She looked into his face. ‘What is it?’ she whispered, with white lips. ‘Do you know?’
‘Yes, I know,’ he answered, meeting her look.
I had an inspiration. Among my clientele I numbered several trained nurses. I called at the post office on my way home and wired for one. In less than two hours she was with me. I despatched her to the Manor. ‘Say you have been sent from Heaven or Buckingham Palace, or any other probable and impressive source, and keep your eyes and ears open,’ I enjoined her, with that utter disregard for truth and scrupulousness which I have found the greatest of all aids to me in my researches.
She returned in an hour. There was anger in her eyes. The gauze veil streaming from her bonnet fluttered manelike to the offended toss of her head.
‘You did not stay long,’ I said.
‘My lord,’ she returned, ‘I did not have the opportunity. Lady Devilish – I believe you called her Devilish – just came into the room and gave a little cry, and turned her back on me as if I’d been an ogre. “Oh, you would never suit,” she said, “I must have someone young” – my lord, I am twenty-six – “and plump” – I weigh ten stone – “and healthy” – I have never had a day’s illness. “Send someone young, and plump, and healthy,” and she marched out.’
‘I suppose that would not be difficult?’ I commented.
‘Not at all,’ she said resolutely, ‘a little padding, a touch of rouge, and some minor details are all that are needed.’
‘You mean to go yourself, then?’
‘Yes, I mean to go,’ she returned. ‘If there is anything to find out she may be sorry she wasn’t more civil,’ she added meditatively.
‘Would she not recognize you?’
I admire grit. I admired the uncompromising and superior disdain with which she met my question. She turned and left without condescending a word. In fifteen minutes she came back, or, rather, somebody did whose voice was all I recognized. Her disguise was perfect. Before, she had certainly looked neither youthful (despite her assurance as to twenty-six), nor plump (despite her boasted avoirdupois), nor healthy. Now she was plump, and young, and rosy. She had been dark; now a profusion of rich red hair rippled from her brows. I wondered why she did not always go about disguised. She explained.
‘In most houses, my lord,’ she said, ‘there are sons, and brothers, and husbands. A woman who has her living to get by nursing can only afford to sport cherry cheeks under exceptional circumstances.’
When she had gone I dipped my pen in coloured ink and entered her name in my diary. Whether or not she succeeded with Lady ‘Devilish’, she was a capable person. And capable persons are red-letter persons in a world where incompetency rules seven days out of most weeks.
II
Nurse Marian’s Story
She received me with open arms. ‘You are just what I want,’ she said effusively. ‘I loathe sickliness. There was a gaunt, haggard creature here an hour ago. Ugh!’ she shuddered, ‘I would not have employed her for worlds.’
I may be prejudiced, but after her remark I confess, to feeling somewhat antipathetic to her ladyship. She has a curious way of staring. I suspect her of being short-sighted and shirking glasses for the sake of her looks. Certainly I have never seen anybody so brilliantly beautiful.
Upstairs I was introduced to her companion, Mrs Lyall. She did not strike me as being altogether sane. She has rather a grim smile.
‘You’ll soon lose those fine cheeks,’ she said the moment she saw me.
‘I trust not,’ I returned, with some amount of confidence. (I had only just opened a new packet.) ‘Is Lady Devilish rather a trying patient, then?’ I asked.
She broke into a laugh. ‘What did you call her?’
‘I understood her name to be Devilish,’ I said.
‘No, it’s her nature,’ she retorted, looking furtively about. ‘Her name has an “r” instead of an “l”.’
Her ladyship was plainly no favourite of Mrs Lyall’s. Indeed, everybody in the house seemed to be in mortal terror of her. The servants would not, if they could help it, enter a room where she was.
From the unhealthy faces of the household I came to the conclusion that the house was thoroughly unsanitary. I determined to investigate the drains. Whatsoever there might be that was unwholesome it did not affect the mistress. Her energy was marvellous. She never tired. When after a long day picnicking or a late ball, everybody looked as white as paper, she was as fresh and blooming and gay-spirited as possible. It seemed a mere farce for her to employ a nurse. But she had a fad about massage, and insisted on being ‘massed’ morning and night.
‘You don’t look tired,’ she remarked in a puzzled way, at the end of my first night’s operations. She was staring curiously at my rouged cheeks. Strangely enough I was feeling actually faint. Strong-nerved as I am, I fairly reeled.
‘Whatsoever I look,’ I answered her, a little irritably, ‘I certainly feel more tired than I ever remember feeling.’
I thought she seemed pleased. Certainly I had said nothing to please her. No doubt she was thinking her own thoughts.
Her engagement to be married again was announced the day after my arrival. She had been already married twice. The young man – the Earl of Arlington – was, with a number of other persons, stopping in the house. He was handsome and pleasant-looking. I was told he had thrown over a girl he had cared for and who had cared for him for years in order to propose to Lady Deverish. He did not look capable of it. But, to all appearance, he was head over heels in love. He could not keep his eyes from her. He sat like a man bewitched, and neither ate nor rested.
‘Poor young gentleman! He’ll go the way of the others,’ Mrs Plimmer, the housekeeper, confided to me.
‘You don’t suspect Lady Deverish of poisoning her husbands?’ I returned.
‘It isn’t my place to suspect my betters, Nurse,’ she said with dignity, ‘All I say is there’s something terrible mysterious. Why does everybody who comes to the Manor fail in health?’
‘Drains,’ I suggested.
She tossed her ample chin. ‘Why did her two young husbands, as likely men as might be, sicken from the day she married them, and die consumptive? Was that drains, can you tell me?’
I thought it might have been, but having no evidence, did not commit myself.
Mrs Plimmer tossed her ample chin again, this time triumphantly. ‘And why,’ she proceeded, ‘did Dr Andrew, as kind a gentleman as walks, try to strangle her?’
I braved her scorn and ventured ‘jealousy.’
She eyed me witheringly. ‘The doctor’s no lady’s man,’ she said, ‘and besides if he was, it’s no reason for strangling them.’
I was unable to find any fault with the drains. I began to grow interested. I myself felt strangely out of sorts – a new experience for me.
Lord Arlington’s infatuation amounted to possession. He sat staring at her in a kind of ecstasy of fascination. He was pale and moody and obviously unhappy. I was told he had lost health and spirits markedly since his engagement. Probably his conscience troubled him about the other woman. At breakfast one morning he unwrapped a little packet which had come by post for him, without, it is to be supposed, observing the handwriting. As he undid it mechanically there dropped from the wrappings a ring, a knot of ribbon, and a bundle of letters. He seemed stunned. Without a word he gathered them together and quitted the room. I met him later pacing the garden like a madman.
Poor man! His love affair was short-lived.
A week later I was involuntary witness to a curious scene. I was sitting late one evening in the garden. Lady Deverish would not need me until bedtime, when her massage was due. Suddenly he and she, talking excitedly, came round the shrubbery.
‘I have been mad,’ he exclaimed, in a hoarse, passionate voice. ‘For God’s sake let me go free. They say her heart is broken.’
She put her two hands on his shoulders, and lifted her face to his.
‘I will never let you go,’ she s
aid, with a curious ring as of metal in her voice. She wound her arms about his neck and kissed his throat. ‘And you love me too much,’ she added.
‘Heaven only knows if it is love,’ he answered, ‘it seems to me like madness. I had loved her faithfully for years.’
‘And now you love me, and there is no way out of it,’ she whispered. She leaned up again and kissed him. Then with a little cooing laugh she left him.
He remained looking after her. ‘Yes, there is one way out of it,’ I heard him say slowly.
That night he shot himself.
Now, although I had known her but a fortnight, I had known her long enough to believe her superior to the weakness of being very deeply in love. Yet the night he died I was inclined to alter my opinion. He had bidden her a hasty goodbye, saying he was summoned to town. He took the last train up.
During the night I was called to her. I found her sitting up in bed, her face ashen pale, her eyes distended, her hands clasped to her head. She was gasping for breath. She seemed like one stricken; her features were picked out by deep grey lines. She did not speak, but pointed with an insistent finger to her right temple. I put my hand upon it. Then I called quickly for a light; for my fingers slipped along that which seemed to be a moist and clammy aperture, moist with a horrible, unmistakable clamminess. But when the light was brought there was neither blood nor aperture, only a curious, blanched spot, chill to the touch.
I gave her brandy, and put hot bottles in her bed. She was shaking as with ague. She clutched my hands, holding them against that ice-spot in her temple till I was sick and faint. Soon she seemed better. Some colour returned to her.
‘My God, he is dead!’ she said, through chattering teeth. Then she crouched down in the bed, a shuddering heap.
Next morning the news came. In that same hour he had put a bullet through his right temple. She was ill all that day, nerveless and almost pulseless. She looked ten years older. I never saw so singular a change. I sent for Dr Byrne, who attributed it to the shock of bad news. Why it developed some hours before the news arrived he did not explain. He only said: ‘Tut, tut, Nurse, life is full of coincidences’; and prescribed ammonia.
Next day she was better, and suggested getting up, but changed her mind after having seen a mirror. ‘Gracious!’ she said, with a shudder, ‘I look like an old woman.’ She broke into feeble weeping. ‘He ought to have thought of me,’ she cried angrily.
She demanded wine and meat-juices, taking them with a curious solicitude, and carefully looking into her mirror for their effect. But she saw little there to comfort her.
‘Do you think it might be my death-blow?’ she questioned once through quivering lips. I shook my head. ‘Ah, you don’t know all,’ she muttered.
In the afternoon she asked that the gardener’s child should be brought to her. He was a chubby, rosy little fellow, whom everybody petted. ‘I must have something to liven me,’ she said. I had never supposed her fond of children. But she held her arms hungrily for him, and strained him to her breast. Her spirits rose. Her eyes brightened: she got colour. Soon she was laughing and chatting in her accustomed manner. The child had fallen asleep, but she would not part with him. When at last she let him go, I was horrified to find him cold and pallid. He was breathing heavily, and quite unconscious. I concluded the poor little chap was sickening for something. Later, I was surprised to receive a note from Dr Andrew, whom I did not know. I dismissed him as I had done Mrs Lyall, and probably Mrs Plimmer, as not altogether sane. ‘I have been called in to attend Willy Daniels,’ the note ran. ‘For Heaven’s sake, do not let her get hold of any more children.’
Next day she was better. She seemed to have forgotten Arlington and talked only of her health. She asked again for the boy. I told her he was ill. She broke into a curious laugh which seemed uncalled for. ‘Thank goodness, I haven’t lost my power,’ she said a minute later. But she did not explain the saying.
She was in high spirits all the morning, talking and singing and trying on new laces and bonnets. She still complained of pain in the right temple. After her massage she turned peevish, protesting that it did her no good. ‘If you hadn’t such a colour I should not believe you healthy,’ she said crossly.
She had the parson’s children to tea. It would amuse her, she said, to see them eat their strawberries. They seemed afraid of her, and eyed her from a distance. When she attempted to take the little one, it clung to me and shrieked. But she persisted, and it soon fell asleep in her arms. On presently taking it from her, I found it chilled and breathing stertorously and quite unconscious. I thought of Dr Andrew’s injunction. Heavens! what had she done? Was she a secret poisoner? I dismissed the notion forthwith. I had not left the room a moment during the time the child was with her, nor had it taken anything to eat or drink.
‘What is the matter?’ I demanded.
Her eye avoided mine. She answered nonchalantly: ‘What does one expect? Children are everlastingly teething or over-feeding or having measles.’
Next morning I was called up at daybreak. Dr Andrew was waiting to see me. I threw on my things and went down. He was stalking up and down the drawing-room. He stared.
‘You seem to have resisted her,’ he muttered, looking at my cheeks. I have a long memory, and had not forgotten my rouge. He told me a wild and incredible story. He wound up by handing me a small bottle.
‘Give her that dose so soon as she wakes,’ he said. The man was probably a better doctor than he was an actor. His manner paraded the nature of the dose. I took out the cork and smelt it. It was as I suspected. I walked across the room and emptied its contents out of the window. ‘Pardon me,’ I said, ‘but you are exceeding your duty.’
‘Is she to be allowed to go on murdering people?’ he protested. ‘Do you know I have been up all night with that unfortunate baby? Do you know Willy Daniels is not yet out of danger? Good Heavens! if I am willing to take the consequences, how can one who knows the circumstances hesitate?’
‘I have a safer and more justifiable plan,’ I said. ‘If what you say is true the remedy is simple, and poison is uncalled for. After all, Dr Andrew, your story would sound lame enough in a lawcourt. By my plan you run no risks.’
I laid it before him. He seemed interested. But he would not, after the manner of men in their dealings with women, permit me to take too much credit to myself.
‘It might work,’ he said lukewarmly, ‘and as you say it would certainly be safer.’
I went to my room and opened a further packet of rouge. I applied it lavishly. I began to see that the health tint on my cheeks had an important bearing on the situation. I put vermilion on my lips. Then I carried my patient her breakfast.
She seemed restored and lay in her rose-pink bed, a smiling Venus. She fairly glowed with beautiful health. I thought of that poor little sick boy. ‘Goodness!’ I said with a start, ‘how ill you look!’ She ceased from smiling. She leapt across the floor, her draperies clinging round her pink flushed toes. She fled to the glass. She turned on me peevishly. ‘Why did you tell me?’ she protested. ‘I should have thought I looked well.’
I went and stood beside her. ‘Compare yourself with me.’
She was pale enough indeed by the time she had done so. ‘Am I losing my power after all?’ she muttered. ‘Heavens! shall I grow old like other people?’
Suddenly she flung herself upon me. She pressed her lips and cheeks against my throat and face.
‘Give me some of it,’ she cried ravenously. ‘You have so much vitality. Let me drain some of that rich health and colour.’
I nearly fell. It seemed as if she were actually sucking out my life. I reeled and sickened. Then with a tremendous effort I pushed her away and stumbled from the room. Was Andrew’s story indeed true? Was she a monster or merely a monomaniac?
Years ago he had said she was dying of consumption. So far as physical signs could be trusted, she had not a week to live. Suddenly she began to recover. She made flesh rapidly, gained health, and
came back to life from the very jaws of death. Meanwhile, her sister, a schoolgirl, whom she insisted on having always with her, sickened and died.
Then a brother died, then her mother. By this time she had grown quite strong. Since then she had lived on the vital forces of those surrounding her. ‘The law of life,’ he said, ‘makes creatures inter-dependent. Physical vitality is subject to physical laws of diffusion and equalisation. One person below par absorbs the nerve and life sources of healthier persons with them. Many old, debilitated subjects live on the animal forces of the cat they keep persistently in their chair, and die when it dies. Wives and husbands, sisters and brothers, friends and acquaintances: there is a constant interchange of vital force. Lady Deverish has to my knowledge been the actual cause of death of a dozen persons. Besides these she has drained the health of everybody associated with her. And in her case – a rare and extreme one – the faculty is conscious and voluntary. She was living on Arlington. The man was powerless. She paralysed his will, his mind, his energies. She robbed him of strength to resist her. The sequel is interesting, psychologically. She being for the time charged with his vitality, his sudden death, by some curious sympathy, affected her in the way you have described. She was all at once and violently bereft of the source whence she was drawing energy. But she will soon, if she be allowed, find some other to prey on. For some years I have studied her closely. She is the archetype of a class of persons I have long had under observation. I find such power depends largely on force of will and concentration. If she can maintain these there is no reason why she should not live to be a hundred. There will always be persons of less assertive selfishness to serve as reservoirs of vital strength to her. At present her confidence is shaken, her power – therefore her life trembles in the balance. In the interests of humanity and justice she must not be allowed to regain her confidence. She lives by wholesale murder.’
III
I drank a glass of port and went back to my patient. She lay panting on her bed.
Dracula’s Brethren Page 30
