'What a fool I am!' he cried, with a laugh. 'Why should I think it would interest her?'
Yet Mrs Murray had listened to that same chapter with most flattering attention, and afterwards was loud in its praise. Basil remembered that Molière read comedies to his cook, and if she was not amused rewrote them. By that test he should have destroyed his novel; but then impatiently he told himself that he wrote, not for the many, but for a chosen few.
No longer feeling him near her, Jenny presently awoke.
'Well, I never! I haven't been to sleep, have I?'
'Snoring!'
'I am sorry. Did I disturb you?'
'Not at all.'
'I couldn't help it. I felt so drowsy with you reading. I did enjoy it, Basil.'
'It's something to write a book which is a soporific,' he answered, smiling grimly.
'Do read me some more. I'm wide awake now, and it was beautiful.'
'I think, if you don't mind, I'll do a little work.'
A few days later Jenny's mother, who had seen neither Basil nor the house, paid them a visit. She was a stout woman with a determined manner, and wore a black satin dress so uneasily as to suggest it was her Sunday best; it gave her a queer feeling that the days had got mixed, and a Sabbath come somehow in the middle of the week. Against Basil's will, Jenny insisted on keeping for special occasions their nicest things, and when they were alone made tea in an earthenware pot.
'You don't mind if I don't get out the silver teapot, ma?' she asked, when they sat down. 'We don't use it every day.'
'No more do I come and see you every day, my dear,' answered Mrs Bush, gloomily stroking her black satin. 'But I suppose I'm nobody now you're married. Don't you sit down at table for tea?'
'Basil likes to have it in the drawing-room,' answered Jenny, pouring milk in the bottom of each cup.
'Well, I think it's messy. My tea is my best meal; you know that, Jenny.'
'Yes, ma.'
'I always say it looks mean just to have a few pieces of bread-and-butter put on a plate, with the butter just scraped on so as you can't see it.'
'Basil likes it like that.'
'In my 'ouse I 'ave things my own way. Don't begin to give way to your 'usband in the 'ouse, my dear, or he'll presume on it.'
Basil, coming in at this moment, was introduced to the visitor, and Jenny, rather nervously, watched her to see that she behaved nicely! But Mrs Bush, though somewhat awed by his reserved manner, took care to show that she was a perfect lady, and when she lifted her cup curled her little finger in the most elegant and approved fashion. Basil, after a few polite remarks, lapsed into silence, and the two women for five minutes talked difficultly of trivial subjects. Then a carriage stopped at their door, and in a minute the maid announced – Mrs Murray.
'I thought you would allow me to call on you,' she said, holding out her hand to Jenny. 'I'm an old friend of your husband.'
Jenny blushed, taken aback, but Basil, delighted to see her, shook hands warmly.
'It's awfully good of you. You've just come in time for tea.'
'I'm simply dying for some.'
She sat down, looking very handsome and self-possessed, and Mrs Bush deliberately examined her gown. But Jenny remembered that they had only the common teapot.
'I'll just go and get some fresh tea,' she said.
'Fanny will get it, Jenny.'
'Oh no, I must get it myself, and I keep the tea locked up. You know I have to,' she added to Mrs Murray; 'these girls are so dishonest.'
She went out hurriedly, and while she was gone Basil eagerly asked Mrs Murray how she had found them out.
'It was horrid of you not to write and tell me where you were. Miss Ley gave me your address.'
'Don't you think it's an amusing place? You must go into the High Street. Bits of it are so odd and quaint.'
They chattered gaily, almost turning their backs on Mrs Bush, who watched them with lowering brows. But she often said that she was not a woman to be put upon.
'It's a fine day, isn't it?' she interrupted aggressively.
'Beautiful!' said Mrs Murray, smiling.
And before Mrs Bush could make another observation Basil asked when she was starting for Italy. Fortunately, at that moment Jenny came in, but her mother noticed with indignation that she brought the silver teapot; she drew herself up very straight and sat in mute anger, a bristling figure of outraged susceptibility. Nor did it escape her that Basil, who till Mrs Murray's arrival had scarcely spoken, now talked volubly; he gave a humorous account of their troubles in moving into the house, but though it appeared to amuse Mrs Murray hugely, Mrs Bush could see nothing at all funny in it.
At last the visitor rose.
'I really must fly. Good-bye, Mrs Kent. You must get your husband to bring you to see me.'
She sailed out, with a rustle of silk, and Basil accompanied her downstairs.
'She's come in a carriage, ma,' said Jenny, looking from the window.
'I 'ave eyes in my 'ead, my dear,' answered Mrs Bush.
'Isn't he aristocratic-looking?' exclaimed the admiring wife.
'Aristocratic is as aristocratic does,' returned her mother severely.
They saw Basil at the door talk with Mrs Murray and laugh. Then she gave an order to the coachman, who followed them while they walked slowly down the street.
'Well, Jenny!' cried Mrs Bush, in tones of surprise, horror, and indignation.
'I wonder where they're going,' said Jenny, looking away.
'You take my advice, my dear, and keep your eyes on that young man. I wouldn't trust 'im too far if I was you. And you tell him that your ma can see through a brick wall as well as anyone....' Ad he ever said anything about his lady friend?'
'Oh yes, ma, he's spoken of her often,' said Jenny uneasily, for as a matter of fact till that day she had never even heard Mrs Murray's name.
'Well, you tell 'im you want to hear nothing about her. You must be careful, my dear. I 'ad a rare lot of trouble with your pa when I was first married. But I put my foot down, and let 'im see I wouldn't stand his nonsense.'
'I wonder why Basil doesn't come back?'
'And, if you please, he never introduced me to his lady friend. I suppose I'm not good enough.'
'Ma!'
'Oh, don't talk to me, my dear. I think you've treated me very bad, both of you, and it'll be a long day before I leave my pleasant home in Crouch End to cross this threshold.'
At this Basil returned, and saw at once that Mrs Bush was much disturbed.
'Hulloa, what's up?' he asked, smiling.
'It's no laughing matter, Mr Kent,' answered the ruffled matron, with dignity. 'I'm put out, and I won't deny it. I do expect to be treated like a lady, and I don't think Jenny ought to 'ave given me my tea out of a sixpenny 'alfpenny teapot – and you can't deny that's what they cost, my dear, because I know as well you do.'
'We'll behave ourselves better next time,' said Basil good-humouredly.
'It didn't take Jenny long to get the silver teapot as soon as your lady friend come in. But I suppose I'm not worth troubling about.'
'I believe tea always tastes much better in earthenware,' remarked Basil mildly.
'Oh yes, I dare say it does,' returned Mrs Bush ironically. 'And to catch sparrows you've only got to put a little salt on their tails. Good afternoon to you.'
'You're not going yet, ma?'
'I know when I'm not wanted, and you needn't trouble to show me out, because I know my way and I shan't steal the umbrellas.'
Basil was in high spirits, and this display of temper vastly amused him.
'Where did you go just now, Basil?' asked Jenny, when her mother had stalked defiantly out of the house.
'I just showed Mrs Murray the High Street. I thought it would amuse her.'
Jenny did not answer. Basil had discussed with the unexpected visitor the progress of his book, and thinking still of the pleasant things she said to him, paid no attention to his wife's silence. All the evening s
he scarcely spoke, but it struck her that Basil had never been more cheerful; during dinner he laughed and joked, without caring that she was irresponsive; and afterwards sat down to work. Inspiration flowed in upon him, and he wrote easily and quickly. Jenny, pretending to read, watched him through her eyelashes.
11
ABOUT a week after Basil's marriage, Miss Ley found on her breakfast-table the following letter from Bella:
MY DEAREST MARY,
I have been very anxious lately about my friend Herbert Field, and I want you to do me a great favour. You know that he is not very strong, and some time ago he caught a horrid cold which he seems quite unable to shake off. He refuses to take proper care of himself, and he looks very ill and thin. Our doctor has been attending him, but he grows no better, and I am dreadfully alarmed. I don't know what I should do if anything happened to him. At last I have been able to persuade him to come to London to see a specialist. Do you think Dr Hurrell would look at him if I brought Mr Field up next Saturday? Of course I would pay the ordinary fees, but there is no need that Herbert should know this. He can manage to get away early on Saturday morning, and if you will get me an appointment we would drive straight to Dr Hurrell. May we come to luncheon with you afterwards?
Yours affectionately,
BELLA LANGTON
When Frank came in to tea, as was his habit whenever he had time, Miss Ley showed him the letter, and afterwards wrote back to say that Dr Hurrell would be pleased to see the invalid at twelve on the following Saturday.
'I don't suppose he has anything the matter with him,' said Frank, 'but I don't mind having a look. And tell her she can keep her confounded fees.'
'Don't be an idiot, Frank,' replied Miss Ley.
At the appointed hour Bella and Herbert were shown into his consulting-room. The youth was shy and ill at ease.
'Now, will you go into the waiting-room, Miss Langton?' said Frank. 'I'll send for you later.'
Bella, somewhat impressed by his professional manner, retired, and Frank examined his patient's face slowly, as though he sought the hidden springs of character. Herbert watched with apprehension the grave man in front of him.
'I don't think I've really got anything much the matter with me; only Miss Langton was anxious.'
'Medical men would starve if they depended only on the diseased,' answered Frank. 'You'd better take off your things.'
Herbert reddened at the discomfort of undressing himself before a stranger. The doctor noted the milky whiteness of his skin, and the emaciation of his body, which revealed the entire form of the skeleton; he took the boy's hand and looked at the long fingers with nails slightly bent over.
'Have you ever spat any blood?'
'No.'
'D'you sweat at night at all?'
'I never used to, but this last week I have a bit.'
'I believe most of your relations are dead, aren't they?'
'All of them.'
'What did they die of?'
'My father died of consumption, and my sister also.'
Frank said nothing, but his face grew somewhat graver as he heard the bad history. He began to percuss the boy's chest.
'I can find nothing abnormal there,' he said.
Then he took his stethoscope and listened.
'Say ninety-nine. Now cough. Breathe deeply.'
He went over every inch carefully, but found nothing more than might be due to an attack of bronchitis. But before putting down the stethoscope he applied it again to the apex of the lung, just above the collar-bone.
'Breathe deeply.'
Then very distinctly he heard a slight crackling sound, which the hectic flush on Herbert's cheeks, the symptoms and the history, had led him to expect. Once more he percussed, more carefully still, and the note was dull. There could be little doubt about the diagnosis.
'You can put on your clothes,' he said, sitting down at his desk to write notes of the case.
Without a word Herbert dressed himself. He waited till the doctor finished.
'Is there anything the matter with me?' he asked.
Frank looked at him gravely.
'Nothing very serious. I'll talk to Miss Langton if you'll get her to come here.'
'I'd sooner hear myself, if you don't mind,' said Herbert, flushing. 'I'm not afraid to be told anything.'
'You need not be very much alarmed, you know,' answered Frank in a moment, with a brief hesitation which did not escape Herbert. 'You have râles at the right apex. At first I didn't hear them.'
'What does that mean?' A cold shiver of dread ran through him so that his hands and feet felt horribly cold; there was a slight tremor in his voice when he asked a further question. 'Is it the same as my father and my sister?'
'I'm afraid it is,' said Frank.
And the shadow of Death stood suddenly in the room, patient and sinister; and each knew that henceforward it would never leave the young man's side; it would sit by him at table silently, and lie in his bed at night; and when he read, a long finger would underline the words to remind him that he was a prisoner condemned. When the wind, marching through the country, sang to himself like a strong-limbed ploughboy, Death, whistling in his ears, would mock the tune softly; when he looked at the rising sun which coloured the mist like a chalcedony, purple and rosy and green, Death would snigger at his delight in the sad world's beauty. An icy hand gripped his heart so that he felt sick with dread and anguish; he could not repress the sob torn from him by bitter agony. Frank was ashamed to look at that boyish face, so frank and fair, distraught with terror, and he cast down his eyes. Then, to hide himself, Herbert went to the window and looked out: opposite, the houses were grey, ugly, and monotonous, and the heavy sky lowered as though verily it would crush the earth; but he saw life like a pageant processioning before him, and the azure heaven more profound than the rich enamel of an old French jewel, the ploughed fields gaining in the sunshine the various colours of the jasper, and the elm-trees more sombre than jade. He was like a man in a deep chasm who scans at noon the stars which those who live in daylight cannot see.
Frank's voice came to him like a sound from another world.
'I wouldn't take it too much to heart if I were you. With care you may easily recover, and after all, plenty of people lived to a ripe old age with tuberculous lungs.'
'My sister was only ill for four months, and my father less than a year.'
His pale face expressed no emotion, so that Frank could only divine the fear that made his heart sink; he had seen many take the sentence of death, and knew that in comparison the final agony itself was small indeed. It was the most awful moment in life, and it must have been a cruel god who was not satisfied with that instant of hopeless misery to punish all the sins and follies of mankind: beside it all human suffering, the death of children or the ingratitude of friends, loss of honour or of wealth, sank into insignificance. It was the bitter, bitter cup that each must drink because man had raised himself above the beasts.
Frank rang the bell.
'Ask Miss Langton to be so good as to come here,' he told the servant who answered.
She looked anxiously from Frank to Herbert standing at the window, his back turned; and the two men's silence, the doctor's grave constraint, filled her with terrified foreboding.
'Herbert, what's the matter?' she cried. 'What has he told you?'
The boy turned round.
'Only that I shall never do anything in the world now. And I shall die like a dog and leave behind me the sunshine and the blue sky and the trees.'
Bella cried out, and then despair settled in her eyes, and helplessly the tears ran down her cheeks.
'How could you be so cruel?' she said to Frank. 'Oh, Herbert, perhaps it's not true. ... What's to be done, Dr Hurrell? Can't you save him somehow?'
She sank into a chair and sobbed. The boy placed his hand on her shoulder gently.
'Don't cry, dear. In my heart of hearts I knew, but I tried not to believe it. After all, it can't be helped.
I shall just have to go through with it like everyone else.'
'It seems so hard and meaningless,' she groaned. 'It can't be true.'
Herbert looked at her without answering, as though her anguish were a curious thing which excited in him no emotion. In a little while, with a sigh, Bella rose to her feet and dried her eyes.
'Come away, Herbert,' she said. 'Let us go back to Mary.'
'D'you mind if I go by myself? I feel I can't talk to anyone just now. I should like to be alone for a bit to think it out.'
'You must do as you choose, Herbert.'
'Good-bye, Dr Hurrell, and thanks.'
With eager, pain-filled eyes Bella watched him go, and she, too, felt that something strange was in him, so that she dared not thwart his wish; when he spoke there was an inflexion in his voice which she had never heard before. But presently, with a great effort gathering herself together, she turned to Frank.
'Now, will you tell me exactly what should be done?' she said, with an attempt at the decisive manner she used in the conduct of charitable enterprises at Tercanbury.
'First of all get the fact into your head that there is no immediate cause for alarm. I'm afraid there's no doubt that tubercle is there, but the damage at present is very small. He wants care and proper treatment. ... Is he entirely dependent for means upon his occupation?'
'I'm afraid so.'
'Is it possible for him to go away? He ought to winter abroad – not only for the climate, but also because new scenes will distract his mind.'
'Oh, I would so gladly pay for him, but he'd never accept a penny from me. Is it his only chance of life?'
'I can't say that. The human body is a machine which constantly acts counter to expectation; sometimes with every organ diseased it still manages to dodder along.'
Bella did not listen, for suddenly an idea had flashed across her mind. She blushed furiously, but all the same it seemed excellent; her heart beat madly, and an ecstatic happiness lifted her up. She rose from the chair.
'I dare say I can manage something, after all. I must go and talk to Miss Ley. Good-bye.'
She gave him her hand and left him wondering what had caused in her this sudden change, for the depression had vanished before something which quickened her gait and rendered her step elastic.