Clayhanger - Arnold Bennett (best business books of all time .TXT) 📗

worse than ever then. I asked her why she wanted just me. I said all we doctors were much about the same, and so on. But it was no use. The fact is, you know, Hilda always had a great notion of me as a doctor. Can't imagine why! Kept it to herself of course, jolly close, as she did most things, but I'd noticed it now and then. You know--one of those tremendous beliefs she has. You're another of her beliefs, if you want to know."

"How do you know? Give us another cigarette." Edwin was exceedingly uneasy, and yet joyous. One of his fears was that the Sunday might inquire how it was that he signed telegrams to Hilda with only his Christian name. The Sunday, however, made no such inquiry.

"How do I know!" Charlie exclaimed. "I could tell in a second by the way she showed me your telegram. Oh! And besides, that's an old story, my young friend. You needn't flatter yourself it wasn't common property at one time."

"Oh! Rot!" Edwin muttered. "Well, go on!"

"Well, then I explained that there was such a thing as medical etiquette... Ah! you should have heard Hilda on medical etiquette. You should just have heard her on that lay--medical etiquette versus the dying child. I simply had to chuck that. I said to her, `But suppose you hadn't caught me at home? I might have been out for the day--a hundred things.' It was sheer accident she had caught me. At last she said: `Look here, Charlie, will you come, or won't you?'"

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SIX.

"Well, and what did you say?"

"I should tell you she went down on her knees. What should you have said, eh, my boy? What could I say? They've got you when they put it that way. Especially a woman like she is! I tell you she was simply terrific. I tell you I wouldn't go through it again--not for something."

Edwin responsively shook.

"I just threw up the sponge and came. I told Huskisson a thundering lie, to save my face, and away I came, and I've been with her ever since. Dashed if I haven't!"

"Who's Huskisson?"

"My partner. If anybody had told me beforehand that I should do such a thing I should have laughed. Of course, if you look at it calmly, it's preposterous. Preposterous--there's no other word--from my point of view. But when they begin to put it the way she put it--well, you've got to decide quick whether you'll be sensible and a brute, or whether you'll sacrifice yourself and be a damned fool... What good am I here? No more good than anybody else. Supposing there is danger? Well, there may be. But I've left twenty or thirty influenza cases at Ealing. Every influenza case is dangerous, if it comes to that."

"Exactly," breathed Edwin.

"I wouldn't have done it for any other woman," Charlie recommenced. "Not much!"

"Then why did you do it for her?"

Charlie shrugged his shoulders. "There's something about her... I don't know--" He lifted his nostrils fastidiously and gazed at the fire. "There's not many women knocking about like her... She gets hold of you. She's nothing at all for about six months at a stretch, and then she has one minute of the grand style... That's the sort of woman she is. Understand? But I expect you don't know her as we do."

"Oh yes, I understand," said Edwin. "She must be tremendously fond of the kid."

"You bet she is! Absolute passion. What sort is he?"

"Oh! He's all right. But I've never seen them together, and I never thought she was so particularly keen on him."

"Don't you make any mistake," said Charlie loftily. "I believe women often are like that about an only child when they've had a rough time. And by the look of her she must have had a pretty rough time. I've never made out why she married that swine, and I don't think anyone else has either."

"Did you know him?" Edwin asked, with sudden eagerness.

"Not a bit. But I've sort of understood he was a regular outsider. Do you know how long she's been a widow?"

"No," said Edwin. "I've barely seen her."

At these words he became so constrained, and so suspicious of the look on his own face, that he rose abruptly and began to walk about the room.

"What's the matter?" demanded Charlie. "Got pins and needles?"

"Only fidgets," said Edwin.

"I hope this isn't one of your preliminaries for clearing out and leaving me alone," Charlie complained. "Here--where's that glass of yours? Have another cigarette."

There was a sound that seemed to resemble a tap on the door.

"What's that noise?" said Edwin, startled. The whole of his epidermis tingled, and he stood still. They both listened.

The sound was repeated. Yes, it was a tap on the door; but in the night, and in the repose of the house, it had the character of some unearthly summons.

Edwin was near the door. He hesitated for an instant afraid, and then with an effort brusquely opened the door and looked forth beyond the shelter of the room. A woman's figure was disappearing down the passage in the direction of the stairs. It was she.

"Did you--" he began. But Hilda had gone. Agitated, he said to Charlie, his hand still on the knob: "It's Mrs Cannon. She just knocked and ran off. I expect she wants you."

Charlie jumped up and scurried out of the room exactly like a boy, despite his tall, mature figure of a man of thirty-five.


VOLUME FOUR, CHAPTER TWELVE.


END OF THE NIGHT.

For the second time that night Edwin was left alone for a long period in the little breakfast-room. Charlie's phrase, `You're another of her beliefs,' shone like a lamp in his memory, beneficent. And though he was still jealous of Charlie, with whom Hilda's relations were obviously very intimate; although he said to himself, `She never made any appeal to me, she would scarcely have my help at any price;' nevertheless he felt most singularly uplifted and, without any reason, hopeful. So much so that the fate of the child became with him a matter of secondary importance. He excused this apparent callousness by making sure in his own mind that the child was in no real danger. On the other hand he blamed himself for ever having fancied that Hilda was indifferent to George. She, indifferent to her own son! What a wretched, stupid slander! He ought to have known better than that. He ought to have known that a Hilda would bring to maternity the mightiest passions. All that Charlie had said confirmed him in his idolisation of her. `One minute of the grand style.' That was it. Charlie had judged her very well--damn him! And the one minute was priceless, beyond all estimation.

The fire sank, with little sounds of decay; and he stared at it, prevented as if by a spell from stooping to make it up, prevented even from looking at his watch. At length he shivered slightly, and the movement broke the trance. He wandered to the door, which Charlie had left ajar, and listened. No sign of life! He listened intently, but his ear could catch nothing whatever. What were those two doing upstairs with the boy? Cautiously he stepped out into the passage, and went to the foot of the stairs, where a gas jet was burning. He was reminded of the nights preceding his father's death.

Another gas jet showed along the corridor at the head of the stairs. He put his foot on the first step; it creaked with a noise comparable to the report of a pistol in the dead silence. But there was no responsive sound to show that anyone had been alarmed by this explosion. Impelled by nervous curiosity, and growing careless, he climbed the reverberating, complaining stairs, and, entering the corridor, stood exactly in front of the closed door of the sick-room, and listened again, and heard naught. His heart was obstreperously beating. Part of the household slept; the other part watched; and he was between the two, like a thief, like a spy. Should he knock, discreetly, and ask if he could be of help? The strange romance of his existence, and of all existence, flowed around him in mysterious currents, obsessing him.

Suddenly the door opened, and Charlie, barely avoiding a collision, started back in alarm. Then Charlie recovered his self-possession and carefully shut the door.

"I was just wondering whether I could be any use," Edwin stammered in a whisper.

Charlie whispered: "It's all right, but I must run round to Stirling's, and get a drug I want."

"Is he worse?"

"Yes. That is--yes. You never know with a child. They're up and down and all over the place inside of an hour."

"Can I go?" Edwin suggested.

"No. I can explain to him quicker than you."

"You'll never find your way in this fog."

"Bosh, man! D'you think I don't know the town as well as you? Besides, it's lifted considerably."

By a common impulse they tiptoed to the window at the end of the corridor. Across the lawn could be dimly discerned a gleam through the trees.

"I'll come with you," said Edwin.

"You'd much better stay here--in case."

"Shall I go into the bedroom?"

"Certainly."

Charlie turned to descend the stairs.

"I say," Edwin called after him in a loud whisper, "when you get to the gate--you know the house--you go up the side entry. The night bell's rather high up on the left hand."

"All right! All right!" Charlie replied impatiently. "Just come and shut the front door after me. I don't want to bang it."

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TWO.

When Edwin crept into the bedroom he was so perturbed by continually growing excitement that he saw nothing clearly except the central group of objects: that is to say, a narrow bed, whose burden was screened from him by its foot, a table, an empty chair, the gas-globe luminous against a dark-green blind, and Hilda in black, alert and erect beneath the down-flowing light. The rest of the chamber seemed to stretch obscurely away into no confines. Not for several seconds did he even notice the fire. This confusing excitement was not caused by anything external such as the real or supposed peril of the child; it had its source within.

As soon as Hilda identified him her expression changed from the intent frowning stare of inquiry to a smile. Edwin had never before seen her smile in that way. The smile was weak, resigned, almost piteous; and it was extraordinarily sweet. He closed the door quietly, and moved in silence towards the bed. She nodded an affectionate welcome. He returned