Dr. Little descended the stairs of Major Murray’s house with the alert
and rather furtive look of a man who has been for days subjected to the
semi-sceptical questions of interested relatives. Parker Steel had
attended at the introduction of a third Miss Murray into the world; the
whole affair had seemed but the ordinary yearly incident in the great,
rambling, florid-faced house, whose windows appeared to have copied its
owner’s military stare. It was during Dr. Little’s regency that Major
Murray’s wife had developed certain sinister symptoms that had worried
the locum-tenens very seriously. Concern for his own self-conceit rather
than concern for the patient, characterized Dr. Little’s attitude
towards the case. The professional spirit when cultivated to the
uttermost end of complexity, becomes an impersonation of the
intellectual ego.
A thin, acute-faced woman with sandy hair appeared at the dining-room
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.
“Good-morning.”
“Damn the woman—Ah, good-morning.”
Miss Murray’s attitude betrayed the inevitable catechisation. Dr. Little
followed her into the dining-room.
“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 self-sufficiency and vain repose. In action
her hair seemed to become sandier in color, her freckles more yellow and
independent. In speech she reminded the _locum-tenens_ 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 counter-volleying 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 to-morrow.”
“You shall see him, Dr. Little, without fail.”
The _locum-tenens_ 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 luncheon-table 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
entrée 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 demi-god who had been snubbed by a school-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 mediæval wiseacre
striving to foresee the future in a pot of ink.