Читать книгу The Mistress of Shenstone - Barclay Florence Louisa - Страница 2

“What it is to have somebody to talk to, at last! And you, of all people, dear Doctor! Though I still fail to understand how a patient, who has brought you down to these parts, can wait for your visit until to-morrow morning, thus giving a perfectly healthy person, such as myself, the inestimable privilege of your company at tea, dinner, and breakfast, with delightful tête-à-têtes in between. All the world knows your minutes are golden.”

Thus Lady Ingleby, as she poured out the doctor’s tea, and handed it to him.

Deryck Brand placed the cup carefully on his corner of the folding tea-table, helped himself to thin bread-and-butter; then answered, with his most charming smile,

“Mine would be a very dismal profession dear lady, if it precluded me from ever having a meal, or a conversation, or from spending a pleasant evening, with a perfectly healthy person. I find the surest way to live one’s life to the full, accomplishing the maximum amount of work with the minimum amount of strain, is to cultivate the habit of living in the present; giving the whole mind to the scene, the subject, the person, of the moment. Therefore, with your leave, we will dismiss my patients, past and future; and enjoy, to the full, this unexpected tête-à-tête.”

Myra Ingleby looked at her visitor. His forty-two years sat lightly on him, notwithstanding the streaks of silver in the dark hair just over each temple. There was a youthful alertness about the tall athletic figure; but the lean brown face, clean shaven and reposeful, held a look of quiet strength and power, mingled with a keen kindliness and ready comprehension, which inspired trust, and drew forth confidence.

The burden of a great loneliness seemed lifted from Myra’s heart.

“Do you always put so much salt on your bread-and-butter?” she said. “And how glad I am to be ‘the person of the moment.’ Only – until this mysterious ‘patient in the neighbourhood’ demands your attention, – you ought to be having a complete holiday, and I must try to forget that I am talking to the greatest nerve specialist of the day, and only realise the pleasure of entertaining so good a friend of Michael’s and my own. Otherwise I should be tempted to consult you; for I really believe, Sir Deryck, for the first time in my life, I am becoming neurotic.”

The doctor did not need to look at his hostess. His practised eye had already noted the thin cheeks; the haunted look; the purple shadows beneath the lovely grey eyes, for which the dark fringes of black eyelashes were not altogether accountable. He leaned forward and looked into the fire.

“If such is really the case,” he said, “that you should be aware of it, is so excellent a symptom, that the condition cannot be serious. But I want you to remember, Lady Ingleby, that I count all my patients, friends; also that my friends may consider themselves at liberty, at any moment, to become my patients. So consult me, if I can be of any use to you.”

The doctor helped himself to more bread-and-butter, folding it with careful precision.

Lady Ingleby held out her hand for his cup, grateful that he did not appear to notice the rush of unexpected tears to her eyes. She busied herself with the urn until she could control her voice; then said, with a rather tremulous laugh: “Ah, thank you! Presently – if I may – I gladly will consult you. Meanwhile, how do you like ‘the scene of the moment’? Do you consider my boudoir improved? Michael made all these alterations before he went away. The new electric lights are a patent arrangement of his own. And had you seen his portrait? A wonderful likeness, isn’t it?”

The doctor looked around him, appreciatively.

“I have been admiring the room, ever since I entered,” he said. “It is charming.” Then he raised his eyes to the picture over the mantelpiece: – the life-sized portrait of a tall, bearded man, with the high brow of the scholar and thinker; the eyes of the mystic; the gentle unruffled expression of the saint. He appeared old enough to be the father of the woman in whose boudoir his portrait was the central object. The artist had painted him in an old Norfolk shooting-suit, leather leggings, hunting-crop in hand, seated in a garden chair, beside a rustic table. Everything in the picture was homely, old, and comfortable; the creases in the suit were old friends; the ancient tobacco pouch on the table was worn and stained. Russet-brown predominated, and the highest light in the painting was the clear blue of those dreamy, musing eyes. They were bent upon the table, where sat, in an expectant attitude of adoring attention, a white toy-poodle. The palpable devotion between the big man and the tiny dog, the concentrated affection with which they looked at one another, were very cleverly depicted. The picture might have been called: “We two”; also it left an impression of a friendship in which there had been no room for a third. The doctor glanced, for an instant, at the lovely woman on the lounge, behind the silver urn, and his subconsciousness propounded the question: “Where did she come in?” But the next moment he turned towards the large armchair on his right, where a small dejected mass of white curls lay in a huddled heap. It was impossible to distinguish between head and tail.

“Is this the little dog?” asked the doctor.

“Yes; that is Peter. But in the picture he is smart and properly clipped, and feeling better than he does just now. Peter and Michael are devoted to each other; and, when Michael is away, Peter is left in my charge. But I am not fond of small dogs; and I really consider Peter very much spoilt. Also I always feel he just tolerates me because I am Michael’s wife, and remains with me because, where I am, there Michael will return. But I am quite kind to him, for Michael’s sake. Only he really is a nasty little dog; and too old to be allowed to continue. Michael always speaks of him as if he were quite too good to live; and, personally, I think it is high time he went where all good dogs go. I cannot imagine what is the matter with him now. Since yesterday afternoon he has refused all his food, and been so restless and fidgety. He always sleeps on Michael’s bed; and, as a rule, after I have put him there, and closed the door between Michael’s room and mine, I hear no more of Peter, until he barks to be let out in the morning, and my maid takes him down-stairs. But last night, he whined and howled for hours. At length I got up, found Michael’s old shooting jacket – the very one in the portrait – and laid it on the bed. Peter crawled into it, and cuddled down, I folded the sleeves around him, and he seemed content. But to-day he still refuses to eat. I believe he is dyspeptic, or has some other complaint, such as dogs develop when they are old. Honestly – don’t you think – a little effective poison, in an attractive pill – ?”

“Oh, hush!” said the doctor. “Peter may not be asleep.”

Lady Ingleby laughed. “My dear Sir Deryck! Do you suppose animals understand our conversation?”

“Indeed I do,” replied the doctor. “And more than that, they do not require the medium of language. Their comprehension is telepathic. They read our thoughts. A nervous rider or driver can terrify a horse. Dumb creatures will turn away from those who think of them with dislike or aversion; whereas a true lover of animals can win them without a spoken word. The thought of love and of goodwill reaches them telepathically, winning instant trust and response. Also, if we take the trouble to do so, we can, to a great extent, arrive at their ideas, in the same way.”

“Extraordinary!” exclaimed Lady Ingleby. “Well, I wish you would thought-read what is the matter with Peter. I shall not know how to face Michael’s home-coming, if anything goes wrong with his belovèd dog.”

The doctor lay back in his armchair; crossed his knees the one over the other; rested his elbows on the arms of the chair; then let his finger-tips meet very exactly. Instinctively he assumed the attitude in which he usually sat when bending his mind intently on a patient. Presently he turned and looked steadily at the little white heap curled up in the big armchair.

The room was very still.

“Peter!” said the doctor, suddenly.

Peter sat up at once, and peeped at the doctor, through his curls.

“Poor little Peter,” said the doctor, kindly.

Peter moved to the edge of the chair; sat very upright, and looked eagerly across to where the doctor was sitting. Then he wagged his tail, tapping the chair with quick, anxious, little taps.

“The first wag I have seen in twenty-four hours,” remarked Lady Ingleby; but neither Deryck Brand nor Shockheaded Peter heeded the remark.

The anxious eyes of the dog were gazing, with an agony of question, into the kind keen eyes of the man.

Without moving, the doctor spoke.

“Yes, little Peter,” he said.

Peter’s small tufted tail ceased thumping. He sat very still for a moment; then quietly moved back to the middle of the chair, turned round and round three or four times; then lay down, dropping his head between his paws with one long shuddering sigh, like a little child which has sobbed itself to sleep.

The doctor turned, and looked at Lady Ingleby.

“What does that mean?” queried Myra, astonished.

“Little Peter asked a question,” replied Sir Deryck, gravely; “and I answered it.”

“Wonderful! Will you talk this telepathy over with Michael when he comes home? It would interest him.”

The doctor looked into the fire.

“It is a big subject,” he said. “When I can spare the time, I am thinking of writing an essay on the mental and spiritual development of animals, as revealed in the Bible.”

“Balaam’s ass?” suggested Lady Ingleby, promptly.

The doctor smiled. “Quite so,” he said. “But Balaam’s ass is neither the only animal in the Bible, nor the most interesting case. Have you ever noticed the many instances in which animals immediately obeyed God’s commands, even when those commands ran counter to their strongest instincts? For instance: – the lion, who met the disobedient man of God on the road from Bethel. The instinct of the beast, after slaying the man, would have been to maul the body, drag it away into his lair, and devour it. But the Divine command was: – that he should slay, but not eat the carcass, nor tear the ass. The instinct of the ass would have been to flee in terror from the lion; but, undoubtedly, a Divine assurance overcame her natural fear; and all men who passed by beheld this remarkable sight: – a lion and an ass standing sentry, one on either side of the dead body of the man of God; and there they remained until the old prophet from Bethel arrived, to fetch away the body and bury it.”

“Extraordinary!” said Lady Ingleby. “So they did. And now one comes to think of it there are plenty of similar instances. The instinct of the serpent which Moses lifted up on a pole, would have been to come scriggling down, and go about biting the Israelites, instead of staying up on the pole, to be looked at for their healing.”

The doctor smiled. “Quite so,” he said, “Only, we must not quote him as an instance; because, being made of brass, I fear he was devoid of instinct. Otherwise he would have been an excellent case in point. And I believe animals possess far more spiritual life than we suspect. Do you remember a passage in the Psalms which says that the lions ‘seek their meat from God’? And, more striking still, in the same Psalm we read of the whole brute creation, that when God hides His face ‘they are troubled.’ Good heavens!” said the doctor, earnestly; “I wish our spiritual life always answered to these two tests: – that God’s will should be paramount over our strongest instincts; and that any cloud between us and the light of His face, should cause us instant trouble of soul.”

“I like that expression ‘spiritual life,’” said Lady Ingleby. “I am sure you mean by it what other people sometimes express so differently. Did you hear of the Duchess of Meldrum attending that big evangelistic meeting in the Albert Hall? I really don’t know exactly what it was. Some sort of non-sectarian mission, I gather, with a preacher over from America; and the meetings went on for a fortnight. It would never have occurred to me to go to them. But the dear old duchess always likes to be ‘in the know’ and to sample everything. Besides, she holds a proprietary stall. So she sailed into the Albert Hall one afternoon, in excellent time, and remained throughout the entire proceedings. She enjoyed the singing; thought the vast listening crowd, marvellous; was moved to tears by the eloquence of the preacher, and was leaving the hall more touched than she had been for years, and fully intending to return, bringing others with her, when a smug person, hovering about the entrance, accosted her with: ‘Excuse me madam; are you a Christian?’ The duchess raised her lorgnette in blank amazement, and looked him tip and down. Very likely the tears still glistened upon her proud old face. Anyway this impossible person appears to have considered her a promising case. Emboldened by her silence, he laid his hand upon her arm, and repeated his question: ‘Madam, are you a Christian?’ Then the duchess awoke to the situation with a vengeance. ‘My good man,’ she said, clearly and deliberately, so that all in the lobby could hear; ‘I should have thought it would have been perfectly patent to your finely trained perceptions, that I am an engaging mixture of Jew, Turk, Infidel, and Heathen Chinee! Now, if you will kindly stand aside, I will pass to my carriage.’ – And the duchess sampled no more evangelistic meetings!”

The doctor sighed. “Tactless,” he said. “Ah, the pity of it, when ‘fools rush in where angels fear to tread!’”

“People scream with laughter, when the duchess tells it,” said Lady Ingleby; “but then she imitates the unctuous person so exactly; and she does not mention the tears. I have them from an eye-witness. But – as I was saying – I like your expression: ‘spiritual life.’ It really holds a meaning; and, though one may have to admit one does not possess any, or, that what one does possess is at a low ebb, yet one sees the genuine thing in others, and it is something to believe in, at all events. – Look how peacefully little Peter is sleeping. You have evidently set his mind at rest. That is Michael’s armchair; and, therefore, Peter’s. Now we will send away the tea-things; and then – may I become a patient?”