"I"m sorry you did that. Will you then just tell him exactly what I said--exactly, you know. That I thought it would be "No"; but that I only didn"t say so at once because you wished it."
"Very well," said d.i.c.k.
It was a minute or so before either spoke again. Jenny had that delightful and soothing gift which prevents silence from being empty. It is the same gift, in another form, as that which enables its possessor to put people at their ease. (It is, I suppose, one of the elements of tact.) d.i.c.k had a sense that they were still talking gently and reasonably, though he could not quite understand all that Jenny was meaning.
She interrupted it by a sudden sentence.
"I wonder if it"s fair," she said. "You know I"m all but certain. I only don"t say so because--"
"Let it be at that," said d.i.c.k. "It"s my risk, isn"t it?"
(III)
When he had left her at last, she sat on perfectly still in the same place. The robin had given it up in despair: this human creature was not going to scratch garden-paths as she sometimes did, and disclose rich worms and small fat maggots. But a cat had come out instead and was now pacing with stiff forelegs, lowered head and trailing tail, across the sunny gra.s.s, endeavoring to give an impression that he was bent on some completely remote business of his own.
He paused at the edge of the shadow and eyed the girl malignantly.
"Wow!" said the cat.
There was no response.
"Wow!" said the cat.
Jenny roused herself.
"Wow!" said Jenny meditatively.
"Wow!" said the cat, walking on.
"Wow!" said Jenny.
Again there was a long silence.
"Wow!" said Jenny indignantly.
The cat turned a slow head sideways as he began to cross the path, but said nothing. He waited for another entreaty, but Jenny paid no more attention. As he entered the yews he turned once more.
"Wow!" said the cat, almost below his breath.
But Jenny made no answer. The cat cast one venomous look and disappeared.
Then there came out a dog--a small brown and black animal, very st.u.r.dy on his legs, and earnest and independent in air and manner. He was the illegitimate offspring of a fox-terrier. He trotted briskly across from the direction of the orchard, diagonally past Jenny. As he crossed the trail of the cat he paused, smelt, and followed it up for a yard or two, till he identified for certain that it proceeded from an acquaintance; then he turned to resume his journey. The movement attracted the girl"s attention.
"Lama!" called Jenny imperiously. "Come here this instant!"
Lama put his head on one side, nodded and smiled at her indulgently, and trotted on.
"Oh, dear me!" said Jenny, sighing out loud.
CHAPTER III
(I)
There lived (and still lives, I believe) in the small Yorkshire village of Tarfield a retired doctor, entirely alone except for his servants, in a large house. It is a very delightful house, only--when I stayed there not long ago--it seemed to me that the doctor did not know how to use it. It stands in its own grounds of two or three acres, on the right-hand side of the road to a traveler going north, separated by a row of pollarded limes from the village street, and approached--or, rather, supposed to be approached--by a Charles II. gate of iron-scroll work. I say "supposed to be approached" because the gate is invariably kept locked, and access can only be gained to the house through the side gate from the stable-yard. The grounds were abominably neglected when I saw them; gra.s.s was growing on every path, and as fine a crop of weeds surged up amongst the old autumn flowers as ever I have seen. The house, too, was a sad sight. There here two big rooms, one on either side of the little entrance-hall--one a dining-room, the other a sort of drawing-room--and both were dreary and neglected-looking places. In the one the doctor occasionally ate, in the other he never sat except when a rare visitor came to see him, and the little room supposed to be a study at the foot of the stairs in the inner hall that led through the kitchen was hardly any better. I was there, I say, last autumn, and the condition of the place must have been very much the same as that in which it was when Frank came to Tarfield in October.
For the fact was that the doctor--who was possessed of decent private means--devoted the whole of his fortune, the whole of his attention, and the whole of his life--such as it was--to the study of toxins upstairs.
Toxins, I understand, have something to do with germs. Their study involves, at any rate at present, a large stock of small animals, such as mice and frogs and snakes and guinea-pigs and rabbits, who are given various diseases and then studied with loving attention. I saw the doctor"s menagerie when I went to see him about Frank; they were chiefly housed in a large room over the kitchen, communicating with the doctor"s own room by a little old powder-closet with two doors, and the smell was indescribable. Ranks of cages and boxes rose almost to the ceiling, and in the middle of the room was a large business-like looking wooden kitchen-table with various appliances on it. I saw the doctor"s room also--terribly shabby, but undoubtedly a place of activity. There were piles of books and unbound magazines standing about in corners, with more on the table, as well as a heap of note-books. An array of gla.s.s tubes and vary-colored bottles stood below the window, with a microscope, and small wooden boxes on one side. And there was, besides, something which I think he called an "incubator"--a metal affair, standing on four slender legs; a number of gla.s.s tubes emerged from this, each carefully stoppered with cotton wool, and a thermometer thrust itself up in one corner.
A really high degree of proficiency in any particular subject invariably leads to atrophy in other directions. A man who eats and breathes and dreams Toxins, for instance, who lives so much in Toxins that he corresponds almost daily with learned and unintelligible Germans; who knows so much about Toxins that when he enters, with shabby trousers and a small hand-bag, into the room of a polished specialist in Harley Street, he sees as in a dream the specialist rise and bow before him--who, when he can be persuaded to contribute a short and highly technical article to a medical magazine, receives a check for twenty-five guineas by return of post--a man of this kind is peculiarly open to the danger of thinking that anything which cannot be expressed in terms of Toxin is negligible nonsense. It is the characteristic danger of every specialist in every branch of knowledge; even theologians are not wholly immune.
It was so in the case of Dr. Whitty (I forget all the initials that should follow his name). He had never been married, he never took any exercise; occasionally, when a frog"s temperature approached a crisis, he slept in his clothes, and forgot to change them in the morning. And he was the despair of the zealous vicar. He was perfectly convinced that, since the force that underlay the production of Toxins could accomplish so much, it could surely accomplish everything. He could reduce his roses, his own complexion, the gra.s.s on his garden-paths, the condition of his snakes", and frogs" skins, and the texture of his kitchen-table--if you gave him time--to terms of Toxin; therefore, argued Dr. Whitty, you could, if you had more time, reduce everything else to the same terms. There wasn"t such a thing as a soul, of course--it was a manifestation of a combination of Toxins (or anti-Toxins, I forget which); there was no G.o.d--the idea of G.o.d was the result of another combination of Toxins, akin to a belief in the former illusion. Roughly speaking, I think his general position was that as Toxins are a secretion of microbes (I am certain of that phrase, anyhow), so thought and spiritual experiences and so forth are a secretion of the brain. I know it sounded all very brilliant and unanswerable and a.n.a.logous to other things. He hardly ever took the trouble to say all this; he was far too much interested in what he already knew, or was just on the point of finding out, to treat of these extravagant and complicated ramifications of his subject. When he really got to know his mice and bats, as they deserved to be known, it might be possible to turn his attention to other things. Meanwhile, it was foolish and uneconomical. So here he lived, with a man-of-all-work and his man"s wife, and daily went from strength to strength in the knowledge of Toxins.
It was to this household that there approached, in the month of October, a small and dismal procession of three.
The doctor was first roused to a sense of what was happening as he shuffled swiftly through his little powder-closet one morning soon after breakfast, bearing in his hand the corpse of a mouse which had at last, and most disappointingly, succ.u.mbed to a severe attack of some hybrid of leprosy. As he flew through to his microscope he became aware of an altercation in the stable-yard beneath.
"I tell you he ain"t a proper doctor," he heard his man explaining; "he knows nothing about them things."
"My good fellow," began a high, superior voice out of sight; but Dr.
Whitty swept on, and was presently deep in indescribable disgustingness of the highest possible value to the human race, especially in the South Seas. Time meant nothing at all to him, when this kind of work was in hand; and it was after what might be an hour or two hours, or ten minutes, that he heard a tap on his door.
He uttered a sound without moving his eye, and the door opened.
"Very sorry, sir," said his man, "but there"s a party in the yard as won"t--"
The doctor held up his hand for silence, gazed a few moments longer, poked some dreadful little object two or three times, sighed and sat back.
"Eh?"
"There"s a party in the yard, sir, wants a doctor."
(This sort of thing had happened before.)
"Tell them to be off," he said sharply. He was not an unkindly man, but this sort of thing was impossible. "Tell them to go to Dr. Foster."
"I "ave, sir," said the man.