Family Matters by Anthony Rolls

Author:Anthony Rolls
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Poisoned Pen Press, Inc.
Published: 2016-12-27T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter VIII

1

Bertha was not the only one to be troubled by the unaccountable resistance of Robert. Doctor Wilson Bagge had been for some time on the look-out for symptoms. He had called once or twice in a friendly and hopeful way, and was not a little disconcerted by the appearance of his patient. Of course he behaved in the most irreproachable manner.

Robert looked up with his peculiar, twisted, excruciating smile. “Your medicine appears to suit me very well. I notice a marked improvement.” He had never made such an admission before.

Doctor Bagge stared at him with a prim fixity. He was at a loss.

“No trace of the colic, eh?”

“No pains at all, doctor. I don’t eat a great deal, you know. I never did. But—all things considered—I feel remarkably well.”

“Well; keep it up, keep it up,” said the doctor rather testily. “Take larger doses if you like. Take the extra dose at bedtime. Splendid, eh? Positively splendid result!”

In spite of himself, he could not help speaking in a snappy, irritated, precise way. After all the trouble he had taken, he was not merely disappointed, he was bewildered. He could hardly believe that Robert was taking his medicine. He would have to find out.

Another week passed. The doctor called again. Robert Arthur had gone to a meeting of his Rule Britannia League, as fit as a fiddle. Bertha, however, was in the drawing-room. She was looking ill.

“Ah-h!” cried the little man, twinkling with dapper vivacity. “Good afternoon, my dear Mrs. Kewdingham. How delightful to see you.” He made the primmest of little bows. “The new rugs have arrived only this morning from Heal’s, and I do hope you will come and give me your opinion of them. I depend entirely upon your impeccable judgment.”

“I should love to.” But there was no eagerness in her voice. “Do sit down. I wanted to ask you—about Bobby. I am feeling rather anxious.”

“Why—he’s very well, isn’t he?”

“Unnaturally well.”

“Unnaturally well! My dear lady!—whatever do you mean?”

“He can’t really be well.”

“And why not?” He was in a twitter of curiosity.

“It’s not so easy to explain. For one thing—hasn’t he got a very weak heart?”

“Yes: but there’s no reason why it shouldn’t last for years.”

“And kidney trouble?”

“Chronic nephritis. Yes.”

“Then, you see, he gets those awful gastric attacks from time to time. So you can hardly expect him to be very well, can you?”

“Still, he’s much better?”

“He appears to be better.”

“To be frank with you, Mrs. Kewdingham, I will admit that I certainly am surprised to find him as well as he is. I had not anticipated so rapid an improvement. The ways of Nature are incalculable.”

“You are very modest. He puts it down to your medicine.”

The devil he does! thought Doctor Bagge. But he said:

“That is very kind of him, but I don’t think I can take all the credit. Nature, I repeat, is always baffling or surprising us. I must say that I had not expected—well, I had expected a change, of course. Can you tell me whether he really does take the medicine regularly?”

“Yes.

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