Mortal Coils | Page 4

right boot he rolled the little dog over and
rubbed its white-flecked chest and belly. The creature lay in an inert
ecstasy. Mrs. Hutton continued to play Patience. Arrived at an impasse
she altered the position of one card, took back another, and went on
playing. Her Patiences always came out.
"Dr. Libbard thinks I ought to go to Llandrindod Wells this summer."
"Well go, my dear go, most certainly."
Mr. Hutton was thinking of the events of the afternoon: how they had
driven, Doris and he, up to the hanging wood, had left the car to wait
for them under the shade of the trees, and walked together out into the
windless sunshine of the chalk down.
"I'm to drink the waters for my liver, and he thinks I ought to have
massage and electric treatment, too."
Hat in hand, Doris had stalked four blue butterflies that were dancing
together round a scabious flower with a motion that was like the
flickering of blue fire. The blue fire burst and scattered into whirling
sparks; she had given chase, laughing and shouting like a child.
"I'm sure it will do you good, my dear."
"I was wondering if you'd come with me, dear."
"But you know I'm going to Scotland at the end of the month."
Mrs. Hutton looked up at him entreatingly. "It's the journey," she said.

"The thought of it is such a nightmare. I don't know if I can manage it.
And you know I can't sleep in hotels. And then there's the luggage and
all the worries. I can't go alone."
"But you won't be alone. You'll have your maid with you." He spoke
impatiently. The sick woman was usurping the place of the healthy one.
He was being dragged back from the memory of the sunlit down and
the quick, laughing girl, back to this unhealthy, overheated room and its
complaining occupant.
"I don't think I shall be able to go."
"But you must, my dear, if the doctor tells you to. And, besides, a
change will do you good."
"I don't think so."
"But Libbard thinks so, and he knows what he's talking about."
"No, I can't face it. I'm too weak. I can't go alone." Mrs. Hutton pulled a
handkerchief out of her black silk bag, and put it to her eyes.
"Nonsense, my dear, you must make the effort."
"I had rather be left in peace to die here." She was crying in earnest
now.
"O Lord! Now do be reasonable. Listen now, please." Mrs. Hutton only
sobbed more violently. "Oh, what is one to do?" He shrugged his
shoulders and walked out of the room.
Mr. Hutton was aware that he had not behaved with proper patience;
but he could not help it. Very early in his manhood he had discovered
that not only did he not feel sympathy for the poor, the weak, the
diseased, and deformed; he actually hated them. Once, as an
undergraduate, he spent three days at a mission in the East End. He had
returned, filled with a profound and ineradicable disgust. Instead of
pitying, he loathed the unfortunate. It was not, he knew, a very comely

emotion; and he had been ashamed of it at first. In the end he had
decided that it was temperamental, inevitable, and had felt no further
qualms. Emily had been healthy and beautiful when he married her. He
had loved her then. But now was it his fault that she was like this?
Mr. Hutton dined alone. Food and drink left him more benevolent than
he had been before dinner. To make amends for his show of
exasperation he went up to his wife's room and offered to read to her.
She was touched, gratefully accepted the offer, and Mr. Hutton, who
was particularly proud of his accent, suggested a little light reading in
French.
"French? I am so fond of French." Mrs. Hutton spoke of the language
of Racine as though it were a dish of green peas.
Mr. Hutton ran down to the library and returned with a yellow volume.
He began reading. The effort of pronouncing perfectly absorbed his
whole attention. But how good his accent was! The fact of its goodness
seemed to improve the quality of the novel he was reading.
At the end of fifteen pages an unmistakable sound aroused him. He
looked up; Mrs. Hutton had gone to sleep. He sat still for a little while,
looking with a dispassionate curiosity at the sleeping face. Once it had
been beautiful; once, long ago, the sight of it, the recollection of it, had
moved him with an emotion profounder, perhaps, than any he had felt
before or since. Now it was lined and cadaverous. The skin was
stretched tightly over the cheekbones, across the bridge