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
archæology, 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 memorandum-book, and glanced at it
perfunctorily, before looking up into Mr. Mainprice’s attentive face. He
was a weak-eyed, damp-haired man, with a big nose and a loose,
good-tempered mouth. A patch of red on either cheek seemed to suggest
that the _épicier_ 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, thin-whiskered 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 _épicier_ 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
both admirable and inspiring, and yet no one who respects his banking
account could ever seriously accept so unbusiness-like a theory. There
was more shrewd, honest, and unflinching truth-telling in Hobbes than in
the vaporings of a flimsy sentimentalism.
Now Mrs. Betty had no more love for a washerwoman sick with a carbuncle
on her neck than she had for an old and mildewed boot. Poverty and the
inevitable sordidness thereof were more than distasteful to her, and yet
she was so far sound in her worldly philosophy as to dissemble her
distaste for expediency’s sake. It is never foolish to be suspected of
generosity. And in Roxton, where the ladies counted one another’s yearly
record as to hats, it was necessary to assume some sort of benignant
attitude towards the heathen or the poor. Betty Steel, as the leading
physician’s wife, recognized the power of judicious and moral
self-advertisement. She had lived down her mischievous desire to shock
the good people who paid her husband’s pleasant bills. No doubt she
derived some delicate satisfaction from playing the fair lady in her
furs, and from conferring favors on her humbler neighbors. The sense of
superiority is always pleasant. That man is a liar who describes himself
as utterly indifferent to obloquy or favor.
Mrs. Betty stopped at a florist’s shop on her way and bought three
bundles of Scilla flowers. The golden blooms made a kind of splendor
beside her sable coat. Colonel Feveril, Roxton’s most antique dandy,
passed as she returned towards her brougham, and the brisk sweep of the
soldier’s hat saved her the trouble of remembering her mirror.
At the top of one of the alleys leading to the river, Dr. Steel’s wife
disembarked upon her errand of mercy. A small boy whipping a top on the
narrow sidewalk served as a porter for the carrying of her jellies. One
or two greasy heads were poked out of the pigeon-holes of windows. Mrs.
Betty, demure and sweet as any Dorcas, knocked at the door of No. 5.
“Good-day, Mrs. Ripstone.”
An elderly woman in a faded blue flannel blouse had thrust a beak of a
nose round the edge of the door.
“Good-day, ma’am.”
The thin, hard face offered no very fulsome welcome.
“How is your husband? Dr. Steel told me yesterday that he was a little
better.”
Mrs. Ripstone’s lethargic eyes rested for a moment on the small boy
carrying the parcels. Mrs. Betty herself bore the golden flowers.
“Much obliged, ma’am; my ’usband is doin’ as well as can be expected.
Will you step in? We ain’t particular tidy.”
Mrs. Betty stepped in, and sat down calmly on a very rickety chair.
“I have brought you a little soup, and two glasses of jelly.”
“Much obliged to you, ma’am.”
The two women looked curiously at each other. They were utterly unlike
in any characteristic. Mrs. Betty in her furs looked like a Russian
countess in the hovel of a peasant.
The room was unconditionally dirty, and smelled of burned fat. There was
nothing to admire in it, nothing to provide the lady with a subject for
enthusiasm.
“I am glad your husband is better, Mrs. Ripstone.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
The woman in the blue blouse stood stolidly by the table. Mrs. Betty’s
words made no evident impression on her. It was as though she regarded
the visit as a necessary evil, and was only persuaded to be polite by
such tangible blessings as might accrue.
“Have you any children?”
Mrs. Ripstone stared.
“Ten, ma’am.”
Her brevity was expressive.
“You must be very busy.”
“I am that, ma’am.”
“Are they all grown up?”
“Grow’d up?”
“Yes.”
“Well, ma’am,” and the woman in the blue blouse gave a peculiar smile,
“if you’ll listen you’ll ’ear the baby ’ammerin’ a tin pot in the yard.”
The reek of the burned fat began to prove too powerful for Mrs. Betty’s
sensitive soul. She and Mrs. Ripstone seemed out of sympathy.
Conversation languished. The lady, with all her cleverness, was wholly
at a loss what to say next.
Two minutes had passed when Dr. Steel’s wife rose. She smiled one of her
perfunctory smiles at the woman in the blue blouse, and turned with a
rustling petticoat towards the door.
“I hope your husband will like the soup, Mrs. Ripstone.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“Good-afternoon.”
“Good-afternoon, ma’am.”
The woman watched Mrs. Betty to her carriage, and then closed the door
with an expression of rather sour relief. She turned to the flowers and
parcels on the table, untied the string, and examined the contents.
“Wonder what she’s left ’em for;” such was Mrs. Ripstone’s solitary and
cynical remark.
In her carriage Mrs. Betty was holding an enamelled scent-bottle to her
nose.
“I wonder why they are so dirty and so reserved,” she thought; “I don’t
think that woman was the least bit grateful. I don’t like the poor.
Anyway, I have done my duty.”
The west was wreathed with the torn crimson of a wind-blown sky at
sunset when Mrs. Betty drove home from her essay in almsgiving. St.
Antonia’s spire, a black and slender wedge, seemed to cleave the
vastness of the flaming west. The tall elms about the church were very
restless with the wailing of the wind.
In Parker Steel’s dining-room there was an air of warmth and luxury, a
sense of deep shelter from the blustering melancholy of the dying day.
The table was laid for tea, a silver kettle singing above the
spirit-lamp, a plate of hot cakes on the trivet before the piled-up
fire. It was the hour of soft, slanting shadows, and of the wayward yet
sleepy flickering of the flames. Betty swept into the room with the
sensuous satisfaction of a cat. The thick Turkey carpet muffled her
footsteps like the moss of a forest “ride.”
At the window, his figure outlined by the gold and purple of a fading
sky, she saw her husband standing motionless, his head bent forward over
an out-stretched hand. He appeared to be examining something closely in
the twilight. She could see his keen, clear profile, intent and a little
stern.
“Parker, Parker, the cakes are burning!”
Her husband turned with a start, taken unawares, like the hero of Wessex
in the swineherd’s hut. Betty Steel had glided towards the fire.
“Preoccupation—thy name is man! Parker, quick, your handkerchief. The
dish is as hot as—Say something, do.”
Before the glow of the fire she noticed the irritable frown upon her
husband’s face.
“Most worried of men, what is the matter?”
“Matter!”
“Fate cannot touch us, the cakes are saved. Misery, Parker! Quick, the
kettle!”
The silver spout was spouting hot water over Mrs. Betty’s treasured
Japanese tray. Her husband with a “damn the thing,” turned down the cap
of the spirit-lamp with a spoon.
“What an infernal fool that girl Symons is!”
Mrs. Betty drew a chair forward with her foot, reached for the
tea-caddy, and glanced whimsically across the table at her much grieved
mate.
“The king did not try to shift the responsibility, Parker.”
Dr. Steel sat down abruptly, with the air of a man in no mood for
persiflage.
“What were you studying so intently?”
“I?”
“Learning palmistry?”
Parker Steel helped himself to one of the hot cakes.
“Oh, nothing,” he said, curtly.
His wife laughed.
“What a retort to give a woman!”
The physician shifted his chair.
“Really, Betty, am I to go into a lengthy dissertation on every trifle
because you happen to be inquisitive?”
“Tell me the trifle, and you shall have your tea.”
“I was looking at a chilblain on my finger.”
“What admirable bathos, Parker! I might have taken you for Hamlet
soliloquizing for the last time over Ophelia’s tokens.”
“Oh, quite possibly,” and he began to sip his tea; “you have forgotten
the sugar. What execrable memories you women have!”