Читать книгу Roper's Row - Warwick Deeping - Страница 23

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Moorhouse looked for Hazzard in the lecture theatre, but the little man did not appear.

At ten o’clock dressers and clinical clerks went to their wards for the morning’s case-taking and dressing, but Hazzard was absent, and Moorhouse observed Soames and another student sharing some joke together. Ardron—Sir Dighton’s house-physician—who disliked Hazzard, and made the most of his small authority, questioned Soames.

“Where’s Hazzard?”

Soames smiled his soapy smile. He was feeling rather a devil of a fellow with that black eye.

“In bed, I should think. Caught cold last night.”

“There are two new cases in his beds. You had better clerk them, Soames.”

“What, both?”

“Well, Haines can take one, and you the other. Hazzard ought to have reported to me.”

Moorhouse, who was examining one of his case-sheets, laid it down on the bed, and crossed over to Ardron.

“I am going off at eleven, Ardron.”

“There’s a new case of yours in the corner.”

“I shall get it done.”

“All right.”

Moorhouse was not the sort of man whom Ardron could hector. Moorhouse knew Christopher’s address. The mystery had ceased to be a mystery, and the whole hospital was aware that Hazzard lived in a top-floor back room in Roper’s Row, and that his bedroom was also his larder. Bullard had uncovered all those nice little nudities. And Moorhouse was full of scorn of the scorners, because he was more than a mere student of medicine, and had other traditions and other friendships.

He made for Roper’s Row. He himself had rooms in Bernard Street in a house with a blue front door and very white window sashes, and Bernard Street and Roper’s Row were not a quarter of a mile apart. At No. 7, Miss Bunce, reading a novelette behind the counter, beheld the golden man of her dreams enter her mother’s shop. Moorhouse had beauty. He was more than a good-looking fellow; he had that something which women are quick to discover.

“Does Mr. Hazzard live here?”

“Yes, top floor back.”

“Is he in?”

Ophelia did not know. She supposed that Mr. Hazzard ought to be at the hospital, but if the gentleman cared to go up and see? Or should she go for him? Moorhouse thanked her, and told her not to trouble, and she opened the door leading into the passage.

“You can get through this way.”

Moorhouse climbed the dark stairs. He made so little noise that Christopher, who was sitting at his table with his head in his hands, did not hear his footsteps. For Hazzard was very deep in the savage misery of the moment, and in the humiliation of a surrender. He had allowed himself to flinch, and to be frightened by those hostile faces, and he was hating himself and them.

Moorhouse knocked.

“Who’s that?”

Hazzard’s voice had a suddenness. Almost it suggested the snarl of a dog suspecting an attack. He had turned sharply in his chair.

“It’s Moorhouse.”

“Moorhouse——!”

“Yes, I came along to see if you were seedy.”

There was silence. Hazzard, sitting twisted, and clutching the back of the chair with both hands, stared at the door.

“I’m all right, thanks.”

“That’s good. I wondered. Can I come in?”

Hazzard stood up. His face had a strange ravaged look. He seemed to hesitate. Then, with a jerky stiffness he crossed the room and unlocked the door.

“Come in, Moorhouse.”

He met Moorhouse’s eyes for a moment, and then avoided them, not because there was anything in Moorhouse’s eyes that could humiliate him, but because of their quiet, lazy kindness.

He closed the door. He was voiceless. He was acutely conscious of the poverty of his room, and of Moorhouse’s well-cut clothes and of their many contrasts. One of his chairs was occupied by the broken violin. And the bed was unmade, and he had been in too great a hurry to wash up and clear away his breakfast things. Also, he had had neither the heart nor the will power to tackle the day’s trifles.

“Afraid I’m in rather a mess. There’s a chair.”

Moorhouse sat down on the chair that Christopher had been using. He saw things without appearing to see them, the broken violin, the unmade bed, the teapot and cup and plate. He was moved to a young man’s pity, but he concealed it with the tact of an older man. He brought out a pipe.

“Mind if I smoke?”

Hazzard’s eyelids flickered.

“Do. Afraid I haven’t any tobacco.”

“I carry my own tobacco.”

Moorhouse, who like Hazzard had a mother whom he loved very dearly, and sisters, and a country home where dogs and horses and trees and the very grasses were part of life, had that delicacy that is born of a happy childhood. He carried with him the indelible stigmata left by the touches of a woman. To him the atmosphere of home meant a place full of flowers and pictures, and green vistas, and old furniture, and the making of music. He was entering upon life—man’s life—with that most blessed of heritages, happy memories, and faith in people.

He lit his pipe.

“Nothing much doing in the wards this morning. That case of myxœdema I have in the corner is behaving like a miracle.”

He talked “shop” to Christopher and he talked it easily because in his way he was almost as interested in his work as Hazzard was. His keenness had not Christopher’s sharp edge, but it was tempered with a young humanity. Moorhouse had very definite urges. And his easiness communicated itself to Hazzard, who, sitting on the edge of his unmade bed, and feeling raw, and ready to be hurt, became strangely soothed by Moorhouse’s voice and manner. He admired Moorhouse, and he admired him ungrudgingly. He quite understood why Sir Dighton Fanshawe looked and spoke to Moorhouse as he did. There was something very big and lovable and wholesome about the man.

Meanwhile the broken violin lay there, and Hazzard knew that Moorhouse knew of the affair of the “Bunch of Grapes.” He had known it instantly; he had divined in Moorhouse a quiet magnanimity. Nothing was mentioned. The very silence became a nexus of sympathy.

Said Moorhouse: “I say, come round and have some lunch with me. My people in Bernard Street can always raise a meal.”

And Hazzard blushed.

“I’d like to.”

“Good business.”