Bye-Ways Part 35

At the end of the room near the door, under the big picture of a grave man in a frock-coat, holding a double eye-gla.s.s tentatively in his right hand as if to emphasise an argument--a young girl bent towards her father, who said to her in a low voice:

"That man who has just left the room is Brune, the great sculptor."

"Is he ill?" the girl asked.

"It seems so, since he is here."

Then a silence fell again, broken only by the rustle of turned pages and the occasional uneasy shifting of feet.

Meanwhile, in a small room across the hall, by a window through which the autumn sun streamed with a tepid brightness, Reginald Brune lay on a narrow sofa. His coat and waistcoat were thrown open; his chest was bared. Gerard Fane, the great discoverer of hidden diseases, raised himself from a bent posture, and spoke some words in a clear, even voice.

Brune lifted himself half up on his elbow, and began mechanically to b.u.t.ton the collar of his shirt. His long fingers did not tremble, though his face was very pale.

He fastened the collar, arranged his loose tie, and then sat up slowly.

A boy, clanking two shining milk-cans, pa.s.sed along the pavement, whistling a music-hall song. The shrill melody died down the street, and Brune listened to it until there was a silence. Then he looked up at the man opposite to him, and said, as one dully protesting, without feeling, without excitement:--

"But, doctor, I was only married three weeks ago."

Gerard Fane gave a short upward jerk of the head, and said nothing. His face was calmly grave. His glittering brown eyes were fastened on his patient. His hands were loosely folded together.

Brune repeated, in a sightly raised voice:--

"I was married three weeks ago. It cannot be true."

"I am here to tell the truth," the other replied.

"But it is so--so ironic. To allow me to start a new life--a beautiful life--just as the night is coming. Why, it is diabolical; it is not just; the cruelty of it is fiendish."

A spot of gleaming red stained each of the speaker's thin cheeks. He clenched his hands together, riveting his gaze on the doctor, as he went on:--

"Can't you see what I mean? I had no idea--I had not the faintest suspicion of what you say. And I have had a very hard struggle. I have been poor and quite friendless. I have had to fight, and I have lost much of the good in my nature by fighting, as we often do. But at last I have won the battle, and I have won more. I have won goodness to give me back some of my illusions. I had begun to trust life again. I had--"

He stopped abruptly. Then he said:--

"Doctor, are you married?"

"No," the other answered; and there was a note of pity in his voice.

"Then you can't understand what your verdict means to me. Is it irrevocable?"

Gerard Fane hesitated.

"I wish I could hope not; but--"

"But--?"

"It is."

Brune stood up. His face was quite calm now and his voice, when he spoke again, was firm and vibrating.

"I have some work that I should wish to finish. How long can you give me?"

"Three months."

"One will do if my strength keeps up at all. Good-bye."

There was a thin c.h.i.n.k of coins grating one against the other. The specialist said:--

"I will call on you to-morrow, between four and five. I have more directions to give you. To-day my time is so much taken up. Good-bye."

The door closed.

In the waiting-room, a moment later, Brune was gathering up his coat and hat.

The two ladies eyed him curiously as he took them and pa.s.sed out.

"He does look a little pale, after all," whispered one of them. A moment later he was in the street.

From the window of his consulting-room, Gerard Fane watched the tall figure striding down the pavement.

"I am sorry that man is going to die," he said to himself.

And then he turned gravely to greet a new patient.

II

Gerard Fane's victoria drew up at the iron gate of No. 5 Ilbury Road, Kensington, at a quarter past four the following afternoon. A narrow strip of garden divided the sculptor's big red house from the road.

Ornamental ironwork on a brick foundation closed it in. The great studio, with its huge windows and its fluted pillars, was built out at one end. The failing sunlight glittered on its gla.s.s, and the dingy sparrows perched upon the roof to catch the parting radiance as the twilight fell. The doctor glanced round him and thought, "How hard this man must have worked! In London this is a little palace."

"Will you come into the studio, sir, please?" said the footman in answer to his summons. "Mr Brune is there at present."

"Surely he cannot be working," thought the doctor, as he followed the man down a gla.s.s-covered paved pa.s.sage, and through a high doorway across which a heavy curtain fell. "If so, he must possess resolution almost more than mortal."

He pa.s.sed beyond the curtain, and looked round him curiously.

The studio was only dimly lit now, for daylight was fast fading. On a great open hearth, with dogs, a log-fire was burning; and beside it, on an old-fashioned oaken settle, sat a woman in a loose cream-coloured tea-gown. She was half turning round to speak to Reginald Brune, who stood a little to her left, clad in a long blouse, fastened round his waist with a band. He had evidently recently finished working, for his hands still bore evident traces of labour, and in front of him, on a raised platform, stood a statue that was not far from completion. The doctor's eyes were attracted from the woman by the log-fire, from his patient, by the lifeless, white, nude figure that seemed to press forward out of the gathering gloom. The sculptor and his wife had not heard him announced, apparently, for they continued conversing in low tones, and he paused in the doorway, strangely fascinated--he could scarcely tell why--by the marble creation of a dying man.

The statue, which was life size, represented the figure of a beautiful, grave youth, standing with one foot advanced, as if on the point of stepping forward. His muscular arms hung loosely; his head was slightly turned aside as in the att.i.tude of one who listens for a repet.i.tion of some vague sound heard at a distance. His whole pose suggested an alert, yet restrained, watchfulness. The triumph of the sculptor lay in the extraordinary suggestion of life he had conveyed into the marble. His creature lived as many mollusc men never live. Its muscles seemed tense, its body quivering with eagerness to accomplish--what? To attack, to repel, to protect, to perform some deed demanding manfulness, energy, free, fearless strength.

"That marble thing could slay if necessary," thought Gerard Fane, with a thrill of the nerves all through him that startled him, and recalled him to himself.

He stepped forward to the hearth quietly, and Brune turned and took him by the hand.

"I did not hear you," the sculptor said. "The man must have opened the door very gently. Sydney, this is Dr Gerard Fane, who is kindly looking after me."