave them to his wife.
âPut them in water, dear, for me.â
âFrom a lady, sir?â and Catherineâs eyes searched the
lines upon his face. She was jealous for his health, but
her eyes were smiling. Dearest of all virtues in a woman
are a brave cheerfulness and a tactful tongue.
Her husband kissed her, and it was a loverâs kiss.
âA thank-offering, dear, from the Bains child.â
âHow sweet! Somehow I always treasure a childâs
gift; it seems so fresh and real.â
âPoor little beggar,â and he smiled as he spoke. âI
wouldnât have lost that life, Kate, for a very great deal.
It was something to feel that fellow Bainsâs hand-grip
when I told him we had won.â
Catherine was settling the flowers in a glass bowl.
âIt was just a bit of life, dear,â she said.
âYes, it is life that tells. I think I would rather have
saved that child, Kate, than have written the most brilliant book.â
She turned to him and put her arms about his neck.
âThat is the true man in you,â and her eyes honored
him.
âYou dear one.â
âKiss me,â
Marriage had been no problem play for these two.
Catherine lay thinking that night, with her hair in
tawny waves upon the pillow, waiting for her husband
to come to bed. She was happier and less troubled at
heart than she had been for many weeks. The strain had
lessened for her husband with the summer, and he seemed
his more breezy, strenuous self, a great child with his
children, a man who appeared to have no dark corners
in the house of life. Wilful optimist that she was, she
could not conceive it possible that a mere âinherited lustâ
could bear down the man whose strength and honor were
bound up for her in her religion. Where great love exists,
great faith lives also. Catherine was too ready, perhaps,
to forget her fears, to regard them as mere thunder-clouds,
black for the hour, but destitute of heavier dread. She
ascribed his momentary weakness to the brain strain of
the winterâs work. The words that had terrified her in
Porteus Carmageeâs garden had proved but a fantasy,
for a trick of the heart had explained the incident and
given the denial to Mrs. Bettyâs insinuations. The
ordeal need never be repeated, so she told herself. Murchison could be saved from overwork. The assistant he
had engaged was a youngster of tact and education.
Love will stand trustfully through the storm, under a
tree, braving the lightning; nor had Catherine realized
how vivid his own frailty appeared to the man she loved.
He was sitting alone in his study while she comforted herself with dreams in the room above, his head between his
hands, his heart heavy in him for the moment. An inherited habit is never to be despised. The gods of old
were prone to mortal weakness in the flesh, and no man
is so masterful that he can command his own destiny unshaken. We are what the world and our ancestors have
made us. The individual hand is there to hold the tiller,
but even a Ulysses must meet the storm.
Murchison turned his tired face towards the light,
heaved back his shoulders, and sighed like a man in pain.
He rose, put out the lamp, locked the study door, and
taking his candle went up to his dressing-room that looked
out on the garden. The blind was up, the window open,
the darkness of space afire with many stars. He stood
awhile at the open window in deep thought, letting the
night breeze play upon his face. He was glad of his
home life, glad that a womanâs arms were waiting for
him, ready to shelter him from himself. He thanked
God, as a strong man thanks God, for blessings given.
The breath of his home was sweet to him, its life full of
tenderness and good.
His wifeâs bedroom had an air of delicacy and refinement with its cherished antique furniture, its linen curtains flowered with red, the paper and carpet a rich green.
Candles in brass sticks were burning on the dressingtable, where a silver toilet-set brushes, mirror, combs,
and pin-boxes recalled to the wife her marriage day.
There were books red, green, and white on a copperbound book-shelf over the mantel-piece. The room suggested that those who slept in it had kept the romance of
life untarnished and unbedraggled. There was no slovenly realism to hint at apathy or
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