The Responsibilities of Genius.

Dr. Spink sat in his comfortable dining room with his after-dinner glass of wine before him. The snow was falling and the rain beating against the windows, but the Doctor had finished his work, and feared only that some sudden call would compel him to face the fury of the weather again. A few months back he would have greeted any summons, however unreasonable the hour, and thought a new patient well bought at the price of a spoiled evening. But of late the world had smiled upon him, the hill which had looked so steep was proving easy to climb, and he was already considering whether he should not take a partner, to relieve him of the more irksome parts of his duty. He pulled his neatly trimmed whisker and caressed his smooth-shaven chin, as he reflected how the folly of that mad fellow, Roberts, had turned to his advantage. No man could say that he had deviated an inch from professional propriety, or pressed his advantage the least unfairly. He had merely persevered on the lines he laid down for himself on his first arrival. The success, which astonished even himself, had come to him, partly no doubt, because merit must make its way, but mainly because his rival had willfully flung away his chances, preferring—and to Dr. Spink it seemed a preference almost insane—to speak his mind, whatever it might be, rather than, like a wise man, hold his tongue and fill his pockets.

So Roberts had willed, and hence the Vicarage, the Grange, and many other houses now knew his footstep no more, and Spink filled his place. As he pondered on this, Dr. Spink spared a pang of pity for his beaten competitor, wondering what in the world the man meant to live upon.

The door bell rang. He heard it with a sigh—the half-pleased, half-weary, resigned sigh that a man utters when fortune gives him no rest in getting gain. A moment later he was on his way to the surgery to see a lady who would not send in her name or business.

He recognized Ethel Roberts with surprise, when she raised her veil. They had known one another to bow to, but he could not imagine what brought her to his surgery.

"Mrs. Roberts! Is there anything——"

"Oh, Dr. Spink, you must forgive me for coming. I am in great trouble, and I thought you might help me."

"Pray sit down. Is anyone ill—your little boy?"

"No, he's not ill. It's—it's about my husband."

"I hope Mr. Roberts is not ill?"

"I don't know," she said nervously. "That's what I want to ask you. Have you seen him lately?"

"No, not very; I passed him in the street the other day."

"He's gone to London, suddenly, I don't know why. Oh, he's been so strange lately!"

"I thought he looked worried. Tell me about it," said Dr. Spink, moved now with genuine pity for the pale haggard face before him.

"Ever since—but you mustn't tell I came to you—or spoke to anybody, I mean—will you?"

He reassured her, and she continued:

"Ever since his quarrel with Mr. Bannister—you know about it?—there is something the matter with him. He is moody, and absent-minded, and—and hasty, and he settles to nothing. And now he is gone off like this."

"Come, Mrs. Roberts, you must compose yourself. I suppose he has let these politics worry him."

"He seems to care nothing for—for his home or the baby, you know; he does nothing but read, or wander up and down the room."

"It sounds as if he wanted a rest and a change. You say he has gone away?"

"Yes; but on business, I think."

"I'm afraid I can't tell you much, unless he calls me in and lets me have a look at him."

"He'll never do that!" she exclaimed, before she could stop herself.

Dr. Spink took no notice of her outburst.

"If he comes back no better, send me a line, Mrs. Roberts, and we'll see. And mind you let me know if you or the baby want any advice."

"You're very kind, Dr. Spink. I—I'm sorry James is so——"

"Oh, that's a symptom. If he gets right, he won't be like that. Your jacket's too thin for such a night. Let me send you home in the brougham."

Ethel refused the offer, and started on her return, leaving Dr. Spink shaking a thoughtful head in the surgery doorway.

"It really looks," he said, "as if he was a bit queer. But what can I do? Poor little woman!"

And, not being able to do anything, he went back and finished his glass of port. Then, for his dinner had been postponed till late by business, and it was half-past ten, he went to bed.

Ethel beat her way down the High Street against the wind and snow, shutting her eyes in face of the blinding shower, and pushing on with all her speed to rejoin her baby, whom she had left alone. When, wet and weary, she reached her door, to her surprise she saw a man waiting there. For a moment she joyously thought it was her husband, but as the man came forward to meet her, she recognized Philip Hume.

"Out on such a night, Mrs. Roberts!"

She murmured an excuse, and he went on:

"Is the Doctor in? I came to look him up."

"No, he's away in London, Mr. Hume."

"In London? What for?"

"I don't know."

"May I come in for a moment?" asked Philip, who had been looking at her closely.

"If you like," she answered in some surprise. "I'm afraid there's no fire."

Philip had followed her in and seen the grate in the sitting room with no fire lighted.

"No fire?" he exclaimed.

"There is one in my room where baby is," she explained.

"There ought to be one here too," said he. "You're looking ill."

"Oh, I'm not ill, Mr. Hume—I'm not indeed."

Philip had come on an errand. There are uses even in gossips, and he had had a talk with his friend the Mayor that day.

"Where are the coals?" he asked.

"There are some in the scuttle," she said.

He looked and found a few small pieces. The fire was laid with a few more. Philip lit them and threw on all the rest. Then he went to the door, and shouted:

"Wilson!"

The small shrewd-faced man who waited on Dale Bannister appeared. He was pushing a wheelbarrow before him.

"Wheel it into the passage," said Philip; "and then go. And, mind, not a word!"

Wilson looked insulted.

"I don't talk, sir," said he.

Philip returned to the room.

"Mrs. Roberts," he said, "listen to me. I am a friend of your husband's. Will you let me help you?"

"Indeed, I need no help."

"I know you are frozen," he went on; "and—where is the servant?"

"She has left. I—I haven't got another yet," she faltered.

"In the passage," Philip went on, "there is a wheelbarrow. It holds coals, food, and drink. It's for you."

She started up.

"I can't—indeed I can't! Jim wouldn't like it."

"Jim be hanged! I'll settle with him. You're to take them. Do you hear?"

She did not answer. He walked up to her and put a little canvas bag in her hands.

"There's money. No, take it. I shall keep an account."

"I really don't need it."

"You do—you know you do. How much money has he left you?"

She laid her hand on his arm.

"He's not himself, he isn't indeed, Mr. Hume, or he wouldn't——"

"No, of course he isn't. So I do what he would, if he were himself. You were going to starve."

"He will be angry."

"Then don't tell him. He'll never notice. Now, will he?"

"He notices nothing now," she said.

"And you'll take them? Come, think of what's-his-name—the baby, you know."

"You're too kind to me."

"Nonsense! Of course we look after you, Mrs. Roberts."

"Mr. Hume, do you think—what do you think is the matter with Jim?"

"Oh, I think he's an old fool, Mrs. Roberts, and you may tell him so from me. No, no, he'll be all right in a week or two. Meanwhile, we're going to make you and Tommy—oh, Johnny, is it?—comfortable."

He did not leave her till she had consented to accept all he offered; then he went back to Littlehill.

"I think, Dale," he said, "Roberts must be mad. He left his wife and child starving."

"Did she take the things?"

"Yes; I made her."

"That's all right. What a strange beggar he is! He can't be quite right in his head."

"Fancy that poor little woman left like that!"

"Horrible!" said Dale, with a shudder. "At any rate we can prevent that. I'm so glad you thought of it."

"Old Hedger told me they had ordered nothing for three days."

"How the deuce does Hedger know everything?"

"It's lucky he knew this, isn't it?"

"By Jove, it is! Because, you know, Phil, I feel a kind of responsibility."

"Nonsense, Dale! Not really?"

"Oh, you needn't laugh. Of course I couldn't know the man was a sort of lunatic. One doesn't write for lunatics."

"Perhaps they ought to be considered, being so numerous."

"However, it's all right now. Awfully obliged to you, Phil."

"I wonder if he'll come back."

"Roberts? Why shouldn't he?"

"I don't know, but he's quite capable of just cutting the whole concern."

"I think he's capable of anything."

"Except appreciating 'Amor PatriÆ,' eh?"

Dale, having got the Roberts family off his mind, drifted to another topic.

"I say, Phil, old chap, will you stop playing the fool for once, and give me your advice?"

"What about?" asked Philip, throwing himself into an armchair.

"What," said Dale gravely, filling his pipe, "do you think about getting married?"

"Are you thinking of it?"

"Discuss marriage in the abstract."

"It is a position of greater responsibility and less freedom."

"Yes, I know that. But a lot depends on the girl, doesn't it?"

"I expect so."

"I say, Phil, what do you think of Ripley?"

"He seemed a decent enough fellow."

"Do you think—I mean, do you call him an attractive fellow?"

"Oh, uncommonly!"

"Really?"

"Well, why not?"

Dale fidgeted in his chair, and relit the pipe, which had gone out. He was much too perturbed to give to the filling of it the attention that operation needs.

"I suppose he'll be rich, and a swell, and all that," he went on.

"No doubt—but not a Victorian poet."

"Don't be a fool!"

"I meant it kindly. Some girls like poets."

"They were awfully kind about 'Amor PatriÆ' at the Grange to-night."

"Oh, you've been there?"

"You know I have. Ripley was there. I don't think I care much about him, Phil."

"Don't you? Does he like you?"

Dale laughed as he rose to go to bed.

"Not much, I think," said he.

Philip also, being left companionless, got up and knocked out his pipe. Then he stood looking into the dying embers for a minute or two, and thinking, as he warmed his hands with the last of the heat. "Poor little Nellie!" he said. After a pause, he said it again; and once again after that. But then, as saying it was no use at all, he sighed and went to bed.