A Woman's War, Warwick Deeping [have you read this book .TXT] 📗
- Author: Warwick Deeping
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higher aspirations of the race. A myriad organisms were
usurping the tissues that had worked the will of what
men call ” the soul.”
Dr. Brimley, of Cossington, a little, spectacled cherub
of a man, held back the yellow flaps of fat-laden skin
while his confrere groped and delved within the cavity.
There was a wrinkle of disgust about Parker Steel’s sharp
mouth. He had never vanquished that loathing of contact with the nauseous slime of death. The cold and succulent smoothness of the inert tissues repelled his cultured
instincts. Yet even the superfine sneer vanished from
about his nostrils as he drew out a black and oozing object from the dead man’s body.
“Good God, Brimley, look at this!”
The spectacled cherub peered at it, puckered up his
lips and gave a whistle.
“A sponge!”
“Nice mess, eh?”
“Relieved that I haven’t the responsibility.”
Steel’s delicate hands were at work again. A sharp
exclamation of surprise escaped him as he drew out a
pair of artery forceps, and held them up to Brimley’s
gaze.
“This is a pretty business!”
Dr. Brimley’s eyes seemed to enlarge behind his spectacles.
“Confoundedly unpleasant for the operator. The man
must have lost his head.”
“Put your hand in here,” and Parker Steel guided his
confrere’s fingers into the cavity, “tell me what you feel.”
Brimley groped a moment, and then elevated his eyebrows.
“Good Lord! what was Murchison at? A rent in the
bowel three inches long!”
“We had better have a look at it.”
And the evidence of the sense of vision confirmed the
evidence of the sense of touch.
Both men perched themselves on the bed, and looked
questioningly into each other’s eyes. Success demands
the survival of the fittest, and in the scramble for gold
and reputation men may ignore generosity for egotistical
and self-serving cant. Parker Steel did not determine to
act against his rival, without a struggle. He remembered
his wife’s words, and they decided him.
“What are you going to do?”
Parker Steel looked Dr. Brimley straight in the face.
“There is only one thing to be done,” he retorted.
“Well, sir, well?”
“I have no personal grudge against Murchison, but
before God, Brimley, I can’t forgive him this abominable
bungling. Professional feeling or no, I can’t stretch my
conscience to such a lie.”
Dr. Brimley stared and nodded. He was somewhat
impressed by Steel’s cultured indignation, a professional
Brutus waxing public-spirited over Caesar’s body. Moreover, he was no friend of Murchison’s, and was secretly
pleased to hear another man assume the moral responsibility of injuring his reputation.
“So you will tell the old lady?”
“I take it to be a matter of duty.”
“Quite so; I agree with you, Steel. But it will about
smash Murchison.”
Parker Steel moved to the wash-stand and began to
rinse his hands.
“I cannot see how I can give a death certificate,” he
said; “the man must have been drunk. It is a case for
the coroner.”
Dr. Brimley puckered his chubby mouth and whistled.
“There is no other conclusion to accept,” he answered.
Mrs. Baxter was awaiting the two gentlemen in the
darkened parlor, dressed in her black silk Sabbath gown.
She had a photograph-album on her knee, and was chastening her grief by referring to the faded pictures of the past.
Each photograph stood for a season in the late farmer’s
life. Tom Baxter as a fat and plethoric-looking youth
of twenty, in a braided coat and baggy trousers, one hand
on a card-board sundial, the other stuffed into a side-pocket.
Tom Baxter, ten years later, in his Yeomanry uniform,
mustachioed, tight-thighed, nursing a carbine, with an
air of assertive self-satisfaction. Tom Baxter and his
bride awkwardly linked together arm in arm, toes out,
top hat and bridal bouquet much in evidence. Tom
Baxter, fat, prosperous, and middle-aged, smoking his
pipe in a corner of the orchard, his Irish terrier at his
feet; a snapshot by a friend. The widow studied them
all with solemn deliberation, glancing a little scornfully
at her sister Harriet, who was snivelling over a copy of
Eliza Cook’s poems.
They heard the voices of the two doctors above, the
sound of a door opening, and footsteps descending the
stairs. Parker Steel, suave, quiet, and serious as a black
cat, appeared at the parlor door. Mrs. Baxter rose from
her chair, and signalled to her sister to leave her with
Parker Steel.
“Harriet, go out. Sit down, doctor,” and she replaced
the album on its pink wool mat in the middle of the circular table.
Harriet absented herself without a murmur, Miss Cook’s
volume still clasped in her bony fingers. From the direction of the stables came the plaintive howling of a dog,
Tom Baxter’s Irish terrier, Peter, who had been chained
up because he would haunt the landing outside his dead
master’s room. Mrs. Baxter had fallen over the poor
beast as he crouched at the top of the stairs, and poor
Peter’s loyalty had not saved him from chastisement
with the lady’s slipper.
Parker Steel seated himself on the extreme edge of an
arm-chair, a great yellow sunflower in a Turkish-red
antimacassar haloing him like a saint. He had assumed
an air of studied yet anxious reserve, as though the matter
in hand required delicate handling.
“Well, doctor, it’s all over, I suppose.”
Steel nodded, hearing Miss Harriet’s voice in the
distance rasping out endearments to the dead man’s
dog.
“Dr. Brimley and I have completed the examination.”
“Poor Tom! poor Tom!”
“I can sympathize with you, Mrs. Baxter.”
“Thank you, doctor. How that dog do howl, to be
sure! And now, sir, let’s come to business.”
The widow sat erect and rigid in her chair, her hands
clasped in her lap, an expression of determined alertness
on her face. Steel, student of human nature that he
was, felt relieved that it was Murchison and not he
who had incurred the resentment of this hard - fibred
woman.
“Will you be so good as to tell me, doctor, just what
my husband died of?”
Parker Steel fidgeted, and studied his finger-nails.
“It is rather painful to me,” he began.
“Painful, sir!”
“To have to confess to a brother-doctor’s misman
misdirection of the case.”
His tactful disinclination reacted electrically upon Mrs.
Baxter. She leaned forward in her chair, and brandished
a long forefinger with exultant solemnity.
“Just what I thought, doctor.”
Parker Steel cleared his throat and proceeded.
“You understand my professional predicament, Mrs.
Baxter. At the same time, I feel it to be my duty—”
“Just you tell me the plain facts, doctor; what did my
husband die of?”
Steel rose from his chair, walked to the window, and
stood there a moment looking out into the garden, as
though struggling with the ethics and the etiquette of the
case.
“Frankly, Mrs. Baxter,” and he turned to her with ^a
grieved air, “I am compelled to admit that this operation
hastened your husband’s death.”
Mrs. Baxter bumped in her chair.
“Doctor, I could have sworn it. Go on, I can bear
the scandal.”
“Dr. Murchison made a very grave mistake.”
“He did!”
“A sponge and a pair of artery forceps were left in
your husband’s body. As for the operation, well, the less
said of it the better.”
Mrs. Baxter rose and went to the mantelshelf, and taking down a bottle of smelling-salts, applied them deliberately to either nostril.
“Then this man Murchison killed my husband!”
Parker Steel gave an apologetic shrug.
“I have to state facts,” he explained. “I cannot swear
to what might have happened.”
“Let the ‘might have’ alone, doctor, I’ve pulled the
pease out of the pod, and by the Holy Spirit I’ll boil my
water in Murchison’s pot!”
Parker Steel attempted to pacify her, confident in his
heart that any such effort would be useless.
“My dear Mrs. Baxter, let me explain to you—”
“Explain! What is there to explain? This man’s
killed my husband. I’ll sue him, I’ll make him pay for it.”
“Pardon me, one word—”
The widow raised her hands and patted Steel solemnly
on the shoulders.
“You’ve done your duty by me, doctor, for I reckon
it isn’t proper to tell tales of the profession. Now, listen,
I’ll relate what Jane Baxter’s going to do.”
Steel’s silence welcomed the confession.
“Well, I’m going to order the market -trap out, the
trap my poor Tom used to drive in to Roxton every Monday, the Lord have pity on him!—”
“Yes.”
“I’m going straight to call at Lawyer Cranston’s.”
“Indeed!”
“And just set him to pull Dr. Murchison’s coat from
off his back.”
THERE was a dance that night at one of the Roxton
houses, and Mrs. Betty, brilliant in cream and carnation, swept through the room with all the verve of a
girl of twenty. Her partners discovered her in wondrous
fettle swift, splendid, and audacious, color in her cheeks,
a sparkle of conscious triumph in her eyes. Her tongue
was in sympathy with the quickness of her feet. She
prattled, laughed, and was as deliciously impertinent as
any minx who has a theory of fascination.
Mrs. Hamilton-Hamilton, the hostess of the night, was
a patient of James Murchison’s, and Catherine’s more
gracious comeliness came as a contrast to Mrs. Betty’s
faylike glamour. The Hamiltons were brewers, wealthy
plebeians who had assimilated that lowest of all arts, the
art of making money, without absorbing a culture that
was of the same temper as their gold. Catherine had
left her husband to his pipe and his books at Lombard
Street. She had come to serve him, because as a doctor’s
wife she knew the value of smart publicity. In small
towns trifles are of serious moment. Orthodoxy is in the
ascendant, and individual singularity of opinion is considered to be “peculiar.” A professional gentleman
suspected of free thought may discover his social standing being damaged by the vicaress behind his back.
Bigotry dies hard despite the broadening of our culture,
and “eccentric” individuals may be ostracized by the
sectarians of a town. Forms and formularies produce
hypocrites. It is perilous for professional gentlemen to
appear eccentric. Even if they abstain from lip service
in person, their wives must be regular in helping to populate the parish pews.
Kate Murchison and Mrs. Betty passed and repassed
each other in the vortex of many a waltz. To Parker
Steel’s wife there was a prophetic triumph on the wind.
She found herself calculating, as she chatted to her partners, how long these people would remain loyal to the surgeon of Lombard Street when his repute was damaged
by the scandal at Boland’s Farm. Catherine had a
peculiar interest for her that night, for Mrs. Betty’s hate
was tempered by exultation. She watched for the passing and repassing of Catherine’s aureole of shimmering
hair, smiling to herself at the woman’s happy ignorance
of the notoriety that threatened her husband’s name.
To Catherine also, with each sweep of the dance, came
that olive-skinned and complacent face, whose eyes
seemed ever on the watch for her. She caught the rattle
of the dark woman’s persiflage as she drifted past to
the moan of the violins. She remarked an exaggerated
vivacity in Mrs. Betty’s manner, a something that suggested triumph with each nearness of their faces. Always
the slightly cynical smile, the teeth glimmering between
the lips; always that curious flash of the eyes, sudden and
momentary, like the flash
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