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

intellectual ego.

 

A thin, acute-faced woman with sandy hair appeared

at the diningroom door as Dr. Little reached the hall.

This lady with the sandy hair and freckles happened to

be the most inquisitive, suspicious, and unrebuffable of

sisters that Dr. Little had ever encountered on guard

over her brother’s domestic happiness.

 

“Goodmorning.”

 

“Damn the woman Ah, goodmorning.”

 

Miss Murray’s attitude betrayed the inevitable catechisation. Dr. Little followed her into the diningroom.

 

“And how do you find my sister-in-law this morning,

Dr. Little?”

 

Miss Murray had an aggressive, expeditious manner

that disorganized any ordinary mortal’s sense of selfsufficiency and vain repose. In action her hair seemed

to become sandier in color, her freckles more yellow and

independent. In speech she reminded the locumtenens

of a quick-firing gun whose exasperating detonations

numbered so many snaps a minute.

 

“Mrs. Murray is no worse this morning. In fact I

can—”

 

“The temperature?”

 

“The temperature is a little above normal.”

 

Dr. Little’s “distinguished air” became ten times more

distinguished. He articulated in his throat, and began

to pull on his gloves with gestures of great finality.

 

“Did you notice that reddish rash?”

 

“It is our duty, Miss Murray, to notice such things.”

 

“And the throat? It seems very red and angry —”

 

“A certain degree of pharyngitis is present.”

 

“Well, and what’s the meaning of it all, Dr. Little?”

 

“Meaning, Miss Murray? Really —”

 

“There’s a cause for everything, I imagine.”

 

“Certainly. The problem —”

 

“You admit then that there is something problematic

in the case, Dr. Little.”

 

“There is a problem in every —”

 

“Of course. But in my sister-in-law’s case, that is

the matter under discussion.”

 

“Pardon me, madam, it is impossible to discuss certain—”

 

“My brother desires something definite. He was

obliged to go to town to-day.”

 

“I should prefer to give my opinion—”

 

“Major Murray left instructions that I should wire to

his club—”

 

“His club?”

 

“Whether any definite conclusion had been arrived at.”

 

The two disputants had been volleying and countervolleying at point-blank range. Neither displayed any

sign of giving ground or of surrender. The Scotch lady’s

voice had harshened into a slight rasp of natural Gaelic.

Dr. Little still fumbled at the buttons of his gloves, his

words very much in his throat, his whole pose characteristic of the profession upon its dignity.

 

“It is quite impossible, Miss Murray, for me to discuss

this case.”

 

The thin lady’s pupils were no bigger than pin-heads,

so that her eyes looked like two circles of hard, blue glass.

 

“Very well, Dr. Little. I must telegraph to my brother

that no conclusion has been reached —”

 

“Pardon me, that would be indiscreet —”

 

“To provide me with a solution!”

 

The distinguished gentleman had completed the buttoning of his gloves.

 

“I shall hope to see Major Murray in person tomorrow.”

 

“You shall see him, Dr. Little, without fail.”

 

The locumtenens conducted a dignified retreat, fully

aware of the fact that the sandy-haired lady believed him

to be an ignoramus.

 

“Confound the woman! How can I tell her what I

think?” he reflected. “It seems to me that there is half

a ton of domestic dynamite waiting to be exploded in that

house. I hardly relish the responsibility. If matters

don’t clear in a day or two, I shall wire for Steel. It is

his case, not mine.”

 

To a much-hustled man, whose temper had been chastened by a series of irritating incidents, the picture of a

pretty woman smiling up at him from a neat luncheontable revivified the more sensuous satisfactions of existence. Men who live to eat, smoke, and enjoy the curves

of a woman’s figure are in the main very docile mortals.

The savor of a well-cooked entree will dispel despair

and bring down heaven.

 

Dr. Little sat down with a grieved sigh, unfolded his

napkin, and accepted Miss Ellison’s sympathy as though

it were his just and sovereign due. He still had a vision

of freckles and sandy hair, and echoes of an aggressive

voice that revived memories of the dame school he had

attended when in frocks.

 

“What a morning you must have had! It is nearly

two.”

 

“A delightful morning, I can assure you. Excuse

me, Miss Ellison, the cover of that magazine you have

been reading reminds me of a certain female’s hair.

Would you mind removing it from sight?”

 

“Is the memory so poignant?”

 

“Poignant! And she has freckles ,the size of pease.

Ugh! I wonder why it is that one’s patients always seem

to conspire against one by being mulish and irritating all

on the same day?”

 

“Something in the air, perhaps. Poor man!”

 

“Poor man, it is, I assure you, when you have had a

series of cantankerous old ladies to blarney. I wonder

if I might have a glass of sherry? Oh, don’t bother, let

me get it.”

 

As though the mere offer absolved him from all further

effort, Dr. Little sat still and fed while Madge Ellison

rummaged in the sideboard for the decanter.

 

“How much, a tumblerful?”

 

She bent over him as she poured out the wine, the gold

chain she wore dangling against his cheek.

 

“Thanks. Three fingers. How angelic a thing is

woman!”

 

“Even when she has freckles and straw-colored hair?”

 

“Forbear, forbear. Ah, now I began to revive a

little.”

 

He drank the wine, wiped his mustache, and leaned

back in his chair as though to reflect on the natural

philosophy of life. Madge Ellison entered into the system as a pleasing and satisfactory protoplasmic development. To this bachelor, who already showed a tendency

to plumpness below the heart, she was bracketed with

good wine, nine-penny cigars, and well-cooked dishes, a

thing pleasant to look at and pleasant perhaps to taste.

 

“How is Mrs. Steel?”

 

Cutlets and new pease were pushed aside. Dr. Little

helped himself generously to sponge custard, his eyes

fixed affectionately upon the dish.

 

“I am rather worried about Betty.”

 

“Worried?”

 

The bachelor began to look sleek and happy. His

outlook upon life changed greatly after a few magical

passes with a spoon and fork.

 

“I wish you would go up and see her after lunch.”

 

“Anything to oblige a lady who can show no freckles.

What is the woe? A cold in the head?”

 

Madge Ellison had returned to her chair, and was rocking it gracefully to and fro on two legs. She might have

posed as a living metronome marking the rhythm for the

epicure’s busy spoon.

 

“How frivolous you doctors are!”

 

Dr. Little wiped a streak of custard from his mustache with his dinner napkin.

 

“It is my hour of relaxation. Haven’t you heard the

tale of the two bishops who played leap-frog at the end

of a church conference. But, to be serious, what are the

symptoms?”

 

“She seems rather feverish and has a sore throat. I

noticed something that looked like herpes on her lip.”

 

“Herpes, eh? Will she let me see her?”

 

“I’ll run up and ask.”

 

“Thanks. Is the paper reposing anywhere? Oh,

don’t bother. On the window - sill? Thanks, much

obliged.”

 

And he propped the paper against the decanter, and so

consoled himself with the happy facility of a bachelor.

 

Betty Steel, in a richly laced dressing-jacket, was sitting up in bed with Persian Mignon in her lap.

 

“Bring the man up, dear, if it will give you any satisfaction. Any news in the town?”

 

Madge Ellison sat down and chatted for five minutes,

while the cat purred under Betty’s hand.

 

“I saw Kate Murchison in Castle Gate this morning.”

 

“Alone?”

 

“No; being convoyed by the Canoness.”

 

Betty Steel’s mouth curved into a sneer.

 

“A most respectable connection. Did you see any

blue ribbon about?”

 

“You are rather hard on the poor wretches, Betty.”

 

“Am I?” and she gave a short, sharp laugh; “every

woman sides with her husband I suppose. You might

rub some scent on my forehead, dear.”

 

Dr. Little finished a cigar, and yawned in turn over

every page of the paper before ascending to Mrs. Betty’s

room. Madge Ellison opened the door to him. His

shoulder brushed her arm as he entered, quite the professional Agag where the patient was a woman and under

fifty.

 

Dr. Little remained some fifteen minutes beside Mrs.

Betty’s bed. His air of lazy refinement left him by

degrees, giving place to the interested and puzzled alertness of the physician. It was the curious nodular swelling on Parker Steel’s wife’s lip that led him to discover

glandular enlargement under her round, white chin.

 

“Hair falling out at all?” he asked, casually.

 

“Why refer to a woman’s one eternal woe?”

 

“Oh, nothing,” and he smiled a little stiffly; “the

throat is sore, is it not?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Let me look. Turn to the light, please. Open the

mouth wide, and say ‘ah.’ Hum, yes, rather inflamed,”

and Dr. Little, after moving his head from side to side,

like a man peering down the bowl of a pipe, drew back

from the bed, his eyes fixed momentarily on Betty Steel’s

face with a peculiarly intent stare.

 

“I’ll send you up a gargle for the throat.”

 

“Thanks. I shall be all right for Saturday, I suppose?”

 

“I hope so.”

 

“It is the last rehearsal. I must not miss it.”

 

“Have you heard from Dr. Steel to-day?”

 

Betty was holding Mignon’s head between her two

hands, and looking into the cat’s yellow eyes. Something

in the intonation of Dr. Little’s voice seemed to startle

her. She glanced up at him with a questioning smile.

 

“I expect him back in a week or so. Madge, get me

that letter, dear. I think he said next Wednesday. Is

there anything?”

 

Little had moved towards the door.

 

“I only wanted to know the date. I promised some

months ago to do locum work for an old friend next

week.”

 

Betty had glanced through her husband’s letter. She

laid it aside when Dr. Little had gone, and took Mignon

back into her lap.

 

“That man’s worried about something, Madge,” she

said.

 

“Worried, not a bit of it, dear.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“It’s not in the bachelor nature to worry, provided food

is plentiful and work slack. Pins wouldn’t prick him.

They’re selfish beasts.”

 

“I thought you liked the man, Madge.”

 

“The men we flirt with, dear, are not often the men

we marry.”

 

Meanwhile, Dr. Little had descended the stairs, looking as serious as any middle aged demigod who had been

snubbed by a schpol-girl. He crossed the hall to Parker

Steel’s consulting-room, took out a bottle containing

tabloids of perchloride of mercury from the cabinet, dissolved two in the basin fixed in one corner of the room,

and sedulously and carefully disinfected his hands.

 

“How the devil !”

 

This meditative exclamation appeared to limit the gentleman’s reflections for the moment. He stood with bent

shoulders, staring at his hands soaking in the rose-tinted

water, like some mediaeval wiseacre striving to foresee

the future in a pot of ink.