A Duel Part 26

"You're Scotch yourself, my la.s.sie, on the best side of you; don't gird at your own birth. I ask your pardon, Mr. Talfourd, if I've said anything I ought not to say; but I've known this la.s.sie all her days. She's been to me as the apple of my eye, and--she tells me that you're to be her husband. Would it be going too far, Mr. Talfourd, if I were to ask you what's the name of the lady to whom you're acting as private secretary?"

"Mrs. Lamb--Mrs. Gregory Lamb."

"Mrs. Gregory Lamb? That's odd."

"How is it odd? I hope there's nothing improper about the name."

"It's not that it's improper; it's that I once met a Gregory Lamb. What sort's your Gregory Lamb?"

"He's about my own age, perhaps a little older; not ill-looking; not, I should imagine, a bad fellow in his way."

"Is he a poor man?"

"I believe his wife is very rich."

"His wife? Of course, there's the wife--and she's very rich. The rich woman who married the Gregory Lamb I know would be a very foolish female."

"Mrs. Lamb is certainly not that."

"Then her Gregory's not mine, though it's an unusual conjunction of names. I'm thinking that none but a fool of a woman would ever have married him."

CHAPTER XVIII

CRONIES

That evening Dr. Twelves dined with a fellow Scot, J. Andrew McTavish, of McTavish & Brown. Mr. McTavish lived in Mecklenberg Square. Although a bachelor he liked plenty of house room, and in Mecklenberg Square he had it. His house was perhaps the largest in the Square, and certainly not the least comfortable.

Comfort was to Mr. McTavish a sort of fetish: excepting money he set it above everything. He looked as if he did. Of medium height, he was of more than average size, his waist measurement was approaching a significant figure; his neck loved a generous collar, his chin overlapped; he had slight side whiskers, dark gray in hue, and the top of his head was so completely bald that one wondered if it could ever have been anything else. He and his guest presented an amazing contrast: three or four replicas of Dr. Twelves could have been contained in Mr. McTavish.

They dined _tete-a-tete_ at a small round table which stood in the centre of a big room. Mr. McTavish liked big rooms; he was never comfortable in a small one. During the meal the conversation was of a desultory character, princ.i.p.ally hovering around Pitmuir, where Mr. McTavish had lived till he came to London. Questions were asked and answered touching every soul in the parish Mr. McTavish could think of, and his memory was extensive. There was hardly a man, woman or child about Pitmuir whose name had not been mentioned before dinner was finished. If the inquiries were slightly acid, so were the replies. It seemed as if these two gentlemen had made it a point of honour to say nothing nice of any one. According to them the folk about Pitmuir were a very human lot--at least they had most of humanity's failings.

After dinner they retired to the study, another fine apartment.

There they had a cup of coffee, a liqueur, and a cigar apiece.

The doctor seemed lost in the huge chair which he had been invited to fill. His host regarded him with twinkling eyes.

"Have you had a good dinner, David?"

"You feed yourself too well; you're a hundred years behind the age."

"How do you show it?"

"Our great-grandfathers pampered their bellies. We know better; we have learnt that it is the part of wisdom to starve them.

You're still where our grandsires were."

"And where are you?"

"I'm on the high road to as fine an attack of indigestion as a man need have, and live."

"I can give you the name of one of the greatest authorities on indigestion."

"I dare swear you can give me the names of one or two. I shouldn't be surprised if that sucking-pig proves to be the death of me, beyond the skill of all your authorities."

"It was cooked to a turn."

"I ought to know how it was cooked, considering the way that I behaved to it. It's wicked to set such meat before a man. And now, I've something which I wish to say to you."

"You've said one or two things already--what's the other?"

The doctor, taking the cigar out of his mouth, regarded the ash on the tip.

"You remember Wallace's daughter?"

"Cuthbert Grahame's girl?"

The doctor nodded.

"I've seen her this afternoon."

"No? I wondered what had become of her, more than once. I've seen and heard nothing of her since he turned her out."

"He didn't turn her out, she turned herself out. I had the story from his own lips."

"So had I. To all intents and purposes he turned her out, however he may have put it to himself or to you."

"He asked her to marry him, and she wouldn't."

"He asked her not once or twice, but again and again, until he made it plain that his house was no place for her unless she meant to be his wife. So, as she didn't, there was nothing for her but to go."

"It was a fool business."

"On both sides. Why he wanted to marry her I don't know. I never do know why a man wants to marry. I'd sooner have a buzz saw in every room in the house than a wife in one. Why she wouldn't marry him, I know still less."

"There was the difference in their years. Then he was already threatening to be what he afterwards became--physically, I mean."

"Well, what of it? If a girl in her position has to marry, I should say that there are two things which she ought to look for first of all--money, and a sick husband; if possible, one who is already sick unto death. In Grahame she'd have had both."

There was silence, as if both parties were giving to Mr.

McTavish's words the consideration due to a profound aphorism.

It was the doctor who spoke next.

"He always believed that she would come back again, saying yes."

"I'd no patience with the man, he was all kinds of a fool. If he wanted her to be his wife, he didn't go the right way to get her. When she said no, instead of thanking G.o.d for his undeserved escape, he stormed and raved, fretted and fumed, until he became only fit to be exhibited in a booth at a fair."

"When he heard that she was in love with some one else, it was that that was the death of him."