Catherine’s lips were tightly set as she turned from the shadows of St.
Antonia’s elms, where the sunlight made a moving fret of gold upon the
grass. The sky was a broad canopy of blue above the town, the wooded
hills about it far and faint with haze. To Catherine the summer
stillness of the place, the dim blazoned windows of the church, the
wreathing smoke, the circling pigeons, were parts of a quaint and homely
tenderness that made her realize the more the repellent coldness of the
house she had just left.
She had come by one conviction through her visit, the conviction that
those two intellectualists hungered to humiliate her and her husband.
Mrs. Betty’s eyes had betrayed too much. She would be content with
nothing but sensational head-lines, and the discussion of “the scandal”
in every Roxton home. The brain behind that ethereal yet supercilious
face knew no flush of feeling for a rival in distress. The pair were
exulting over the chance James Murchison had given them, and the wife
had realized it with a bitter flooding up of loyalty and love.
Catherine had made her plans before she reached the glare of Lombard
Street. She had left her husband sitting in the darkened room, the
blinds drawn down over his humiliation and self-shame. Her heart grieved
in her for the strong man whose sensitive consciousness had been
paralyzed by the realization of his own irrevocable blunder. Her pity
left him undisturbed, like a sick man needing rest. Inglis had taken the
work for the whole day, for Catherine had interviewed him in the
surgery, and shocked the theorist by imparting a portion of the truth to
him.
“Incredible!” had been Mr. Inglis’s solitary remark, and Catherine’s
heart had blessed him for that single adjective.
As she passed the house in Lombard Street, her face seemed overshadowed
for the moment by the unpropitious heaviness of her thoughts. The vision
of her husband’s pale and troubled face saddened her more utterly than
any regretfulness her pride might feel. Nor did she pass her home
unchallenged, for at the barred but open window of the nursery, a ripple
of gold in the sunlight bathed her daughter Gwen’s round face,
“Muvver, muvver!” and a doll’s red pelisse was waved over the
window-sill. Catherine felt all her womanhood yearn longingly towards
the child.
“Muvver. I’ve spelled a whole page. Daddy’s gone out. May I come wid
you?”
Catherine shook her head, her eyes very bright with tenderness under her
blue sunshade. How little the child realized the grim beneathness of
life!
“No, dear, no. I shall be back soon. Ask Mary to take you for a walk in
the meadows,” and she passed on with a lingering look at the red pelisse
and the golden curls.
Porteus Carmagee, white as to waistcoat, brown as to face, jumped up
briskly from his well-worn leather chair when his head clerk announced
Mrs. Catherine Murchison. The lawyer, despite his eccentricities, was a
keen and tenacious man of business, the emphasis of whose advice might
have impressed an audience more cynical than the English House of
Commons. He had a habit of snapping at his syllables with a vindictive
sincerity that stimulated nervous clients suffering from the
neurasthenia of indecision.
“What!—a professional visit? My dear Kate, this is a most portentous
event; all my musty deeds must blush into new pink tape. Sit down. Do
you want damages against your washerwoman for spoiling the underlinen?
Believe me—I have been asked to advise on such questions. Ah, and how
did your husband like my port?”
An inward shudder swept through Catherine. The memories of that night at
Marley Down were brutally vivid to her, like the bizarre dreams of a
feverish sleep remembered in the morning. Porteus had been the innocent
cause of all this misery. Tell him she could not, that his very kindness
had brought her husband to the brink of ruin.
“We ought to have thanked you”—and the words clung to her throat.
“James has had one of his attacks of nervous depression and an endless
amount of worry.”
Porteus Carmagee’s keen brown eyes sparkled with intentness as he
watched her face. She looked white, uneasy, haggard about the mouth,
like one who has suffered from the strain of perpetual self-repression.
Catherine had always moved before him as a serene being, a woman whose
face had symbolized the quiet splendor of an evening sky. He had often
quoted her as one of the few people in the world whose happiness
displayed itself in the beauty of radiant repose. The stain of suffering
on her face was new to him, and the more remarkable for that same
reason.
“You speak of worries, Kate. Am I to be concerned in them as a fatherly
friend?”
She tried to give him one of her happy smiles.
“You see—I have to run to you—because I am in trouble.”
The pathetic simplicity of her manner touched him.
“My dear Kate,” and his voice lost its usual snappishness, “how can I
serve you—as a friend? It is not usual to see you worried.”
“You know James has been overworked.”
“Have I not lectured the rogue on a dozen different occasions?”
“Yes, yes, I know; and he was ill at Marley Down on Sunday, in the
little place where I had hoped to give him rest. Oh, Porteus, how brutal
the responsibilities of life can be at times! Inglis, our assistant,
sent for him to attend a serious case. James’s sense of duty dragged him
away from Marley. He went, braved a critical operation, and—”
She faltered, her face aglow, as though the very loyalty of her love
made the confession partake of treachery. The wrinkles about Porteus
Carmagee’s eyes seemed to grow more marked.
“And made a mess of it, Kate, eh?”
His brusquerie passed with her as a characteristic method of concealing
emotion.
“Yes.”
“Ugh!” and he jerked one leg over the chair; “confound his sense of
duty, risking his reputation to ease some old woman’s temper.”
Catherine looked at him with a quivering of the lips.
“Porteus, you can’t blame him. It seems hard that one slip may undermine
so much.”
“Why ‘undermine’?—why ‘undermine’? The law does not expect
infallibility.”
“I know—but then—the man died.”
“Who? What man?”
“Farmer Baxter, of Boland’s Farm.”
“A fool who has been eating himself to death for years.”
Catherine spread her open hands with the look of a pathetic partisan.
“James was not in a fit state to meet the strain. The wife quarrelled
with him after the operation, and refused to let him continue the case.”
“My dear, inferior females always quarrel!”
“And we have enemies.”
“So had the saints, and plenty.”
“It was Parker Steel—”
Porteus Carmagee sat up briskly in his chair, his wrinkled face
twitching with intelligence.
“Now we are growing vital. Well, I can forecast that gentleman’s
procedure.”
“Steel was called in, and the man died.”
“Most natural of mortals!”
“He performed a post-mortem with Dr. Brimley, of Cossington, at the
widow’s request. As a result he has refused to give a death certificate
and 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 mediæval
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 vitæ. 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 war-horse, 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 half-scared 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.