Chapter 18: Cronies

That evening Dr. Twelves dined with a fellow Scot, J. Andrew McTavish, of McTavish & Brown. Mr. McTavish lived in Mecklenberg Square. Although a bachelor he liked plenty of house room, and in Mecklenberg Square he had it. His house was perhaps the largest in the Square, and certainly not the least comfortable. Comfort was to Mr. McTavish a sort of fetish: excepting money he set it above everything. He looked as if he did. Of medium height, he was of more than average size, his waist measurement was approaching a significant figure; his neck loved a generous collar, his chin overlapped; he had slight side whiskers, dark gray in hue, and the top of his head was so completely bald that one wondered if it could ever have been anything else. He and his guest presented an amazing contrast: three or four replicas of Dr. Twelves could have been contained in Mr. McTavish.

They dined tête-à-tête at a small round table which stood in the centre of a big room. Mr. McTavish liked big rooms; he was never comfortable in a small one. During the meal the conversation was of a desultory character, principally hovering around Pitmuir, where Mr. McTavish had lived till he came to London. Questions were asked and answered touching every soul in the parish Mr. McTavish could think of, and his memory was extensive. There was hardly a man, woman or child about Pitmuir whose name had not been mentioned before dinner was finished. If the inquiries were slightly acid, so were the replies. It seemed as if these two gentlemen had made it a point of honour to say nothing nice of any one. According to them the folk about Pitmuir were a very human lot--at least they had most of humanity’s failings.

After dinner they retired to the study, another fine apartment. There they had a cup of coffee, a liqueur, and a cigar apiece. The doctor seemed lost in the huge chair which he had been invited to fill. His host regarded him with twinkling eyes.

“Have you had a good dinner, David?”

“You feed yourself too well; you’re a hundred years behind the age.”

“How do you show it?”

“Our great-grandfathers pampered their bellies. We know better; we have learnt that it is the part of wisdom to starve them. You’re still where our grandsires were.”

“And where are you?”

“I’m on the high road to as fine an attack of indigestion as a man need have, and live.”

“I can give you the name of one of the greatest authorities on indigestion.”

“I dare swear you can give me the names of one or two. I shouldn’t be surprised if that sucking-pig proves to be the death of me, beyond the skill of all your authorities.”

“It was cooked to a turn.”

“I ought to know how it was cooked, considering the way that I behaved to it. It’s wicked to set such meat before a man. And now, I’ve something which I wish to say to you.”

“You’ve said one or two things already--what’s the other?”

The doctor, taking the cigar out of his mouth, regarded the ash on the tip.

“You remember Wallace’s daughter?”

“Cuthbert Grahame’s girl?”

The doctor nodded.

“I’ve seen her this afternoon.”

“No? I wondered what had become of her, more than once. I’ve seen and heard nothing of her since he turned her out.”

“He didn’t turn her out, she turned herself out. I had the story from his own lips.”

“So had I. To all intents and purposes he turned her out, however he may have put it to himself or to you.”

“He asked her to marry him, and she wouldn’t.”

“He asked her not once or twice, but again and again, until he made it plain that his house was no place for her unless she meant to be his wife. So, as she didn’t, there was nothing for her but to go.”

“It was a fool business.”

“On both sides. Why he wanted to marry her I don’t know. I never do know why a man wants to marry. I’d sooner have a buzz saw in every room in the house than a wife in one. Why she wouldn’t marry him, I know still less.”

“There was the difference in their years. Then he was already threatening to be what he afterwards became--physically, I mean.”

“Well, what of it? If a girl in her position has to marry, I should say that there are two things which she ought to look for first of all--money, and a sick husband; if possible, one who is already sick unto death. In Grahame she’d have had both.”

There was silence, as if both parties were giving to Mr. McTavish’s words the consideration due to a profound aphorism. It was the doctor who spoke next.

“He always believed that she would come back again, saying yes.”

“I’d no patience with the man, he was all kinds of a fool. If he wanted her to be his wife, he didn’t go the right way to get her. When she said no, instead of thanking God for his undeserved escape, he stormed and raved, fretted and fumed, until he became only fit to be exhibited in a booth at a fair.”

“When he heard that she was in love with some one else, it was that that was the death of him.”

“A good thing too. It’d have been a good thing if it had been the death of both of them. I’ve no bowels for such tomfoolery. Where is she? What’s she doing? Is she married to the other fool? If she is, don’t they both wish that they were dead?”

“You’ve a sharp tongue, Andrew--if your wits were like it! Not all married folks wish that they were dead; there’s just as much desire to live among the married as among the single--maybe more. To hear you talk one would suppose that one had only to remain single to be happy. You and I know better than that.”

“Speak for yourself, David, speak for yourself--I’m happy enough.”

“Then your looks belie you.”

“What’s the matter with my looks, you old croaker?”

“I’m a doctor of medicine, Andrew McTavish; I’ve learned to turn the smoothest side to a patient; so you must excuse me if to your inquiry I return no answer.”

“After the dinner I’ve given him!”

“It’s the ill-assorted food you have caused me to cram down my throat that I’m beginning to fancy has given me a touch of the spleen.”

“Something has. The next time you dine in this house it will be off porridge.”

“We’ll leave the next time till it comes. To return to Margaret Wallace. She’s not married yet, and, so far as I can judge, she’s not likely to be. It’s want of pence, both with him and with her. If she had some of Cuthbert Grahame’s money, as she ought to have, it’d make all the difference.”

“It’s in part your fault that she hasn’t.”

“I’m not denying it, and I’m not forgetting it. If I’ve been guilty of the unforgivable sin, it was when I brought that woman to Cuthbert Grahame’s bedside. I sometimes think that I’ll see it chalked up against me in letters of fire when I’m brought up before the throne.”