“ ‘Far from the madding crowd—,’
“Well, well! And one of the earlier editions, you say?”
“Not earliest of the Elegy. Earliest of the collected poems.”
“Just so! Just so! Two pounds a fair price?”
“I’m afraid it’s worth more than that, at the worst,” said Mr. Earlforward, suddenly grieved. He saw to what an extent he was making a fool of himself—losing pounds in order to save a ten-shilling note! Ridiculous! Idiotic! Mad! True, he had bought the book for ten shillings, and he strove to regard the transaction from the angle of his own disbursement. But he could not deny that he was losing pounds. Yes, pounds and pounds. Still, he could not have let the ten-shilling note go. A ten-shilling note was a treasure, whereas a book was only a book. Illogical, but instinct was more powerful than logic.
“Ah!” said the doctor. “If it’s worth more than two pounds I must sell it. You’re generous. Mr. Earlforward, you’re generous. Thank you.”
Violet rearranged the second parcel, including the Gray in it, while Dr. Raste expanded further in gratitude.
“That type won’t strain anybody’s eyes,” Mr. Earlforward commented on the Gray as it disappeared within brown paper.
“No.”
“I’m thankful to say my eyesight doesn’t give me any trouble now.”
“Um!” said the doctor, gazing at the bookseller, and taking the chance to feel his way towards the matter which had brought him into the shop. “I shouldn’t say you were looking quite the man you were when I saw you last.”
“No, he is not!” Violet put in eagerly.
“Oh! I’m all right,” Mr. Earlforward, defending himself against yet another example of the doctor’s impudence. “All I want is more exercise, and I can’t get that because of my knee, you know.”
“Yes,” said the doctor. “I’ve always noticed you limp. You ought to go to Barker. I shouldn’t be surprised if he could put you right in ten minutes. Not a qualified man, of course; but wonderful cures! … You might never limp again.”
“But he charges very heavy, doesn’t he? I’ve heard of fifty pounds.”
“I don’t know. Supposing he does? Well worth it, isn’t it, to be cured? What’s money?”
Mr. Earlforward made no reply to this silly question. Fifty pounds, or anything like it, for just pulling your knee about! “What was money,” indeed! He seized the money on the table. The doctor understood himself to have been definitely repulsed. Being a philosopher, he felt resigned. He had done what he could at an expense of twenty-five shillings. He lodged one of the parcels under his left arm and he took the other in his left hand and assumed a demeanour, compulsory in a gentleman, to indicate to the world that the parcels were entirely without weight, and that he was carrying them out of caprice and not from necessity.
“Here, doctor,” Violet most unexpectedly exclaimed. “As you are here I think I’ll consult you.”
“Not about me! Not about me!” Mr. Earlforward protested plaintively, imploringly, and yet implacably.
Violet leaned over him with an endearment.
“No, darling, not about you,” she cooed. “About myself.”
“I didn’t know there was anything particular wrong with you.”
“Didn’t you?” said Violet in a strange tone at once dry and affectionate. “Elsie did. Will you come upstairs, doctor?” She was no longer the packer of books. She had initiative, authority, dominion. Horribly suspecting her duplicity, Henry watched her leave the office in front of the doctor, who had set down his parcels. Never, never, would he have a doctor!
IV
No Verdict
“What do you think of Mr. Earlforward’s health?” Violet demanded peremptorily, in the bedroom. Her features were alive with urgent emotion. She almost intimidated the doctor.
“Ha!” he retorted defensively, with an explosive jerk. “I haven’t examined him. I have—not—examined him. He strikes me as undernourished.”
“And he is. He refuses food.”
“But why does he refuse food? There must be some cause.”
“It’s because he’s set on being economical. He’s got drawers full of money, and so have I—at least, I’ve got a good income of my own. But there you are. He won’t eat, he won’t eat. He won’t eat enough, do what I will.”
“Is that the only reason?”
“Of course it is. He’s never had indigestion in his life.”
“Um! Your maid, what’s her name, seems to be pretty well nourished, at all events.”
“Have you been seeing her?” Violet inquired sharply, her suspicion leaping up.
The doctor appreciated his own great careless indiscretion, and answered with admirable deceitful nonchalance:
“I noticed her one day last week in passing. At least, I took it to be her.”
Violet left the point there.
The electric light blazed down upon them; it had no shade; not a single light in the house had a shade. It showed harshly, realistically, Violet half leaning against the foot of the bed, and Dr. Raste, upright as when in uniform he used to give orders in Palestine, on the rag hearthrug. Violet’s baffled energy raged within her. She had at hand all the materials for tranquil happiness—affection, money, temperament, sagacity, an agreeable occupation—and they were stultified by the mysterious, morbid, absurd, inexcusable and triumphant volition of her loving husband. Instead of happiness she felt doom—doom closing in on her, on him, on the sentient house.
“My husband is a miser. I’ve encouraged him for the sake of peace. And so now you know, doctor!”
An astounding confession to a stranger, a man to whom she had scarcely spoken before! But it relieved her. She made it with gusto, with passion. She had begun candour with Elsie in the morning; she was growing used to it. The domestic atmosphere itself had changed within six hours. That which had been tacitly denied for months was now admitted openly. Truth had burst out. A few minutes earlier—vain chatter about hospitals, trifling and vain commercial transactions, make-believes, incredible futilities, ghastly nothings! And now, the dreadful reality exposed! And at that very moment Henry in his office, to maintain to himself the frightful pretence, was squandering the remains of his vitality in the intolerably petty details of business.
“Well,” said Dr. Raste primly—the
