Doctor Cupid: A Novel
'Of course you may,' replies she cheerfully. 'Who hinders you?--stay by
all means!'
He looks confused. He has not the slightest wish to stay. He has only
followed his habitual impulse to say what he imagines to be the
agreeable thing--an impulse that has already led him into many
quagmires, and will lead him into many more.
'I would not be so selfish,' he says with a charming smile of
abnegation; 'I know my place better,' with an expressive glance at the
back of the disappearing John. And, suiting the action to the word, he
disappears too; when she screams after him:
'Give my love to the sack of potatoes and the skeleton!'
By the time that Talbot returns with the cigarette-case the coast is
quite clear, and Betty is at liberty to light her cigarette as soon as
she pleases; a liberty of which she immediately avails herself.
There is a prospect before them of an unbroken _tete-a-tete_ until eight
o'clock. With how deep a joy and elation ought this reflection to fill
him! A year ago it would have done so. To-day with how leaden a foot
does the stable clock pace from quarter to quarter. And yet there is no
lack of talk. He himself, indeed, does not contribute much; but Betty is
in a fine flow. She favours him--not for the first time by many--with
several unamiable traits in Mr. Harborough's character, with the
dreadful things her dearest friend said of her last week--faithfully
reported to her by her second dearest--together with various shady
particulars in the personal history of both friends. She gives him the
latest details of an internecine broil between two ladies, both
candidates for the favour of a great personage. She makes some good
jokes upon the death of a relation, and the approaching collapse of an
intimate acquaintance's reputation; and, in short, dots her _i_'s and
crosses her _t_'s, and calls a spade a spade, and enjoys herself
famously. And _he_? He listens in a sort of wonder.
This, then, is what he has for five years sacrificed his career to.
This, then--to be alone with this--he has manoeuvred for invitations,
planned risky rendezvous, abandoned the hope of home's sanctities. A
heavy leaden sickness seems to steal over him. He is recalled to the
present by a tone of very decided indignation in his lady's voice--his
lady, who, by an easy transition, has slipped from scandal to the hardly
dearer or less dear subject of clothes.
'Shepherd is a beast! Just fancy! he sent me out deer-stalking in a silk
skirt! Why, you are not listening to a word I say!'
It is in vain for him to protest. On cross-examination he shows so
culpable an ignorance as to who Shepherd is--though heaven knows that in
his day he has heard enough of the great woman's tailor--that her
ladyship's anger is heightened instead of appeased.
'You certainly are not amusing to-day,' cries she, flouncing out of the
hammock.
'I never was much of a Jack Pudding,' replies he wearily. 'Was I ever
amusing? I do not recollect it. I think that I left that to you.'
His tone is so dry that she reddens even under her rouge.
'Perhaps it is your finger that pains you too much,' says she, looking
round her armoury for a weapon of offence, and rather cleverly hitting
upon this one. 'We have never got to the bottom of that mysterious wound
yet. I believe it is somehow connected with your Blowsabella. Perhaps
you became too attentive, and she had to set her dog or her cat upon you
in self-defence.'
There is such a horrible caricature of the truth in this supposition,
and her tone is so insulting, that he turns pale, and it is a moment or
two before he can speak; then:
'Do not you think it would be a good thing if you gave up this sort of
joke?' he asks, with a rather dangerous quietness. 'They are not very
ladylike. Had you not better leave them to Julie?'
He has no sooner finished these sentences than Betty bursts into tears.
She had imagined that she was amusing him as much as herself; and,
indeed, he has often before laughed heartily at things not less
ill-natured or more harmless; now the disgust and _ennui_ of his tone
are a disagreeable revelation to her. And besides, as I have before
observed, her paint is of that quality that she may confidently afford
herself a few tears. But even if it were not to be done with safety she
must give way to them now, anger and mortification forcing them from her
eyes.
Now if there is one thing that a waning lover dreads more than a
quarrel, it is the reconciliation that follows it. So, by the time that
Betty has sobbed, and wished herself and him dead, and announced her
intention of telling Mr. Harborough, and going away to-morrow and taking
Freddy Ducane with her, and been apologised to and comforted, her
admirer is reduced to such a pitch of flat lassitude of mind that there
is no bidding of hers which he would not tamely execute. He therefore
acquiesces dumbly when, her smiles being at length restored, she
proposes that they shall go to tea with the Lambtons after all. They can
easily overtake the others, and perhaps it will be more amusing than
sitting here quarrelling--'though there is a certain charm in
quarrelling too!' she adds sentimentally.
As he cannot echo this, he pretends not to hear it. His mind is occupied
by the doubt, which he is unable to resolve, whether her proposal is
dictated by a generous desire to make an _amende_, or by further malice.
She is perfectly capable of either. They have not a very pleasant walk.
Betty's preposterous heels turn under her at every three steps; and
though she always says that she is very fond of the country, she
generally forgets to look at it, while John loves it too heartily and
deeply dear to say anything about it to such ears.
As they near the Red House his heart sinks lower and lower. He has never
had the moral courage to confess his yesterday's visit, and the episode
that marked it. There are ninety-nine chances to one against his
escaping without some inquiry after his finger, some mention of the fox,
some chance allusion which will betray him. And then? what then? Why,
another quarrel, another reconciliation. Pah! No; sooner than face that
he will be telegraphed for back to Downing Street.
They are not kept waiting at the door at all to-day, but are at once
ushered through the house into the garden, where they are told that they
will find Miss Lambton.
As she hears their footsteps she looks up, and sees them
approaching--Betty stepping smartly ahead, and Talbot following
sheepishly behind. He is conscious of there being a sort of false air of
man and wife about them--a happy couple spending their Sunday afternoon
in parading their domestic bliss before their friends. By an intuition
that he would far rather have been without, he sees the same idea
passing through Margaret's mind, and reflected in a sudden cloud, and as
sudden honest redness on her face. Certainly any stranger coming in upon
the scene would be more likely to credit him with the honour of being
Lady Betty's owner than he would the insignificant figure kneeling and
mysteriously bending over something on the top of the stone steps that
lead down a gentle bank from the gravel walk to the sward and the vivid
August borders--a figure whose manoeuvres are interestedly watched by
the rest of the company, and which does not take the trouble to turn its
head an inch at the sound of its wife's voice.
'We have been quarrelling,' cries Betty, with a sprightly candour which
grates horribly upon Talbot, 'and we have come to you to help us to keep
the peace. Oh!'--making a face--'so Ralph is showing you some of his
tricks. I would not look at them if I were you. He will never leave you
any peace if you encourage him! The whole of the first year of our
married life he spent in teaching me to tie knots in my
pocket-handkerchief and swallow spoons; and I have never found that I
have been much the better for either.'
Not a shadow of a smile shows itself upon Margaret's face, but Prue has
smiles enough for the two.
'He is showing us how to mesmerise a hen!' cries she delightedly. 'Oh!
it is _so_ clever! I cannot think how he does it!'
In effect, upon closer examination, Mr. Harborough is seen to be
grappling with a large barn-door fowl, which is squawking a good deal,
and resisting his efforts to hold her nose down upon the stone step;
while Freddy, with a piece of chalk, draws a straight line from her beak
to the end of the step.
'You must none of you speak!' says Mr. Harborough, with authority. 'If
you talk, you will prevent her going off into the mesmeric sleep.'
Dead silence. The protesting squalls have ceased. After a few moments
the hands that hold her are lightly removed. She lies quite still.
'There!' says the operator, in a tone of subdued triumph; 'she will not
awake until the chalk line is rubbed out. Curious, is not it?'
But even as he speaks Dame Partlet, to give him the lie, has struggled
to her legs, and lustily screeching, makes off with her longest stride
and fluttered wings. Instantly the whole company gives chase. John
Talbot, Mr. Harborough, Freddy Ducane, Margaret, Prue, even
Chinese-footed Betty, two collies, and a terrier, who have been standing
officiously round, all off in full cry at once. Across the garden-beds;
through Jacob's best potatoes; over the sunk fence into the open park,
helter-skelter they go--John leading, closely followed by Freddy and Mr.
Harborough, while the three women tear madly behind.
John has got her! Not at all! She has slipped between his fingers, and
he has measured his length on the grass! Then it is Freddy's turn, but
she runs between his legs, and down goes he too. Certainly she is a
gallant hen! John is up again, and now both he and Peggy make an
unsuccessful lunge at her as she passes; and if it had not been for
Mink, who adroitly pinned her by the wing--a feat for which he was
afterwards much blamed, though they profited by his discourtesy--they
would probably still have been tumbling over each other in pursuit of
that speckled hen.
At the moment when Peggy and John had made their joint and futile grab
at the object of their chase, her hand had come with some violence into
contact with his wounded one. Instantly she is off her guard, and down
from her stilts.
'Did I hurt your finger?' very anxiously.
'Not in the least, thanks.'
'Are you quite sure?'
'Quite.'
'But I am afraid that I must have done.'
'I assure you no! How is the fox?'
He adds the last words with a hasty attempt to keep the conversation to
the one topic over which alone they seem fated to be friendly.
'He is very well! better'--with a slight smile--'than he deserves.'
'I should like to see him, to tell him that I bear no malice.'
She looks irresolute for a moment; then, 'Would you? Come this way!'
Before they have made three steps Betty is after them.
'Where are you two making off to in such a hurry?'
'We are going to see the fox,' replies Peggy coldly.
'The fox? What fox?'
'Why, my tame fox,' rejoins Peggy, with a little air of surprise; 'the
one that bit Mr. Talbot when he was here yesterday.'
The murder is out.
'H'm!' says Betty, in a very dry voice; 'so the mystery is solved!'
'What mystery?' asks the other, in a tone of ever colder and growing
astonishment. 'There is no mystery; it is only that my fox escaped from
his house yesterday, and Mr. Talbot was good enough to catch him again
for me; and in so doing was unfortunately bitten. What mystery is there
in that?'
Her displeased blue eyes turn in inquiry from one to the other, but
neither has any answer ready for her. Nor does she again repeat her
question; but Talbot, stealing one guilty look at her, sees that she has
comprehended that he has been afraid to own his visit to her, and that