Number Twenty-Nine.

Tuapeka Times, Volume XXIV, Issue 1888, 16 April 1892, Page 2 (Supplement)

Number Twenty-Nine.

The vast mud colored building loomed ou of the fog as the doctor's brougham drew up under the portico. Against the ciark lining of the carriage the set face of a man inside was visible by the light of a portable uimp. It was tlie face of one whose mind is not at eaie. There were irritable folds rt the corners of the mouth, a restles-s look iv tut keen eyes, even as they travelled over the page he was reading. Sir Kenneth Biandon only shut his book aa be stepped out ami entered the Whitechapel hospital. The doctor always read as he drove about London from one consultation to another. It was his habit to allow himself no leisure for idle thought. Sir Kenneth Brandon was one oJ the few London doctors whose names are familiar abroad. He had made one big discovery, he »<i done a great deal of useful wojrk, and *t Ifty he was already making quite a large .ucoine. His recent knighthood made him popular, not only among his patients, but i-nong his professional brethren, and his iinners were among the nicest in town. Yet many people— and who knows ? perhaps dir Kenneth himself — miwed a hostess 1 smile \ woman's winning phrases, at his brilliant table in Wimpole Street. Sometimes, if ever he had time to think, perhaps the great physician might have regretted the pretty, bad tempered, foolish wife whom he had scolded and neglected in the old days ; the child, for she was little more— who had finally left their dingy suburban villa for good ; the girl he might have saved before it was too late — for at last she nad left his bouse after one of their miserable, sordid squabbles, and had gone to her father ; and it was only after a humiliating scene with her husband that she had finally disappeared, never lo come back. Toe police bad been unable to find a trace of her, beyond that she had at first gone to Spain with some man who was unknown to him. • After that, all wa9 a blank. To all intents and purposes his wife was dead to him ; yet the embittering quarrels of these early years; his severity when he should have been lenient ; his carelessness when he ought to have watched over the young life that he hai sworn to cherish and protect — were facts which, though he seldom allowed himself to think of them, had left their trace wtitten on the great physician's face. Inside the large hall a lady was already waiting for him— a fair, high bred face, with something of the look of a student, modernized by a slightly bored air, such as is often seen in a cultivated woman of the world. Lady Thorpe was a widow of leisure, and was intermittently interested in a variety of questions. She occasionally wrote a short article for one of the monthly reviews, preferring such topics as do not usually commend themselves to the more tender hearted sex ; for she was by no means posed as a philanthropist, and was understood to have views a little in advance of those of the British matron, Just now, for instance, she was interested in the hospital question, and at a dinner party the night before Sir Kenneth had voluntsered to explain the internal workings of the Whitechapel. The doctor never missed an opportunity of being useful to Lady Tborpe ; she was juat the woman he would have asked to be his wife if only — They met as people meet who are more Uaa interested iv each other. For some time past the lady had known that he liked her, and for some time past she had almost made up her mind tbat she might accept him. But there was no hurry ; they were both of a certain age ; they both had their occupations, their affairs. And now they j turned up the stjne stairoase together on I their way to the women's wards. Lady Thorpe paused for an instant as they passed the operating theatre. The doors were closed. Outside two porters were waiting with a stretcher. Suddenly the door was pushed opan, and then there was a vision of anxious faces lit up by a strong glare of gas; of a nurse's back bending forward, and of a surgeon blowing spray on something that was invisible. Orer all was an intense silence broken only by the hoarse whi3psrs of the porters with the stretcher, wondering how long they would have to wait. Lady Thoipe was not emotional, but she shive*red a little as she passed on. In the Catherine Ward the fifty blue coverleted beds effaced them3elves in the gloom of the big room. Here and there the firelight illumined t'le bland, unemotional features of a nurse under her smooth hair and white cap— the ssxless features of a woman who has learned to witness suffering without a sign. On seeing Sir Kenneth Brandon, Sister Catherine, a long-nosed woman with bright eyes, hurried forward as superintendent of the ward. The doctor introduced the two women, and for awhile Lady Thorpe, note book in hand, was absorbed 'Q statistics. 11 Now take me mnnd to yuur patiente. Sir Kenneth," she said, when ste had finished. Sister Catherine moved forward, a professional loot on her bright face. They stopped at every bed . L\uy Thorpe asked que3tions in a business-like way, and Sir Kenneth, whose hospital manner was proverbial, addressed the patients in the same tone he would have employed to a duchtsi. His way with women was one of the things for which he was justly famous. They had come to the end of one line of beds, and were now turning up the other side of the room. "We have a new patient there, Sir Kenneth," said the nurse. Number Twenty-Nine — a hopeless case — the last stage of consumption aggravated by want. They brought her in from one of the common lodginghouses. She was in a terrible state when Bbc came." "Indeed 1" exciaimed the physician, in a sympathetic voice. All three approached the bed. The pationt's back was turned to them, but, as steps approached, she turned round, her weakly vicious face, with the flush on each cheekbone, looking very thin against the whiteness of the pillow. There were streaks of gray in the dark hair, and the dull, slaty eyes which had once been blue, were now bloodshot and red-lidded. Sir Kenneth leaned forward, and their eyes met in a long Btare. The years seemed to roll backward. The doctor's heart stood still. Great Godl Could this horrible wreck of womanhood be his wife? And was she going to speak 1 It was an odious moment. But the woman only laughed — an unmiithful, coarse, empty laugh. " O Lord ! Are you here?" she muttered, and tossed over. The doctor drew a long breath ; he had grown a little paler before he spoke. " Poor creature , she mistakes me for some one else. They often do at the last," he whispered. Taking down the card hung above the bed, on which the oatient's age, disease and diet, as well as the name of the doctor in charge of the case were written, he added, " Quite right. Doctor Brown has ordered everything that could possibly be of use, Sister, look after this case especially." Lady Thorpe said something gracious and went on. Not a feature of the strange scene had escaped her. It was evident that something extraordinary bad happened. That these two— the fashionable physician and the pitiable outcast— knew each other Bhe had not the slightest doubt. But the three moved on to the next bed, smiling and chatting as they went. Presently Sir Kenneth Brandon urged a consultation at the other end of London, and offered to drive Lady Tborpe back, as she had sent her carriage away. They vrer& both silent as they were bowled along westward. A few nights afterwards they met at a dinner. It was a brilliant pirfy. The talk, liko the food, was stimulating; the wine, likfj the beauty of the women, was rare. It , waa at such times that Sr X snne'li, pessi- ' si«t though he was, felt tenderly dispose i toward all the world. Ha was delighted, in factor he was deputed to take Lady Thorpe dowa tovdinner. She wa£\a woman who looked well by gas light. HeiVeetb, her shoulders and her diamoud^^Bi proverbial — three things

which, added to her native wit, made the widow a much coveted dinner companion. Sir Kenneth had never realized before how devoted he was to her. And yet in Lady Thoipe's eyes to-night was an expression which puzzled him. '• I see from the papers that you have been in Paris the laft few days," she said, as they ate tl.cir soup. " I hope you have saved Em ope one of its ex-crowned headß?" ' ' To anyone but you I am professionally tongue tied," whispered the doctor, gallantly. " I wus, in fact, able to leave Paris by the eleven train — just in time to dine here to-night. But I haven't opened a single 1. ttcr or telegram." He kept the talk on the gossip of the day, until he saw the corners of her mouth give way with a tired droop. " And your article on the hospitals ?" said the doctor, bending hiß head and smiling ac the very charming woman beside him. "I hope you're going to let us down easily." "Ah! my article will be on quite another question," said Lady Thorpe- " I have been curiously interested in a case which is typical of one of the great problems of modern socif ty. I have been three times to the Whitechapel Hospital since that day — " " I wish to Heaven you would not run any such risk J We old doctors are hardened, you know, but there is always the fear of infection for delioats women."

'•But that poor creature, Number TwentyNine, you remember?" Sir Kenneth frowned slightly as he reached for his champagne glass. •■Dear Lady Thorpe, ttiose are terrible cases," he said. " Tney are cankerous evils, eating out tbe life of our social system." "My dear doctor," urged the lady, in her most delightful drawl, "you forget what MrL?cky says. Our poor consumptive, on the contrary, is the martyr of civilization." '• Possibly," replied the physician, dryly ; " but meauwhile — "

"Meanwhile the woman has succumbed. She died last night." There was a burst of laughter from eaoh side of the table. A well known wit was teiling the latest joke. In the pause that followed Lady Thorpe studied the menu, and Sir Kenneth fingered some grapes on his plalc. How much did she know ? lft seemed to him an eternity before she spoke again.

'• I have taken Number Twenty -Nine as a typical case. Tne woman seemed to be what we call a morally deficient person. Y«t, properly trainad and protected, she might now be alive, well, and a tolerably useful member of society. Think of itl That wretched woman waa barely forty."

" My dear larJy," said Sir Kenneth, slowly, " you have probaoly heard only half her story. Do you really know anything about her?"

•• Yes," said L=»dy Thorpe, abruptly. And, as Bh?, looked him straight between the eyes, the doctor knew that she was aware of the whole story. '"I'm not sentimental," sue added wich a smile, " but I've a fancy to get this woman decsntly buried in some little country churchyard. She shall rest now for good. May I undertake the necessary arrangements, or would you perhaps, prefer—"

The ladies were rising to go. Sir Kenneth Brandon bowed.

" J—lJ — 1 think I would rather see to this myself."

Nothing more was said. He sat down again when they were gone, staring blankly at the fruit-strewn plates and half-drained glasses. Her crumpled napkin fell across his knee ; and, as it fell, he saw with a shudder a vision of a stiff, silent figure in the hospital mortuary. He could hear the ladies' silken trains and high bred voices as they trailed up-stairs. And the doctor knew tbat when the suave, desirable, but unrelenting woman had passed out of tbe door, she had also passed out of his life.