A Woman's War - Warwick Deeping (best black authors .TXT) 📗
- Author: Warwick Deeping
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the warmth thereof seemed to comfort him as a mother’s
breast comforts a child at night.
“I am glad you have told me all.”
“Yes all.”
“It helps me, it will help us both.”
“I ought to have told you long ago,” he said.
“But then—”
“I thought that I had killed the thing, and I loved you,
dear, and perhaps I was a coward.”
She drew closer to him, leaning against his knee, while
one of his strong arms went about her body. The warm
darkness of the room seemed full of the sacred peace of
home. They were both silent, silent for many minutes
till the sound of children’s laughter came down from the
rooms above.
James Murchison bent forward, and drew a deep breath
as though in pain. The flash of sympathy was instant in
its passage. Husband and wife were thinking the same
thoughts.
“Kate, you must help me to fight this down
“Yes.”
“For their sakes, the children for yours. I think that
I have worked too hard of late. When the strength’s out
of one, the devil comes in and takes command. And the
servants, you are sure?”
She felt the spasmodic girding of all his manhood, and
yearned to him with all her heart.
“They knew nothing; I saved that. Don’t let us talk
of it; the thing is over” and she tried not to shudder.
“Ah I am glad I know, dear, I can do so much.”
James Murchison bent down and drew her into his arms,
and she lay there awhile, feeling that the warmth of her love
passed into her husband’s body. The hearth was red
before them with the fire-light, and they heard the sound
of their children playing.
“Shall we go up to them?” she said, at last.
“Yes”—and she knew by his face that he was praying,
not with mere words, but with every life-throb of his being
—“it will do me good. God bless you—”
And they kissed each other.
MRS. BETTY STEEL sat alone at the breakfasttable with a silver teapot covered with a crimson
cosy before her, and a pile of letters and newspapers at
her elbow. The west front of St. Antonia’s showed
through the window, buttress and pinnacle glimmering
up into the morning sunlight. Frost-rimed trees spun a
scintillant net against the blue. The quiet life of the old
town went up with its lazy plumes of smoke into the crisp
air.
Mrs. Betty Steel drew a slice of toast from the rack,
toyed with it, and looked reflectively at her husband’s
empty chair. She was a dark, sinuous, feline creature
was Mrs. Betty, with a tight red mouth, and an olive
whiteness of skin under her black wreath of hair. Her
hands were thin, mercurial, and yet suggestive of pretty
and graceful claws. A clever woman, cleverer with her
head than with her heart, acute, elegant, aggressive, yet
often circuitous in her methods. She had abundant impulse in her, blood, and clan, even evidenced by the way
in which she ripped the wrapper from a copy of the
Wilmenden Mail.
Mrs. Betty buried her face in the pages, crumbling her
toast irritably as her eyes ran to and fro over the head-lines.
She glanced up as her husband entered, a smooth-faced,
compressed, and professional person, with an assured
manner and an incisive cut of the mouth and chin.
“Any news in this hub of monotony?”
His wife put down the paper, and called back the dog
who was poking his nose near the bacon-dish on the fireguard.
“Quack medicines much in evidence. The fellows are
arrant Papists, Parker; they promise to cure everything
with nothing. Tea or coffee?”
Mrs. Betty spoke with the slight drawl that was habitual
to her. Her admirers felt it to be distinguished, but its
effect upon shop assistants was to spread the instincts of
socialism.
Dr. Parker Steel declared for coffee, and took salt to
his porridge. He was not a man who wasted words, save
perhaps on the most paying patients. Professional ambition, and an aggressive conviction that he was to be the
leading citizen in Roxton filled the greater part of the
gentleman’s sphere of consciousness.
“And local sensations?”
“Mrs. Pindar’s ball, a very dull affair, sausage-rolls
and jelly, and a floor like glue probably.”
“Any one there?”
“The Lombard Street clique, the Carnabys, Tom
Flemming, Kate Murchison, etc., etc., etc.”
Parker Steel grunted, and appeared to be estimating
the number of cubes in the sugar bowl by way of exercising himself in the compilation of statistics.
“Murchison not there, I suppose?” he asked.
“The wife quite sufficient.”
Her husband smiled, showing the regular white teeth
under his trim, black mustache with scarcely any flow of
feeling in his features. Dr. Parker Steel was very proud
of his teeth and finger-nails.
“You don’t love that lady much, eh?”
Mrs. Betty’s refined superciliousness trifled with the
suggestion.
“Kate Murchison? I cannot say that I ever trouble
much about her. Rather fat and vulgar perhaps. Fat
women do not appeal to me; they seem to carry sentimentality and gush about with them like patchouli. Do
you think that you are gaining ground on Murchison,
Parker, eh?”
The husband appeared confident.
“Perhaps.”
“Old Hicks will resign the Hospital soon; you must
take it.”
“Not worth the trouble.”
Mrs. Betty’s dark eyes condemned the assertion.
“Dirt’s money in the wrong place, as they say in trade,
Parker.”
“Well?” And the amused consort glanced at her with
a cold flicker of affection.
“Study it on utilitarian principles. Lady Twaddletwaddle sends her cook, or her gardener, or her boot-boy
to be treated in Roxton Hospital. You exercise yourself on the boot-boy or the cook, and Lady Twaddletwaddle approves the cure. Praise is never thrown away.
Let the old ladies who attend missionary meetings say of
you, ‘that Dr. Steel is so kind and attentive to the poor.’
We have to lay the foundation of a palace in the soil.”
Parker Steel chuckled, knowing that behind Mrs.
Betty’s elegant verbiage there was a tenacity of purpose
that would have surprised her best friends.
“I wonder whether Murchison is as privileged as I
am?” he said, passing his cup over the red tea cosy.
“I suppose the woman gushes for him, just as I work
my wits for you.”
“The Amazons of Roxton.”
“We live in a civilized age, Parker, but the battle is no
less bitter for us. I use my head. Half the words I
speak are winged for a final end.”
“You are clever enough, Betty,” he confessed.
“We both have brains” and she gave an ironical
laugh “I shall not be content till the world, our world,
fully recognizes that fact. Old Hicks is past his work.
Murchison is the only rival you need consider. Therefore,
Parker, our battle is with the gentleman of Lombard
Street.”
“And with the wife?”
“That is my affair.”
Such life feuds as are chronicled in the hatred of a
Fredegonde for a Brunehaut may be studied in miniature
in many a modern setting. Ever since childhood Betty
Steel and Catherine Murchison had been born foes. Their
innate instincts had seemed antagonistic and repellent, and
the life of Roxton had not chastened the tacit feud. Girls
together at the same school, they had fought for leadership and moral sway. Catherine had been one of those
creatures in whom the deeper feelings of womanhood
come early to the surface. Children had loved her; her
arms had been always open to them, and she had stood
out as a species of little mother to whom the owners of
bleeding knees had run for comfort.
The rivalry of girlhood had deepened into the rivalry
of womanhood. They were the “beauties” of Roxton;
the one generous, ruddy, and open-hearted; the other sleek,
white-faced, a studied artist in elegance and charm. Both
were admired and championed by their retainers; Catherine popular with the many, Betty served by the few.
Miss Elizabeth had beheld herself the less favored goddess,
and as of old the apple of Paris had had the power to
inflame.
Catherine’s final crime against her rival had been her
marrying of James Murchison. Miss Betty had chosen the
gentleman for herself, though she would rather have bitten
her tongue off than have confessed the fact. The hatred
of the wife had been extended to the husband, and Dr.
Parker Steel had assuaged the smart. And thus the
rivalry of these two women lived on intensified by the professional rivalry of two men.
As for my lady Betty, she hated the wife in Lombard
Street with all the quiet virulence of her nature. It was
the hate of the head for the heart, of the intellect for the
soul. Envy and jealousy were sponsors to the bantling
that Betty Steel had reared. Catherine Murchison had
children; Mrs. Steel had none. Her detestation of her
rival was the more intense even because she recognized
the good in her that made her loved by others. Catherine Murchison had a larger following than Mrs. Steel
in Roxton, and the truth strengthened the poison in the
stew.
With Catherine the feeling was more one of distaste
than active enmity. Betty Steel repelled her, even as
certain electrical currents repel the magnet. She mistrusted the woman, avoided her, even ignored her, an
attitude which did not fail to influence Mrs. Betty. Catherine Murchison ‘s heart was too full of the deeper happiness of life for her to trouble her head greatly about the
pale and fastidious Greek whose dark eyes flashed whenever she passed the great red brick house in Lombard
Street. Life had a June warmth for Catherine. Nor
had she that innate restlessness of soul that fosters jealousy and the passion for climbing above the common
crowd.
Parker Steel reminded his wife, as he rose from the
breakfasttable, of a certain charity concert that was to
be given at the Roxton public hall the same evening.
“Are you going?”
“Yes, I believe so; Mrs. Fraser extorted a guinea from
us; I may as well get something for my money. And
you?”
Her husband smoothed his hair and looked in the
mirror.
“Expecting a confinement. If you get a chance, be
polite to old Fraser, she would be worth bagging in the
future, and Murchison thieved her from old Hicks.”
Catherine Murchison sang at the charity concert that
night, and Mrs. Betty listened to her with the outward
complacency of an angel. The big woman in her black
dress, with a white rose in her ruddy hair, bowed and
smiled to the enthusiasts of the Roxton slums who knew
her nearly as well as they knew her husband. Catherine
Murchison’s rare contralto flowed unconcernedly over her
rival’s head. She sang finely, and without effort, and the
voice seemed part of her, a touch of the sunset, a breath
from the fields of June. Catherine’s nature came out before men in her singing. A glorious unaffectedness, a
charm with no trick of the self-conscious egoist. It was
this very naturalness, this splendid unconcern that had
forever baffled Mrs. Betty Steel. The woman was proof
against the mundane sneer. Ridicule could not touch
her, and the burrs of spite fell away from her smooth
completeness.
“By George, what a voice that woman has!”
The bourgeoisie of Roxton was piling up its applause.
Mrs. Murchison had half the small boys in the town as
her devoted henchmen. Politically her personality would
have carried an election.
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