The Gold Eaters: A Novel

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.
He recovered himself with an immense, an incredible effort. He
wanted to laugh, to exult, to call on the world to see his work, what
he had done for her, how peaceful she was, and happy. He was as
near madness as a sane man could be, but by the time his partner
came he composed his face and spoke with professional gravity:
“I am afraid you are too late.”
Dr. Lansdowne, hurrying in, wore his habitual grin.
“I always knew it would end like this. Didn’t I tell you so? An
aneurism. I diagnosed it a long time ago.” He had even forgotten his
diagnosis. “I suppose you’ve tried ... so and so?” He recapitulated
the remedies. Stevens, stunned by the calamity, but not so far as to
make her forget to pull down the blinds, listened and realised Dr.
Kennedy had left nothing undone.
“I suppose there will have to be an inquest?”
“An inquest! My dear fellow. An inquest! What for? I have seen her
and diagnosed, prognosed. You have attended her for weeks under
my direction. Unless her family wish it, it is quite unnecessary. I shall
be most pleased to give a death certificate. You have informed the
relatives, of course?”
“Not yet.”
Stevens emitted one dry sob which represented her entire emotional
capacity, and hastened to ring up Queen Anne’s Gate. Dr. Lansdowne
began to talk directly she left them alone. He told his silent
colleague of an eructation that troubled him after meals, and of a
faint tendency to gout. Then cast a perfunctory glance at the sofa.
“Pretty woman!” he said. “All that money, too!”
Peter, suddenly, inexplicably unable to stand, sank on his knees by
the sofa, hid his face in her dress. Dr. Lansdowne said. “God bless
my soul!” Peter broke into tears like a girl.
“Come, come, this will never do. Pull yourself together, or I shall
think.... I shan’t know what to think....”
Peter recovered himself as quickly as he had collapsed, rose to his
feet.
“It was so sudden,” he said apologetically. “I was unprepared....”
“I could have told you exactly what would happen. The case could
hardly have ended any other way.”
He said a few kind words about himself and his skill as a
diagnostician. Peter listened meekly, and was rewarded by the offer
of a lift home. “You can come up again later, when the family has
arrived, they will be sure to want to know about her last moments....
Or I might come myself, tell them I foresaw it....”
 CHAPTER XVI

I woke up suddenly. A minute ago I had seen Peter Kennedy

kneeling by the sofa, his head against Margaret’s dress. He had
looked young, little more than a boy. Now he was by my side,
bending over me. There was grey in his hair, lines about his face.
“You’ve grown grey,” was the first thing I said, feebly enough I’ve no
doubt, and he did not seem to hear me. “My arm aches. How could
you do it?”
“Do what?”
“She was so young, so impetuous, everything might have come
right....”
“She is wandering,” he said. I hardly knew to whom he spoke, but
felt the necessity of protest.
“I’m not wandering. Is Ella there?”
“Of course I am. Is there anything you want?” She came over to me.
“I needn’t write any more, need I? I’m so tired.” Ella looked at him
as if for instructions, or guidance, and he answered soothingly, as
one speaks to a child or an invalid:
“No, no, certainly not. You need not write until you feel inclined. She
has been dreaming,” he explained.
It did not seem worth while to contradict him again. I was not wide-
awake yet, but swayed on the borderland between dreams and
reality. Three people were in the dusk of the well-known room. They
disentangled themselves gradually; Nurse Benham, Dr. Kennedy, Ella
in the easy-chair, Margaret’s easy-chair. It was evening and I heard
Dr. Kennedy say that I was better, stronger, that he did not think it
necessary to give me a morphia injection.
“Or hyoscine.”
I am sure I said that, although no one answered me, and it was as if
the words had dissolved in the twilight of the room. Incidentally I
may say I never had an injection of morphia since that evening. I
knew how easy it was to make a mistake with drugs. So many vials
look alike in that small valise doctors carry. I was either cunning or
clever that night in rejecting it. Afterwards it was only necessary to
be courageous.
I found it difficult in those first few twilight days of recovering
consciousness to separate this Dr. Kennedy who came in and out of
my bedroom from that other Dr. Kennedy, little more than a boy,
who had wept by the woman he released, the authoress whose story
I had just written. And my feelings towards him fluctuated
considerably. My convalescence was very slow and difficult, and I
often thought of the solution Margaret Capel had found, sometimes
enviously, at others with a shuddering fear. At these times I could
not bear that Dr. Kennedy should touch me, his hand on my pulse
gave me an inward shiver. At others I looked upon him with the
deepest interest, wondering if he would do as much for me as he
had done for her, if his kindness had this meaning. For he was kind
to me, very kind, and at the beck and call of my household by night
and day. Ella sent for him if my temperature registered half a point
higher or lower than she anticipated, any symptom or change of
symptom was sufficient to send him a peremptory message, that he
never disregarded. Ella, I could tell, still suspected us of being in
love with each other, and she dressed me up for his visits. Lacy
underwear, soft chiffony tea-gowns, silken hose and satin or velvet
shoes diverted my weakness into happier channel and kept her in
her right milieu.
Then, not all at once, but gradually and almost incredibly the whole
circumstances changed. Dr. Kennedy came one day full of
excitement to tell us that a new treatment had been found for my
illness. Five hundred cases had been treated, of which over four
hundred had been cured, the rest ameliorated. Of course we were
sceptical. Other consultants were called in and, not having
suggested the treatment, damned it wholeheartedly. One or two
grudgingly admitted a certain therapeutic value in selected cases,
but were sure that mine was not one of them! The medical world is
as difficult to persuade to adventure as an old maid in a provincial
town. My own tame general practitioner, whom I had previously
credited with some slight intelligence, was moved to write to Dr.
Kennedy urging him vehemently to forbear. He was fortunate
enough to give his reasons, and for me at least they proved
conclusive!
On the 27th of May I took my first dose of thirty grains of iodide of
potassium and spent the rest of the day washing it down with
glasses of chlorine water masked with lemon. I was still the
complete invalid, going rapidly downhill; on a water bed, spoon-fed,
and reluctantly docile in Benham’s hard, yet capable hands. On the
27th of June I was walking about the house. By the 27th of July I
had put on seventeen pounds in weight and had no longer any
doubt of the result. I had found the dosage at first both nauseous
and nauseating. Now I drank it off as if it had been champagne.
Hope effervesced in every glass. The desire to work came back, but
without the old irritability. Ella, before she left, said I was more like
myself than I had been for years. Dr. Kennedy had unearthed this
new treatment and she extolled him, notwithstanding her old
prejudices, admitted it was to him we owed my restoration, yet
never ceased to rally me and comment on the power of love. I
agreed with her in that, knowing hers had saved me even before the
drug began to act. It was for her hand I had groped in the darkest
hour of all. Even now I remember her passionate avowal that she
would not let me die, my more weakly passionate response that I
could not leave her lonely in the world. Now we said rude things to
each other, as sisters will, with an intense sense of happiness and
absence of emotion. I criticised Tommy’s handwriting, and she
retorted that at least she saw it regularly. Whilst as for Dennis....
But there was no agony there now to be assuaged. My boy was on
his way home and the words he had written, the cable that he had
sent when he heard of my illness, lay near my heart, too sacred to
show her. I let her think I had not heard from him. Closer even than
a sister lies the tie between son and mother. Not perhaps between
her and her rough Tommy, her fair Violet, but between me and my
Dennis, my wild erratic genius, who could nevertheless pen me
those words ... who could send me the sweetest love letter that has
ever been written.
But this has nothing to do with me and Dr. Peter Kennedy, and the
curious position between us. For a long time after I began to get
well it seemed we were like two wary wrestlers, watching for a hold.
Only that sometimes he seemed to drop all reserves, to make an
extraordinary rapprochement. I might flush, call myself a fool,
remember my age, but at these times it would really appear as if
Ella had some reason in her madness, as if he had some personal
interest in me. At these times I found him nervous, excitable, utterly
unlike his professional self. As for me I had to preserve my
equanimity, ignore or rebuff without disturbing my equilibrium. I was
fully employed in nursing my new-found strength, swallowing
perpetually milk and eggs, lying for hours on an invalid carriage
amid the fading gorse, reconstructing, rebuilding, making vows. I
had been granted a respite, if not a reprieve, and had to prove my
worthiness. The desire for work grew irresistible. When I asked for
leave he combated me, combated me strenuously.
“You are not strong enough, not nearly strong enough. You have
built up no reserve. You must put on another stone at least before
you can consider yourself out of the wood.”
“I won’t begin anything new, but that story, the story I wrote in
water....” I watched him when I said this. I saw his colour rise and
his lips tremble.
“Oh, yes. I had forgotten about that.” But I saw he had not
forgotten. “You never saw your midnight visitor again?”—he asked
me with an attempt at carelessness—“Margaret Capel. Do you
remember, in the early days of your illness how often you spoke of
her, how she haunted you?” He spoke lightly, but there was anxiety
in his voice, and Fear ... was it Fear I saw in his eyes, or indecision?
“Since you have begun to get better you have never mentioned her
name. You were going to write her life ...” he went on.
“And death,” I answered to see what he would say. We were feinting
now, getting closer.
“You know she died of heart disease,” he asked quickly. “There was
an inquest....”
“I saw her die,” I answered, not very coolly or conclusively. His face
was very strange and haggard, and I felt sorry for him.
“How strange and vivid dreams can be. Morphia dreams especially,”
he replied, rather questioningly than assertively.
“I thought you agreed mine were not dreams?”
“Did I? When was that?”
“When you brought me their letters, told me I was foredoomed to
write her story. Hers and his. I can’t think why you did.”
“Did I say that?”
“More than once. I suppose you thought I was not going to get
better.” He did not answer that except with his rising colour and
confusion, and I saw now I had hit upon the truth. “I wonder you
gave me the iodide,” I said thoughtfully.
“I suppose now you think me capable of every crime in the
calendar?”
That brought us to close quarters, and I took up the challenge.
“No, I don’t. Your hand was forced.” Then I added, I admit more
cruelly: “Have you ever done it again?”
He had been sitting by my couch in the garden; a basket-work chair
stood there always for him. Now he got up abruptly, walked away a
few steps. I watched him, then thought of my question, a dozen
others rising in my mind. It was eleven years since Margaret Capel
died and a jury of twelve good men and true had found that heart
disease had been the cause of death. There had been a rumour of
suicide, and, in society, some talk of cause. Absurd enough, but, as
Ella had reminded me, very prevalent and widespread. The rising
young authoress was supposed to have been in love with an eminent
politician. His wife died shortly before she started the long-delayed
divorce proceedings against James Capel, and this gave colour to the
rumour. It was hazarded that he had made it clear to her that
remarriage was not in his mind. Few people knew of the real state of
affairs. Gabriel Stanton shut that close mouth of his and told no one.
I wondered about Gabriel Stanton, but more about Peter Kennedy,
who had walked away from me when I spoke. What had happened
to him in these eleven years? Into what manner of man had he
grown? He came back presently, sat down again by my couch, spoke
abruptly as if there had been no pause.
“You want to know whether I have ever done for anybody what I did
for Margaret Capel?”
“Yes, that is what I asked you.”
“Will you believe me when I tell you?”
“Perhaps. Why did you first encourage me to write Margaret Capel’s
life and then try and prevent my doing it?”
“You won’t believe me when I tell you.”
“Probably not.”
“I wanted to know whether she had forgiven me, whether she was
still glad. When you told me you saw and spoke to her....”
“It was almost before that, if I remember rightly.”
“It may have been. Do you remember I said you were a
reincarnation? The first time I came in and saw you sitting there, at
her writing-table, in her writing-chair, I thought of you as a
reincarnation.”
The light in his eyes was rather fitful, strange.
“I was right, wasn’t I, Margaret?” He put a hand on my knee. I
remembered how she had flung it off under similar circumstances. I
let it lie there. Why not?
“My name is Jane.” It came back to me that I had said this to him
once before.
“You don’t care for me at all?”
“I am glad you thought of the intensive iodide treatment. It has its
advantages over hyoscine.”
“You have not changed?”
“I would rather like you to remember this is the twentieth century.”
He sighed and took his hand off my knee, drew it across his
forehead.
“You don’t know what the last few months have meant to me,
coming up here again, every day or twice a day, taking care of you,
giving you back those letters, knowing you knew....”
“You had not the temptation to rid yourself of me again?”
“You have grown so cold. I suppose you would not look at the idea
of marrying me?”
“You suppose quite correctly,” I answered, thinking of Ella, and what
a score this would be to her.
“It would make everything so right. I have been thinking of this ever
since you began to get better, before, too. You will always be
delicate, need a certain amount of care. No one could give it to you
as well as I. Why not? I have almost the best practice in Pineland,
and I deserve it, too. I’ve worked hard in these eleven years. I’ve
given an honest scientific trial to every new treatment. I’ve saved
scores of lives....”
“Your own in jeopardy all the time.”
“She asked me to do it, begged me to do it....” He spoke wildly.
“Gabriel Stanton was inflexible, the marriage was to be postponed
whilst Mrs. Roope was prosecuted, or the case fought out in the Law
Courts. And every little anxiety or excitement set her poor heart
beating ... put her in pain ... jeopardised her life. I’d do it again
tomorrow. I don’t care who knows. You’ll have to tell if you want to.
If you married me you couldn’t give evidence against me....”
His smile startled me; it was strange, cunning. It seemed to say,
“See how clever I am,—I have thought of everything.”
“There, I have had that in my mind ever since you began to be
better.”
“It was not because you have fallen in love with me, then?” I
scoffed.
“When you are Margaret, I love you ... I adore you.” The whole
secret flashed on me then, flashed through his strange perfervid
eyes. We were in full view of a curious housemaid at a window, but
he kneeled down by my couch, as he had kneeled by Margaret’s.
“You are Margaret. Tell me the truth. There is no other fellow now.
You always said if it were not for Gabriel Stanton....”
I quieted him with difficulty. I saw what was the matter. Of course I
ought to have seen it before, but vanity and Ella obscured the truth.
The poor fellow’s mind was unhinged. For years he had brooded and
brooded, yet worked magnificently at his profession, worked at
making amends. The place and I had brought out the latent
mischief. Now he implored me to marry him, to show him I was glad
he had carried out my wishes.
“Your heart is now quite well ... I have sounded it over and over
again. You will never have a return of those pains. Margaret....”
I got rid of him that day as quickly as possible, not answering yes or
no definitely, marking time, soothing him disingenuously. Before the
next day was at its meridian I had hurriedly left Carbies. Left
Pineland, all the strange absorbing story, and this poor obsessed
doctor. I left a letter for him, the most difficult piece of prose I have
ever written. I was writing to a madman to persuade him he was
sane! I gave urgent reasons for being in London, added a few lines,
that I hoped he would understand, about having abandoned my
intention of turning my morphia dreams into “copy”; tried to convey
to him that he had nothing to fear from me....
I never had an answer to my letter. I parried Ella’s raillery, resumed
my old life. But I could not forget my country practitioner nor what I
owed him. A peculiar tenderness lingered. However I might try to
disguise names and places he would read through the lines. It was
difficult to say what would be the effect on his mind and I would not
take the risk. I held over my story as long as I was able, even wrote
another meantime. But three months ago I became a free woman. I
read in the obituary column of my morning paper that Peter
Kennedy, M.D., F.R.C.S., of Pineland, Isle of Wight, had died from the
effects of a motor accident.
The obituary notices were very handsome and raised him from the
obscurity of a mere country practitioner. It mentioned the
distinguished persons he had had under his care. The late Margaret
Capel, for instance. But not myself! I suspected Dr. Lansdowne of
having sent the notices to the press, his name occurred in all of
them, the partnership was bugled.
Peter Kennedy died well. He was driving his car quickly on an urgent
night call. Some strange cur frisked into the road and to avoid it he
swerved suddenly. Death must have been instantaneous. I was glad
that he died without pain. I had rather he was alive today, although
my story had remained for ever unwritten. So few people have ever
cared for me. Had I chosen I do believe his reincarnation theory
would have held. And I should have had at least one lover to oppose
to Ella’s many!
 TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
1. Added CONTENTS.
2. Changed “Your faithfully,” to “Yours faithfully,” on
p. 75.
3. Silently corrected typographical errors.
4. Retained anachronistic and non-standard
spellings as printed.
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