“One word more,” said Trefusis. “Did she know that she was dying?”
“No. I considered it best that she should not be informed of her danger. She passed away without any apprehension.”
“Then one can think of it with equanimity. She dreaded death, poor child. The wonder is that there was not enough folly in the household to prevail against your good sense.”
The physician bowed and took his leave, esteeming himself somewhat fortunate in escaping without being reproached for his humanity in having allowed Henrietta to die unawares.
A moment later the general practitioner entered. Trefusis, having accompanied the consulting physician to the door, detected the family doctor in the act of pulling a long face just outside it. Restraining a desire to seize him by the throat, he seated himself on the edge of the table and said cheerfully:
“Well, doctor, how has the world used you since we last met?”
The doctor was taken aback, but the solemn disposition of his features did not relax as he almost intoned: “Has Sir Francis told you the sad news, Mr. Trefusis?”
“Yes. Frightful, isn’t it? Lord bless me, we’re here to-day and gone tomorrow.”
“True, very true!”
“Sir Francis has a high opinion of you.”
The doctor looked a little foolish. “Everything was done that could be done, Mr. Trefusis; but Mrs. Jansenius was very anxious that no stone should be left unturned. She was good enough to say that her sole reason for wishing me to call in Sir Francis was that you should have no cause to complain.”
“Indeed!”
“An excellent mother! A sad event for her! Ah, yes, yes! Dear me! A very sad event!”
“Most disagreeable. Such a cold day too. Pleasanter to be in heaven than here in such weather, possibly.”
“Ah!” said the doctor, as if much sound comfort lay in that. “I hope so; I hope so; I do not doubt it. Sir Francis did not permit us to tell her, and I, of course, deferred to him. Perhaps it was for the best.”
“You would have told her, then, if Sir Francis had not objected?”
“Well, there are, you see, considerations which we must not ignore in our profession. Death is a serious thing, as I am sure I need not remind you, Mr. Trefusis. We have sometimes higher duties than indulgence to the natural feelings of our patients.”
“Quite so. The possibility of eternal bliss and the probability of eternal torment are consolations not to be lightly withheld from a dying girl, eh? However, what’s past cannot be mended. I have much to be thankful for, after all. I am a young man, and shall not cut a bad figure as a widower. And now tell me, doctor, am I not in very bad repute upstairs?”
“Mr. Trefusis! Sir! I cannot meddle in family matters. I understand my duties and never over step them.” The doctor, shocked at last, spoke as loftily as he could.
“Then I will go and see Mr. Jansenius,” said Trefusis, getting off the table.
“Stay, sir! One moment. I have not finished. Mrs. Jansenius has asked me to ask — I was about to say that I am not speaking now as the medical adviser of this family; but although an old friend — and — ahem! Mrs. Jansenius has asked me to ask — to request you to excuse Mr. Jansenius, as he is prostrated by grief, and is, as I can — as a medical man — assure you, unable to see anyone. She will speak to you herself as soon as she feels able to do so — at some time this evening. Meanwhile, of course, any orders you may give — you must be fatigued by your journey, and I always recommend people not to fast too long; it produces an acute form of indigestion — any orders you may wish to give will, of course, be attended to at once.”
“I think,” said Trefusis, after a moment’s reflection, “I will order a hansom.”
“There is no ill-feeling,” said the doctor, who, as a slow man, was usually alarmed by prompt decisions, even when they seemed wise to him, as this one did. “I hope you have not gathered from anything I have said—”
“Not at all; you have displayed the utmost tact. But I think I had better go. Jansenius can bear death and misery with perfect fortitude when it is on a large scale and hidden in a back slum. But when it breaks into his own house, and attacks his property — his daughter was his property until very recently — he is just the man to lose his head and quarrel with me for keeping mine.”
The doctor was unable to cope with this speech, which conveyed vaguely monstrous ideas to him. Seeing Trefusis about to leave, he said in a low voice: “Will you go upstairs?”
“Upstairs! Why?”
“I — I thought you might wish to see—” He did not finish the sentence, but Trefusis flinched; the blank had expressed what was meant.
“To see something that was Henrietta, and that is a thing we must cast out and hide, with a little superstitious mumming to save appearances. Why did you remind me of it?”
“But, sir, whatever your views may be, will you not, as a matter of form, in deference to the feelings of the family—”
“Let them spare their feelings for the living, on whose behalf I have often appealed to them in vain,” cried Trefusis, losing patience. “Damn their feelings!” And, turning to the door, he found it open, and Mrs. Jansenius there listening.
Trefusis was confounded. He knew what the effect of his speech must be, and felt that it would be folly to attempt excuse or explanation. He put his hands into his pockets, leaned against the table, and looked at her, mutely wondering what would follow on her part.
The doctor broke the silence by saying tremulously, “I have communicated the melancholy intelligence to Mr. Trefusis.”
“I hope you told him also,” she said sternly, “that, however deficient we may be in feeling, we did everything that lay in our power for our child.”
“I am quite satisfied,” said Trefusis.
“No doubt you are — with the result,” said Mrs. Jansenius, hardly. “I wish to know whether you have anything to complain of.”
“Nothing.”
“Please do not imply that anything has happened through our neglect.”
“What have I to complain of? She had a warm room and a luxurious bed to die in, with the best medical advice in the world. Plenty of people are starving and freezing to-day that we may have the means to die fashionably; ask THEM if they have any cause for complaint. Do you think I will wrangle over her body about the amount of money spent on her illness? What measure is that of the cause she had for complaint? I never grudged money to her — how could I, seeing that more than I can waste is given to me for nothing? Or how could you? Yet she had great reason to complain of me. You will allow that to be so.”
“It is perfectly true.”
“Well, when I am in the humor for it, I will reproach myself and not you.” He paused, and then turned forcibly on her, saying, “Why do you select this time, of all others, to speak so bitterly to me?”
“I am not aware that I have said anything to call for such a remark. Did