A Woman's War by Warwick Deeping (top romance novels txt) 📕

death this carcass seemed to dishonor all the

higher aspirations of the race. A myriad organisms were

usurping the tissues that had worked the will of what

men call ” the soul.”

 

Dr. Brimley, of Cossington, a little, spectacled cherub

of a man, held back the yellow flaps of fat-laden skin

while his confrere groped and delved within the cavity.

There was a wrinkle of disgust about Parker Steel’s sharp

mouth. He had never vanquished that loathing of contact with the nauseous slime of death. The cold and succulent smoothness of the inert tissues repelled his cultured

instincts. Yet even the superfine sneer vanished from

about his nostrils as he drew out a black and oozing object from the dead man’s body.

 

“Good God, Brimley, look at this!”

 

The spectacled cherub peered at it, puckered up his

lips and gave a whistle.

 

“A sponge!”

 

“Nice mess, eh?”

 

“Relieved that I haven’t the responsibility.”

 

Steel’s delicate hands were at work again. A sharp

exclamation of surprise escaped him as he drew out a

pair of artery forceps, and held them up to Brimley’s

gaze.

 

“This is a pretty business!”

 

Dr. Brimley’s eyes seemed to enlarge behind his spectacles.

 

“Confoundedly unpleasant for the operator. The man

must have lost his head.”

 

“Put your hand in here,” and Parker Steel guided his

confrere’s fingers into the cavity, “tell me what you feel.”

 

Brimley groped a moment, and then elevated his eyebrows.

 

“Good Lord! what was Murchison at? A rent in the

bowel three inches long!”

 

“We had better have a look at it.”

 

And the evidence of the sense of vision confirmed the

evidence of the sense of touch.

 

Both men perched themselves on the bed, and looked

questioningly into each other’s eyes. Success demands

the survival of the fittest, and in the scramble for gold

and reputation men may ignore generosity for egotistical

and self-serving cant. Parker Steel did not determine to

act against his rival, without a struggle. He remembered

his wife’s words, and they decided him.

 

“What are you going to do?”

 

Parker Steel looked Dr. Brimley straight in the face.

 

“There is only one thing to be done,” he retorted.

 

“Well, sir, well?”

 

“I have no personal grudge against Murchison, but

before God, Brimley, I can’t forgive him this abominable

bungling. Professional feeling or no, I can’t stretch my

conscience to such a lie.”

 

Dr. Brimley stared and nodded. He was somewhat

impressed by Steel’s cultured indignation, a professional

Brutus waxing public-spirited over Caesar’s body. Moreover, he was no friend of Murchison’s, and was secretly

pleased to hear another man assume the moral responsibility of injuring his reputation.

 

“So you will tell the old lady?”

 

“I take it to be a matter of duty.”

 

“Quite so; I agree with you, Steel. But it will about

smash Murchison.”

 

Parker Steel moved to the wash-stand and began to

rinse his hands.

 

“I cannot see how I can give a death certificate,” he

said; “the man must have been drunk. It is a case for

the coroner.”

 

Dr. Brimley puckered his chubby mouth and whistled.

 

“There is no other conclusion to accept,” he answered.

 

Mrs. Baxter was awaiting the two gentlemen in the

darkened parlor, dressed in her black silk Sabbath gown.

She had a photograph-album on her knee, and was chastening her grief by referring to the faded pictures of the past.

Each photograph stood for a season in the late farmer’s

life. Tom Baxter as a fat and plethoric-looking youth

of twenty, in a braided coat and baggy trousers, one hand

on a card-board sundial, the other stuffed into a side-pocket.

Tom Baxter, ten years later, in his Yeomanry uniform,

mustachioed, tight-thighed, nursing a carbine, with an

air of assertive self-satisfaction. Tom Baxter and his

bride awkwardly linked together arm in arm, toes out,

top hat and bridal bouquet much in evidence. Tom

Baxter, fat, prosperous, and middle-aged, smoking his

pipe in a corner of the orchard, his Irish terrier at his

feet; a snapshot by a friend. The widow studied them

all with solemn deliberation, glancing a little scornfully

at her sister Harriet, who was snivelling over a copy of

Eliza Cook’s poems.

 

They heard the voices of the two doctors above, the

sound of a door opening, and footsteps descending the

stairs. Parker Steel, suave, quiet, and serious as a black

cat, appeared at the parlor door. Mrs. Baxter rose from

her chair, and signalled to her sister to leave her with

Parker Steel.

 

“Harriet, go out. Sit down, doctor,” and she replaced

the album on its pink wool mat in the middle of the circular table.

 

Harriet absented herself without a murmur, Miss Cook’s

volume still clasped in her bony fingers. From the direction of the stables came the plaintive howling of a dog,

Tom Baxter’s Irish terrier, Peter, who had been chained

up because he would haunt the landing outside his dead

master’s room. Mrs. Baxter had fallen over the poor

beast as he crouched at the top of the stairs, and poor

Peter’s loyalty had not saved him from chastisement

with the lady’s slipper.

 

Parker Steel seated himself on the extreme edge of an

arm-chair, a great yellow sunflower in a Turkish-red

antimacassar haloing him like a saint. He had assumed

an air of studied yet anxious reserve, as though the matter

in hand required delicate handling.

 

“Well, doctor, it’s all over, I suppose.”

 

Steel nodded, hearing Miss Harriet’s voice in the

distance rasping out endearments to the dead man’s

dog.

 

“Dr. Brimley and I have completed the examination.”

 

“Poor Tom! poor Tom!”

 

“I can sympathize with you, Mrs. Baxter.”

 

“Thank you, doctor. How that dog do howl, to be

sure! And now, sir, let’s come to business.”

 

The widow sat erect and rigid in her chair, her hands

clasped in her lap, an expression of determined alertness

on her face. Steel, student of human nature that he

was, felt relieved that it was Murchison and not he

who had incurred the resentment of this hard - fibred

woman.

 

“Will you be so good as to tell me, doctor, just what

my husband died of?”

 

Parker Steel fidgeted, and studied his finger-nails.

 

“It is rather painful to me,” he began.

 

“Painful, sir!”

 

“To have to confess to a brother-doctor’s misman

misdirection of the case.”

 

His tactful disinclination reacted electrically upon Mrs.

Baxter. She leaned forward in her chair, and brandished

a long forefinger with exultant solemnity.

 

“Just what I thought, doctor.”

 

Parker Steel cleared his throat and proceeded.

 

“You understand my professional predicament, Mrs.

Baxter. At the same time, I feel it to be my duty—”

 

“Just you tell me the plain facts, doctor; what did my

husband die of?”

 

Steel rose from his chair, walked to the window, and

stood there a moment looking out into the garden, as

though struggling with the ethics and the etiquette of the

case.

 

“Frankly, Mrs. Baxter,” and he turned to her with ^a

grieved air, “I am compelled to admit that this operation

hastened your husband’s death.”

 

Mrs. Baxter bumped in her chair.

 

“Doctor, I could have sworn it. Go on, I can bear

the scandal.”

 

“Dr. Murchison made a very grave mistake.”

 

“He did!”

 

“A sponge and a pair of artery forceps were left in

your husband’s body. As for the operation, well, the less

said of it the better.”

 

Mrs. Baxter rose and went to the mantelshelf, and taking down a bottle of smelling-salts, applied them deliberately to either nostril.

 

“Then this man Murchison killed my husband!”

 

Parker Steel gave an apologetic shrug.

 

“I have to state facts,” he explained. “I cannot swear

to what might have happened.”

 

“Let the ‘might have’ alone, doctor, I’ve pulled the

pease out of the pod, and by the Holy Spirit I’ll boil my

water in Murchison’s pot!”

 

Parker Steel attempted to pacify her, confident in his

heart that any such effort would be useless.

 

“My dear Mrs. Baxter, let me explain to you—”

 

“Explain! What is there to explain? This man’s

killed my husband. I’ll sue him, I’ll make him pay for it.”

 

“Pardon me, one word—”

 

The widow raised her hands and patted Steel solemnly

on the shoulders.

 

“You’ve done your duty by me, doctor, for I reckon

it isn’t proper to tell tales of the profession. Now, listen,

I’ll relate what Jane Baxter’s going to do.”

 

Steel’s silence welcomed the confession.

 

“Well, I’m going to order the market -trap out, the

trap my poor Tom used to drive in to Roxton every Monday, the Lord have pity on him!—”

 

“Yes.”

 

“I’m going straight to call at Lawyer Cranston’s.”

 

“Indeed!”

 

“And just set him to pull Dr. Murchison’s coat from

off his back.”