IV

Mrs. Masters was standing in the sitting room awaiting him. The Doctor

strode in without stopping to remove his hat or place his gloves

aside, a peculiar mannerism of his upon which Mrs. Masters was wont

occasionally to admonish him; for the good lady was not slow to give

banter for banter when the opportunity arose, and she objected to these

relics of the Doctor's earlier bohemian ways. But for the moment her

mood seemed to be rather one of blandishment.

"A young lady called to see you this evening," she announced, smilingly.

The Doctor removed his hat as though in honour of the mere mention of

his visitor. "Did you give her my love?" was his light rejoinder, hat

still poised at an elegant angle.

"Indeed, no," retorted Mrs. Masters, "it wouldn't be my place to give

such messages. Not as though she weren't inquisitive enough--with

asking questions about this and that. As though it were any business of

'ers 'ow you choose to arrange your house'old."

"On the contrary, I am flattered," said the Doctor, inwardly chafing at

this new example of Lilian's originality. "But tell me, Mrs. Masters,

am I not becoming more successful with the ladies?" As he spoke, he

flicked with his gloves the reflection of himself in the mirror.

"You don't need to be reminded of that fact, I'm sure," sighed Mrs.

Masters, "life sits lightly enough on you. I fear, too lightly. If I

might venture to say so, a man in your position ought to take life more

seriously."

"My patients would disagree with you."

"Ah, well, I grant you that. They say you cure more with your tongue

than with your physic."

"I certainly value my wit more than my prescriptions," laughingly

agreed the Doctor, "But, tell me, what was the lady's impression of my

_menagé_? And that reminds me, you have not told me her name yet. Did

she carry a red parasol, or was it a white one?"

"I'm sure I never noticed," frowned Mrs. Masters, "such things don't

interest me. But her name was Miss Lilian Payne--"

The Doctor interrupted with a guffah. "Come, Mrs. Masters, we need not

beat about the bush. I rather fancy you are aware of our relationship.

Did you find her agreeable?"

"Pretty middling," said Mrs. Masters, reluctantly, "although at first

I was put out by her manners. Such airs these modern young women give

themselves. But she got round me in the end with her pretty ways, and

I found myself taking 'er all round the 'ouse, which of course I ought

not to 'ave done without your permission."

"Tell me," said the Doctor, without moving a muscle in his face, "was

she satisfied with her tour of my premises?"

"There now!" exclaimed Mrs. Masters, hastily arranging an antimacassar

on the back of a chair, "I won't tell you that, because, of course, I

don't know."

She retreated towards the door.

"But did she leave any message?" enquired the Doctor, fixing her with

his eye-glass.

"Botheration!" ejaculated Mrs. Masters, in aggrieved tones, "now you've

asked me and I've got to tell you. I wanted to keep it back. Oh, I do

hope you're not going to be disappointed. I'm sure she didn't really

mean it."

"What did she say," demanded the Doctor, irritably.

"She says to me, she says, 'Tell him there's nothing doing.'"

There was a pause. Mrs. Masters drew in her lip and folded her arms

stiffly. The Doctor stared hard at her for a moment, and almost

betrayed himself. Then he threw back his head and laughed with the air

of a man to whom all issues of life, great and small, had become the

object of a graduated hilarity. "Then upon some other lady will fall

the supreme honour," he observed.

"You mean--" began Mrs. Masters, and then eyed him with the meaning

expression of a woman scenting danger or happiness for some other

woman. "That young lady is not suited to you, at all events," she

continued, shaking her head.

"Evidently not," replied the Doctor, carelessly, "but it is not of the

slightest importance. As I have said, the honour--"

"Ah," broke in Mrs. Masters, "there's only one woman for you, and you

have yet to find her."

"There's only one woman for me, and that is the woman who will marry

me. Nay, don't lecture me, Mrs. Masters. I perceive the admonishment

leaping to your eye. I am determined to approach this question of

matrimony in the spirit of levity which you admit is my good or evil

genius. Life is a comedy, and in order to shine in it one must assume

the _rôle_ of the buffoon who rollicks through the scenes, poking fun

at those sober-minded folk upon whose earnestness the very comedy

depends. I will marry in jest and repent in laughter."

"Incorrigible man," said Mrs. Masters. But the Doctor had turned his

back upon her, unwilling to reveal the sudden change in his features.

Even as he spoke those light words, there came to him the reflection

that he did not really mean them, and his pose seemed to crumble to

dust. He had lived up to these nothings for years, but now he knew that

they were nothings. As though to crown the irritations of a trying day,

there came to him the conviction that his whole life had been an affair

of studied gestures, of meticulous gesticulations.

V

Over an unsatisfactory meal he tried to think things out, conscious all

the time that he was missing gastronomical opportunities through sheer

inattention.

Of course, Lilian's impression of his _menagé_ would have been

unsatisfactory, even though he had escorted her over the house himself;

but it was highly significant that she should have preferred to come

alone. Holding advanced opinions about the simplification of the house,

and of the woman's duties therein, she would regard his establishment

as unwieldy, overcrowded, old-fashioned, even musty. It would represent

to her unnecessary responsibilities, labour without reward, meaningless

ostentation. The Doctor's own tastes lay in the direction of massive,

ornate furniture, rich carpets and hangings, a multiplicity of

ornaments. He liked a house filled to the brim with expensive things.

He was a born collector and accumulator of odds and ends, of things

that had become necessary to his varying moods. He was proud of his

house, with its seventeen rooms, including two magnificent reception

rooms, four spare bedrooms in a state of constant readiness, like

fire-stations, for old friends who always said they were coming and

never did; its elaborate kitchen arrangements and servants' quarters.

Then there were cosy little rooms which a woman of taste would be able

to decorate according to her whim, workrooms, snuggeries, halls and

landings. There was much in the place that ought to appeal to a woman

with right instincts.

Was Lilian going to destroy their happiness for the sake of these

modern heresies? Surely she would not throw him over now; and yet her

message left that impression. Nowadays women were so led by their

sensibilities. Lilian's hypersensitive nature might revolt at the

prospect of living with him in the surroundings of his own choice.

He would look such a fool if the match did not come off. He had made

so many sacrifices for her sake, sacrifices that were undignified, but

necessary in a country town where every detail of daily life speedily

becomes common knowledge. That was why he would appear so ridiculous

if the marriage did not take place. It had been necessary, in the

first place, to establish himself in the particular clique favoured by

Lilian's parents, and although this manoeuvre had involved a further

lapse from his already partly disestablished principles, and an almost

palpable insincerity, the Doctor had adopted it without much scruple.

He had resigned his position as Vicar's churchwarden at the rather

eucharistic parish church, and become a mere worshipper in a back pew

at the Baptist chapel; for Lilian's father favoured the humble religion

of self-made men. He had subscribed to the local temperance society,

and contributed medical articles to the local paper on the harmful

effects of alcohol and the training of midwives. In the winter evenings

he gave lantern lectures on "The Wonders of Science." He organised a

P.S.A., delivered addresses to Young Men Only, and generally did all

he could to advance the Baptist cause, which, in Great Wymering,

stood not only for simplicity of religious belief, but also for the

simplification of daily life aided by scientific knowledge and common

sense. All that had been necessary in order to become legitimately

intimate with the Payne family; for they enjoyed the most aggravating

good health, and the Doctor had grown tired of awaiting an opportunity

to dispense anti-toxins in exchange for tea.

But the class to which the Paynes belonged were not really humble.

They were urban in origin, and the semi-aristocratic tradition of

Great Wymering was opposed to them. They had come down from the London

suburbs in response to advertisements of factory sites, and their

enterprise had been amazing. Within a few years Great Wymering had

ceased to be a pleasing country town, with historic associations dating

back to the first Roman occupation; it was merely known to travellers

on the South-Eastern and Chatham railway as the place where Payne's Dog

Biscuits were manufactured.

The Doctor, in establishing himself in the right quarter, had forgotten

to allow for the fact that the force that had lifted the Paynes out

of their urban obscurity had descended to their daughter. Lilian had

been expensively educated, and although the Doctor denied it to

himself a hundred times a week, there was no evading the fact that an

acute brain slumbered behind her rather immobile beauty. True, the

fruits of her learning languished a little in Great Wymering, and

that beyond a slight permanent frown and a disposition to argue about

modern problems, she betrayed no revolt against the narrowness of

her existence, but appeared, graceful and willowy, at garden parties

or whist drives. It was the development of her mind that the Doctor

feared, especially as, all unconsciously at first, he had acted as its

chief stimulant. During their talks together he had spoken too many a

true word in jest; and his witticisms had revealed to Lilian a whole

world about which to think and theorise.

He glanced up at her photograph on the mantelpiece. If there was a flaw

in the composition of her fair, Saxon beauty, it was that the mouth

was a little too large and opened rather too easily, disclosing teeth

that were not as regular as they should be. But nature's blunder often

sets the seal on man's choice, and to the Doctor this trifling fault

gave warmth and vivacity to a face that might easily have been cold and

impassive, especially as her eyes were steel blue and she had no great

art in the use of them. Her voice, too, often startled the listener

by its occasional note that suggested an excitability of temperament

barely under control.

In vain the Doctor tried to throw off his heavy reflections and assume

the air of gaiety usual to him when drinking his coffee and thinking of

Lilian. Such an oppression could hardly be ascribed to the malady of

love. It was not Romeo's "heavy lightness, serious vanity." It was a

deep perplexity, a grave foreboding that something had gone hideously

wrong with him, something that he was unable to diagnose. It could not

be that he was growing old. As a medical man he knew his age to an

artery. And yet, in spite of his physical culture and rather deliberate

chastity, he felt suddenly that he was not a fit companion for this

young girl with her resilient mind. He had always been fastidious about

morals, without being exactly moral, but there was something within

him that he did not care to contemplate. It almost seemed as though

the sins of the mind were more deadly than those of the flesh, for the

latter expressed themselves in action and re-action, while the former

remained in the mind, there to poison and corrupt the very source of

all activity.

What was it then--this feeling of a fixation of himself--of a slowing

down of his faculties? Was it some strange new malady of the modern

world, a state of mind as yet not crystallised by the poet or thinker?

It was difficult to get a clear image to express his condition; yet

that was his need. There was no phrase or word in his memory that could

symbolise his feeling.

And then there was the Clockwork man--something else to think about, to

be wondered at.

At this point in the Doctor's reflections the door opened suddenly and

Mrs. Masters ushered in the Curate, very dishevelled and obviously in

need of immediate medical attention. His collar was all awry, and the

look upon his face was that of a man who has looked long and fixedly at

some object utterly frightful and could not rid himself of the image.

"I've had a shock," he began, trying pathetically to smile recognition.

"Sorry disturb you--meal time--" He sank into a saddle-bag chair and

waved limp arms expressively. "There was a man--" he got out.

The Doctor wiped his mouth and produced a stethoscope. His manner

became soothingly professional. He murmured sympathetic phrases and

pulled a chair closer to his patient.

"There was a man," continued the Curate, in ancient-mariner-like

tones, "at the Templars' Hall. I thought he was the conjurer, but he

wasn't--at least, I don't think so. He did things--impossible things--"

"What sort of things," enquired the Doctor, slowly, as he listened to

the Curate's heart. "You must make an effort to steady yourself."

"_He_--he made things appear," gasped the Curate, with a great effort,

"out of nowhere--positively."

"Well, isn't that what conjurers are supposed to do?" observed the

Doctor, blandly.

But the Curate shook his head. Fortunately, in his professional

character there was no need for the Doctor to exhibit surprise. On

the contrary, it was necessary, for his patient's sake, to exercise

control. He leaned against the mantelpiece and listened attentively to

the Curate's hurried account of his encounter with the Clockwork man,

and shook his head gravely.

"Well, now," he prescribed, "complete rest for a few days, in a sitting

posture. I'll give you something to quieten you down. Evidently you've

had a shock."

"It's very hard," the Curate complained, "that my infirmity should have

prevented me from seeing more. The spirit was willing but the flesh was

weak."

"Very likely," the Doctor suggested, "someone has played a trick upon

you. Perhaps your own nerves are partly to blame. Men with highly

strung nerves like you are very liable to--er--hallucinations."

"I wonder," said the Curate, grasping the edge of his chair, "I wonder,

now, if Moses felt like this when he saw the burning bush."

"Ah, very likely," rejoined the Doctor, glad of the opportunity to

enforce his analogy. "There's not the least doubt that many so-called

miracles in the past had their origin in some pathological condition

improperly understood at the time. Moses probably suffered from some

sort of hysteria--a sort of hypnosis. Even in those days there was the

problem of nervous breakdown."

His voice died away. The Curate was not actually shaking his head, but

there was upon his features an expression of incredulity, the like of

which the Doctor had not seen before upon a human face, for it was the

incredulity of a man to whom all arguments against the incredible are

in themselves unbelievable. It was a grotesque expression, and with it

there went a pathetic fluttering of the Curate's eyelids, a twitching

of his lips, a clasping of small white hands.

"I'm afraid your explanation won't hold water," he rejoined. "I

can't bring myself not to believe in what I saw. You see, all my

life I have been trying to believe in miracles, in manifestations.

I have always said that if only we could bring ourselves to accept

what is not obvious. My best sermons have been upon that subject:

of the desirability of getting ourselves into the receptive state.

Sometimes the Vicar has objected. He seemed to think I was piling it on

deliberately. But I assure you, Doctor Allingham, that I have always

wanted to believe--and, in this case, it was only my infirmity and my

unfortunate nervousness that led me to lose such an opportunity."

The Doctor drew himself up stiffly, and just perceptibly indicated the

door. "I think you need a holiday," he remarked, "and a change from

theological pursuits. And don't forget. Rest, for a few days, in a

sitting posture."

"Thank you," the Curate beamed, "I'm afraid the Vicar will be very

annoyed, but it can't be helped."

They were in the hall now, and the Doctor was holding the street door

open.

"But it _happened_," the Curate whispered. "It really did _happen_--and

we shall hear and see more. I only hope I shall be well enough to stand

it. We are living in great days."

He hovered on the doorstep, rubbing his hands together and looking

timidly up at the stars as though half expecting to see a sign.

"It distressed me at first," he resumed, "because he was such an

odd-looking person, and the whole experience was really on the humorous

side. I wanted to laugh at him, and it made me feel so disgraceful.

But I'm quite sure he was a manifestation of something, perhaps an

apotheosis."

"Don't hurry home," warned the Doctor. "Take things quietly."

"Oh, yes, of course. The body is a frail instrument. One forgets that.

So good of you. But the spirit endures. Good night."

He glided along the deserted High Street. The Doctor held the door ajar

for a long while and watched that frail figure, nursing a tremendous

conviction and hurrying along, in spite of instructions to the

contrary.