Part 8 (2/2)
The dusk was becoming the dark when he set his foot wearily on the carriage step once more, and with his hand on the carriage door paused suddenly. He was sick of sickness, mortally tired of mortality! For the first time in the whole day he hesitated; an odd, irresolute look came into his face; he pulled out his watch, glanced, and changing his first-given address for another, threw himself back on the cus.h.i.+ons with closed eyes. He did not open them again until the carriage, rolling through many streets, came to a halt under some quiet trees, before an apartment-house. There were yellow daffodils between white curtains--very white and high up. As he stepped out, the Doctor glanced involuntarily towards them, and a half-breath of relief escaped him, instantly quenched in a nervous frown and jump as his arm was seized by a firm gloved hand.
”Doctor,--this is really _providential_! You are the very person I wished to see!”
It was the younger of two heavily upholstered and matronly ladies who spoke, in a voice of many underscorings. The Doctor, who had removed his hat with a purely mechanical motion, knew himself a prey, identified his captor, and eyed her with restrained bitterness.
”Doctor,--it is about my Elsie;--she hasn't a particle of color, and she complains of feeling languid all the time--”
”No wonder!--What do you expect?”--it was the Doctor's harshest tone.
”She is loaded up with flesh,--she doesn't exercise,--you stuff her.
Send her out with her hoop,--make her drink water,--stop stuffing her.
What she, wants is thinning out.”
”_Elsie_!--Why, Doctor, the child eats _nothing_,--I have to tempt her all the time;--and when she goes out she complains of feeling tired.”
”Let her complain,--and let her get tired;--it will do her good. Don't feed her in betweentimes,--and when you do feed her, give her meat--something that will make red blood,--not slops, nor sweets, nor dough. There's nothing in the world the matter with her.” He lifted his hat and strode on up the stairs.
Maternity, grieved and outraged, stared after him, speechless, then turned for sympathy in the nearest feminine eye.
”Really, dear,--I think that was almost _vulgar_,--as well as unkind,” murmured the other mother at her side.
”_Vulgar_! _Unkind_! Well, it is the last time he will have the opportunity to insult me! The idea! _Elsie_!--But it's not the first time I have thought of changing physicians!” (This was true,--but she never did; the solid Elsie was her only one.) ”And such desperate haste;--he must have a _most critical_ case!” She cast an indignant glance at the building, as if to make it an accessory to the fact, and turning a kindling and interrogative glance upon her companion, encountered one of profound and scintillating significance.
For a moment they contemplated their discovery breathlessly in each other's eyes.
”Did you ever!” exclaimed number one at last. ”Oh, of course I had heard things,--but I will do myself the justice to say I _never_ believed a word of it before! _This_, of course, makes it plain enough;--this explains _all_!”
The two--good women, but wounded withal--coruscated subtle knowledge all down the street.
Meantime the Doctor climbed the stairs. He was perfectly conscious that he had been, in fact, both unkind and rude, even though his mood did not incline him to take measure of the extent of his delinquency.
He knew equally that he should presently have to write a note of apology--and that it would not do an atom of good, _Tant pis_. He rang at the door of the daffodil-room, and it was opened by the tall girl whose eyes had hurt him that morning. They did not hurt him now, but enveloped him with a keen and soft regard that left no question unanswered. In another moment she had put out a firm hand and drawn him over the threshold in its clasp.
”Don't speak,--don't try to say a word! There!” She had taken from him his hat and gloves and pushed forward a low chair in front of the fire, all in one capable movement. ”What is it? Tea? Coffee? A gla.s.s of wine?”
”_Music_!” answered the Doctor, raising two haggard eyes, with the exhausted air of an animal taking shelter.
The girl turned away her own and walked towards the piano, stopping on the way, however, to push forward a little table set forth with a steaming tea-urn and cups, matches and a tray, and to lift to its farther edge a bowl of heavy-scented violets. Her every motion was full of ministry, as devoid of fuss.
The room was low, broad, and large, and full of books, flowers, low seats, and leaping firelight. A grand-piano, piled with music, dominated the whole. The girl seated herself before it and began to play, with the beautiful, powerful touch of control. After the first bars, the Doctor's head sank back upon the cus.h.i.+ons of the chair and the Doctor's hand stole mechanically to the matches. He smoked and she played--quiet, large music, tranquilly filling the room: Bach fugues, German Lieder, fragments of weird northern harmonies, fragments of Beethoven and Schubert, the Largo of Handel,--and all the time she played she looked at the man who lay back in the chair, half turned from her, the cigar drooping from his fingers. There was no sound in the room but the music and light leaping of little flames in the fireplace,--no motion but theirs and the pulsing fingers on the keys.
The girl played on and on, till the fire began to die, and with a sudden sigh the Doctor held up his hand. Then she rose at once, and going forward, stood as simply at the side of the fireplace opposite him. She was not beautiful, but, oh, she was beautiful with health and calm vigor.
The Doctor let his eyes rest on her.
”If you knew,” he said, with a little, half-apologetic laugh.
In her turn she held up one of her long hands.
”But I do;--you forget I was there all the morning. And you pulled him through. As for the rest--” She stooped suddenly and began to pile together the logs; the Doctor watched her, noting with a trained and sensitive eye the muscular ease and grace of the supple arms and shoulders--like music. ”Of course”--she spoke lightly--”they will kill you some day, among them; but--it's worth while, isn't it?--and there isn't much else that is, is there?” Still kneeling, she turned and looked straight up at him. ”Do you know what it was like this morning--before you came?”
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