Thus, in social death, so to speak, a man may be so placed that he is unable to adapt himself to his surroundings. His reputation dies and disintegrates like a body that is incapable of adjusting itself to some blighting change of climate. Or, in the terminology of physics, responsible repute may be likened to an obelisk whose instability increases with its height. A flat stone may remain in respectable and undisturbed equilibrium for centuries. The poised pinnacle is pressed upon by every wind that blows.
The fall of some such pinnacle is a dramatic incident in the experience of the community. The noise thereof is in a hundred ears, and the splintered fragments may be gaped at by the crowd. Thus it had been with James Murchison in Roxton town. Neither doctors nor engine-drivers are permitted to indulge in drink, and in Murchison’s case the downfall had been the more dramatic by his absolute refusal to qualify the disgrace. An inquest, an unflattering finding by the coroner’s jury, a case for damages threatening to be successfully instituted by an outraged widow. Amid such social humiliations the brass plate had disappeared abruptly from the door of the house in Lombard Street. It was as though Murchison’s pride had accepted the tragic climax with all the finality of grim despair. He had even made no attempt to sell the practice, but, like Cain, he had gone forth with his wife and with his children, too sensitive in his humiliation to brave the ordeal of reconquering a lost respect.
Many months had passed since the furniture dealers’ vans had stood in the roadway outside the house in Lombard Street, with bass and straw littering the pavement, and men in green baize aprons going up and down the dirty steps. Frost was in the air, and the winter sun burned vividly upon the western hills. A fog of smoke hung over the straggling town, lying a dark blurr amid the white-misted meadows. Lights were beginning to wink out like sparks on tinder. The dull roar of a passing train came with hoarse strangeness out of the vague windings of the valley.
As the dusk fell, a smart pair of “bays” switched round the northwest corner of St. Antonia’s Square and clattered over the cobbles under the spectral hands of the towering elms. The church clock chimed for the hour as Parker Steel, furred like any Russian, stepped out of the brougham, and, slamming the door sharply after him, ordered the coachman to keep the horses on the move. Dr. Steel’s brougham was not the only carriage under St. Antonia’s sleeping elms. A steady beat of hoofs and a jingling of harness gave a ring of distinction to the quiet square.
Parker Steel glanced at the warm windows of his house as he crossed the pavement, and fumbled for his latch-key in his waistcoat pocket. The sound of music came from within, ceasing as the physician entered the hall, and giving place to the brisk murmur of many voices. A smart parlor-maid emerged from the drawing-room, carrying a number of teacups, blue and gold, on a silver tray. The babble of small talk unmuffled by the open door suggested that Mrs. Betty excelled as a hostess.
Ten minutes elapsed before Parker Steel, spruce and complacent, was bowing himself into his own drawing-room with the easy unction of a man sure of the distinction of his own manners. Quite twenty ladies were ready to receive the physician’s effeminate white fingers. Mrs. Betty had gathered the carriage folk of Roxton round her. The heat of the room seemed to have stimulated the scent of the exotic flowers. The shaded standard lamp, burning in the bay-window beside the piano, shed a brilliant light upon a pink mass of azaleas in bloom. Mrs. Betty herself was still seated upon the music-stool, one hand resting on the key-board as she chatted to Lady Sophia Gillingham, sunk deep in the luxurious cushions of a lounge-chair.
Mrs. Betty, a study in saffron, her pale face warmed by the light of the lamp, caught her husband’s eye as he moved through the crowded room. Sleek, brilliant, pleased as a cat that has been lapping cream, she made a slight gesture that he understood, a gesture that brought him before Lady Gillingham’s chair.
“Parker.”
“Yes, dear.”
“Will you touch the bell for me?—I want to show Mignon to Lady Sophia.”
Parker Steel’s smile congratulated his wife on her deft handling of the weapons of social diplomacy. He rang the bell, and meeting the servant at the door, desired her to bring Mrs. Betty’s blue Persian and the basket of kittens from before the library fire.
The physician took personal charge of Mignon and her children, and returning between the chairs and skirts, presented the family to Lady Sophia.
Parker Steel had an ecstatic lady at either elbow as he held the basket lined with red silk, the three mouse-colored kittens crawling about within. Mignon, the amber-eyed, had made a leap for Mrs. Betty’s lap.
“The dears!”
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