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

has written to the

coroner. And Mrs. Baxter has instructed Cranston to

institute an action against us for malpraxis and incompetence.”

 

Porteus Carmagee sat motionless for a moment, his

legs tucked under his chair, his brown face suggestive of

the ugliness of some carved mediaeval corbel.

 

“I flatter myself that I recognize the inspiring spirit,

Kate,” he said, at last.

 

“Betty Steel.”

 

“That’s the lady; we have learned to respect our capabilities, Mrs. Betty and I.”

 

He pushed his chair back, established himself on the

hearth-rug, and began the habitual rattling of his bunch

of keys.

 

“Well, Kate, you want me to act for you.”

 

“If you will.”

 

“If I will? My dear girl, don’t insult my affection for

you all. I must confess that I like to feel vindictive

when I undertake a case. No city dinner could have

made me more irritable, vulpine, and liverish in your

service.”

 

Catherine’s eyes thanked him sufficiently, but they

were still brimming with questioning unrest.

 

“Porteus, tell me what you think.”

 

“My dear Kate, don’t worry.”

 

“How can I help worrying?”

 

The brown and intelligent face, like the face of a sharp

and keen-eyed dog, lit up with a peculiar flash of tenderness for her.

 

“Come, Kate, I am not a full-blooded optimist, as you

know, but your woman’s nature makes the affair seem

more serious than it is. Your husband was overworked,

and ill at the time, yet these people insisted I take it

on his assuming the full responsibility of the case. Steel

is notoriously an unprincipled rival; as for Brimley, of

Cossington, the fellow is known as the most saintly humbug as ever made ginger and water appear as potent as

the elixir vitae. My dear Kate, I know more of the secret

squabbles of this town than you do. People have threatened to sue Parker Steel before now yes, in this very

room. If spite and spleen are dragged into the case, I

think I can promise our opponents a somewhat stormy

season.”

 

A look of relief melted into Catherine’s eyes. Porteus

Carmagee was emphatic, and women look for emphasis

in the advice of a man.

 

“You are doing me good, Porteus.”

 

“That’s right. The law is a crabbed old spinster,

but she can be exhilarating on occasions. Tell me, when

did you receive the challenge?”

 

“This morning, by letter.”

 

“From whom?”

 

“Parker Steel and Mr. Cranston.”

 

“Exactly. And your husband?”

 

She faltered, and looked aside.

 

“James was deeply shocked by the thought.”

 

“Of course of course. He is a man with a conscience.

What is he doing?”

 

“I left him at home to rest. I ought to tell you,

Porteus, that I have seen Parker Steel.”

 

The lawyer frowned.

 

“Unwise, Kate, unwise. I hope—”

 

“No,” and she flushed, hotly; “I made no pretence of

weakness. They had defiance from me.”

 

“Good girl good girl.”

 

“They are bitter against us. It was easy to discover

that.”

 

Porteus Carmagee drew out his watch.

 

“In an hour, Kate, I will run over and see your husband. Oblige me by telling him not to look worried.

Now, my dear girl, nonsense, you needn’t.”

 

Catherine had risen, and had put her hands upon his

shoulders. And on that single and momentous occasion,

Porteus Carmagee blushed as his bachelor face was

touched by the lips of June.

 

The words of a friend in the dry season of trouble are

like dew to the parched grass. Catherine left Porteus

Carmagee’s office with a feeling of gratitude and relief,

as though the sharing of her burden with him had eased

her heart. From a feeling of forlorn impatience she

sprang to a more sanguine and happy temper, with her

gloomier forebodings left among the deeds and documents

of the dusty office. She thought of her husband and her

children without that wistful stirring of regret, that fear

lest some store of evil were being laid up for them in the

home she loved. Her reprieve was but momentary, had

she but known it, for the cup of her humiliation was not

full to the brim.

 

As she turned into Lombard Street, she came upon her

two children returning with Mary from a ramble in the

meadows. The youngsters raced for her, eyes aglow,

health and the beauty thereof in every limb. The omen

seemed propitious, the incident as sacred as Catherine

could have wished. Perhaps to the two children her

kisses seemed no less warm and heart-given than of yore,

but to the mother the moment had a meaning that no

earthly poetry could portray.

 

“Ah my darlings—”

 

“Where have you been, muvver where?”

 

“At Uncle Porteus ‘s. Mary, run around to Arnsbury s

and ask him to send me in some fruit. I will take the

children home.”

 

Mary departed, leaving youth clinging to the maternal

hands. Master Jack Murchison pranced like a warhorse, his curiosity still cantering towards Marley Down.

 

“Oh, I say, mother, when are we going to the cottage?”

 

“Saturday, dear, perhaps.”

 

“Daddy said we might have tea in the woods.”

 

“Boys who put pepper on the cat’s nose don’t deserve

picnics.”

 

Master Jack giggled over the originality of the crime.

 

“Old Tom did sneeze!”

 

“You was velly cruel, Jack,” and Gwen’s face reproved

him round her mother’s skirts.

 

“Little girls don’t know nuffin.”

 

“I can spell ‘fuchsia,’ I can.”

 

“What’s the use of spelling! Any one can spell can’t

they, mother?”

 

“No, dear,” and the mother laughed; “many people

are not as far advanced as Gwen.”

 

They were within twenty yards of the great house in

Lombard Street, with its warm red walls and its white

window frames, when a crowd of small boys came scattering round the northeast corner of St. Antonia’s Square.

In the middle of the road a butcher had stopped his cart,

and several people were loitering by the railings under

the elms, watching something that was as yet invisible to

Catherine and the children.

 

“I specs it’s Punch and Judy,” and Master Jack tugged

at his mother’s hand.

 

“Wait, dear, wait.”

 

“Muvver, may I give the Toby dog a biscuit?”

 

“Two, Gwen, if you like.”

 

“I just love to see old Punch smack silly old Judy with

a stick!”

 

“Jack, you are velly cruel,” and the little lady disassociated herself once more from all sympathy with her

brother’s barbaric inclinations.

 

A man turned the corner of the street suddenly, cannoned two small boys aside, and hurried on with the halfscared look of one who has seen a child crushed to death

under a cart. He stopped abruptly when he saw Catherine and the children, his white and resolute face glistening with sweat.

 

“Mrs. Murchison, take the children in—”

 

Catherine stared at him; it was John Reynolds, her

husband’s dispenser.

 

“What is it what has happened?”

 

The man glanced backward over his right shoulder

as though he had been followed by a ghost.

 

“Dr. Murchison was taken ill at the County Club.

They sent round for me. Good God, ma’am, get the

children out of the way!”

 

For a moment Catherine stood motionless with the sun

blazing upon her face, her eyes fixed upon a knot of figures

dimly seen under the shadows of the mighty elms. A

great shudder passed through her body. She stooped,

caught up Gwen, and carried the wondering child into

the house. Reynolds, the dispenser, followed with the

boy, who rebelled strenuously, his querulous innocence

making the tragedy more poignant and pathetic.

 

“Shut up, silly old Reynolds

 

“There, there, Master Jack,” and the man panted; “be

quiet, sir. Mrs. Murchison, I must you understand.”

 

Catherine, her face wonderful in its white restraint,

her eyes full of the horror of keen consciousness, hurried

the two children up the stairs. Outside in the sunlit

street the club porter and a laboring man were swaying

along with an unsteady figure grappled by either arm.

The troop of small boys sneaked along the sidewalk, and

on the opposite pavement some dozen spectators watched

the affair incredulously across the road.

 

“Dang me if it ain’t the doctor.”

 

“What, Jim Murchison?”

 

“Drunk as blazes.”

 

A little widow woman in black slipped away with a

shudder from the coarse voices of the men. “How horrible!” And she looked ready to weep, for she was one

of Murchison ‘s patients and had known much kindness

at his hands.

 

John Reynolds had gone to help the two men get

Murchison up the steps into the house.

 

“Good God, sir,” he said, “pull yourself together!”

 

“Lemme go, R’nolds, I can walk.”

 

“Steady, sir, steady! For the love of your good lady,

get inside.”

 

And between them they half carried him into the

house, three men awed by a strong man’s shame.

 

Catherine had locked the two children into the nursery.

She stood on the stairs, and saw the limp figure of her husband lifted across the hall into his consulting-room. It was

as though fate had given her the last most bitter draught

to drink. Their cause was lost. She felt it to be the end.

 

Reynolds, the dispenser, came to her across the hall.

The man was almost weeping, so bitterly did he feel the

misery of it all.

 

“I I have sent for Dr. Inglis.”

 

“Thank you, Reynolds.”

 

“Shall I stay?”

 

“Yes, for God’s sake, do!”

 

The other two men came out from the consulting-room,

and crossed the hall sheepishly, without looking at Catherine. She turned, and reascended the stairs, leaving to

Reynolds the task of watching by her husband. The

sound of a small fist beating on the nursery door seemed

to echo the loud throbbing of her heart. She steadied

herself, choked back her anguish, unlocked the door, and

went in to her children.

 

“Muvver, muvver!” Gwen’s eyes were full of tears.

 

“Yes, darling, yes.”

 

“Is daddy ill?”

 

“Daddy daddy is ill,” and she took the two frightened

children in her arms, and wept.