Mortal Coils | Page 6

red currants, but checked himself; the triumph of an "I told you so" was too cheaply won. Instead, he was sympathetic, and gave her his arm to the house.
"A rest will do you good," he said. "By the way, I shan't be back till after dinner."
"But why? Where are you going?"
"I promised to go to Johnson's this evening. We have to discuss the war memorial, you know."
"Oh, I wish you weren't going." Mrs. Hutton was almost in tears. "Can't you stay? I don't like being alone in the house."
"But, my dear, I promised weeks ago." It was a bother having to lie like this. "And now I must get back and look after Miss Spence."
He kissed her on the forehead and went out again into the garden. Miss Spence received him aimed and intense.
"Your wife is dreadfully ill," she fired off at him.
"I thought she cheered up so much when you came/'
"That was purely nervous, purely nervous. I was watching her closely. With a heart in that condition and her digestion wrecked yes, wrecked anything might happen."
"Libbard doesn't take so gloomy a view of poor Emily's health." Mr. Hutton held open the gate that led from the garden into the drive; Miss Spence's car was standing by the front door.
"Libbard is only a country doctor. You ought to see a specialist."
He could not refrain from laughing. "You have a macabre passion for specialists."
Miss Spence held up her hand in protest. "I am serious. I think poor Emily is in a very bad state. Anything might happen at any moment."
He handed her into the car and shut the door. The chauffeur started the engine and climbed into his place, ready to drive off.
"Shall I tell him to start?" He had no desire to continue the conversation.
Miss Spence leaned forward and shot a Gioconda in his direction. "Remember, I expect you to come and see me again soon."
Mechanically he grinned, made a polite noise, and, as the car moved forward, waved his hand. He was happy to be alone.
A few minutes afterwards Mr. Hutton himself drove away. Doris was waiting at the cross-roads. They dined together twenty miles from home, at a roadside hotel. It was one of those bad, expensive meals which are only cooked in country hotels frequented by motorists. It revolted Mr. Hutton, but Doris enjoyed it. She always enjoyed things. Mr. Hutton ordered a not very good brand of champagne. He was wishing he had spent the evening in his library.
When they started homewards Doris was a little tipsy and extremely affectionate. It was very dark inside the car, but looking forward, past the motionless form of M'Nab, they could see a bright and narrow universe of forms and colours scooped out of the night by the electric head-lamps.
It was after eleven when Mr. Hutton reached home. Dr. Libbard met him in the hall. He was a small man with delicate hands and well-formed features that were almost feminine. His brown eyes were large and melancholy. He used to waste a great deal of time sitting at the bedside of his patients, looking sadness through those eyes and talking in a sad, low voice about nothing in particular. His person exhaled a pleasing odour, decidedly antiseptic but at the same time suave and discreetly delicious.
"Libbard?" said Mr. Hutton in surprise. "You here? Is my wife ill?"
"We tried to fetch you earlier," the soft, melancholy voice replied. "It was thought you were at Mr. Johnson's, but they had no news of you there."
"No, I was detained. I had a breakdown," Mr. Hutton answered irritably. It was tiresome to be caught out in a lie.
"Your wife wanted to see you urgently."
"Well, I can go now." Mr. Hutton moved towards the stairs.
Dr. Libbard laid a hand on his arm. "I am afraid it's too late."
"Too late?" He began fumbling with his watch; it wouldn't come out of the pocket.
"Mrs. Hutton passed away half an hour ago."
The voice remained even in its softness, the melancholy of the eyes did not deepen. Dr. Libbard spoke of death as he would speak of a local cricket match. All things were equally vain and equally deplorable.
Mr. Hutton found himself thinking of Janet Spence's words. At any moment at any moment. She had been extraordinarily right.
"What happened?" he asked. "What was the cause?"
Dr. Libbard explained. It was heart failure brought on by a violent attack of nausea, caused in its turn by the eating of something of an irritant nature. Red currants? Mr. Hutton suggested. Very likely. It had been too much for the heart. There was chronic valvular disease: something had collapsed under the strain. It was all over; she could not have suffered much.
III
"IT'S a pity they should have chosen the day of the Eton and Harrow match for the funeral," old General Grego