CHAPTER XXIII

A March wind blew the dust and dead leaves in eddies through the breadth of Castle Gate as Dr. Steel’s brougham drew up before the timbered front of a Jacobean house. The mellow building with its carved barge-boards and great sweeping gables bore the date of 1617, and still carried a weather-worn sign swinging on an iron bracket. For the last fifty years the ground floor had been used as a grocery shop, a dim, rambling cavern of a place fragrant with the scent of coffee and spices. The proprietor, Mr. Isaac Mainprice, a very superior tradesman who dabbled in arch?ology, had refrained from gilt lettering above the door; nor did the quaint leaded windows glare with advertisements, whiskey bottles, and Dutch cheeses. Every one within ten miles of Roxton knew Mr. Mainprice. His prosperity did not need to be flaunted upon his windows.

“Good-day, madam. Terribly windy. Permit me.”

Mrs. Betty had swept across the pavement in her sables, an opulent figure wooed by the March wind. Mr. Mainprice had fussed forward in person. He bowed in his white apron, swung a chair forward, and then dodged behind the counter. The shop was empty, and three melancholy assistants studied Mrs. Betty from behind pyramids of sweetmeats and packages of tea, for the face under the white toque had all the imperative fascination of smooth and confident beauty.

Mrs. Steel drew out a little ivory memorandum-book, and glanced at it perfunctorily, before looking up into Mr. Mainprice’s attentive face. He was a weak-eyed, damp-haired man, with a big nose and a loose, good-tempered mouth. A patch of red on either cheek seemed to suggest that the épicier cultivated an authoritative taste in port, sherry, and Madeira.

“I want some jellies and soups, Mr. Mainprice.”

“Certainly, madam.”

“There are a few poor people my husband attends. I want to help them with a few little delicacies.”

Mrs. Betty’s drawl was most confidentially sympathetic, and Mr. Mainprice ducked approvingly behind the counter.

“What brand, madam? Lazenby’s, Cross & Blackwell’s—?”

“Oh—the best—what you recommend.”

“Thank you, madam.”

“Let me see,” and Mrs. Betty’s eyes wandered with an air of delightful innocence about the shop; “I like the glassed jellies best. Six. Yes, six. And six tins of desiccated soup.”

“Certainly, madam. The large size?”

“Yes. Will you have them made up into different parcels? I will take them in the carriage.”

“Certainly, madam.”

Mr. Mainprice nodded sharply to the three melancholy assistants, and then bent over the counter to scribble in his order-book.

“Very windy weather, madam.”

Mrs. Betty glanced up brightly at the suave, thin-whiskered face, and smiled. She had a great variety of smiles, and Mr. Mainprice was an intelligent person, and a man who was not ashamed of wearing a white apron. Moreover, he was an excellent patient, the father of five tall and unhealthy daughters, and the sympathetic husband of a neurasthenic wife.

“Terribly windy,” she agreed. “This is a dear old house, but I suppose it is rather draughty.”

“No, madam, no, we find it very comfortable. I have had double windows fitted to the upper rooms.”

“They make such a difference.”

“Such a difference, madam.”

There was a short pause. Mr. Mainprice was a nervous man. He had a habit of sniffing, and of opening and shutting his order-book as though it was imperative for him to keep his hands occupied.

“Dr. Steel is very busy, madam?”

“Oh, very busy; so much influenza.”

“I am afraid, madam,” and Mr. Mainprice elongated himself over the counter with a waggish side twist of the head—“I am afraid we selfish people don’t show Dr. Steel much mercy.”

Mrs. Betty laughed.

“I believe you yourself have been particularly wicked this winter, Mr. Mainprice.”

“I must plead guilty, madam.”

“You are quite well now, I hope?”

Mr. Mainprice frowned, and half shut one eye.

“Nearly well, madam. I ventured out last night without orders.”

“The Primrose League Concert?”

“Now, madam, you have found me out!”

Mrs. Betty and the épicier regarded each other with a sympathetic sense of humor.

“We were there, Mr. Mainprice, and I was so annoyed because Dr. Steel was called away just before your daughter sang.”

“Indeed, madam,” and Mr. Mainprice sniffed with nervous satisfaction.

“The best item on the programme. Such a sweet contralto, and such musical feeling. I remember poor Mrs. Murchison used to sing some of the same songs. Of course she never had your daughter’s artistic instinct.”

Mr. Mainprice colored, and looked coy.

“The girl has had first-class lessons, Mrs. Steel. I believe in having the best of everything. I have been very fortunate, madam, and though I ought not to mention it, money is no consideration.”

The grocer straightened his back suddenly, with a mild snigger of self-salutation.

“Money well spent, Mr. Mainprice—”

“Is money invested, madam. Exactly. And a good education is an investment in these days.”

Two of the melancholy assistants were carrying the parcels to Mrs. Betty’s carriage. She rose with a rustle of silks, her rich fur jacket setting off her slim but sensuous figure. Mr. Mainprice dodged from behind the counter, and preceded her to the door.

“If it will be any convenience, Mrs. Steel, we can deliver the parcels immediately.”

“Thank you, I want to see the people myself. I like to keep in touch with the poor, Mr. Mainprice.”

The grocer’s weak eyes honored a ministering angel.

“Exactly, madam. Permit me—”

He edged through the door with a nervous clearing of the throat, blinked as the wind blew a cloud of dust across the road, and escorted my Lady Bountiful to her carriage.

“What address, madam?”

“Thank you so much, Mr. Mainprice, the coachman knows.”

And Mr. Mainprice stood on the curb for fully ten seconds, watching Dr. Steel’s brougham bear this most charming lady upon her round of Christian kindness and pity.

It is wise in this world to cultivate a reputation for philanthropy, though like the priestly dress it may be a mere sanctity of the surface. Few people are honest enough to be open egotists, and to attain our ends it is necessary to skilfully bribe our neighbors’ prejudices. Though self-interest is the motive power that keeps the world from flagging, it is neither discreet nor cultured to blatantly acknowledge such a truth, for without a certain measure of hypocrisy life would be a sorry scramble. That man should be taught to love his neighbor as himself is both admirable and inspiring, and yet no one who respects his banking account could ever seriously accept so unbusiness-like a theory. There was more shrewd, honest, and unflinching truth-telling in Hobbes than in the vaporings of a flimsy sentimentalism.

Now Mrs. Betty had no more love for a washerwoman sick with a carbuncle on her neck than she had for an old and mildewed boot. Poverty and the inevitable sordidness thereof were more than distasteful to her, and yet she was so far sound in her worldly philosophy as to dissemble her distaste for expediency’s sake. It is never foolish to be suspected of generosity. And in Roxton, where the ladies counted one another’s yearly record as to hats, it was necessary to assume some sort of benignant attitude towards the heathen or the poor. Betty Steel, as the leading physician’s wife, recognized the power of judicious and moral self-advertisement. She had lived down her mischievous desire to shock the good people who paid her husband’s pleasant bills. No doubt she derived some delicate satisfaction from playing the fair lady in her furs, and from conferring favors on her humbler neighbors. The sense of superiority is always pleasant. That man is a liar who describes himself as utterly indifferent to obloquy or favor.

Mrs. Betty stopped at a florist’s shop on her way and bought three bundles of Scilla flowers. The golden blooms made a kind of splendor beside her sable coat. Colonel Feveril, Roxton’s most antique dandy, passed as she returned towards her brougham, and the brisk sweep of the soldier’s hat saved her the trouble of remembering her mirror.

At the top of one of the alleys leading to the river, Dr. Steel’s wife disembarked upon her errand of mercy. A small boy whipping a top on the narrow sidewalk served as a porter for the carrying of her jellies. One or two greasy heads were poked out of the pigeon-holes of windows. Mrs. Betty, demure and sweet as any Dorcas, knocked at the door of No. 5.

“Good-day, Mrs. Ripstone.”

An elderly woman in a faded blue flannel blouse had thrust a beak of a nose round the edge of the door.

“Good-day, ma’am.”

The thin, hard face offered no very fulsome welcome.

“How is your husband? Dr. Steel told me yesterday that he was a little better.”

Mrs. Ripstone’s lethargic eyes rested for a moment on the small boy carrying the parcels. Mrs. Betty herself bore the golden flowers.

“Much obliged, ma’am; my ’usband is doin’ as well as can be expected. Will you step in? We ain’t particular tidy.”

Mrs. Betty stepped in, and sat down calmly on a very rickety chair.

“I have brought you a little soup, and two glasses of jelly.”

“Much obliged to you, ma’am.”

The two women looked curiously at each other. They were utterly unlike in any characteristic. Mrs. Betty in her furs looked like a Russian countess in the hovel of a peasant.

The room was unconditionally dirty, and smelled of burned fat. There was nothing to admire in it, nothing to provide the lady with a subject for enthusiasm.

“I am glad your husband is better, Mrs. Ripstone.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

The woman in the blue blouse stood stolidly by the table. Mrs. Betty’s words made no evident impression on her. It was as though she regarded the visit as a necessary evil, and was only persuaded to be polite by such tangible blessings as might accrue.

“Have you any children?”

Mrs. Ripstone stared.

“Ten, ma’am.”

Her brevity was expressive.

“You must be very busy.”

“I am that, ma’am.”

“Are they all grown up?”

“Grow’d up?”

“Yes.”

“Well, ma’am,” and the woman in the blue blouse gave a peculiar smile, “if you’ll listen you’ll ’ear the baby ’ammerin’ a tin pot in the yard.”

The reek of the burned fat began to prove too powerful for Mrs. Betty’s sensitive soul. She and Mrs. Ripstone seemed out of sympathy. Conversation languished. The lady, with all her cleverness, was wholly at a loss what to say next.

Two minutes had passed when Dr. Steel’s wife rose. She smiled one of her perfunctory smiles at the woman in the blue blouse, and turned with a rustling petticoat towards the door.

“I hope your husband will like the soup, Mrs. Ripstone.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“Good-afternoon.”

“Good-afternoon, ma’am.”

The woman watched Mrs. Betty to her carriage, and then closed the door with an expression of rather sour relief. She turned to the flowers and parcels on the table, untied the string, and examined the contents.

“Wonder what she’s left ’em for;” such was Mrs. Ripstone’s solitary and cynical remark.

In her carriage Mrs. Betty was holding an enamelled scent-bottle to her nose.

“I wonder why they are so dirty and so reserved,” she thought; “I don’t think that woman was the least bit grateful. I don’t like the poor. Anyway, I have done my duty.”

The west was wreathed with the torn crimson of a wind-blown sky at sunset when Mrs. Betty drove home from her essay in almsgiving. St. Antonia’s spire, a black and slender wedge, seemed to cleave the vastness of the flaming west. The tall elms about the church were very restless with the wailing of the wind.

In Parker Steel’s dining-room there was an air of warmth and luxury, a sense of deep shelter from the blustering melancholy of the dying day. The table was laid for tea, a silver kettle singing above the spirit-lamp, a plate of hot cakes on the trivet before the piled-up fire. It was the hour of soft, slanting shadows, and of the wayward yet sleepy flickering of the flames. Betty swept into the room with the sensuous satisfaction of a cat. The thick Turkey carpet muffled her footsteps like the moss of a forest “ride.”

At the window, his figure outlined by the gold and purple of a fading sky, she saw her husband standing motionless, his head bent forward over an out-stretched hand. He appeared to be examining something closely in the twilight. She could see his keen, clear profile, intent and a little stern.

“Parker, Parker, the cakes are burning!”

Her husband turned with a start, taken unawares, like the hero of Wessex in the swineherd’s hut. Betty Steel had glided towards the fire.

“Preoccupation—thy name is man! Parker, quick, your handkerchief. The dish is as hot as—Say something, do.”

Before the glow of the fire she noticed the irritable frown upon her husband’s face.

“Most worried of men, what is the matter?”

“Matter!”

“Fate cannot touch us, the cakes are saved. Misery, Parker! Quick, the kettle!”

The silver spout was spouting hot water over Mrs. Betty’s treasured Japanese tray. Her husband with a “damn the thing,” turned down the cap of the spirit-lamp with a spoon.

“What an infernal fool that girl Symons is!”

Mrs. Betty drew a chair forward with her foot, reached for the tea-caddy, and glanced whimsically across the table at her much grieved mate.

“The king did not try to shift the responsibility, Parker.”

Dr. Steel sat down abruptly, with the air of a man in no mood for persiflage.

“What were you studying so intently?”

“I?”

“Learning palmistry?”

Parker Steel helped himself to one of the hot cakes.

“Oh, nothing,” he said, curtly.

His wife laughed.

“What a retort to give a woman!”

The physician shifted his chair.

“Really, Betty, am I to go into a lengthy dissertation on every trifle because you happen to be inquisitive?”

“Tell me the trifle, and you shall have your tea.”

“I was looking at a chilblain on my finger.”

“What admirable bathos, Parker! I might have taken you for Hamlet soliloquizing for the last time over Ophelia’s tokens.”

“Oh, quite possibly,” and he began to sip his tea; “you have forgotten the sugar. What execrable memories you women have!”