CHAPTER XXXVII

On two successive days the society of loafers that lounged outside the gates of Roxton station for the ostensible purpose of carrying hand-bags and parcels, had noticed Major Murray’s red-wheeled dog-cart meet the afternoon express from town. The society of luggage loafers boasted a membership of four. It was not an energetic brotherhood, and had put up a living protest against the unseemly scurry and bustle of twentieth-century methods. The society’s loafing ground ran along the white fence that closed in the “goods” yard, a fence that carried, from four distinct patches of discoloration, the marks left by the brothers’ bodies in their postures of dignified and independent ease.

All the comings and goings of Roxton seemed known to these four gentlemen, whose eyes were ever on the alert, though their hands remained in their trousers-pockets. A fly basking on the sidewalk within six feet would be seen and dislodged by a brisk discharge of saliva from between one of the member’s lips. Like Diogenes, they “had reduced impertinence to a fine art”; and the major portion of the society’s funds was patriotically disbursed to swell the state’s revenue on beer.

“Psst—’Ere ’e is ag’in.”

“’oo?”

A mouth was wiped by the back of a hand.

“Murray’s man.”

“Same un?”

“Yas. Little feller with the twirly mustache. What d’yer guess ’e be, Jack?”

“Looks as though ’e might have come t’ wind the clocks.”

“You bet! Ter do with the babies, I’ve ’eard.”

“Ah, ’ow was that?”

“Murray’s man, ’e told me, t’other evening. This little feller be what they call a ‘Lonnan Special.’ Dunno what edition.”

Three pairs of eyes, one member was absent on duty at the pub, followed Major Murray’s dog-cart with an all-engrossing stare as its red wheels whirled by in the June sunshine.

“Thought Steel ’ad the managin’ of all Murray’s badgers.”

“So ’e ’as. Didn’t yer see ’im come back by the 7.50 t’other day?”

“I did.”

“An’ the other feller who’s bin wearin’ Steel’s breeches all the month—went off by the 4.49.”

“’E did.”

“Saucy lookin’ chap.”

“Give me Jim Murchison and blow the liquor. ’E tells you what’s what, and no mistake. Said I sh’ld drink meself to death—and so I shall.”

“What, ’ad the roups again, Frank?”

“Yes, all along with my old liver. Chucks it out of me every marnin’, reg’lar as clock-work.”

The observations of the brotherhood were reliable as far as the identity of the gentleman in Major Murray’s dog-cart was concerned. He was named Dr. Peterson, and his caliber may be appreciated by the fact that he received a check for twenty-five guineas when he travelled forty miles to and fro from his house in Mayfair. Moreover, he had left his card the preceding day on Dr. Parker Steel, with a note urging that an interview between them was urgent and inevitable. Parker Steel’s face had betrayed exceeding discomfort and alarm on reading the name on the piece of paste-board that Dr. Peterson had left on the general practitioner’s hall table.

It was about four o’clock on the afternoon of Thursday when Major Murray’s dog-cart clattered over the cobbles of St. Antonia’s Square, and deposited a very spruce little man in a well-cut frock-coat, and a blemishless tall hat at Parker Steel’s door.

The imperturbable Symons recognized him as the caller of yesterday.

“Dr. Steel’s out, sir.”

“Out?”

“Very sorry, sir—”

“You gave him my card and note?”

“Certainly, sir. Will you wait? Dr. Steel should be back at any minute.”

Dr. Peterson glanced at his watch, and stepped like a dapper little bantam into the hall. His reddish hair was plastered from a broad pathway in the middle, so as to conceal the premature tendency to baldness that his pate betrayed. Dr. Peterson’s figure boasted a juvenile waist; his face, smooth and very sleek, almost suggested the craft of the beauty specialist. A red-and-green bandanna handkerchief protruded from his breast coat-pocket, an ?sthetic patch of color harmonizing with his sage-green tie. He wore black-and-white check trousers, patent-leather boots, and a tuberose in his button-hole. Moreover, his person smelled fragrantly of scent.

Dr. Peterson deposited his hat and gloves on the hall table.

“I can spare half an hour. My train goes at five. It is highly important that I should see Dr. Steel.”

“I will tell him, sir, the minute he returns,” and she showed Dr. Peterson into the drawing-room.

A bedroom bell rang as Symons was descending the stairs to the kitchen. She turned with a “Drat the thing!” and dawdled heavenward to her mistress’s room.

“Who has called, Symons?”

“Dr. Peterson, ma’am.”

“From Major Murray’s?”

“Yes, ma’am; wants to see the master, most particular.”

“Dr. Steel’s not in?”

“No, ma’am, but he left word that he would be at home about four.”

“Thanks, Symons, you can go.”

The servant’s ill-conditioned stare was bitterness to a woman of Betty’s pride and penetration. The finer touches of courtesy, the more delicate instincts, are rarely developed in the lower classes. Even the starched Symons was utterly cowlike in her manners. Betty felt her face sore under the servant’s eyes.

A big red book lay open upon the dressing-table amid Betty Steel’s crowd of silver knick-knacks. It was the Medical Directory, and lay open at the London list, and at the letter P. Dr. Peterson’s name headed the left-hand page, as staff-physician to sundry hospitals and charitable institutions, and as a holder of medals, diplomas, and degrees galore. A cursory glance at the titles of his contributions to medical literature would have marked him out as one of the leading authorities on diseases of the skin.

Betty Steel looked in her pier-glass, fluffed out her hair a little, and fastening the scarf of her green tea-gown, crossed the landing towards the stairs. She had that steady and almost staring expression of the eyes that betrays a purpose suddenly but seriously matured. She had not spoken with her husband since their meeting on the night of his return.

“Dr. Peterson, I believe?”

The specialist had been reviewing the photographs on the mantel-piece, and had displayed his good taste by electing a handsome cousin of Betty’s as his ideal for the moment. He set the silver frame down rather hurriedly, and turned at the sound of the door opening, a dapper, diplomatic, yet rather finicking figure, the figure more of a little man about town than of a brilliant and prosperous London consultant.

“Mrs. Steel—?”

He had glanced up with a slight puckering of the brows into Betty’s face.

“Yes. I am sorry my husband is out. I have taken the opportunity, Dr. Peterson, of consulting you—”

She moved towards the window, graceful, well poised, and unembarrassed. The specialist stood aside, his face a sympathetic blank, a birdlike and inquisitive alertness visible in his eyes.

“You have noticed my face, Dr. Peterson?”

She stood before him unflinchingly, a woman of distinction and of charm of manner despite her great disfigurement. The fingers of Dr. Peterson’s right hand were fidgeting with his watch-chain. It was wholly improper for a London consultant to appear embarrassed.

“You wish to consult me?”

“Yes.”

He hesitated, elevated his eyebrows, and then met her with a conciliatory smile.

“I do not know, Mrs. Steel, whether—”

She understood his meaning and the significance of his hesitation.

“My husband? Yes—Your opinion will be of interest to him. Let us be frank.”

Dr. Peterson advanced one patent-leather boot, put the forefinger of his right hand under Betty’s chin, and turned her face towards the light. She could see that he was profoundly interested despite his air of shallow smartness. Also that he was somewhat perplexed by the responsibility she had thrust upon him.

“Hum! How long have you noticed the swelling on the lip?”

“Five weeks or more, perhaps longer.”

“The throat?”

She opened her mouth wide. Dr. Peterson peered into it and frowned.

“The rash has been present some days?”

“Yes.”

“You are paler than usual?”

“I think so.”

“Feverish?”

“A little.”

“Of course, Dr. Steel has seen all this?”

“Yes.”

“Hum!”

He was embarrassed, troubled, and betrayed the feeling in an increased fussiness and polite magniloquence of manner.

“You must pardon me, Mrs. Steel.”

“I want you to be quite frank with me. I am ready to answer any questions. You may think my attitude unusual—”

“Not at all—not at all,” and he flicked his handkerchief from his pocket and began to polish a lens in a tortoise-shell setting.

“I must confess, Dr. Peterson, that I have been subjected to a great deal of worry and—and doubt. My husband only returned yesterday. Of course, you know about that. Dr. Little sent for you to see Major Murray’s wife, I believe.”

Dr. Peterson still flourished his handkerchief.

“Has Dr. Steel expressed any opinion to you?”

“About this?”

“Yes.”

“He told me that it was a form of eczema.”

The specialist threw a sharp, penetrating look at her face.

“That was your husband’s diagnosis?”

“I believe it to be incorrect.”

“Indeed!”

“And that he knows that he has not told me the truth.”

Both heard the rattle of a latch-key in the lock of the front door, and the sound of footsteps in the hall. Symons could be heard hurrying up the stairs from the kitchen. She spoke to some one in the hall, a tired and toneless voice answering her in curt monosyllables. It was Parker Steel.

Dr. Peterson walked up the room and back again to the window, glancing rather nervously at the clock as he passed. His attitude was that of a man who has been entangled in the meshes of a very delicate dilemma, and he was waiting to see how Betty Steel’s mood shaped. She was standing with one hand resting on the back of a chair, as though steadying herself for the inevitable crisis.

“Ah, good-day; I must apologize—Betty!”

He had entered with an elaborate flourish intended to suggest the brisk candor of a man much hurried in the public service. His wife’s figure, outlined against the window, brought him to a dead halt on the threshold. The blood seemed to recede from his face in an instant. The alert, confident manner became a tense effort towards naturalness and self-control.

“You will excuse us, Betty. Dr. Peterson and I have matters to discuss.”

He held the door open for her, but she did not budge.

“I am consulting Dr. Peterson, Parker.”

Her husband’s face seemed to grow thin and haggard, with the lights and shadows of the hall for a checkered background. The specialist stood jerking his watch-chain up and down.

“I think,” he began—

Betty turned to him with the air of a mistress of a salon.

“This is a family affair, Dr. Peterson, is it not? There are no secrets that a husband and wife cannot share. I may tell my husband what I believe your opinion to be?”

“My opinion, madam!”

His voice betrayed the rising impatience of a man irritated by finding his discretion taxed beyond its strength. The grim touch of the tragic element banished the veneer of formalism from his face. To pose such a man as Dr. Peterson with a problem in ethics, engendered anger and impatience.

“I am not aware that I have pledged myself to any expression of opinion.”

“No,” and she smiled; “but I can ask you a blunt question, to which ‘yes’ or ‘no’ will be inevitable.”

The specialist met her eyes, and realized that the subtlety of a woman may make a man’s prudence seem ridiculous. He was a rapid thinker, and the complexities of the situation began to shape themselves in his mind. Betty Steel was not a woman whom he would care to hinder with a lie.

“You put me in a most embarrassing position—”

“Believe me, no.”

“With regard to another case I have some authority to speak.”

“Consider my case within your jurisdiction.”

“Betty:” Her husband’s face was turned to hers in miserable reproof. “Remember, we are something to each other. I cannot bear—”

He faltered as he read the unalterable purpose in her eyes. It is the nature of some women to appear incapable of pity when their self-love has received a poignant shock.

“Then, Parker, you admit—”

“For God’s sake, Betty, let me have five minutes’ privacy—”

She looked at him calmly, as though considering his inmost thoughts.

“I think Dr. Peterson can deal with you more forcibly than I can. It is sufficient that we understand each other.”

“Have you no consideration for my self-respect?”

“It is my self-respect that accuses you in this.”

And she turned and left the two men together.