The Challenge of Love. Victorian Romance Novel
humdrum people, but I think you will find us quite alive after our fashion. In politics, though, I am a bit of a Liberal.”
“Montague, you know that you are nothing of the kind.”
“My dear——”
“Dr. Threadgold must have his facetiosities, Mr. Wolfe. The most eminent men are sometimes the most playful. I may inform you that Navestock is one of the most loyal and Conservative towns in the kingdom; as it should be, and as it will always be so long as Lord Blackwater is Lord of the Manor, the Brandons hold ‘Pardons,’ and the old families remain. I must say that the neighbourhood is a most aristocratic one, and that the gentry——”
A gong sounded downstairs. Mrs. Threadgold ignored it.
“That the gentry realise their responsibilities to the poor, without needing any impertinent, vulgar clamour on the part of low Radicals.”
Dr. Threadgold pulled out his watch.
“It is exactly one minute before the half hour, Montague.”
“So it is, my dear.”
“I think it right that a young man in Mr. Wolfe’s position should receive some instruction as to the character of the neighbourhood in which Dr. Threadgold is the leading physician and surgeon. I need not say that in a practice such as this——”
The gong sounded a second time.
“Good manners—and tact—are of great importance. Was that the gong, Montague?”
“My dear, it was.”
“Then we will go down to supper.”
Mrs. Threadgold possessed the power of making nervous people lose their appetite and refuse with a fluster of self-consciousness the second helping that they so much desired. John Wolfe was as hungry as a man could be, and not being troubled with shyness, he listened gravely to Mrs. Threadgold’s tittle-tattle and kept on good terms with the round of roast beef at the end of the table. Threadgold helped him generously, for his good humour was not a surface virtue, and the doctor and his dining-room harmonized admirably. Everything was solid, comfortable, and opulent. Old portraits in oils hung upon the brown-papered walls. The sideboard was a fine piece of Sheraton, the chairs Hepplewhite, and upholstered with red brocade. The Turkey carpet claimed part of the prosperity of the practice.
Mrs. Threadgold had an eye on Wolfe’s plate. She had been studying the new man, noticing the faded edges of his tie and the shiny buttons of his coat. Her observation dealt mainly with external details. She did not go below the surface, for to Mrs. Sophia Threadgold life was all surface, a matter of gilding, glass, fresh paint, pew cushions, silk, pasteboard, and fine linen. Wolfe impressed her as a raw gawk of a man who was inclined to be silent and sulky. He had come into her drawing-room with dirty boots, and eaten three helpings of cold beef, and these details were full of significance.
It was an understandable impulse that drove her to talk about Sir Joshua Kermody, the senior physician at Guy’s, a gentleman with a fashionable consulting practice and a decision in the dieting of dukes and yet more distinguished persons.
“Sir Joshua has often stayed a night with us here at Navestock. He and Dr. Threadgold were students together and great friends——”
“O yes—I knew Kermody pretty well.”
“One of the most perfect gentlemen I have ever met. I suppose you have often listened to Sir Joshua’s lectures, Mr. Wolfe?”
“Yes, for one whole year.”
“And you have followed him round the wards, too?”
“Miles.”
Mrs. Threadgold’s face showed some transient animation.
“What an opportunity for you young men. Quite an education—in manners. I have often heard that medical students are such vulgar young fellows. Sir Joshua is just the one to provide them with a little polish. The hospital should be very proud of Sir Joshua.”
Wolfe laid his knife and fork side by side and looked in his grave, penetrating way at Mrs. Threadgold. He knew old Kermody and his reputation, a man with the tastes and the manners of a Brummell, spruce, bland, and untrustworthy, obsolete in his knowledge, a man who had always refused to accept anything that was new. Kermody was one of the handsomest old snobs in London. He had grand manners and the heart of a cad.
“We have plenty of good men at Guy’s, madam.”
“I don’t doubt it, sir. Sir Joshua has often said that Dr. Threadgold would have been one of the leading physicians in London, if he had cared to stay there. I have no doubt that you will find Dr. Threadgold’s experience of infinite service to you. It is good for young men to sit at the feet of experience.”
Wolfe’s eye caught the doctor’s.
“That’s what I’ve come for, sir.”
Dr. Threadgold blinked, beamed, and moved uneasily in his chair.
“Ha—one lives and learns, lives and learns. Our responsibilities, Mr. Wolfe, thicken as we grow older. Now, you young men——”
“I think we have more to carry.”
“Oh!”
“We have our unmade reputations on our shoulders.”
“Ah, that’s true.”
“Quite a sensible remark, Mr. Wolfe. Montague, perhaps Mr. Wolfe will take—a third helping of that sponge custard.”
“Allow me, sir.”
“Thanks. I will.”
It had begun to rain again, and what with the wind blowing the rain full upon the windows and howling through the mulberry trees upon the Green, none of the three at Dr. Threadgold’s supper table heard the rattle of a horse’s hoofs over the cobbles. The stones gave place to gravel in front of the sententious, red-coated house on the north side of Mulberry Green, and a gig that came swinging round the white posts and chains drew up briskly outside Dr. Threadgold’s door. A loafer who had been following the gig at a run, gave a pull at the doctor’s door-bell, and set up a tremendous hammering with the lion-headed knocker.
Dr. Threadgold still had the spoon in the dish of sponge custard.
“Hallo, hallo, do they want to knock the house down!”
“Montague, if that is old Crabbe’s boy, I wish you would box the little wretch’s ears. He always makes noise enough for Lord Blackwater’s footman.”
They heard Sykes, the maid, cross the hall and open the front door. A gust of wind whirled in with the sound of men’s voices.
“Confound it, Ruston, don’t touch that side of me!”
The door closed again, shutting the voices into Dr. Threadgold’s hall.
“This way, sir, please.”
“What? Is he in? Deuce take——”
A second door closed on the snarling voice, cutting it off sharply. Sykes came whisking into the dining-room with a scared white face.
“Please, sir, it’s Sir George Griggs. He’s met with a haccident, sir, ’unting.”
Dr. Threadgold pushed his chair back, put his napkin on the table, and gave his waistcoat a tug, the unconscious gesture that betrayed the professional dignity putting itself in order. His prim little mouth straightened into a tighter and more emphatic line.
“Excuse me, my dear.”
“Most certainly, Montague.”
She turned to Wolfe, who was on the point of rising, and treated him as though he had asked her a question.
“Certainly, Mr. Wolfe. By all means accompany Dr. Threadgold. I know that a young man in your position——”
Wolfe