i f6c06dd9cf3fe221 by Unknown (the false prince .TXT) 📕

the walls in the dark. As Frank had said, it was a waste of sympathy; for what little he would achieve he would not assist their crawling out of the mire one jot, ninety per cent of them still being in the animal stage. Not that he took much notice of anything his brother might say; but he had upset his family and dragged Stella to this frightful place . for what? To express some obscure feeling that came to the surface and acted as a spoke whenever he was bent on following a sensible

course . at least sensible to his people's way of thinking. Had he followed the course laid out he would now have his London surgery and a definite footing in one of the larger hospitals, and at this minute he would have been at Rookhurst; likely just going in to dinner with the family. Oh, what a fool he was! He couldn't pretend to an ideal urging him on, or love for these frightful people. Obstinacy, his father called it; a form of snobbery was his mother's verdict; cussed ness and the desire to be different, Frank said, with a sneer.

Only his grandfather had said nothing, neither of approbatibn nor of condemnation; he had just listened. But there was a peculiar expression in his eyes when he looked at Rodney, which might have been mistaken for envy.

This room was freezing. If this girl didn't die of childbirth she would of exposure. Bending over Kate, he felt her pulse. Davidson should be here within half an hour, if he were at home; the sooner they got this job over the better, for it promised to be an awkward job. He must try to do something with that fire.

Kneeling down on the small dippy mat, he blew on the pale embers. This resulted in his face and hair being covered with coal dust Damnation!

He stood up and shook himself. Temporarily blinded, he stumbled towards the half-circle of marble, supported on a three legged frame, standing in the corner and poured some water out of the enamel jug standing in the tin dish. He washed his face, and the yellow soap stung his eyes more than the coal dust had done. What a night! And likely his car was half buried by now; it had been snowing for hours.

In the ordinary course he would have left his patient earlier, to return later. But this fresh fall of snow, on top of twelve inches already frozen hard, had warned him that this would have been easier said than done, and the condition of this girl made it imperative that he should be on the spot. Pulling the cream paper window blind to one side, he looked out, but he couldn't see down into the street, the window being a thick, frosted mass of snowflakes. He turned towards the bed and sat down on the chair again.

Kate was lying inert, breathing heavily. He looked 20 around the room, ten by eight at the most; the three- quarter-size iron bed, adorned with brass knobs, the marble-topped wash-hand stand, and a large wooden box, end up, with a curtain in front and a mirror on top, was all the room held in the way of furniture; pegs on the door supported an odd assortment of clothes, and a patchwork quilt and two thin biscuit-coloured blankets covered Kate; the floor was as white as frequent scrub bing could make it, and the whole was lit up by a single gas jet.

Rodney Prince looked at this gas jet flickering on the turned-up end of a piece of lead piping. Its power was, he thought, about one-hundredth that of the chandelier above the dining-table at home. Home, to his mind, was Rookhurst, not the place he shared with Stella; that was 'the house'. He had a sudden nostalgia for all the things he had known and had taken for granted for so many years, but most of all, at this moment, for the dining-room at Rookhurst, for its dim, worn red and golds, for its long, wide windows, forming a frame for the sweeping downs beyond, and for the old furniture polished by time and handling to a delight for the eye. And there was a strange longing for his people; for his greying and stately, slightly cynical mother, whom, temperamentally, he resembled too much to be on good terms with, for the easy tolerance of his father, even for the jealousy of Frank.

It was Christmas Eve, and, in spite of all their differences Christmas Eve had always been a gay day at home. But from ten o'clock this morning he had been trudging in and out of tiny houses, some clean, some smelly, but all seeming to be filled with the same type of people, coarse- voiced and wary. Then there was Stella. The row they had had last night might have been patched up tonight had he been able to take her to the Richards. As much as he knew she despised them, their flattery would have helped to smooth the plumage that he had so brusquely ruffled, and perhaps put her into a tender frame of mind.

But wasn't she always tender? Dreamy and tender, that was Stella.

Then how could she be the cold, outraged beauty? How could she make a man feel like a wild beast? Last night she had snuggled, and nestled, and purred like a contented kitten, while he fondled her hair, murmuring into it, telling her of the magic she cast about him. He had kissed her eyes and her ears, and had stroked her arms, and she had lain, docile and beautifully sweet, as if awaiting final consummation.

And his mind had cried, "Ah, now!" And then, as always, like a snowflake on a