Doctor Cupid: A Novel
His sister! What a relief! It would have been so humiliating to have had
her strongest taste degraded by a community with painted, posturing
Betty.
'You have a sister?'
'_Had._ There is a good deal of difference.'
And with that he leaves her abruptly. But he returns next day at the
same hour; and, as there has blown a boisterous wind in the night, which
has prostrated top-heavy plants, torn off leaves, and scattered
flower-petals, she has not the heart to refuse his aid in a general
tidying and sweeping up. Next day he clips the edges of the borders
very nicely with a pair of shears; and the next day they gather lavender
off the same bush. Gathering lavender, particularly off the same bush,
is a good deal more productive of talk than mowing; nor is it possible
to her to keep her new servant within the bounds of a silence to which
she had never attempted to confine her old one.
But, indeed, by the time that they have come to the lavender day the
wish for his silence has ceased. On the second--the general sweeping
day--he had told her about his sister--had told her in short dry
sentences how he had lost her; and she had cried out of sympathy for him
who did not cry, and had said to herself, 'What if it had been my Prue?'
On the third day, though assuredly no word or hint of Betty had passed
his lips, somehow, by woman's instinct, sharpened by observation, she
has sprung to a conclusion, not very erroneous, as to his garish
mock-happiness and his shattered life. On the fourth day she asks
herself why he never comes except in the forenoon; and herself answers
the question, that it is because lazy Betty lies late, and until one
o'clock has no knowledge of his comings or goings. On the fifth day she
resolves that he shall come in the afternoon. She will be visited openly
or not at all. So when, giving his bundle of lavender into her hands, he
says with a valedictory formula, 'The same hour to-morrow?' she answers
quietly:
'I am afraid not; I have an engagement with Mrs. Evans for to-morrow
morning; we must give up the garden to-morrow, unless'--as if with an
afterthought--'unless you could come later--some time in the afternoon?'
His countenance falls. What property has he in his own afternoons? His
weary afternoons of hammock and scandal and cigarettes?
'I am afraid----' he begins; but at once he sees her face hardening. She
knows. She understands. Cost what it may, he will not see again in her
mouth and eyes that contempt whose dawning he had once before detected,
to the embittering of his rest. He will not leave her with those tight
lips and that stern brow. Pay for it as he may, he will do her bidding.
'At what hour, then?' he asks readily. 'Four? five? it is all one to
me.'
She hesitates a moment. She has laid a trap for him, and he has not
fallen into it.
'Shall we say five?'
He sees the surprise in her look, and is rewarded by it. But as he walks
home he ponders. How is he to break to Betty the act of insubordination
of which he has pledged himself to be guilty? For the last week he has
been leading a double life; dissembling his happy mornings from the
monopoliser of his weary afternoons. A sense of shame and revolt comes
over him. He will dissemble no longer. Know as he may that from the
tyranny whose yoke he himself fastened about his neck--from the chain
which he himself has encouraged to eat into his life, only death or
Betty's manumission can--according to honour's distorted code--free him;
yet there is no reason why he should deny himself the solace of such a
friendship as a good woman who divines his miserable story will accord
him: a woman who lies under no delusion as to his being a free agent; in
whose clear eyes--their innocence not being a stupid ignorance--he has
read her acquaintance with his history; and whose strong heart can run
no danger from the company of one whom she despises. Nor as the time
draws near, though the natural man's aversion from vexing anything
weaker than itself, coupled with his knowledge of his lady's unusual
tear-and-invective power, may make him wince at the thought of the
coming contest, does his resolution at all flag as to asserting and
sticking to his last remnant of liberty. He might, as it happens, have
cut the knot by flight, Betty having given him the occasion by
forsaking him for a game of billiards with Freddy; but he is determined
to fight the battle out on the open field. She has rejoined him now, and
the weather being fresher than it was, and Betty the chilliest of
mortals, they are walking briskly up and down the terrace, she wrapped
in a 'fluther' of lace and feathers, and with her children frisking
round her, a good and happy young matron. She is very happy just now,
dear Betty. She has beaten Freddy at billiards, and made him break tryst
with Prue. She is going to make him break another to-morrow. Is it any
wonder that she looks bright and sweet? Little Franky has hold of her
hand; and Lily is backing along the gravel walk before her. Betty
laughs.
'Can you imagine what can be the pleasure of walking backwards with your
tongue out?' asks she of Talbot. 'Franky darling, you are pulling my
hand off; would not you like to run away and play with Lily?'
But the little spoilt fellow only clutches her fingers the tighter.
'No, no; I like to stay with you, mammy!'
'And so you shall,' cries she, hugging him; 'you shall always do
whatever you like. But Lily'--in a colder key--'you may run away; we do
not want you. What are you staring at me so for, child?'
Lily puts her head on one side, and hoisting up her shoulder to meet her
cheek, rubs them gently together, with her favourite gesture.
'I was only thinking, mammy,' replies she pensively, 'what much smaller
ears than yours Miss Lambton has. Do you think that she will grow deaf
sooner than other people because her ears are so small?'
'Nonsense!' rejoins the mother sharply; 'do not get into the habit of
asking stupid questions. Run away!'
'Out of the mouth of babes and sucklings,' etc. The way has been paved
for Talbot in a way that he could not have expected. Miss Harborough
walks away slowly, dragging her legs, and with a very deep reluctance.
She scents an interesting conversation in the air.
'It is odd that Lily should have mentioned Miss Lambton,' says Talbot,
taking the plunge; 'for I was just going to mention her myself.'
'It is what you do not often do,' replies Betty drily; '"out of the
abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh," cannot be said of you.'
'Her gardener is ill,' continues Talbot, leaving unnoticed this little
fling, and speaking in as matter-of-fact a tone as he can assume; 'and I
promised to help her to water her garden. By the bye'--with an
unnecessary glance at the stable clock--'if you could spare me for half
an hour--I said I would be there by five--I ought to be off.'
There is an ominous silence. Then:
'How do you know that her gardener is ill? Did she think it necessary to
write and communicate that interesting fact to you?'
'No.'
'She has not been here since Monday?'
'I believe not.'
'Then you have been there?'
'Yes.'
'What day?'
He hesitates. Shall he make a clean breast of it? Yes; 'in for a penny,
in for a pound.'
'I have been there five days,' replies he slowly, and looking down.
Another pause. He keeps his eyes resolutely averted from her face, but
he hears an angry catch in her breath.
'In the morning, I suppose, before I was up?'
'Yes.'
She breaks into a rather shrill laugh.
'What an incentive to early rising! The early Blowsabel picks the
worm.'
Her tone is so inexpressibly insulting that he has to bite his lips hard
to keep in the furious retort that rises to them; but he masters
himself. Of what use to bandy words with an angry woman? And, after all,
from her point of view she has some cause of complaint. Franky has
altered his mind, and trotted off after his senior, for whose
tree-climbing, cat-teasing, general mischief-doing powers he entertains
a respect tempered with fear. They are alone.
Betty is walking along with her nose in the air, a smile of satisfied
ire at the happiness of her last shaft giving a malicious upward curve
to her pretty mouth.
'How I should have laughed,' says she presently, 'if any fortune-teller
had told me that it would be my fate to be supplanted by a sa----'
'You are going to say "a sack of potatoes,"' says he, interrupting her.
'Do not. If you must call names, invent a new one!'
'Why give myself that trouble,' asks she insolently, 'when the old one
fits so admirably? _Supplanted by a sack!_' (dwelling with prolonged
relish on the obnoxious noun). 'What a good title for a novel! Ah!
Freddy, my child!' catching sight of the young fellow, who is just
stepping out of the window of the drawing-room. 'I was afraid you had
gone to dry your skeleton's eyes. Come and dry mine instead: I assure
you they need it much more.'
As she speaks she goes hurriedly to meet Ducane, and disappears with him
round a corner of the house.
Talbot is free to pursue his scheme with what heart he may. The last ten
minutes' conversation has taken all the bloom off his project. That the
whole pleasure to himself has been eliminated from it is, however, no
reason why he should break his word to Peggy, and, if he wishes to obey
her with the punctuality that he has always hitherto shown, he must set
off at once. He begins to walk towards a turn-stile that leads into the
park!
CHAPTER XI
'Her cheeks so rare a white was on,
No daisy makes comparison
(Who sees them is undone);
For streaks of red were mingled there,
Such as are on a Catherine pear,
The side that's next the sun.'
He has not gone above a hundred yards when he hears a small thunder of
feet behind him, and turning, finds Miss Harborough flying at the top of
her speed to overtake him.
'Mammy said I might go with you,' cries she breathlessly.
He stops and hesitates. Is it possible that she has sent this innocent
child to be an unconscious spy upon him?
'Mammy said I might go with you,' repeats Lily, seeing his hesitation,
and beginning to drop her long lashes, and rub her cheek with her
shoulder, according to her most approved methods of fascination.
'But I did not say so,' returns he gravely.
'Oh, but you will,' cries she, flinging herself boisterously into his
arms; 'and I--I'll help you over the stiles.'
Who could resist such a bribe as this? Certainly not Talbot. They walk
off amicably hand-in-hand. After all, he ought to be thankful for
anything that distracts him from his own thoughts, which are certainly
neither pleasant nor profitable enough to be worth thinking. To-day he
is sad, not only on his own account, but on Margaret's. Short as has
been the time of his acquaintance with her, he has got into a habit,
which seems long, of being sorry with her sorrows. He knows that to-day
will be a black day for Prue, and that Peggy will be darkened in
company. Is it not better then, seeing that he cannot stir a finger to
lift the weight from the three hearts he would fain lighten, that he
should have his eight-year-old companion's chatter to be distracted by,
that he should be initiated into the hierarchy of her affections, and
learn the order and degree in which her relations and friends are dear
to her? He is surprised and flattered at the extremely high place
assigned to himself immediately after father, and some way above mammy;
but is less exhilarated on finding out that he shares it with the
odd-man, who has made and presented a whistle to her.
'And Franky? where does Franky come?' asks John, really quite interested
in the subject.
'My dear little brother!' exclaims Lily, with an extravagant affection