A Woman's War, Warwick Deeping [have you read this book .TXT] 📗

energy of his wife’s tongue, Thomas Baxter’s condition had grown markedly worse. The nurse

and the two shrews had watched by him through the night,

their pitiable peevishness unmoved by the sick man’s peril.

 

At seven o’clock Nurse Sprange had favored Mrs. Baxter with her opinion.

 

“Worse, of course!” the housewife had exclaimed;

“what can any Christian creature expect after the way

they hacked the poor soul about?”

 

The nurse had ruffled up in defence of the profession.

 

“You had better send at once for Dr. Murchison.”

 

“I should think we had. The lad can drive over in

the milk-cart. Murchison did the thing; he’d better

mend it, if he can.”

 

Murchison drove through the July fields where the

corn was rustling for the harvest. The cottage gardens

were full of flowers, sweet-pease a-flutter in the sun, the

borders packed with scent and color. On the river’s

bank the willows drooped lazily, and the meadows had

been shorn of their fragrant hay. To the south the pine

woods of Marley Down touched the azure of the sky.

 

His welcome at Boland’s Farm was neither cordial nor

inspiring. Murchison had expected sour faces, and sour

and sinister they were. Mrs. Baxter was a cynic by

choice, one of those women who count their change carefully to the last farthing as though forever expecting to

be cheated. Her manner towards Murchison was abrupt

and aggressive. She bore herself towards him with a

threatening dourness, as though she held him responsible

for her husband’s critical condition.

 

“I am sorry to hear Mr. Baxter is no better.”

 

The lady looked supremely sapient, as though the brilliance of her genius had foreshadowed the event.

 

“I think I told you, doctor, that I don’t hold with all

this operating.”

 

“I am sorry that we disagree.”

 

“Perhaps you will step up-stairs, doctor, and just see

Mr. Baxter for yourself.”

 

Madam’s presence was not enthralling, and Murchison

escaped from her with relief. The ugly parlor, with its

texts and its piety, seemed part and parcel of the world

to which farmer Baxter’s wife belonged. But sick men

cannot be responsible for their wives, and Murchison knew

that Tom Baxter was more sinned against than sinning.

 

Nurse Sprange was sitting by the patient’s bed, looking

limp and tired, as though her patience had been torn to

tatters by Mrs. Baxter’s restless temper. She rose as

Murchison entered, and drew back the curtains to let

more light into the room. Murchison nodded to her,

and took the chair that she had left. The farmer was

lying very still and straight, his eyes half closed, his breathing shallow, as though any expansion of the chest gave

him acute pain.

 

“Well, Baxter, how do you feel?”

 

The man turned his head feebly.

 

“Ay, doctor, not mighty grand.”

 

“Any pain now?”

 

“Pain, sir, plenty; not like the gripe, but just as if I

had a lot of weed-killer sluicing about inside of me.”

 

“Ah! Any tenderness?”

 

The farmer winced under Murchison’s hand.

 

“Bless you, doctor, it be damned sore!”

 

“Where?”

 

“All over. What d’you think of me, sir? I guess I’m

pretty bad.”

 

The man’s eyes were searching Murchison’s face. He

had been a fat and hearty liver, a full-blooded man who

had loved life, where his wife was not, and was loath to

leave it. There was something pathetic in his almost

bovine dread, as though like one of his own oxen he had

an instinct of the end. Murchison pitied him. He had

seen many such men die, some like frightened animals,

others sullen and sturdy against their doom.

 

“You must keep up your pluck, Baxter,” he said.

 

“I know, sir, but—”

 

“My dear fellow, you are very bad, it is no use shirking it. I hope yet to see you recover.”

 

“All right, doctor, you’ve done your best,” and he

turned his face away with a groan of despair.

 

Murchison took the nurse out with him to the head of

the stairs, and questioned her as to any symptoms she

had observed during the night. Her evidence only

tended to strengthen the gloomy prognosis he had already

made. Nothing remained for him but to consider Mrs.

Baxter’s unsensitive soul.

 

The lady did not weep. On the contrary, she displayed

gathering resentment, the prejudice of an inferior nature,

and gave Murchison the benefit of her free opinion.

 

“I may as well tell you, doctor, that I’m not satisfied.

If my Tom had had proper attention from the first—”

 

“Well?”

 

“You wouldn’t have had to use that there knife. And

it’s my opinion, sir, that you’ve done more harm than

good.”

 

Murchison’s patience was being severely tested.

 

“I don’t think you are quite yourself, Mrs. Baxter,”

he remarked.

 

“Not myself, indeed!”

 

“I cannot hold you responsible for what you are saying.”

 

The suggestion of any hysterical weakness on her part

offended the lady more than her husband’s probable decease.

 

“Look here, doctor, I’m no fool, and I tell you you’ve

done your business badly.”

 

“My dear woman, this is absolutely unwarranted.”

 

“I beg to differ, sir, and—”

 

Murchison prevented the imminent insult.

 

“If you care to place the case in other hands, by all

means do so.”

 

“I shall send for Dr. Steel.”

 

“As you please.”

 

“And don’t you be afraid of getting your money.”

 

“That is a secondary consideration.”

 

“Oh, I guess not, operations don’t cost twopencehalfpenny. I’ll send for Steel at once.”

 

Murchison took his hat and gloves.

 

“Then, Mrs. Baxter, I had better wish you goodmorning?’

 

And being too much of a philosopher to accuse the

lady of ingratitude, he left her in possession of her prejudices.

 

It had been the season of garden-fetes at Roxton, when

the gracious gowns of the mesdames and demoiselles

glorified the sleek lawns and herb-scented gardens of the

old town. Gay colors and piquant hats were in July

flower, save for the few sober weeds who put forth no

gaudy corolla to attract the winged messengers of love.

Mrs. Betty had paraded the terraces and yew walks in

dove-colored silk, in crimson, and in lilac. Her successive sunshades were as so many royal flowers that

came as by magic from the house of glass. She was an

aesthetic spirit, and loved beauty, particularly when the

picture was painted upon the surface of her own pier-glass.

 

Yet, delectable as she was with her pale and sinuous

glamour, Mrs. Betty had many rebuffs to remember within

the sound of St. Antonia’s bells. Dull, domesticated

ladies in a country town do not embrace with enthusiasm

a young and fascinating woman who has a habit of drawing the men about her. Mrs. Betty was regarded as a

dangerous person, a species of Circe who looked sidelong

into the faces of respectable married men, and possessed

a motherwit and a vivacity that made her seem like

sparkling wine beside the “domestic ditch-water” she

abhorred.

 

Catherine Murchison succeeded with her sister-women

where Betty Steel failed utterly. There was a frankness,

an absolute lack of the guile of the Cleopatra, about her

that set jealous matrons at their ease. She was so notoriously devoted to her own husband and her home that

the respectable flock welcomed her with pleasant bleatings. It was this very popularity of hers that impressed

itself on the social pageantries of Roxton. The quickeyed Betty saw her rival receive the smiles of the feminine

community, while she herself was favored with polite distrust. Catherine Murchison was considered orthodox,

and to be orthodox is the first proof of gentility among

genteel people. Mrs. Steel might be stigmatized as something of a social heretic. And women, being the most

outrageous Tories in their heart of hearts, dreaded the

fascinating and glib-tongued Socialist who would perhaps

reform the marriage laws into free love.

 

Hence, through all the galaxy of the Roxton garden-parties, Parker Steel’s wife had accumulated many

incidental grievances against her rival. Women are

sensitive beings, so sensitive that their feelings may be

diffused into a smart gown or a Paris hat. The old battle-fire burned in Mrs. Betty’s Circassian eyes. She was

amassing her grievances, slowly, surely, and with that

curious secretiveness that has often characterized the

feminine heart.

 

“Thomas Baxter, of Boland’s Farm, is dead.”

 

Parker Steel whisked his serviette over his knees, and

looked with a peculiar glint of the eye at his wife in her

orange-silk tea-gown.

 

“Dead. no!”

 

“Dead as Marley.”

 

“But they only turned Murchison out yesterday.”

 

“Exactly. And the dear wife is in the most militant

of tempers, the Puritanical old fraud.”

 

Betty Steel’s olive skin had flushed. She was breathing deeply, and her glance had a significant and inspired

glitter.

 

“Parker.”

 

“Well?”

 

“What else?”

 

The spruce physician showed his teeth.

 

“You expect more?”

 

“Yes, you are teasing me, keeping back some delicate

morsel. Has Murchison blundered?”

 

“The wish seems mother to the thought.”

 

“Perhaps.”

 

“Mrs. Baxter has demanded a post-mortem examination. I am to perform it.”

 

His wife’s lips parted, and closed again into a hard line.

She looked wickedly handsome in her yellow gown.

 

“I shall take Brimley, of Cossington, with me.”

 

“Good. You must have a second opinion, and Brimley does not love the six-footer. What do you think,

Parker? tell me frankly.”

 

The doctor wiped his mustache, took up his sherry

glass and sipped the wine.

 

“Can’t say yet,” he answered.

 

“But supposing—”

 

“Well, what am I to suppose?”

 

“That Murchison blundered badly.”

 

Dr. Steel meditated an instant.

 

“Professional etiquette ” he began.

 

Mrs. Betty’s eyes flashed.

 

“Professional nonsense! If Parker, you must not

lose a possible chance.”

 

Her husband regarded her with amused interest.

 

“You would strike your little Italian stiletto into

Murchison’s reputation,” he said.