Pity the man now as he sat brooding alone in the consulting-room, consumed
by the thirst he shuddered at, once more an unwilling slave to the habit
he abhorred.
He unscrewed the large flask and drank, and his lips curled back with
loathing of the whisky, and his gorge rose at it as it went down. Then he
put the flask back and locked the drawer, and laid his head down upon his
folded arms in silence. No help anywhere! No hope, no joy, no love!
Death must come. Death should come, before the shadow of disgrace fell
upon the Beloved, of whose love he knew now that he had never been worthy.
Well for Lynette that he had never won it! Happy for her that she had
never even learned to care for him a little!
* * * * *
A few days more, and the great Victorian Age had drawn its last breath.
The people went about the London streets softly, as though their footsteps
led them through the stately, grand, and solemn chamber where lay the
august, illustrious Dead.
A subdued, busy hum of preparation was perceptible to the ear. The eye saw
the thoroughfares being covered with sand, the draperies of purple rising
at the bidding of the pulley and the rope, the carts laden with wreaths
and garlands of laurel, passing from point to point, discharging their
loads, often renewed.
A lady was ushered into Saxham's consulting-room as a long procession of
those carts went creaking by. She was a dainty, piquante, golden-haired,
blue-eyed little woman, quite beautifully dressed. Her gown was of black,
in deference to the national mourning, but it glittered with sequins, and
huge diamonds scintillated in her tiny ears, and she wore a mantle of
royal ermine, that reached to the high heels of her little shoes. Her hat
was of the toque description. Ermine and lace and artificial blooms from
Parisian shop-window-gardens went to make up the delicious effect. A
titled name adorned her card, which bore a Mayfair address. She seemed in
radiant health. As Saxham waited, leaning forward in his consulting-chair,
to receive the would-be patient's confidence, you can imagine those blue
eyes of his, once so hard and keen, looking out of their hollowing caves
with a sorrowful, clear sympathy that was very different from their old
regard. To his women-patients he was exquisitely considerate. Only to one
class of patient was he merciless and unsparing.
Upon the woman who desired to rid herself of her sex-privilege, upon the
wedded wanton who sought to make of her body, designed by her Maker to be
the cradle of an unborn generation, its sepulchre, Saxham's glance fell
like a sharp curved sword. He wasted few words upon her, but each
sentence, as it fell from his grim mouth, shrivelled and corroded, as
vitriol dropped on naked human flesh. He listened now in silence that grew
grimmer and grimmer, and as in flute-like accents, their smooth course
hampered by the very slightest diffidence, the little lady explained,
those heavy brows of his grew thunderous.
Ah, the tragic errand, the snaky purpose, coiled behind those graceful,
ambiguous forms of speech! Not new the tale to the man who sat and heard.
She admired the black-haired, powerful head, and the square, pale face
with its short, aquiline, rather heavily-modelled features, and the broad,
white forehead that the single smudge of eyebrow barred pleased her, as it
did most women. Only the man's vivid blue eyes were unpleasantly hard and
fixed in their regard, and his mouth frightened her, it was so stern and
set.
She was not as robust as she appeared, she said. When she had been
married, the family physician had mentioned to her mother that it would
hardly be advisable.... Delay for a year or two would be wise. And her
husband did not care for children. He was quite willing. He had sent her
to Saxham, in fact. Of course, the Profession of Surgery had made such
huge strides that risk need not enter into consideration for a moment....
And heaps of her women friends did the same. And expense was absolutely no
object, and would not Dr. Saxham----
Saxham struck a bell that was upon his table, and rose up with his
piercing eyes upon her and crossed the room in two strides. He flung the
door wide. He bowed to her with cool, withering, ironical courtesy as he
stood waiting for her to depart.
She hesitated, laughed with the ring of hysteria, fluttered into speech.
"You are not, of course, aware of it, but I happen to be an old
schoolfellow of your wife's." Her pretty, inquisitive eyes went back to
the writing-table, where stood a photograph of Lynette, recently taken--an
exquisite, delicate, pearly-toned portrait in a heavy silver-gilt frame.
"We used to be great friends. Du Taine was my maiden name. Surely Mrs.
Saxham has spoken to you of Greta Du Taine? I left Gueldersdorp at the
beginning of the siege. Later, we went to Cape Town. I met my husband
there. He is Sir Philip Atherleigh, Baronet." She italicised the word. "He
was with his regiment, going to the Front. We were married almost
directly. It was a case of love at first sight. Now we are staying at our
town house in Werkeley Square. Mrs. Saxham must visit us--my husband is
dying to know her."
"I regret that the desire cannot be gratified, madam." The angry blood
darkened his face. His tone, even more plainly than his words, told her
that the boasted friendship was at an end.
Greta reddened too, and her turquoise-hued eyes dealt him a glance of
bitter hatred.
"I did not stay long at the Convent at Gueldersdorp. Nuns are good, simple
creatures, and easily imposed upon. And--mother did not wish me to be
educated with strays and foundlings--dressed up like young
ladies--actually allowed to mingle upon equal terms with them----"
It was Cornelius Agrippa, I think, who once materialised the Devil as an
empty purse. The necromancer should have evoked the Spirit of Evil in the
shape of a spiteful woman. Greta went on:
"--Such Society as there was, I should say. You were at Gueldersdorp
throughout the siege, and for some time before it, I think, Dr. Saxham?"
Two pairs of blue eyes met, the man's hard as shining stones, the woman's
dancing with malicious intention. Saxham stiffly bent his head. But her
fear of him had evaporated in her triumph. Those inquisitive, turquoise
eyes had an excellent memory behind them. Something in the shape of the
square black head and hulking shoulders quickened it now.
"It's odd----" Her smile was a grin that showed sharp little white teeth
ready to bite, and her speech was pointed with venomed meaning. "I used to
go out a great deal in such Society as the place possessed. Yet I do not
remember ever having met you!"
Saxham's cold eyes clashed with the malicious turquoises.
"I did not mingle in Society at Gueldersdorp."
He signed to the waiting manservant to open the hall-door. She drew her
snowy ermines about her and rustled over the threshold. But in the hall
she turned and dealt her thrust.
"No? You were too busy attending cases. Police-Court Cases ..."
Her light laugh fluttered mockingly about his ears.
"I remember the funny headings of some of the newspaper reports....
'Another Rampant Drunk! The Town Painted Red Again by the Dop Doctor!'"
"Door!" said Saxham, shaping the word with stiff grey lips. His face was
the face of Death, who had come close up and touched him. Her little
ladyship went out to her waiting auto-brougham, and her light, malignant
laugh fluttered back as the servant shut the hall-door.
Saxham went back into the consulting-room. The Spring sunshine poured in
through the tall muslin-screened window. There was a cheerful play of
light and colour in the place. But to the man who sat there it was full of
shadows, dark and gloomy, threatening and grim. And not the least
formidable among them was the shadow of the Dop Doctor of Gueldersdorp,
looming portentously over that fair face within the silver-gilt frame upon
the writing-table, stretching out long octopus-arms to drag down shame
upon it, and heap ashes of humiliation undeserved upon the lovely head,
and mock her with the solemn altar-vows that bound her to the drunkard.