Must we talk of perversity? Perhaps Mrs. Kewdingham was a real heroine, like Jael or Judith; certainly she was a much finer woman than Delilah. In any case, are there not heroes of evil as well as heroes of good?
Such was the state of affairs, a state of high tension and of dreadful uncertainties, at the middle of March.
3
Whether it was prudent of him to do so, or not, the doctor could not refrain from calling at Wellington Avenue three or four times a week. Just running in for a minute or so in the course of a round. And Mrs. Kewdingham continued her friendly practice of going down to the doctor’s house and giving him the benefit of her excellent advice on the subject of his new decorations, his rugs, his carpets and papers.
And why was the doctor so anxious to arrange his house to the liking of Mrs. Kewdingham? Why did he look at her so closely, so professionally, when she tried the fit of a new chair-cover, or shook with her graceful arm the long folds of a curtain?
If you had seen him—the dapper, slim, alert little man—
you would have been reminded, not so much of a lover gazing at his mistress as of an ex-jockey admiring the lines of a thoroughbred. He looked as if he was calculating, making a valuation, fixing a price or guessing a pedigree. Doctors—particularly elderly doctors—are not like other people. Very often, of course, they talked about Robert.
Mrs. Kewdingham could not help deploring the irritability of her husband and his wilful disregard of good manners. He was talking more frequently of his Atlantis life: always a bad sign.
“Illusions?” The doctor was interested.
“Well, I hardly know what to call them.”
“I mean, he doesn’t see apparitions or anything like that?”
“Not as far as I know. He keeps on muttering about a temple and a pyramid and the wisdom of the Israelite. It all sounds to me like utter nonsense.”
“So it is, of course,” said the doctor. “I will call professionally this afternoon.”
And when the doctor did call he was very much interested by Robert’s appearance. The colour of the poor man’s face was like that of yellow ash, and he appeared to be racked by a painful and unremitting anxiety. Now this look of anxiety, as the doctor knew, is a symptom of metallic poisoning. Of course, it may just as well be the symptom of something else, but in this case you can hardly blame the doctor for jumping to a conclusion.
“Acidity!” cried the hopeful Bagge, shaking his forefinger with a gesture of reproach. “Oh, come, come!—we can’t have this. What have you been eating?”
Ah, yes! What had he been eating? That was the point.
“Oh, just the ordinary things, as far as I know.”
“Well, I should be careful. Go on with your mixture, and I’ll send you a little corrective as well. Touch of acidity; there’s no doubt about it. You are not worried over anything, are you?”
“No, certainly not.”
And then Robert suddenly turned upon the doctor a fearful gelatinous eye, magnified by the shimmering disc of his monocle.
“I say, Bagge, have you ever heard the voice of the ages?”
The doctor suddenly stiffened himself in his chair. “No,” he said, “I haven’t.” He froze up in a rigid professional concentration, his eyes like two little bits of blue, irradiating steel.
“Wonderful—wonderful!” Robert’s chin was drooping over his crumpled neck-tie. He was not looking at the doctor, but apparently at a heap of pearly oyster-shells on the hearthrug. “Wonderful! The voice of ancient wisdom!”
“You had better not think about it,” said the doctor, staring hard at Robert’s neck and forehead.
Cerebral disturbance—most interesting.
“Why should I not think about it? Time is lost in the stream of the ages; wisdom remains. Atlantis, Egypt, Israel. Do you understand? We are one with Israel in the keeping of wisdom. The High Priest of Atlantis…No; of course, you don’t understand. You think I am talking nonsense.”
“By no means. Not at all, my dear chap. On the contrary I am very much interested, very deeply interested. Look here—” the doctor snatched up a folded newspaper from the table—”can you read this?” He pushed the paper in front of Robert’s face and pointed at random with his finger.
It was a critical experiment.
Robert Arthur proceeded to read:
“Firm conditions ruled in the stock markets yesterday. Although business remained small, the tendency of prices was favourable to holders, and there were indications that more active conditions may develop after the holidays. A slight improvement—”
Doctor Bagge suddenly jerked the paper up and down, peering closely into Robert’s eyes.
Robert was disagreeably startled. He blinked.
“Here, Bagge! What on earth are you doing?”
“Only testing your eyesight, my dear fellow. There’s no reason for you to be worried, I can assure you. As for the acidity, we can easily cure it.”
Five minutes later, the doctor left the house.
“Well, I’m damned!” he said to himself as he walked up the Avenue. He had never been more completely puzzled. Kewdingham had mental symptoms, but he was able to concentrate and his reactions were normal. He was not in the accepted sense of the term a lunatic. There was evidently a slight gastric disorder—nothing of any consequence. There was nothing which could be attributed to the enormous doses of alum chlorate that he was swallowing, presumably, every day. How could this be explained? Was it the result of interference, neglect, or physical idiosyncrasy? Close observation was desirable. There might be a collapse at any moment. But how the dickens did he manage to hold out for so long?
“He’s enough to drive any decent ordinary practitioner out of his wits, indeed he is. Poor Mrs. Kew—poor Bertha!—poor dear Bertha!”
4
At the end of March John paid a flying visit to Shufflecester. He went there for the purpose of assisting his aunt, Mrs. Pyke, in the settlement of certain family matters. Casually, he asked her how the Kewdinghams were getting on.
“Well, John—I never could abide that woman, as we used to say.” The angular dame sniffed sharply out of her long carinated nose.
“She looks very cross, and talks very roughly to poor old Bobby. I don’t know how he can put up with it at all. I often feel like giving her a bit of my mind.”
“Oh, come! I think Robert knows very well how to answer for himself. If it is a matter of mere rudeness—”
“It’s not only that. The whole town is talking about her—the way she goes running round to Doctor Bagge’s house and spending hours alone with him.”
“Oh?” said John.
“Yes. Not very nice for the family, is it? We’ve been here for thirty-seven years, and there’s never been a breath of scandal until now.”
“Hardly a scandal, I should say. Bagge is a queer little fellow, but he’s a respectable practitioner, and he wouldn’t risk his reputation. And I should certainly trust Bertha. I think she advises him about the affairs of his house. You will probably find that everything is grossly exaggerated—about her visits, I mean.”
The formidable aunt rose up stiffly out of her chair with a cracking of hip-joints.
“I make allowances for exaggeration. Even then it’s bad enough. I have told Bobby quite frankly that I should go to another doctor.”
“Really! And did he agree with you?”
“All the Kewdinghams are as obstinate as mules. He said that he had entire confidence in Doctor Bagge.”
John, trying to feel that he, too, had entire confidence in Doctor Bagge, ran round to Wellington Avenue. And here he committed a fatal indiscretion.
Robert Arthur, not anticipating this call, had gone out to walk over some ploughed fields, where he was no doubt looking for things probably Roman. Bertha was at home, but she was going, at four o’clock, to have tea wi
th the Poundle-Quaintons: it was unavoidable.
Now John had a suggestion to make. Could not Bertha go with him some afternoon to Crawley?—It was only about ten miles from Shufflecester, and he would pick her up with the car. It would be very pleasant, surely. Or why only an afternoon? Why not make a day of it, taking their lunch and exploring the hills and woods? But she refused to give him a definite answer. She would write to him. He thought her nervy, capricious. As they stood by the open door of the drawing-room he gave her a final kiss.
He should have known better. There was a rustling, obscure movement in the darkness of the landing, and he caught a glimpse of the maid Martha descending the stairs.
5
April came. April with all her symphonic variations of blue and green, her pretty gambols of youth.
But spring had no message for Robert Arthur. He was very unwell. Nothing could induce him to follow Mrs. Pyke’s excellent advice and see another doctor; he went on doggedly swallowing Bagge’s mixture, and the mixture got pinker and pinker and Robert got worse and worse.
The doctor now anticipated a sudden collapse. He could not explain Robert’s phenomenal resistance. Had it not been for the scientific interest of the experiment he would have tried something else. But he was quite as dogged as Robert himself. He was giving him an aluminium compound of extraordinary strength; he could hardly make it stronger or give him any more. Surely the end was near.
It was; but not the end anticipated by Dr. Bagge.
Mrs. Kewdingham, on her part, was equally persistent; and so the awful bombardment went on—more lead, more aluminium; acetate, chlorate; ounces, packets, bottles.
In spite of this effective neutralisation, Robert was ill. Perhaps he was not being poisoned in the strict sense of the word, but he was being put out of gear. If there was no toxic result from these preposterous doses, there was a very definite mechanical result. Too much time and too much space were taken up by this internal wrestling-match; even though the match ended, and was likely to end always, in a draw—or more properly, in a withdrawal.
On one occasion it was touch and go. Kewdingham, although he had such confidence in Doctor Bagge, decided that he had taken enough of the mixture. The doses were discontinued for a whole day. Whereupon the acetate, finding a free field, rioted about in the most disastrous manner.
“But, my dear chap, are you taking your medicine? No! Good gracious! What are you thinking about?”
So the aluminium, only just in time, came hurrying back to the arena. Murderous Bagge again rescued a threatened life. It was the strangest of situations, and the most bewildering for all concerned.
This episode very naturally restored Robert’s faith in his pink medicine and in the professional ability of Dr. Bagge.
Again the situation was a deadlock. It would be interesting to speculate on the probable course of events if things had been different. Let us assume that Kewdingham had gone away—as he actually suggested—for a change. Would he have taken a bottle of Bagge’s mixture away with him? On the other hand, suppose that he did listen to Mrs. Pyke and threw over the family doctor? Indeed, there is no end to these conjectures. But the Kewdingham drama was to follow a strange and a most unexpected course. It was to follow a course which led, by grim stages, to the transcendent region of pure mystery.
6
On a Sunday afternoon, early in April, the Poundle-Quaintons called at Number Six. Kewdingham had not been to see them as frequently as usual, and they were disturbed by his appearance of ill health, and also by some very uncharitable rumours.
The old man was asleep upstairs. Bertha was out for a walk with Michael. As for Robert, he was peering in a disconsolate way over the odds and ends of his vast collection. He came down to open the door, and as soon as the Poundle-Quaintons saw his face they were filled with alarm.
“Bobby! What’s the matter?”
To this chirruping anxiety Robert answered:
“Oh, nothing! Come upstairs.”
His manner was testy, rude; his voice rough, unmodulated. In his face there was a blending of surliness and vacancy.
“Hadn’t you better see another doctor?” said Aunt Bella as they stumped up slowly over the oil-cloth.
Robert gave her no answer. Never before had he behaved like this.
The poor ladies were chilled, puzzled and rather frightened. They followed him silently into the littered drawing-room. Robert lifted peevishly from a couple of chairs a box, a tray and several packages and let them fall noisily upon the table.
“Are we disturbing you, Bobby?”
“Well—I’m classifying some of these things.”
“We were anxious to see how you were getting on.”
“Getting on? From what I can see, people would be better pleased if I got off and had done with it.”
The wretched man turned upon them the same awful gelatinous eye which had roused the fears, or the hopes, of Doctor Bagge.
“My dear!” cried Ethel, pressing her thin fingers on her breast in a spasm of horror.
Kewdingham merely grunted.
“What do you mean?” said Aunt Bella, not without indignation. “I had no idea that you were so ill. Why don’t you go up to London to see a really first-rate doctor?”
“Why should I? Can you show any reason why I should go dragging on like this? What’s the use of it?”
Ethel turned pale. “Oh, Bobby!—”
But Aunt Bella, who was older and wiser, and who despised weakness in a man, raised her brittle hand, commanding silence.
“What you need, Bobby, is a bottle or two of good port, less medicine, and a change of air. It is not impossible that Doctor Bagge is giving you the wrong treatment.”
“If it was not for Bagge I should have been dead weeks ago,” said Kewdingham, not realising the literal truth of his words. “Whether I should be grateful to him is another matter.”
Tears filled the gentle eyes of Miss Ethel. “You have no right to say such awful things.”
“Look here, Bobby.” Aunt Bella, shaken though she was, decided to have no more nonsense. “Look here, Bobby! What you are saying is absurd. Do, for goodness’ sake, be a man. You are out of sorts, and you are just giving way, as though you were a silly child. I won’t listen to such stuff any longer. Either you change the conversation, or we go.”
“You—you ought to think of the family,” said Ethel with a jerking sob. “You ought to think of others.”
“Oh, very well then!” cried Robert in a shrill, serrated voice. “Oh, certainly! Have it your own way. Talk about anything you like.”
He was obviously demented.
The Poundle-Quaintons, full of dismay, ran off to Mrs. Pyke.
Mrs. Pyke listened rather grimly. “It’s all the fault of that woman,” she said. Aunt Bella decided immediately that she would have a word with Bertha—without alarming her, of course.
So much may be done by a word in due season.
7
While the old lady was deploring the awful decay of her nephew, John was arranging to spend an afternoon with Bertha, in accordance with his suggestion. On the appointed day he would come to Shufflecester, with his car, at two o’clock.
When the day came it was dull and showery, though fortunately not cold.
Bertha looked ill, nervous and over-strained.
“John! There are two women from Shufflecester on the road just behind us. I’m sure they know me.”
“Oh, never mind!” replied John. “They are of no account.”
“No, but—”
“Come along, come along! How fine it is to see you! I have got tea in the car, and rugs, and all that we need. We shall reach the woods in a few minutes. Why do you look so unhappy?”
She smiled, but said nothing, as she stepped into the car.
A trackway, sandy and furrowed, led from the
main road through the woods. John turned up the trackway and came to a stop on a patch of dusty grass by the side of it. They walked into a coppice of young firs and larches, put their rugs on a layer of dry brown leaves and sat down.
Bertha took off her hat, and then she looked at herself in a little mirror, patting her hair. Then she looked at John.
“Are you angry with me?”
“Angry! My dear woman!”
He felt embarrassed. There was something tragic, restrained, about her which he could not fathom.
“Listen to me, John. I want to talk to you. There are so many things I want to say.”
“Well?” It was best to be patient.
“I am afraid of something. Bobby has been very strange lately. I don’t understand him.”
“Is he ill?”
“He is very ill. John—he is dying.”
“Dying! How on earth do you know? What do you mean? Why didn’t you write to me? What are they doing about it?” He did not believe her. “Why, there was nothing wrong when I saw him the other day.”
“He does not know it. The others do not know it. But I am positively certain.”
“And what does the doctor think?”
“The doctor thinks I am wrong.”
“Well—I should be inclined to believe him.”
“No, John. I tell you he is bound to die, he must die—very soon.” She spoke in a low voice, but with harsh intensity.
“Bertha! You cannot possibly know.”
“I do know.”
“No, you don’t! How can you? What you mean is that you observe a certain change—”
“After all,” she said, brusquely jerking her head and shoulders with a vigorous, liberating movement, as if she was throwing off a load, “who would blame me if I did something desperate?”
“My dear!” cried John, deliberately shutting the door on a horrible thought.
Chapter X
1
The Chaddlewicks, when they called at Number Six Wellington Avenue, noticed the change in Robert Arthur. He put on the airs of a martyr, and told them with rasping intensity that he was extremely unwell.
Family Matters Page 13