THE COURTENAYS.
I determined to spend that evening at Richmond Road with open eyes.
The house was a large red-brick one, modern, gabled, and typically
suburban. Mr. Courtenay, although a wealthy man with a large estate in
Devonshire and extensive properties in Canada, where as a young man he
had amassed a large fortune, lived in that London suburb in order to
be near his old friends. Besides, his wife was young and objected to
being buried in the country. With her husband an invalid she was
unable to entertain, therefore she had found the country dull very
soon after her marriage and gladly welcomed removal to London, even
though they sank their individuality in becoming suburban residents.
Short, the prim manservant, who admitted me, showed me at once up to
his master's room, and I stayed for half-an-hour with him. He was
sitting before the fire in a padded dressing gown, a rather thick-set
figure with grey hair, wan cheeks, and bright eyes. The hand he gave
me was chill and bony, yet I saw plainly that he was much better than
when I had last seen him. He was up, and that was a distinctly good
sign. I examined him, questioned him, and as far as I could make out
he was, contrary to my chief's opinion, very much improved.
Indeed, he spoke quite gaily, offered me a whisky and soda, and made
me tell him the stories I had heard an hour earlier at the Savage. The
poor old fellow was suffering from that most malignant disease, cancer
of the tongue, which had caused him to develop peripheral neuritis.
His doctors had recommended an operation, but knowing it to be a very
serious one he had declined it, and as he had suffered great pain and
inconvenience he had taken to drink heavily. He was a lonely man, and
I often pitied him. A doctor can very quickly tell whether domestic
felicity reigns in a household, and I had long ago seen that with the
difference of age between Mrs. Courtenay and her husband--he sixty-two
and she only twenty-nine--they had but few ideas in common.
That she nursed him tenderly I was well aware, but from her manner I
had long ago detected that her devotedness was only assumed in order
to humour him, and that she possessed little or no real affection for
him. Nor was it much wonder, after all. A smart young woman, fond of
society and amusement, is never the kind of wife for a snappy invalid
of old Courtenay's type. She had married him, some five years before,
for his money, her uncharitable enemies said. Perhaps that was so. In
any case it was difficult to believe that a pretty woman of her stamp
could ever entertain any genuine affection for a man of his age, and
it was most certainly true that whatever bond of sympathy had existed
between them at the time of their marriage had now been snapped.
Instead of remaining at home of an evening and posing as a dutiful
wife as she once had done, she was now in the habit of going up to
town to her friends the Penn-Pagets, who lived in Brook Street, or the
Hennikers in Redcliffe Square, accompanying them to dances and
theatres with all the defiance of the "covenances" allowed nowadays to
the married woman. On such occasions, growing each week more frequent,
her sister Ethelwynn remained at home to see that Mr. Courtenay was
properly attended to by the nurse, and exhibited a patience that I
could not help but admire.
Yes, the more I reflected upon it the more curious seemed that
ill-assorted _menage_. On her marriage Mary Mivart had declared that
her new home in Devonshire was deadly dull, and had induced her
indulgent husband to allow her sister to come and live with her, and
Ethelwynn and her maid had formed part of the household ever since.
We doctors, providing we have not a brass plate in lieu of a practice,
see some queer things, and being in the confidence of our patients,
know of many strange and incomprehensible families. The one at
Richmond Road was a case in point. I had gradually seen how young Mrs.
Courtenay had tired of her wifely duties, until, by slow degrees, she
had cast off the shackles altogether--until she now thought more of
her new frocks, smart suppers at the Carlton, first-nights and "shows"
in Mayfair than she did of the poor suffering old man whom she had not
so long ago vowed to "love, honour and obey." It was to be regretted,
but in my position I had no necessity nor inclination to interfere.
Even Ethelwynn made no remark, although this sudden breaking forth of
her sister must have pained her considerably.
When at length I shook hands with my patient, left him in the hands of
the nurse and descended to the drawing room, I found Ethelwynn
awaiting me.
She rose and came forward, both her slim white hands outstretched in
glad welcome.
"Short told me you were here," she exclaimed. "What a long time you
have been upstairs. Nothing serious, I hope," she added with a touch
of anxiety, I thought.
"Nothing at all," I assured her, walking with her across to the fire
and seating myself in the cosy-corner, while she threw herself upon a
low lounge chair and pillowed her dark head upon a big cushion of
yellow silk. "Where is Mary?" I asked.
"Out. She's dining with the Hennikers to-night, I think."
"And leaves you at home to look after the invalid?" I remarked.
"Oh, I don't mind in the least," she declared, laughing.
"And the old gentleman? What does he say to her constant absence in
the evening?"
"Well, to tell the truth, Ralph, he seldom knows. He usually believes
her to be at home, and I never undeceive him. Why should I?"
I grunted, for I was not at all well pleased with her connivance at
her sister's deceit. The sound that escaped my lips caused her to
glance across at me in quick surprise.
"You are displeased, dear," she said. "Tell me why. What have I done?"
"I'm not displeased with you," I declared. "Only, as you know, I'm not
in favour of deception, and especially so in a wife."
She pursed her lips, and I thought her face went a trifle paler. She
was silent for a moment, then said:
"I don't see why we should discuss that, Ralph. Mary's actions concern
neither of us. It is not for us to prevent her amusing herself,
neither is it our duty to create unpleasantness between husband and
wife."
I did not reply, but sat looking at her, drinking in her beauty in a
long, full draught. How can I describe her? Her form was graceful in
every line; her face perfect in its contour, open, finely-moulded, and
with a marvellous complexion--a calm, sweet countenance that reminded
one of Raphael's "Madonna" in Florence, indeed almost its counterpart.
Her beauty had been remarked everywhere. She had sat to a well-known
R.A. for his Academy picture two years before, and the artist had
declared her to be one of the most perfect types of English beauty.
Was it any wonder, then, that I was in love with her? Was it any
wonder that those wonderful dark eyes held me beneath their spell, or
those dark locks that I sometimes stroked from off her fair white brow
should be to me the most beautiful in all the world? Man is but
mortal, and a beautiful woman always enchants.
As she sat before me in her evening gown of some flimsy cream stuff,
all frills and furbelows, she seemed perfect in her loveliness. The
surroundings suited her to perfection--the old Chippendale and the
palms, while the well-shaded electric lamp in its wrought-iron stand
shed a mellow glow upon her, softening her features and harmonising
the tints of the objects around. From beneath the hem of her skirt a
neat ankle encased in its black silk stocking was thrust coquettishly
forward, and her tiny patent leather slipper was stretched out to the
warmth of the fire. Her pose was, however, restful and natural. She
loved luxury, and made no secret of it. The hour after dinner was
always her hour of laziness, and she usually spent it in that
self-same chair, in that self-same position.
She was twenty-five, the youngest daughter of old Thomas Mivart, who
was squire of Neneford, in Northamptonshire, a well-known hunting-man
of his day, who had died two years ago leaving a widow, a charming
lady, who lived alone at the Manor. To me it had always been a mystery
why the craving for gaiety and amusement had never seized Ethelwynn.
She was by far the more beautiful of the pair, the smartest in dress,
and the wittier in speech, for possessed of a keen sense of humour,
she was interesting as well as handsome--the two qualities which are
_par excellence_ necessary for a woman to attain social success.
She stirred slightly as she broke the silence, and then I detected in
her a nervousness which I had not noticed on first entering the room.
"Sir Bernard Eyton was down here yesterday and spent over an hour with
the old gentleman. They sent the nurse out of the room and talked
together for a long time, upon some private business, nurse thinks.
When Sir Bernard came down he told me in confidence that Mr. Courtenay
was distinctly weaker."
"Yes," I said, "Sir Bernard told me that, but I must confess that
to-night I find a decided improvement in him. He's sitting up quite
lively."
"Very different to a month ago," my well-beloved remarked. "Do you
recollect when Short went to London in a hansom and brought you down
at three in the morning?"
"I gave up all hope when I saw him on that occasion," I said; "but he
certainly seems to have taken a new lease of life."
"Do you think he really has?" she inquired with an undisguised
eagerness which struck me as distinctly curious. "Do you believe that
Sir Bernard's fears are after all ungrounded?"
I looked at her surprised. She had never before evinced such a keen
interest in her sister's husband, and I was puzzled.
"I really can't give an opinion," I responded mechanically, for want
of something or other to say.
It was curious, that question of hers--very curious.
Yet after all I was in love--and all lovers are fools in their
jealousy.