Mr. Gehogan, the gentleman from Ireland who had attempted to possess
himself of the scatterings of James Murchison’s practice, had discovered
no proper spirit of appreciation in Roxton, and as though to register
his displeasure, had departed abruptly, so abruptly that he had left
behind him many unpaid bills. The house in Lombard Street had held him
and his progeny for some seasons, and the family had left its mark upon
the place in more instances than one. Miss Carmagee and her brother, who
went over the house for some unexplained reason, concluded that clean
paint and paper, and many scrubbings with soap and water, were needed
for the effacement of an atmosphere of mediæval sanctity. The charwoman
averred—an excellent authority—that the late tenant had kept pigs in a
shed at the end of the garden, and had salted and stored the bacon in
the bath. The house itself had been left littered with all sorts of
rubbish. Dr. Gehogan’s youngsters had turned the back garden into a
species of pleasaunce by the sea. There was a big puddle in the middle
of the lawn, and oyster-shells, broken bricks, and jam-jars had
accumulated to an extraordinary extent.
About the end of April such people of observation as passed down Lombard
Street, discovered that the great red-brick house was preparing for new
tenants. Mr. Clayton, the decorator, had hung his professional board
from the central first-floor window. Sashes were being repainted white,
the front door an æsthetic green. Paper-hangers were at work in the
chief rooms, and whitewash brushes splashed and flapped in the kitchen
quarters. Questioned by interested fellow-tradesmen as to the name and
nature of the incoming tenant, Mr. Clayton blinked and confessed his
ignorance. He was working under Mr. Porteus Carmagee’s orders. Mr.
Clayton had even heard that the house had changed hands, and that the
lawyer had bought it from the late owner, but whether it was let, Mr.
Clayton could not tell. Even Mr. Beasely, the local house-agent, was no
wiser in the matter. Speculation remained possible, while the more
pushing of the local tradesmen were ready at any moment to tout for the
new-comers’ “esteemed patronage.”
One afternoon early in May a large furniture van, manœuvring to and fro
in Lombard Street and absorbing the whole road, compelled a stylish
carriage and pair to come to a sharp halt. The carriage was Dr. Parker
Steel’s, and it contained his wife, a complacent study in pink, with a
pert little white hat perched on a most elaborate yet seemingly simple
coiffure. The footway opposite the Murchison’s old house was littered
with straw, and stray odds and ends of furniture, while two men in green
baize aprons were struggling up the steps with a Chesterfield sofa.
Through one of the open windows of the dining-room, Betty Steel’s sharp
eyes caught sight of Miss Carmagee, rigged up in a white apron and
unpacking china with the help of one of her maids.
The furniture van had made port, and Parker Steel’s carriage rolled on
into St. Antonia’s Square. Mrs. Betty’s eyes had clouded a little under
her Paris hat, for unpleasant thoughts are invariably suggested by the
faces of people who do not love us. The ego in self-conscious mortals is
sensitive as a piece of smoked-glass. The passing of the faintest shadow
is registered upon its surface, and its lustre may be dimmed by a chance
breath.
This house in Lombard Street had never lost for Betty Steel its
suggestion of passive hostility. Its associations always stirred the
energies of an unforgotten hate, and though triumphant, she often found
herself frowning when she passed the place. Moreover, Miss Carmagee had
been the other woman’s friend, and in life there can be no neutrality
when rivals fight for survival in the business of success.
Betty Steel had come from the orchards that were white about Roxton
Priory, yet the glimpse of the stir and movement in that red-brick house
had blown the May-bloom from her thoughts. Did Kate Murchison ever wish
herself back in Lombard Street? What had become of her and her children?
Betty Steel woke from a moment’s reverie as the carriage drew up before
her own home.
The elderly parlor-maid, five feet of starch, to say nothing of the cap,
opened the front door to Mrs. Betty. There was an inquisitive lift about
the woman’s eyelids, and Betty Steel, an expert in the deciphering of
faces, expected news of some sort or another.
“Any one in the drawing-room, Symons?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Well?”
“Dr. Steel is in the study. He wished me to say that he would see you
the moment you came home.”
Nearly twenty-four hours had passed since Betty Steel had seen her
husband. The physician had been called up in the night, and had
breakfasted away. She herself had lunched with Lady Gillingham, so that
their paths had run uncrossed since yesterday.
“Has any one called?”
“No, ma’am.”
“You may bring up tea.”
The Venetian blinds were down in the consulting room, an initial
coincidence, for Parker Steel was a believer in light. He was sitting at
the bureau by the window, but glanced over his shoulder as his wife
entered.
“Is that you, dear?”
“Yes; what is it?”
She was playing with her silk scarf, and looking with rather a puzzled
air at her husband.
“I’ve just sent off a wire to town.”
“A wire?”
“Yes, to Turner, for a first-class locum. The man will be here early
to-morrow. Shut the door, dear—shut the door.”
There was an irritable harshness of voice and a jerkiness of manner that
betrayed unusual lack of self-control. Her husband’s back was half
turned to her, and he was scribbling on a sheet of paper that he had
before him, but she could see the frown upon his forehead and the
nervous working of his lips.
“What is the matter, Parker?”
“Oh, nothing serious, only one of your prophecies come home to roost.”
“My prophecies?”
“Yes, about overwork. I was a fool not to knock off earlier. Some
inflammatory trouble in my eyes.”
“Eyes?”
She echoed the word, showing for the first time some stirrings of alarm.
“What is it?”
“Strain, nothing more. It came on quite suddenly. I shall have to have a
month’s absolute rest.”
He leaned back, and put a hand up to his forehead.
“Let me look.”
Betty went to him, and leaned her hands upon the side rail of his chair.
“You won’t make much of them. See, I’m just writing out a few hints and
directions.
“They look inflamed, Parker.”
He shrugged impatiently.
“Don’t bother about the eyes. See, I want you to give these notes to
Turner’s locum when he comes. The list is complete, with a cross against
the more important people. The work’s lighter again; he can manage it
alone.”
“Yes,” but she still looked troubled.
“I shall get away by the 10.15 to-morrow morning.”
“Where are you going?”
“Oh—to Torquay. I’ve wired to a hotel. Ramsden is doing eye-work down
there, you know. He will soon put me right.”
Betty stood with her hands resting on the back of his chair. His
assurances had not wholly satisfied her. She had a vague feeling that he
was keeping something back.
“Parker.”
“Yes, dear.”
He appeared busy dashing down professional hieroglyphics on the paper
before him.
“You are not keeping anything from me?”
“Anything from you!”
“Yes. It is nothing dangerous?”
“My dear girl, I ought to know!”
She sighed, looked at the darkened window, and then stooping suddenly,
kissed him softly on the cheek.
“Parker—”
He had reddened and drawn aside, with an irritable knitting of the
brows.
“Leave me alone, dear, for a while. I want to put the practice in
order.”
Repulsed, she removed her hands from the chair.
“I was only anxious—”
“Don’t worry; there’s no cause. You will stay here and look after things
for me?”
“Yes. I can have Madge to stay.”
“And, Betty—”
“Yes.”
“Don’t say much about the eyes. It doesn’t do for a professional man to
get a reputation for feebleness in his physical equipment.”
“I shall not say anything.”
“Thanks. You see, I’m rather busy.”
She turned, looked round the room vaguely, her face cold and empty of
any marked expression. Then she went slowly to the door, opened it, and
passed out into the hall. The house seemed peculiarly dim and lonely as
she climbed the stairs to her own room.