Читать книгу Put Out the Light - Ethel Lina White - Страница 11

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AS Dr. Lawrence walked into Anthea's blue-and-silver bedroom, the following afternoon, he thought of his other patient—little Mrs. Learoyd. She always reminded him of a French doll, for she was small, with short black hair and a bright colour. Unfortunately, however, she had not the placid disposition which accompanied sawdust stuffing, for she was a mass of sensitized emotions and romantic inhibitions, which she fed, thrice weekly, at the pictures.

Lawrence had great difficulty in persuading her to consent to the little operation. It was in vain that he assured her that half the children in the world were having their adenoids removed daily, and that the other half would be the better without them.

In the end, he appealed to her vanity, as he hinted that a muffled voice detracted from a woman's charm. Mrs. Learoyd gave way, but she made him promise that he would perform the operation himself.

"I want you to hold my hand when I go under, doctor," she said. "And I want you to be the first person I see when I wake up again."

"With a clear bell-like voice," he reminded her, lying in a good cause.

Dr. Lawrence had given her his word. He was sincerely sorry that his engagements had clashed; but as Wednesday afternoon was early closing day, it was the most convenient time to operate, at home, upon a tradesman's wife.

As he took Miss Vine's hand, with the exaggerated homage that he always displayed towards her, he did not see the froth of her honeysuckle wrapper, which she was wearing for the delight of his eyes. He saw instead, little Mrs. Learoyd, with her dark, childish fringe, and her scarlet dressing gown, which suited her so well.

When he had written off her date, it seemed expedient to give in to his influential patient's whim; he had to consider his own interest before the fancies of an hysterical woman, who, in her time, had taken too large a dose of Valentino.

But, even as he smiled back at Anthea, he had a clear vision of the large bedroom in High Street, with the new Axminster carpet and the twin brass bedsteads, of which Mrs. Learoyd was so proud. He saw the empty shop below, with its sides of bacon and boxes of crystallized fruit, in the unfamiliar shuttered gloom.

A little pang rent him at the thought of his broken promise, and he had a sudden mad impulse to make some excuse to Anthea and dash back to High Street, to keep his appointment.

A glance at his watch restored him to prudence; it was past three. Mrs. Learoyd would have taken the anaesthetic, and, if the going was good, the operation would be nearly over.

But Mrs. Learoyd was not unconscious. At that moment she was crying, and screaming, and swearing by all her gods that Dr. Williams should not touch her throat.

For many hours past, she had been working herself up to a fever-temperature of fright. In every incident or object, she had seen a presentiment or omen. Only last night she had dreamed that she was back at the Crown, pulling away at a black draped beer-engine, and the customers had given her white camellias, instead of money, as payment for their drinks.

She had made up this dream, as well as the other about a ride in a coach, which was not the Rolls of her secret ambition; but they frightened her just as much as the realities. It was in vain that her husband scolded, the doctor argued, the nurse soothed. She declared that she would not have her adenoids removed.

In the end, she got her way, as women will; for Dr. Williams did not operate on her throat.

Anthea was swift to notice the slight abstraction of Dr. Lawrence's manner.

"Car running well?" she asked casually.

He threw her one swift glance from under his heavy lids; but the next second he was again her flattering courtier. In those three words she had him to heel.

Downstairs, in the library, there was open mutiny. Iris sat with her knees drawn up to her chin, as she stared into the fire. She wore a tawny pull-over, which matched her hair, and a string of amber beads in which the firelight glowed.

"Our position here is utterly degrading," she declared. "We ought to clear out—and save our souls."

Francis took his long nose out of his book.

"Where?" he asked.

"Anywhere."

"That's just where I went. And I came back again."

"We aren't like you," flashed Charles, taking sides with Iris.

"No," agreed Francis coolly. "The difference between us is that you would come back when your money was gone. But I came back after my money was gone."

Iris looked at him curiously, as though she were seeing him from a new angle. She reminded herself that this supercilious young man, with the polished hair, had actually rebelled against Anthea. He had been lost for several months in London, before he sent a request, on a dirty unstamped post card, for a return ticket. She remembered, too, that he had been very thin, on his return.

"When I am a parson," continued Francis, in his pedantic voice, "I am, naturally, going to preach on the beauty of high thinking and empty bellies. No, I'm not being coarse, Iris. I prefer the purity of Anglo-Saxon. But starvation ennobled me only to this extent. I made a solemn vow that I'd lie, steal or kill, before I went hungry again. It's too unpleasant. And I'm proud to add that, such is the strength of my character, I've kept my vow, dear brethren."

"Oh, shut up, you big stiff," growled Charles. "Can't you see we're serious. Iris and I are fed up. Every time, of late, that Anthea sticks her painted mug up to mine, I feel I'd rather clear out, and break stones."

"Only there's very strong competition for your stone-breaking job," Francis reminded him.

Then he turned to Iris.

"What I can't understand," he said, "is why you stick it. With your picturesque looks and wand-like figure, you could get a job as mannequin."

Iris bit her lip at his suggestion.

"Don't expose your ignorance," she said. "Don't you know that mannequins are only in seasonal demand?"

"Then what about the stage? Of course, I'm not ignorant enough to suggest that you try for the chorus. But why not try to wangle a job as leading lady? You're sufficiently inaudible, and you can play at playing golf."

"And why are you so anxious that I, alone, should preserve my self-respect?" asked Iris.

"Because you are a woman, and women are our mothers. True, you are not my mother; but I was born first, and my father preferred blondes."

Iris tossed back her hair impatiently and stared again into the red heart of the fire.

"I'm not being funny," she said. "Of course, I can understand why Anthea hangs on to you two. In view of her special complex, that is an easy one. But—why me? She loathes me, really, because I'm young."

Both the young men burst into a shout of laughter.

"Cut out the modesty, Iris," advised Charles. "You know, perfectly well, you're the decoy-bird."

"Not I." Iris laughed scornfully. "The boys come for the free bar."

"But what about Lawrence? He knows that Anthea only has him because he looks like Valentino. If he had no ulterior motive it would be playing the game too low. Even for him."

Iris turned on him, like a fury.

"Oh, you make me sick. I tell you, I'm desperate. I must do something. Soon."

"Same here," muttered Charles. "Only 'soon' is not quick enough. I want it now."

Francis opened his book again.

"You funny little people forget that, while you furiously rage, like the heathen, the faithful Lawrence is upstairs, putting Anthea through her paces. He may have some hopeful news for us yet. You can tell that is his step by the light in Iris' eyes."

"Hush," commanded Iris.

The gloom of her face was dispelled as the door was flung open, to herald Lawrence's entrance. He was his usual calm, elegant self, but a close observer might have noticed the tiny beads of moisture which dewed his upper lip.

"I wonder if I might ring for a cocktail?" he asked.

"Earned it?" asked Charles, with a wink.

Dr. Lawrence nodded and pulled down his mouth. Then he smiled at the three upturned faces.

"Sorry to disappoint you people," he said lightly, "but Anthea is going to live to ninety."

"Don't talk as if we were a pack of vultures," implored Iris. "I don't want the poor old thing to die."

Dr. Lawrence's smile faded as he looked at her.

"I was only pulling your leg," he said. "Honestly, I do sympathize with all of you."

"Like hell you do," growled Charles. "It'll pay you to keep her this side of the daisies for another twenty years."

The doctor twisted his lip.

"I wonder?" he queried. "One can pay too high a price. There is such a thing as a limit."

"And we've reached it," said Charles. "We're going to chuck it."

Dr. Lawrence's enigmatic face gave no clue to his feelings, but his voice grew persuasive.

"Don't play the goat now," he urged. "Not now."

"What d'you mean—exactly?" asked Francis.

They all stared at Dr. Lawrence expectantly, but he took refuge in vague generalities.

"You've stood it for so long that it is futile to throw up the sponge, now," he told them. "After all, any moment, something may happen."

"What?"

The young doctor shook his head.

"You must not expect me to betray professional secrets. I can only say this: Anthea's not quite so young as she's been led to believe—by herself. And organs can't last for ever. Be patient, just a little longer—do."

His glance held no contempt, for he understood the position better than an outsider. These young men stood to gain much, and to lose more. At any time Anthea might tire of them and want fresh victims to supply her daily diet of flattery.

In that case, she would either buy their freedom, or turn them adrift.

His lips set in lines of disgust, as he thought of the scene he had just been through, and the claims of her insatiable vanity. As he looked at Iris' unhappy eyes and the sullen faces of the young men, he saw Anthea as a painted leech, draining their youth.

In turn, his own thoughts drew blood.

"It's a crime to keep her alive."

At the entrance of a servant with a tray of cocktails, he recovered his composure. Glancing at his watch, he crossed over to the desk.

"Mind if I telephone?" he asked. "I want to hear how Mrs. Learoyd's op. went off."

"That's right," said Charles. "I used to be fond of little Dutchy, when she was at the Crown. Sad when good barmaids marry and get lost to us."

In idle curiosity, they all listened to Dr. Lawrence, as he put through his call, for he was one of those who perform on the telephone. Unconsciously, he assumed his professional smile.

"Hello. Dr. Lawrence speaking. Who are you? Come up the wire, please. Operator, please clear the line. Hello. Oh, is it you, nurse? Very fit, I hope? Well, everything gone off all right? Is the little lady very sorry for herself? Tell her I've rung up, and I'll be round—What?"

As he listened, his smile faded, and he wiped his face.

"This—this is a terrible shock," he said. "I'll be round."

"Bad news?" asked Charles, as the doctor rang off.

"Very bad!" Dr. Lawrence spoke with some difficulty. "She's dead."

"Now that's too bad," remarked Charles with feeling. "Have another cocktail, old chap?"

As he ministered to the doctor, he took the opportunity to fortify himself. Before he drank, he raised his glass.

"Poor little Dutchy. Here's luck."

He gulped with sentiment, as Francis, attracted by the tray, strolled across to the group.

"Cocktail, Francis?" Charles spoke to his cousin with rare cordiality. "Better have one, too, Iris?"

Iris' lip curled.

"As I'm not a member of the Learoyd family, I hardly need to be sustained," she said.

Still hugging her knees, she watched the group around the tray. Suddenly her face shaded with anxiety.

"Glyn," she said, "did Dr. Williams bungle the operation?"

She noticed that Dr. Lawrence wiped his lips before he replied.

"No. As a matter of fact, there was no operation. She died under the anaesthetic."

He put down his glass and spoke with emotion.

"Her heart was a bit weak. I barred chloroform, on purpose. But there was no risk. It ought not to have happened. But the nurse said she was in a terrible state beforehand, because I let her down. It—it makes me feel responsible."

"Of course you're not," said Iris quickly. "It was just pure bad luck."

"I know." The doctor ran his hand over his hair. "All the same, I feel that, indirectly, I've killed her."

"Not you," corrected Francis. "Anthea."

They looked up to see Anthea Vine standing in the doorway.