DOCTOR MOREAU
Harry Sanderson and the judge parted at the gate, and Harry walked
slowly home in the moonlight.
The youthful follies that he had resurrected when he had called himself
his old nickname of "Satan Sanderson" he had left so far behind him, had
buried so deep, that the ironic turn of circumstance that had dragged
them into view, sorry skeletons, seemed intrusive and malicious. Not
that he was desirous of sailing under false colors; he had brought into
his new career more than a _soupcon_ of the old indifference to popular
estimation, the old propensity to go his own way and to care very little
what others thought of him. The sting was a nearer one; it was his own
present of fair example and good repute that recoiled with a fastidious
sense of abasement from the recollection.
As he stood in the library, his hand on the mantelpiece, he had been
painfully conscious of detail. He remembered vividly the half amused
smile of the lawyer, the silent, listening attitude of the girl
crouched by the wheel-chair. He had seen Jessica Holme scarcely a
half-dozen times, then only at service, or driving behind the Stires
bays. That moment when she had thrown herself beside the old man's chair
to plead for the son she had never seen--an instant revelation wrought
by the strenuous agitation of the moment--had been illuminative; it had
given him a lightning-like glimpse into the unplummeted deeps of womanly
unselfishness and sympathy. He flushed suddenly. He had not realized
that she was so beautiful.
What a tragedy to be blind, for a woman with temperament, talent and
heart! To be sightless to the beauty of such a perfect night, with that
silver bridge of stars, those far hills rising like purple tulips--an
alluring night for those who saw! The picture she had made, kneeling
with the lamplight rosying in her hair, hung before him. The
flower-scent with which the room had been full was in his nostrils, and
verses flashed into his mind:
And I swear, as I thought of her thus, in that hour,
And of how, after all, old things were best,
That I smelt the smell of that jasmin-flower
Which she used to wear in her breast.
Under his thought the lines repeated themselves in a mystical monotone.
He had saved an old college-mate from possible disinheritance and the
grind of poverty, for David Stires' health was precarious. He thought of
this with a tinge of satisfaction. The least of that peculiar clan, one
who had held his place, not by likable qualities but by a versatile
talent for entertainment, Hugh Stires yet deserved thus much. Harry
Sanderson had never shirked an obligation. "As a man sows"--the old
man's words recurred to him. Did any man reap what he sowed, after all?
Was he, the "Satan Sanderson" that was, getting his deserts?
"If there is a Providence that parcels out our earthly rewards and
penalties," he said to himself, "it has missed me! If there is any
virtue in example, I ought to be the black sheep. Hugh never influenced
anybody; he was a natural camp-follower. I was in the van. All I said
was a sneer, all I did a challenge to respectability. Yet here I am, a
shepherd of the faithful, a brother of Aaron!"
Harry stepped more briskly along the gas-lighted square, nodding now and
then to an acquaintance, and bowing on a crossing to a carriage that
bowled by with the wife of the Very Reverend, the Bishop of the Diocese.
As he passed a darkened entrance, a door with a small barred window in
its upper panel opened, and a man came into the street--a man light and
fair with watery blue eyes and a drooping, blond mustache. He lifted his
silk hat with a faded, Chesterfieldian grace as he came down the steps
with outstretched hand.
"My dear Sanderson!" he said effusively. "In the interest of sweetness
and light, where did you stumble on your new chauffeur? His style is the
admiration of the town. Next to having your gift of eloquence, I can
think of nothing so splendid as possessing such a _tonneau_! The city is
in your debt; you have shown it that even a cleric can be 'fast' without
reproach!"
Harry Sanderson saw the weak features and ingratiating smile, the
clayey, dry-lined skin and restless eyes, but he did not seem to see the
extended hand. He did not smile at the badinage as he replied evenly:
"My chauffeur, Doctor, is a Finn; and his style is his own. I see,
however, that I must decrease his speed-limit."
Doctor Moreau stood a moment looking after him, his womanish hands
clenching and his cynical glance full of an evil light.
"The university prig!" he said under his breath. "Doesn't he take
himself for the whole thing, with his money and his buttonhole bouquet,
and his smug self-righteousness! He thinks I'm hardly fit to speak to
since I've had to quit the hospital! I'd like to take him down a peg!"
He watched the alert, ministerial figure till it rounded the corner. He
looked up and down the street, hesitating; then, shrugging his
shoulders, he turned and reentered the door with the narrow barred
window.