The Measure of Malice

by Martin Edwards

  Lady Studley did not venture any further remonstrance, and we now approached the old Grange. It was an irregular pile, built evidently according to the wants of the different families who had lived in it. The building was long and rambling, with rows of windows filled up with panes of latticed glass. In front of the house was a sweeping lawn, which, even at this time of the year, presented a velvety and well-kept appearance. We drove rapidly round to the entrance door, and a moment later I found myself in the presence of my host and patient. Sir Henry Studley was a tall man with a very slight stoop, and an aquiline and rather noble face. His eyes were dark, and his forehead inclined to be bald. There was a courtly, old-world sort of look about him. He greeted me with extreme friendliness, and we went into the hall, a very large and lofty apartment, to tea.

  Lady Studley was vivacious and lively in the extreme. While she talked, the hectic spots came out again on her cheeks. My uneasiness about her increased as I noticed these symptoms. I felt certain that she was not only consumptive, but in all probability she was even now the victim of an advanced stage of phthisis. I felt far more anxious about her than about her husband, who appeared to me at that moment to be nothing more than a somewhat nervous and hypochondriacal person. This state of things seemed easy to account for in a scholar and a man of sedentary habits.

  I remarked about the age of the house, and my host became interested, and told me one or two stories of the old inhabitants of the Grange. He said that tomorrow he would have much pleasure in taking me over the building.

  “Have you a ghost here?” I asked, with a laugh.

  I don’t know what prompted me to ask the question. The moment I did so, Sir Henry turned white to his lips, and Lady Studley held up a warning finger to me to intimate that I was on dangerous ground. I felt that I was, and hastened to divert the conversation into safer channels. Inadvertently I had touched on a sore spot. I scarcely regretted having done so, as the flash in the baronet’s troubled eyes, and the extreme agitation of his face, showed me plainly that Lady Studley was right when she spoke of his nerves being in a very irritable condition. Of course, I did not believe in ghosts, and wondered that a man of Sir Henry’s calibre could be at all under the influence of this old-world fear.

  “I am sorry that we have no one to meet you,” he said, after a few remarks of a commonplace character had divided us from the ghost question. “But tomorrow several friends are coming, and we hope you will have a pleasant time. Are you fond of hunting?”

  I answered that I used to be in the old days, before medicine and patients occupied all my thoughts.

  “If this open weather continues, I can probably give you some of your favourite pastime,” rejoined Sir Henry; “and now perhaps you would like to be shown to your room.”

  My bedroom was in a modern wing of the house, and looked as cheerful and as un-ghostlike as it was possible for a room to be. I did not rejoin my host and hostess until dinner-time. We had a sociable little meal, at which nothing of any importance occurred, and shortly after the servants withdrew, Lady Studley left Sir Henry and me to ourselves. She gave me another warning glance as she left the room. I had already quite made up my mind, however, to tell Sir Henry the motive of my visit.

  The moment the door closed behind his wife, he started up and asked me if I would mind coming with him into his library.

  “The fact is,” he said, “I am particularly glad you have come down. I want to have a talk with you about my wife. She is extremely unwell.”

  I signified my willingness to listen to anything Sir Henry might say, and in a few minutes we found ourselves comfortably established in a splendid old room, completely clothed with books from ceiling to floor.

  “These are my treasures,” said the baronet, waving his hand in the direction of an old bookcase, which contained, I saw at a glance, some very rare and precious first editions.

  “These are my friends, the companions of my hours of solitude. Now sit down, Dr. Halifax; make yourself at home. You have come here as a guest, but I have heard of you before, and am inclined to confide in you. I must frankly say that I hate your profession as a rule. I don’t believe in the omniscience of medical men, but moments come in the lives of all men when it is necessary to unburden the mind to another. May I give you my confidence?”

  “One moment first,” I said. “I can’t deceive you, Sir Henry. I have come here, not in the capacity of a guest, but as your wife’s medical man. She has been anxious about you, and she begged of me to come and stay here for a few days in order to render you any medical assistance within my power. I only knew, on my way here today, that she had not acquainted you with the nature of my visit.”

  While I was speaking, Sir Henry’s face became extremely watchful, eager, and tense.

  “This is remarkable,” he said. “So Lucilla is anxious about me? I was not aware that I ever gave her the least clue to the fact that I am not—in perfect health. This is very strange—it troubles me.”

  He looked agitated. He placed one long, thin hand on the little table which stood near, and pouring out a glass of wine, drank it off. I noticed as he did so the nervous trembling of his hand. I glanced at his face, and saw that it was thin to emaciation.

  “Well,” he said, “I am obliged to you for being perfectly frank with me. My wife scarcely did well to conceal the object of your visit. But now that you have come, I shall make use of you both for myself and for her.”

  “Then you are not well?” I asked.

  “Well!” he answered, with almost a shout. “Good God, no! I think that I am going mad. I know—I know that unless relief soon comes I shall die or become a raving maniac.”

  “No, nothing of the kind,” I answered, soothingly; “you probably want change. This is a fine old house, but dull, no doubt, in winter. Why don’t you go away?—to the Riviera, or some other place where there is plenty of sunshine? Why do you stay here? The air of this place is too damp to be good for either you or your wife.”

  Sir Henry sat silent for a moment, then he said, in a terse voice:—

  “Perhaps you will advise me what to do after you know the nature of the malady which afflicts me. First of all, however, I wish to speak of my wife.”

  “I am ready to listen,” I replied.

  “You see,” he continued, “that she is very delicate?”

  “Yes,” I replied; “to be frank with you, I should say that Lady Studley was consumptive.”

  He started when I said this, and pressed his lips firmly together. After a moment he spoke.

  “You are right,” he replied. “I had her examined by a medical man—Sir Joseph Dunbar—when I was last in London; he said her lungs were considerably affected, and that, in short, she was far from well.”

  “Did he not order you to winter abroad?”

  “He did, but Lady Studley opposed the idea so strenuously that I was obliged to yield to her entreaties. Consumption does not seem to take quite the ordinary form with her. She is restless, she longs for cool air, she goes out on quite cold days, in a closed carriage, it is true. Still, except at night, she does not regard herself in any sense as an invalid. She has immense spirit—I think she will keep up until she dies.”

  “You speak of her being an invalid at night,” I replied. “What are her symptoms?”

  Sir Henry shuddered quite visibly.

  “Oh, those awful nights!” he answered. “How happy would many poor mortals be but for the terrible time of darkness. Lady Studley has had dreadful nights for some time: perspirations, cough, restlessness, bad dreams, and all the rest of it. But I must hasten to tell you my story quite briefly. In the beginning of October we saw Sir Joseph Dunbar. I should then, by his advice, have taken Lady Studley to the Riviera, but she opposed the idea with such passion and distress, that I abandoned it.”

  Sir Henry paused here, and I looked at him attentively. I remembered at that moment w
hat Lady Studley had said about her husband refusing to leave the Grange under any circumstances. What a strange game of cross-purposes these two were playing. How was it possible for me to get at the truth?

  “At my wife’s earnest request,” continued Sir Henry, “we returned to the Grange. She declared her firm intention of remaining here until she died.

  “Soon after our return she suggested that we should occupy separate rooms at night, reminding me, when she made the request, of the infectious nature of consumption. I complied with her wish on condition that I slept in the room next hers, and that on the smallest emergency I should be summoned to her aid. This arrangement was made, and her room opens into mine. I have sometimes heard her moving about at night—I have often heard her cough, and I have often heard her sigh. But she has never once sent for me, or given me to understand that she required my aid. She does not think herself very ill, and nothing worries her more than to have her malady spoken about. That is the part of the story which relates to my wife.”

  “She is very ill,” I said. “But I will speak of that presently. Now will you favour me with an account of your own symptoms, Sir Henry?”

  He started again when I said this, and going across the room, locked the door and put the key in his pocket.

  “Perhaps you will laugh at me,” he said, “but it is no laughing matter, I assure you. The most terrible, the most awful affliction has come to me. In short, I am visited nightly by an appalling apparition. You don’t believe in ghosts, I judge that by your face. Few scientific men do.”

  “Frankly, I do not,” I replied. “So-called ghosts can generally be accounted for. At the most they are only the figments of an over-excited or diseased brain.”

  “Be that as it may,” said Sir Henry, “the diseased brain can give such torture to its victim that death is preferable. All my life I have been what I consider a healthy minded man. I have plenty of money, and have never been troubled with the cares which torture men of commerce, or of small means. When I married, three years ago, I considered myself the most lucky and the happiest of mortals.”

  “Forgive a personal question,” I interrupted. “Has your marriage disappointed you?”

  “No, no; far from it,” he replied with fervour. “I love my dear wife better and more deeply even than the day when I took her as a bride to my arms. It is true that I am weighed down with sorrow about her, but that is entirely owing to the state of her health.”

  “It is strange,” I said, “that she should he weighed down with sorrow about you for the same cause. Have you told her of the thing which terrifies you?”

  “Never, never. I have never spoken of it to mortal. It is remarkable that my wife should have told you that I looked like a man who has seen a ghost. Alas! alas! But let me tell you the cause of my shattered nerves, my agony, and failing health.”

  “Pray do, I shall listen attentively,” I replied.

  “Oh, doctor, that I could make you feel the horror of it!” said Sir Henry, bending forward and looking into my eyes. “Three months ago I no more believed in visitations, in apparitions, in so-called ghosts, than you do. Were you tried as I am, your scepticism would receive a severe shock. Now let me tell you what occurs. Night after night Lady Studley and I retire to rest at the same hour. We say good-night, and lay our heads on our separate pillows. The door of communication between us is shut. She has a night-light in her room—I prefer darkness. I close my eyes and prepare for slumber. As a rule I fall asleep. My sleep is of short duration. I awake with beads of perspiration standing on my forehead, with my heart thumping heavily and with every nerve wide awake, and waiting for the horror which will come. Sometimes I wait half an hour—sometimes longer. Then I know by a faint, ticking sound in the darkness that the Thing, for I can clothe it with no name, is about to visit me. In a certain spot of the room, always in the same spot, a bright light suddenly flashes; out of its midst there gleams a preternaturally large eye, which looks fixedly at me with a diabolical expression. As time goes, it does not remain long; but as agony counts, it seems to take years of my life away with it. It fades as suddenly into grey mist and nothingness as it comes, and, wet with perspiration, and struggling to keep back screams of mad terror, I bury my head in the bed-clothes.”

  “But have you never tried to investigate this thing?” I said.

  “I did at first. The first night I saw it, I rushed out of bed and made for the spot. It disappeared at once. I struck a light—there was nothing whatever in the room.”

  “Why do you sleep in that room?”

  “I must not go away from Lady Studley. My terror is that she should know anything of this—my greater terror is that the apparition, failing me, may visit her. I daresay you think I’m a fool, Halifax; but the fact is, this thing is killing me, brave man as I consider myself.”

  “Do you see it every night?” I asked.

  “Not quite every night, but sometimes on the same night it comes twice. Sometimes it will not come at all for two nights, or even three. It is the most ghastly, the most horrible form of torture that could hurry a sane man into his grave or into a madhouse.”

  “I have not the least shadow of doubt,” I said, after a pause, “that the thing can be accounted for.”

  Sir Henry shook his head. “No, no,” he replied, “it is either as you suggest, a figment of my own diseased brain, and therefore just as horrible as a real apparition; or it is a supernatural visitation. Whether it exists or not, it is reality to me and in no way a dream. The full horror of it is present with me in my waking moments.”

  “Do you think anyone is playing an awful practical joke?” I suggested.

  “Certainly not. What object can anyone have in scaring me to death? Besides, there is no one in the room, that I can swear. My outer door is locked, Lady Studley’s outer door is locked. It is impossible that there can be any trickery in the matter.”

  I said nothing for a moment. I no more believed in ghosts than I ever did, but I felt certain that there was grave mischief at work. Sir Henry must be the victim of a hallucination. This might only be caused by functional disturbance of the brain, but it was quite serious enough to call for immediate attention. The first thing to do was to find out whether the apparition could be accounted for in any material way, or if it were due to the state of Sir Henry’s nerves. I began to ask him certain questions, going fully into the case in all its bearings. I then examined his eyes with the ophthalmoscope. The result of all this was to assure me beyond doubt that Sir Henry Studley was in a highly nervous condition, although I could detect no trace of brain disease.

  “Do you mind taking me to your room?” I said.

  “Not tonight,” he answered. “It is late, and Lady Studley might express surprise. The object of my life is to conceal this horror from her. When she is out tomorrow you shall come to the room and judge for yourself.”

  “Well,” I said, “I shall have an interview with your wife tomorrow, and urge her most strongly to consent to leave the Grange and go away with you.”

  Shortly afterwards we retired to rest, or what went by the name of rest in that sad house, with its troubled inmates. I must confess that, comfortable as my room was, I slept very little. Sir Henry’s story stayed with me all through the hours of darkness. I am neither nervous nor imaginative, but I could not help seeing that terrible eye, even in my dreams.

  I met my host and hostess at an early breakfast. Sir Henry proposed that as the day was warm and fine, I should ride to a neighbouring meet. I was not in the humour for this, however, and said frankly that I should prefer remaining at the Grange. One glance into the faces of my host and hostess told me only too plainly that I had two very serious patients on my hands. Lady Studley looked terribly weak and excited—the hectic spots on her cheeks, the gleaming glitter of her eyes, the parched lips, the long, white, emaciated hands, all showed only too plainly the strides the malady under which she
was suffering was making.

  “After all, I cannot urge that poor girl to go abroad,” I said to myself. “She is hastening rapidly to her grave, and no power on earth can save her. She looks as if there were extensive disease of the lungs. How restless her eyes are, too! I would much rather testify to Sir Henry’s sanity than to hers.”

  Sir Henry Studley also bore traces of a sleepless night—his face was bloodless; he averted his eyes from mine; he ate next to nothing.

  Immediately after breakfast, I followed Lady Studley into her morning-room. I had already made up my mind how to act. Her husband should have my full confidence—she only my partial view of the situation.

  “Well,” I said, “I have seen your husband and talked to him. I hope he will soon be better. I don’t think you need be seriously alarmed about him. Now for yourself, Lady Studley. I am anxious to examine your lungs. Will you allow me to do so?”

  “I suppose Henry has told you I am consumptive?”

  “He says you are not well,” I answered. “I don’t need his word to assure me of that fact—I can see it with my own eyes. Please let me examine your chest with my stethoscope.”

  She hesitated for a moment, looking something like a wild creature brought to bay. Then she sank into a chair, and with trembling fingers unfastened her dress. Poor soul, she was almost a walking skeleton—her beautiful face was all that was beautiful about her. A brief examination told me that she was in the last stage of phthisis—in short, that her days were numbered.

  “What do you think of me?” she asked, when the brief examination was over.

  “You are ill,” I replied.

  “How soon shall I die?”

  “God only knows that, my dear lady,” I answered.

  “Oh, you needn’t hide your thoughts,” she said. “I know that my days are very few. Oh, if only, if only my husband could come with me! I am so afraid to go alone, and I am fond of him, very fond of him.”