A Woman's War, Warwick Deeping [have you read this book .TXT] 📗
- Author: Warwick Deeping
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out, he bustled into the red-windowed front room as the
hand of the clock came to the hour. Nothing but the
most flagrant necessity was permitted to interfere with the
precision of his practice. And since John Tugler did not
spare his own body, it was not reasonable that he should
spare those who worked for hire.
It was March 2d, a Tuesday, with a wet fog clogging
the streets, when James Murchison arrived at the dispensary as the clock struck nine. The front room, packed as to its benches, steamed like a stable. The indescribable odor that emanates from the clothes of the poor
made the air heavy with the smell of the unwashed slums.
Dr. Tugler glanced up briskly as the big man entered,
screwed up his mouth, nodded, and jerked an elbow in
the direction of the clock.
“Bustle along, Mr. Murchison. There are half a
dozen cases waiting for you in the surgery.”
Murchison said nothing, but passed on. His face had
a white, drawn look, and he seemed to move half-blindly,
like a man exhausted by a long march in the sun.
Tugler looked at him curiously, frowned, and then
rattled off a string of directions to an old woman seated
beside him, her red hands clutching the old leather bag
in her lap.
“Medicine three times a day before meals. Drop
the drink. Regular food. Come again next week.
Shilling? That’s right. Next please.”
The old woman’s sodden face still poked itself towards
the doctor with senile eagerness.
“I ‘ope you won’t be minding me, sir, but this ‘ere—”
Dr. Tugler became suddenly deaf.
“Next, please.”
There was something in the atmosphere suggestive of
a barber’s shop. A robust collier was already waiting
for the old lady to vacate her chair.
“I was goin’ to ask you, doctor—”
“This time next week. We’re busy. Goodmorning,
Smith; sit down.”
The woman licked a drooping lip with a sharp, dry
tongue, looked at the doctor dubiously, and began to
fumble in her bag.
“I’ve got a box of pills ‘ere, sir, as—”
“Hem.”
Tugler cleared his throat irritably, and appeared surprised to find her still sitting at his elbow.
“Pills?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What for?”
“The bowels, sir.”
“Need ‘em?”
“Well, sir, as I might say, sir, I’m obstinate, very obstinate—”
“Let’s look at the box.”
“You don’t be thinkin’, doctor, there’s any ‘arm?”
“Harm! Bread and ginger. Take the lot. Sit down,
Smith,” and Dr. Tugler’s emphasis ended the discussion
with the finality of fate.
When the room had cleared, and the last bottle had
been passed through the dispensary window, that opened
like the window of a railway booking-office into the alley
at the side of the shop, Dr. Tugler marched into the surgery where Murchison had finished syringing the wax
out of an old man’s ears.
“Overslept yourself, Murchison? I must buy you an
alarum, you know, if it happens again.”
Murchison was washing his hands at the tap over the
sink.
“No,” he said, “I was up half the night.”
John Tugler, cheerful little bully that he was, noticed
the sag of the big man’s shoulders, and the peculiar
harshness of his voice.
“Get through with it all right?”
Murchison stared momentarily at Dr. Tugler over his
shoulder, a glance that had the significance of the flash
of a drawn sword.
“It was not one of your cases,” he said.
“Private affair, eh?”
“My child is ill.”
“Your child?”
“Yes; I’m a bit worried, that’s all.”
Murchison turned the tap off with a jerk, rasped the
dirty towel round the roller, and began to dry his hands
as though he were trying to crush something between his
palms. Dr. Tugler thrust out a lower lip, looked hard
at Murchison, and fidgeted his fists in his trousers-pockets.
“What’s the matter?”
The big man’s silence suggested for a moment that he
resented the abruptness of the question.
“Can’t say yet.”
“Serious?”
“I’m afraid so, yes.”
Dr. Tugler frowned a little, stared hard at the ventilator,
and pulled his hands out of his pockets with a jerk.
“Look here, Murchison, you’ve lost your nerve a little. I’ll come round and have a look at the youngster.
You had better knock off work to-day.”
“Thanks, I’d rather stick to it. You might see the
child, though. I—”
“Well?”
Murchison had turned his face away, and was standing by the window, fumbling with his cuff links.
“I don’t like the look of things. I don’t know why,
but a man’s nerve seems to go when he’s doctoring his
own kin.”
“That’s so,” and Dr. Tugler nodded.
“Then you’ll come round?”
“Supposing we go at once?”
“It’s good of you.”
“Bosh.”
And Dr. Tugler turned into the front room, took his
top-hat from the gas bracket, and began to polish it with
his sleeve.
A MARCH wind blew the dust and dead leaves in
eddies through the breadth of Castle Gate as Dr.
Steel’s brougham drew up before the timbered front of
a Jacobean house. The mellow building with its carved
barge-boards and great sweeping gables bore the date of
1617, and still carried a weather-worn sign swinging on
an iron bracket. For the last fifty years the ground floor
had been used as a grocery shop, a dim, rambling cavern
of a place fragrant with the scent of coffee and spices.
The proprietor, Mr. Isaac Mainprice, a very superior
tradesman who dabbled in archaeology, had refrained
from gilt lettering above the door; nor did the quaint
leaded windows glare with advertisements, whiskey bottles, and Dutch cheeses. Every one within ten miles of
Roxton knew Mr. Mainprice. His prosperity did not
need to be flaunted upon his windows.
“Good-day, madam. Terribly windy. Permit me.”
Mrs. Betty had swept across the pavement in her sables,
an opulent figure wooed by the March wind. Mr. Mainprice had fussed forward in person. He bowed in his
white apron, swung a chair forward, and then dodged behind the counter. The shop was empty, and three melancholy assistants studied Mrs. Betty from behind pyramids
of sweetmeats and packages of tea, for the face under the
white toque had all the imperative fascination of smooth
and confident beauty.
Mrs. Steel drew out a little ivory memorandumbook,
and glanced at it perfunctorily, before looking up into Mr.
Mainprice’s attentive face. He was a weak-eyed, damphaired man, with a big nose and a loose, good-tempered
mouth. A patch of red on either cheek seemed to suggest that the epicier cultivated an authoritative taste in
port, sherry, and Madeira.
“I want some jellies and soups, Mr. Mainprice.”
“Certainly, madam.”
“There are a few poor people my husband attends. I
want to help them with a few little delicacies.”
Mrs. Betty’s drawl was most confidentially sympathetic, and Mr. Mainprice ducked approvingly behind the
counter.
“What brand, madam? Lazenby’s, Cross & Blackwell’s?”
“Oh the best what you recommend.”
“Thank you, madam.”
“Let me see,” and Mrs. Betty’s eyes wandered with
an air of delightful innocence about the shop; “I like the
glassed jellies best. Six. Yes, six. And six tins of desiccated soup.”
“Certainly, madam. The large size?”
“Yes. Will you have them made up into different
parcels? I will take them in the carriage.”
“Certainly, madam.”
Mr. Mainprice nodded sharply to the three melancholy
assistants, and then bent over the counter to scribble in
his order-book.
“Very windy weather, madam.”
Mrs. Betty glanced up brightly at the suave, thinwhiskered face, and smiled. She had a great variety of
smiles, and Mr. Mainprice was an intelligent person, and
a man who was not ashamed of wearing a white apron.
Moreover, he was an excellent patient, the father of five
tall and unhealthy daughters, and the sympathetic husband of a neurasthenic wife.
“Terribly windy,” she agreed. “This is a dear old
house, but I suppose it is rather draughty.”
“No, madam, no, we find it very comfortable. I have
had double windows fitted to the upper rooms.”
“They make such a difference.”
“Such a difference, madam.”
There was a short pause. Mr. Mainprice was a nervous man. He had a habit of sniffing, and of opening and
shutting his order-book as though it was imperative for
him to keep his hands occupied.
“Dr. Steel is very busy, madam?”
“Oh, very busy; so much influenza.”
“I am afraid, madam,” and Mr. Mainprice elongated
himself over the counter with a waggish side twist of the
head “I am afraid we selfish people don’t show Dr.
Steel much mercy.”
Mrs. Betty laughed.
“I believe you yourself have been particularly wicked
this winter, Mr. Mainprice.”
“I must plead guilty, madam.”
“You are quite well now, I hope?”
Mr. Mainprice frowned, and half shut one eye.
“Nearly well, madam. I ventured out last night without orders.”
“The Primrose League Concert?”
“Now, madam, you have found me out!”
Mrs. Betty and the epicier regarded each other with a
sympathetic sense of humor.
“We were there, Mr. Mainprice, and I was so annoyed
because Dr. Steel was called away just before your daughter sang.”
“Indeed, madam,” and Mr. Mainprice sniffed with
nervous satisfaction.
“The best item on the programme. Such a sweet contralto, and such musical feeling. I remember poor Mrs.
Murchison used to sing some of the same songs. Of
course she never had your daughter’s artistic instinct.”
Mr. Mainprice colored, and looked coy.
“The girl has had first-class lessons, Mrs. Steel. I
believe in having the best of everything. I have been
very fortunate, madam, and though I ought not to mention it, money is no consideration.”
The grocer straightened his back suddenly, with a mild
snigger of self-salutation.
“Money well spent, Mr. Mainprice—”
“Is money invested, madam. Exactly. And a good
education is an investment in these days.”
Two of the melancholy assistants were carrying the
parcels to Mrs. Betty’s carriage. She rose with a rustle
of silks, her rich fur jacket setting off her slim but sensuous figure. Mr. Mainprice dodged from behind the
counter, and preceded her to the door.
“If it will be any convenience, Mrs. Steel, we can deliver the parcels immediately.”
“Thank you, I want to see the people myself. I like
to keep in touch with the poor, Mr. Mainprice.”
The grocer’s weak eyes honored a ministering angel.
“Exactly, madam. Permit me —”
He edged through the door with a nervous clearing of
the throat, blinked as the wind blew a cloud of dust
across the road, and escorted my Lady Bountiful to her
carriage.
“What address, madam?”
“Thank you so much, Mr. Mainprice, the coachman
knows.”
And Mr. Mainprice stood on the curb for fully ten
seconds, watching Dr. Steel’s brougham bear this most
charming lady upon her round of Christian kindness and
pity.
It is wise in this world to cultivate a reputation for
philanthropy, though like the priestly dress it may be a
mere sanctity of the surface. Few people are honest
enough to be open egotists, and to attain our ends it is
necessary to skilfully bribe our neighbors’ prejudices.
Though self-interest is the motive power that keeps the
world from flagging, it is neither discreet nor cultured to
blatantly acknowledge such a truth, for without a certain
measure of hypocrisy life would be a sorry scramble. That
man should be taught to love his neighbor as himself is
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