"Forgive me for saying so, Bastin," he said, bristling all over as it were, "but your remarks, which may or may not be in accordance with the principles of your religion, seem to me to be in singularly bad taste.They would have turned the stomachs of a gathering of early Christians, who appear to have been the worst mannered people in the world, and at any decent heathen feast your neck would have been wrung as that of a bird of ill omen.""Why?" asked Bastin blankly."I only said what I thought to be the truth.The truth is better than what you call good taste.""Then I will say what I think also to be the truth," replied Bickley, growing furious."It is that you use your Christianity as a cloak for bad manners.It teaches consideration and sympathy for others of which you seem to have none.Moreover, since you talk of the death of people's wives, I will tell you something about your own, as a doctor, which I can do as I never attended her.It is highly probable, in my opinion, that she will die before Mrs.Arbuthnot, who is quite a healthy person with a good prospect of life.""Perhaps," said Bastin."If so, it will be God's will and Ishall not complain" (here Bickley snorted), "though I do not see what you can know about it.But why should you cast reflections on the early Christians who were people of strong principle living in rough times, and had to wage war against an established devil-worship? I know you are angry because they smashed up the statues of Venus and so forth, but had I been in their place Ishould have done the same."
"Of course you would, who doubts it? But as for the early Christians and their iconoclastic performances--well, curse them, that's all!" and he sprang up and left the room.
I followed him.
Let it not be supposed from the above scene that there was any ill-feeling between Bastin and Bickley.On the contrary they were much attached to each other, and this kind of quarrel meant no more than the strong expression of their individual views to which they were accustomed from their college days.For instance Bastin was always talking about the early Christians and missionaries, while Bickley loathed both, the early Christians because of the destruction which they had wrought in Egypt, Italy, Greece and elsewhere, of all that was beautiful; and the missionaries because, as he said, they were degrading and spoiling the native races and by inducing them to wear clothes, rendering them liable to disease.Bastin would answer that their souls were more important than their bodies, to which Bickley replied that as there was no such thing as a soul except in the stupid imagination of priests, he differed entirely on the point.
As it was quite impossible for either to convince the other, there the conversation would end, or drift into something in which they were mutually interested, such as natural history and the hygiene of the neighbourhood.
Here I may state that Bickley's keen professional eye was not mistaken when he diagnosed Mrs.Bastin's state of health as dangerous.As a matter of fact she was suffering from heart disease that a doctor can often recognise by the colour of the lips, etc., which brought about her death under the following circumstances:
Her husband attended some ecclesiastical function at a town over twenty miles away and was to have returned by a train which would have brought him home about five o'clock.As he did not arrive she waited at the station for him until the last train came in about seven o'clock--without the beloved Basil.Then, on a winter's night she tore up to the Priory and begged me to lend her a dog-cart in which to drive to the said town to look for him.I expostulated against the folly of such a proceeding, saying that no doubt Basil was safe enough but had forgotten to telegraph, or thought that he would save the sixpence which the wire cost.
Then it came out, to Natalie's and my intense amusement, that all this was the result of her jealous nature of which I have spoken.She said she had never slept a night away from her husband since they were married and with so many "designing persons" about she could not say what might happen if she did so, especially as he was "such a favourite and so handsome." (Bastin was a fine looking man in his rugged way.)I suggested that she might have a little confidence in him, to which she replied darkly that she had no confidence in anybody.
The end of it was that I lent her the cart with a fast horse and a good driver, and off she went.Reaching the town in question some two and a half hours later, she searched high and low through wind and sleet, but found no Basil.He, it appeared, had gone on to Exeter, to look at the cathedral where some building was being done, and missing the last train had there slept the night.
About one in the morning, after being nearly locked up as a mad woman, she drove back to the Vicarage, again to find no Basil.
Even then she did not go to bed but raged about the house in her wet clothes, until she fell down utterly exhausted.When her husband did return on the following morning, full of information about the cathedral, she was dangerously ill, and actually passed away while uttering a violent tirade against him for his supposed suspicious proceedings.
That was the end of this truly odious British matron.
In after days Bastin, by some peculiar mental process, canonised her in his imagination as a kind of saint."So loving,"he would say, "such a devoted wife! Why, my dear Humphrey, I can assure you that even in the midst of her death-struggle her last thoughts were of me," words that caused Bickley to snort with more than usual vigour, until I kicked him to silence beneath the table.
