Flames. Robert Hichens

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СКАЧАТЬ regards to the doctor, Julian."

      The cab disappeared, splashing through the puddles.

      Julian stood still on the doorstep.

      "Who said that, Lawler?" he asked.

      The servant looked at him in surprise.

      "Mr. Valentine, sir."

      "Mr. Valentine?"

      "Yes, sir."

      "Of course, of course. But his voice, didn't—didn't you notice-"

      "It was Mr. Valentine's usual voice, sir," Lawler said, with increasing astonishment.

      "I'm upset to-night," Julian muttered.

      He went into the house and Lawler closed the street door.

CHAPTER V

       Table of Contents

      THE HARLEY STREET EPISODE

      Julian was a favourite in Harley Street, so Lawler did not hesitate to show him into the doctor's very private room—a room dedicated to ease, and to the cultivation of a busy man's hobbies. No patient ever told the sad secrets of his body here. Here were no medical books, no appliances for the writing of prescriptions, no hints of the profession of the owner. Several pots of growing roses gravely shadowed forth the doctor's fondness for flowers. A grand piano mutely spoke of his love for music. Many of the books which lay about were novels; one, soberly dressed in a vellum binding, being Ouida's "Dog of Flanders." All the photographs which studded the silent chamber with a reflection of life were photographs of children, except one. That was Valentine's. The hearth, on which a fire flashed, was wide and had two mighty occupants, Rupert and Mab, the doctor's mastiffs, who took their evening ease, pillowing their huge heads upon each other's heaving bodies. The ticking clock on the mantelpiece was an imitation of the Devil Clock of Master Zacharius. There were no newspapers in the room. That fact alone made it original. A large cage of sleeping canaries was covered with a cloth. The room was long and rather narrow, the only door being at one end. On the walls hung many pictures, some of them gifts from the artists. Some foils lay on an ottoman in a far corner. The doctor fenced admirably, and believed in the exercise as a tonic to the muscles and a splendid drill-sergeant to the eyes.

      As Julian came into the room, which was lit only by wax candles, he could not help comparing it with the room he had just left, in which the body of Marr lay. The atmosphere of a house is a strange thing, and almost as definite to the mind as is an appearance to the eye. A sensitive nature takes it in like a breath of fetid or of fresh air. The atmosphere of the European Hotel had been sinister and dreary, as of a building consecrated to hidden deeds, and inhabited mainly by wandering sinners. This home of a great doctor was open-hearted and receptive, frank and refined. The sleeping dogs, heaving gently in fawn-coloured beatitude, set upon it the best hall-mark. It was a house—judging at least by this room—for happy rest. Yet it was the abode of incessant work, as the great world knew well. This sanctum alone was the shrine of lotos-eating. The doctor sometimes laughingly boasted that he had never insulted it by even so much as writing a post-card within its four walls.

      Julian stroked the dogs, who woke to wink upon him majestically, and sat down. Lawler quietly departed, and he was left alone. When he first entered the house he had been disappointed at the departure of Valentine. Now he felt rather glad to have the doctor to himself for a quiet half-hour. A conversation of two people is, under certain circumstances, more complete than a conversation of three, however delightful the third may chance to be. Julian placed Valentine before all the rest of the world. Nevertheless, to-night he was glad that Valentine had gone home to bed. It seems sometimes as if affection contributes to the making of a man self-conscious. Julian had a vague notion that the presence of his greatest friend to-night might render him self-conscious. He scarcely knew why. Then he looked at the mastiffs, and wondered at the extraordinary difference between men and the companion animals whom they love and who love them. What man, however natural, however independent and serene, could emulate the majestic and deliberate abandon of a big dog courted and caressed by a blazing fire and a soft rug? Man has not the dignity of soul to be so grandly natural. Yet his very pert self-consciousness, the fringed petticoats of affectation which he wears, give him the kennel, the collar, the muzzle, the whip, weapons of power to bring the dog to subjection. And Julian, as he watched Rupert and Mab wrapped in large lethargic dreams, found himself pitying them, as civilized man vaguely pities all other inhabitants of the round world. Poor old things! Sombre agitations were not theirs. They had nothing to aim at or to fight against. No devils and angels played at football with their souls. Their liaisons were clear, uncomplicated by the violent mental drum-taps that set the passions marching so often at a quickstep in the wrong direction. And Julian knelt down on the hearth-rug and laid his strong young hands on their broad heads. Slowly they opened their veiled eyes and blinked. One, Rupert, struck a strict tail feebly upon the carpet in token of acquiescence and gratified goodwill. Mab heaved herself over until she rested more completely upon her side, and allowed an enormous sigh to rumble through her monotonously. Julian enjoyed that sigh. It made him for the moment an optimist, as a happy child makes a dreary old man shivering on the edge of death an optimist. Dogs are blessed things. That was his thought. And just then the door at the end of the room opened quietly, and Doctor Levillier came in, with a cloak on and his crush-hat in his hand.

      "I am glad to see you, Addison," he said.

      The dogs shook themselves up onto their legs and laid their heads against his knees.

      "Lawler, please bring my gruel."

      "Yes, sir."

      "Addison, will you have brandy or whisky?"

      "Whisky, please, doctor."

      Lawler took his master's cloak and hat, and the doctor came up to the fire.

      "So Valentine has gone home to bed?" he said.

      "Yes."

      "He's all right, I hope?"

      "Yes. Indeed, doctor, I thought him looking more fit than usual to-day, more alive than I have often seen him."

      "I noticed that last night, when he revived from his trance. It struck me very forcibly, very forcibly indeed. But you—" and the doctor's eyes were on Julian's face—"look older than your age to-night, my boy."

      He sat down and lit a cigar. The mastiffs coiled themselves at his feet

       rapturously. They sighed, and he sighed too, quietly in satisfaction.

       He loved the one hour before midnight, the hour of perfect rest for him.

       Putting his feet on Rupert's back, he went on:

      "Last night's events upset you seriously, I see, young and strong though you are. But the most muscular men are more often the prey of their nervous systems than most people are aware. Spend a few quiet days. Fence in the morning. Ride—out in the country, not in the Park. Get off your horse now and then, tie him up at a lych-gate and sit in a village church. Listen to the amateur organist practising 'Abide with me,' and the 'Old Hundredth,' on the Leiblich Gedacht and the Dulciana, with the bourdon on the pedals. There's nothing like that for making life seem a slow stepper instead of a racer. And take Valentine with you. I should like to sit with him in a church СКАЧАТЬ