A Woman's War - Warwick Deeping (best black authors .TXT) 📗

Ter do with the babies, I’ve ‘eard.”

 

“Ah, ‘ow was that?”

 

“Murray’s man, ‘e told me, tother evening. This little feller be what they call a ‘Lonnan Special.’ Dunno

what edition.”

 

Three pairs of eyes, one member was absent on duty

at the pub, followed Major Murray’s dog-cart with an

all-engrossing stare as its red wheels whirled by in the

June sunshine.

 

“Thought Steel ‘ad the managin’ of all Murray’s

badgers.”

 

“So ‘e ‘as. Didn’t yer see ‘im come back by the 7.50

t’other day?”

 

“I did.”

 

“An’ the other feller who’s bin wearin’ Steel’s breeches

all the month went off by the 4.49.”

 

“‘E did.”

 

“Saucy lookin’ chap.”

 

“Give me Jim Murchison and blow the liquor. ‘E

tells you what’s what, and no mistake. Said I sh’ld drink

meself to death and so I shall.”

 

“What, ‘ad the roups again, Frank?”

 

“Yes, all along with my old liver. Chucks it out of

me every marnin’, reg’lar as clock-work.”

 

The observations of the brotherhood were reliable as

far as the identity of the gentleman in Major Murray’s

dog-cart was concerned. He was named Dr. Peterson,

and his caliber may be appreciated by the fact that he

received a check for twenty-five guineas when he travelled forty miles to and fro from his house in Mayfair.

Moreover, he had left his card the preceding day on Dr.

Parker Steel, with a note urging that an interview between

them was urgent and inevitable. Parker Steel’s face had

betrayed exceeding discomfort and alarm on reading the

name on the piece of pasteboard that Dr. Peterson had

left on the general practitioner’s hall table.

 

It was about four o’clock on the afternoon of Thursday when Major Murray’s dog-cart clattered over the

cobbles of St. Antonia’s Square, and deposited a very

spruce little man in a well-cut frock-coat, and a blemishless tall hat at Parker Steel’s door.

 

The imperturbable Symons recognized him as the

caller of yesterday.

 

“Dr. Steel’s out, sir.”

 

“Out?”

 

“Very sorry, sir—”

 

“You gave him my card and note?”

 

“Certainly, sir. Will you wait? Dr. Steel should be

back at any minute.”

 

Dr. Peterson glanced at his watch, and stepped like a

dapper little bantam into the hall. His reddish hair was

plastered from a broad pathway in the middle, so as to

conceal the premature tendency to baldness that his pate

betrayed. Dr. Peterson’s figure boasted a juvenile waist;

his face, smooth and very sleek, almost suggested the

craft of the beauty specialist. A red-and-green bandanna

handkerchief protruded from his breast coat-pocket, an

aesthetic patch of color harmonizing with his sage-green

tie. He wore black-and-white check trousers, patent*

leather boots, and a tuberose in his button-hole. Moreover, his person smelled fragrantly of scent.

 

Dr. Peterson deposited his hat and gloves on the hall

table.

 

“I can spare half an hour. My train goes at five. It

is highly important that I should see Dr. Steel.”

 

“I will tell him, sir, the minute he returns,” and she

showed Dr. Peterson into the drawingroom.

 

A bedroom bell rang as Symons was descending the

stairs to the kitchen. She turned with a “Drat the thing!”

and dawdled heavenward to her mistress’s room.

 

“Who has called, Symons?”

 

“Dr. Peterson, ma’am.”

 

“From Major Murray’s?”

 

“Yes, ma’am; wants to see the master, most particular.”

 

“Dr. Steel’s not in?”

 

“No, ma’am, but he left word that he would be at home

about four.”

 

“Thanks, Symons, you can go.”

 

The servant’s ill-conditioned stare was bitterness to a

woman of Betty’s pride and penetration. The finer

touches of courtesy, the more delicate instincts, are rarely

developed in the lower classes. Even the starched

Symons was utterly cowlike in her manners. Betty felt

her face sore under the servant’s eyes.

 

A big red book lay open upon the dressingtable amid

Betty Steel’s crowd of silver knick-knacks. It was the

Medical Directory, and lay open at the London list, and

at the letter P. Dr. Peterson’s name headed the lefthand page, as staff-physician to sundry hospitals and

charitable institutions, and as a holder of medals, diplomas, and degrees galore. A cursory glance at the titles

of his contributions to medical literature would have

marked him out as one of the leading authorities on

diseases of the skin.

 

Betty Steel looked in her pier-glass, fluffed out her hair

a little, and fastening the scarf of her green tea-gown,

crossed the landing towards the stairs. She had that

steady and almost staring expression of the eyes that betrays a purpose suddenly but seriously matured. She

had not spoken with her husband since their meeting on

the night of his return.

 

“Dr. Peterson, I believe?”

 

The specialist had been reviewing the photographs on

the mantel-piece, and had displayed his good taste by

electing a handsome cousin of Betty’s as his ideal for the

moment. He set the silver frame down rather hurriedly,

and turned at the sound of the door opening, a dapper,

diplomatic, yet rather finicking figure, the figure more of

a little man about town than of a brilliant and prosperous London consultant.

 

“Mrs. Steel?”

 

He had glanced up with a slight puckering of the brows

into Betty’s face.

 

“Yes. I am sorry my husband is out. I have taken

the opportunity, Dr. Peterson, of consulting you—”

 

She moved towards the window, graceful, well poised,

and unembarrassed. The specialist stood aside, his face

a sympathetic blank, a birdlike and inquisitive alertness

visible in his eyes.

 

“You have noticed my face, Dr. Peterson?”

 

She stood before him unflinchingly, a woman of distinction and of charm of manner despite her great disfigurement. The fingers of Dr. Peterson’s right hand

were fidgeting with his watchchain. It was wholly improper for a London consultant to appear embarrassed.

 

“You wish to consult me?”

 

“Yes.”

 

He hesitated, elevated his eyebrows, and then met her

with a conciliatory smile.

 

“I do not know, Mrs. Steel, whether—”

 

She understood his meaning and the significance of

his hesitation.

 

“My husband? Yes Your opinion will be of interest to him. Let us be frank.”

 

Dr. Peterson advanced one patent-leather boot, put

the forefinger of his right hand under Betty’s chin, and

turned her face towards the light. She could see that he

was profoundly interested despite his air of shallow

smartness. Also that he was somewhat perplexed by

the responsibility she had thrust upon him.

 

“Hum! How long have you noticed the swelling on

the lip?”

 

“Five weeks or more, perhaps longer.”

 

“The throat?”

 

She opened her mouth wide. Dr. Peterson peered into

it and frowned.

 

“The rash has been present some days?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“You are paler than usual?”

 

“I think so.”

 

“Feverish?”

 

“A little.”

 

“Of course, Dr. Steel has seen all this?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Hum!”

 

He was embarrassed, troubled, and betrayed the feeling in an increased fussiness and polite magniloquence of

manner.

 

“You must pardon me, Mrs. Steel.”

 

“I want you to be quite frank with me. I am ready

to answer any questions. You may think my attitude

unusual—”

 

“Not at all not at all,” and he flicked his handkerchief

from his pocket and began to polish a lens in a tortoiseshell setting.

 

“I must confess, Dr. Peterson, that I have been subjected to a great deal of worry and and doubt. My

husband only returned yesterday. Of course, you know

about that. Dr. Little sent for you to see Major Murray’s

wife, I believe.”

 

Dr. Peterson still flourished his handkerchief.

 

“Has Dr. Steel expressed any opinion to you?”

 

“About this?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“He told me that it was a form of eczema.”

 

The specialist threw a sharp, penetrating look at her face.

 

“That was your husband’s diagnosis?”

 

“I believe it to be incorrect.”

 

“Indeed!”

 

“And that he knows that he has not told me the truth.”

 

Both heard the rattle of a latchkey in the lock of the

front door, and the sound of footsteps in the hall. Symons

could be heard hurrying up the stairs from the kitchen.

She spoke to some one in the hall, a tired and toneless

voice answering her in curt monosyllables. It was Parker

Steel.

 

Dr. Peterson walked up the room and back again to

the window, glancing rather nervously at the clock as he

passed. His attitude was that of a man who has been

entangled in the meshes of a very delicate dilemma, and

he was waiting to see how Betty Steel’s mood shaped.

She was standing with one hand resting on the back of

a chair, as though steadying herself for the inevitable

crisis.

 

“Ah, good-day; I must apologize Betty!”

 

He had entered with an elaborate flourish intended to

suggest the brisk candor of a man much hurried in the

public service. His wife’s figure, outlined against the

window, brought him to a dead halt on the threshold.

The blood seemed to recede from his face in an instant.

The alert, confident manner became a tense effort towards naturalness and self-control.

 

“You will excuse us, Betty. Dr. Peterson and I have

matters to discuss.”

 

He held the door open for her, but she did not budge.

 

“I am consulting Dr. Peterson, Parker.”

 

Her husband’s face seemed to grow thin and haggard,

with the lights and shadows of the hall for a checkered

background. The specialist stood jerking his watchchain

up and down.

 

“I think,” he began

 

Betty turned to him with the air of a mistress of a salon.

 

“This is a family affair, Dr. Peterson, is it not? There

are no secrets that a husband and wife cannot share. I

may tell my husband what I believe your opinion to be?”

 

“My opinion, madam!”

 

His voice betrayed the rising impatience of a man

irritated by finding his discretion taxed beyond its strength.

 

The grim touch of the tragic element banished the veneer

of formalism from his face. To pose such a man as Dr.

Peterson with a problem in ethics, engendered anger and

impatience.

 

“I am not aware that I have pledged myself to any

expression of opinion.”

 

“No,” and she smiled; “but I can ask you a blunt

question, to which ‘yes* or ‘no’ will be inevitable.”

 

The specialist met her eyes, and realized that the

subtlety of a woman may make a man’s prudence seem

ridiculous. He was a rapid thinker, and the complexities

of the situation began to shape themselves in his mind.

Betty Steel was not a woman whom he would care to

hinder with a lie.

 

“You put me in a most embarrassing position—”

 

“Believe me, no.”

 

“With regard to another case I have some authority to

speak.”

 

“Consider my case within your jurisdiction.”

 

“Betty:” Her husband’s face was turned to hers in

miserable reproof. “Remember, we are something to

each other. I cannot bear—”

 

He faltered as he read the unalterable purpose in her

eyes. It is the nature of some women to appear incapable of pity when their self-love has received a

poignant shock.

 

“Then, Parker, you admit—”

 

“For God’s sake, Betty, let me have five minutes’

privacy—”

 

She looked at him calmly, as though considering his

inmost thoughts.

 

“I think Dr. Peterson can deal with you more forcibly

than I can. It is sufficient that we understand each

other.”

 

“Have you no consideration for my selfrespect?”

 

“It is my selfrespect that accuses you in this.”

And she turned and left the two men together.