CHAPTER XV.
I AM CALLED FOR CONSULTATION.
The incident was certainly a puzzling one, for when, a few minuteslater, my chief entered the study, his face, usually ashen grey, wasflushed with excitement.
"I've been having trouble with a lunatic," he explained, aftergreeting me, and inquiring why I had come down to consult him. "Thewoman's people are anxious to place her under restraint; yet, for thepresent, there is not quite sufficient evidence of insanity to signthe certificate. Did you overhear her in the next room?" And, seatinghimself at his table, he looked at me through his glasses with thosekeen penetrating eyes that age had not dimmed or time dulled.
"I heard voices," I admitted, "that was all." The circumstance was astrange one, and those words were so ominous that I was determined notto reveal to him the conversation I had overheard.
"Like many other women patients suffering from brain troubles, she hastaken a violent dislike to me, and believes that I'm the very devil inhuman form," he said, smiling. "Fortunately, she had a friend withher, or she might have attacked me tooth and nail just now," andleaning back in his chair he laughed at the idea--laughed so lightlythat my suspicions were almost disarmed.
But not quite. Had you been in my place you would have had yourcuriosity and suspicion aroused to no mean degree--not only by thewords uttered by the woman and Sir Bernard's defiant reply, but alsoby the fact that the female voice sounded familiar.
A man knows the voice of his love above all. The voice that I hadheard in that adjoining room was, to the best of my belief, that ofEthelwynn.
With a resolution to probe this mystery slowly, and without unseemlyhaste, I dropped the subject, and commenced to ask his adviceregarding the complicated case of Lady Twickenham. The history of it,and the directions he gave can serve no purpose if written here;therefore suffice it to say that I remained to dinner and caught thenine o'clock express back to London.
While at dinner, a meal served in that severe style whichcharacterised the austere old man's daily life, I commenced to talk ofthe antics of insane persons and their extraordinary antipathies, butquickly discerned that he had neither intention nor desire to speak ofthem. He replied in those snappy monosyllables which told me plainlythat the subject was distasteful to him, and when I bade him good-byeand drove to the station I was more puzzled than ever by his strangebehaviour. He was eccentric, it was true; but I knew all his littleodd ways, the eccentricity of genius, and could plainly see that hisrecent indisposition, which had prevented him from attending at HarleyStreet, was due to nerves rather than to a chill.
The trains from Brighton to London on Sunday evenings are alwayscrowded, mainly by business people compelled to return to town inreadiness for the toil of the coming week. Week-end trippers and dayexcursionists fill the compartments to overflowing, whether it bechilly spring or blazing summer, for Brighton is ever popular with thejaded Londoner who is enabled to "run down" without fatigue, and get acheap health-giving sea-breeze for a few hours after the busy turmoilof the Metropolis.
On this Sunday night it was no exception. The first-class compartmentwas crowded, mostly be it said, by third-class passengers who had"tipped" the guard, and when we had started I noticed in the farcorner opposite me a pale-faced young girl of about twenty or so,plainly dressed in shabby black. She was evidently a third-classpassenger, and the guard, taking compassion upon her fragile form inthe mad rush for seats, had put her into our carriage. She was notgood-looking, indeed rather plain; her countenance wearing a sad,pre-occupied expression as she leaned her chin upon her hand and gazedout upon the lights of the town we were leaving.
I noticed that her chest rose and fell in a long-drawn sigh, and thatshe wore black cotton gloves, one finger of which was worn through.Yes, she was the picture of poor respectability.
The other passengers, two of whom were probably City clerks with theirloves, regarded her with some surprise that she should be afirst-class passenger, and there seemed an inclination on the part ofthe loudly-dressed females to regard her with contempt.
Presently, when we had left the sea and were speeding through the opencountry, she turned her sad face from the window and examined herfellow passengers one after the other until, of a sudden, her eyes metmine. In an instant she dropped them modestly and busied herself inthe pages of the sixpenny reprint of a popular novel which she carriedwith her.
In that moment, however, I somehow entertained a belief that we hadmet before. Under what circumstances, or where, I could not recollect.The wistfulness of that white face, the slight hollowness of thecheeks, the unnaturally dark eyes, all seemed familiar to me; yetalthough for half an hour I strove to bring back to my mind where Ihad seen her, it was to no purpose. In all probability I had attendedher at Guy's. A doctor in a big London hospital sees so many facesthat to recollect all is utterly impossible. Many a time I have beenaccosted and thanked by people whom I have had no recollection of everhaving seen in my life. Men do not realise that they look verydifferent when lying in bed with a fortnight's growth of beard to whenshaven and spruce, as is their ordinary habit: while women, whensmartly dressed with fashionable hats and flimsy veils, are verydifferent to when, in illness, they lie with hair unbound, facespinched and eyes sunken, which is the only recollection their doctorhas of them. The duchess and the servant girl present very similarfigures when lying on a sick bed in a critical condition.
There was an element of romantic mystery in that fragile little figurehuddled up in the far corner of the carriage. Once or twice, when shebelieved my gaze to be averted, she raised her eyes furtively asthough to reassure herself of my identity, and in her restless mannerI discerned a desire to speak with me. It was very probable that shewas some poor girl of the lady's maid or governess class to whom I hadshown attention during an illness. We have so many in the female wardsat Guy's.
But during that journey a further and much more important matterrecurred to me, eclipsing all thought of the sad-faced girl opposite.I recollected those words I had overheard, and felt convinced that thespeaker had been none other than Ethelwynn herself.
Sometimes when a man's mind is firmly fixed upon an object the eventsof his daily life curiously tend towards it. Have you neverexperienced that strange phenomenon for which medical science hasnever yet accounted, namely, the impression of form upon theimagination? You have one day suddenly thought of a person longabsent. You have not seen him for years, when, without any apparentcause, you have recollected him. In the hurry and bustle of city lifea thousand faces are passing you hourly. Like a flash one man passes,and you turn to look, for the countenance bears a striking resemblanceto your absent friend. You are disappointed, for it is not the man. Asecond face appears in the human phantasmagoria of the street, and thesimilarity is almost startling. You are amazed that two persons shouldpass so very like your friend. Then, an hour after, a thirdface--actually that of your long-lost friend himself. All of us haveexperienced similar vagaries of coincidence. How can we account forthem?
And so it was in my own case. So deeply had my mind been occupied bythoughts of my love that several times that day, in London and inBrighton, I had been startled by striking resemblances. Thus Iwondered whether that voice I had heard was actually hers, or only adistorted hallucination. At any rate, the woman had expressed hatredof Sir Bernard just as Ethelwynn had done, and further, the old manhad openly defied her, with a harsh laugh, which showed confidence inhimself and an utter disregard for any statement she might make.
At Victoria the pale-faced girl descended quickly, and, swallowed in amoment in the crowd on the platform, I saw her no more.
She had, before descending, given me a final glance, and I fanciedthat a faint smile of recognition played about her lips. But in theuncertain light of a railway carriage the shadows are heavy, and Icould not see sufficiently distinctly to warrant my returning hersalute. So the wan little figure, so full of romantic mystery, wentforth again into oblivion.
I was going my round at Guy's on th
e following morning when a telegramwas put into my hand. It was from Ethelwynn's mother--Mrs. Mivart, atNeneford--asking me to go down there without delay, but giving noreason for the urgency. I had always been a favourite with the oldlady, and to obey was, of course, imperative--even though I werecompelled to ask Bartlett, one of my colleagues, to look after SirBernard's private practice in my absence.
Neneford Manor was an ancient, rambling old Queen Anne place, aboutnine miles from Peterborough on the high road to Leicester. Standingin the midst of the richest grass country in England, with its groundssloping to the brimming river that wound through meadows which in Maywere a blaze of golden buttercups, it was a typical English home, withquaint old gables, high chimney stacks and old-world garden with yewhedges trimmed fantastically as in the days of wigs and patches. I hadsnatched a week-end several times to be old Mrs. Mivart's guest;therefore I knew the picturesque old place well, and had beenentranced by its many charms.
Soon after five o'clock that afternoon I descended from the train atthe roadside station, and, mounting into the dog-cart, was drivenacross the hill to the Manor. In the hall the sweet-faced,silver-haired old lady, in her neat black and white cap greeted me,holding both my hands and pressing them for a moment, apparentlyunable to utter a word. I had expected to find her unwell; but, on thecontrary, she seemed quite as active as usual, notwithstanding thesenile decay which I knew had already laid its hand heavily upon her.
"You are so good to come to me, Doctor. How can I sufficiently thankyou?" she managed to exclaim at last, leading me into thedrawing-room, a long old-fashioned apartment with low ceilingsupported by black oak beams, and quaint diamond-paned windows at eachend.
"Well?" I inquired, when she had seated herself, and, with the eveninglight upon her face, I saw how blanched and anxious she was.
"I want to consult you, Doctor, upon a serious and confidentialmatter," she began, leaning forward, her thin white hands clasped inher lap. "We have not met since the terrible blow fell upon us--thedeath of poor Mary's husband."
"It must have been a great blow to you," I said sympathetically, for Iliked the old lady, and realised how deeply she had suffered.
"Yes, but to poor Mary most of all," she said. "They were so happytogether; and she was so devoted to him."
This was scarcely the truth; but mothers are often deceived as totheir daughters' domestic felicity. A wife is always prone to hide hersorrows from her parents as far as possible. Therefore the old ladyhad no doubt been the victim of natural deception.
"Yes," I agreed; "it was a tragic and terrible thing. The mystery isquite unsolved."
"To me, the police are worse than useless," she said, in her slow,weak voice; "they don't seem to have exerted themselves in the leastafter that utterly useless inquest, with its futile verdict. As faras I can gather, not one single point has been cleared up."
"No," I said; "not one."
"And my poor Mary!" exclaimed old Mrs. Mivart; "she is beside herselfwith grief. Time seems to increase her melancholy, instead of bringingforgetfulness, as I hoped it would."
"Where is Mrs. Courtenay?" I asked.
"Here. She's been back with me for nearly a month. It was to see her,speak with her, and give me an opinion that I asked you to come down."
"Is she unwell?"
"I really don't know what ails her. She talks of her husbandincessantly, calls him by name, and sometimes behaves so strangelythat I have once or twice been much alarmed."
Her statement startled me. I had no idea that the young widow hadtaken the old gentleman's death so much to heart. As far as I had beenable to judge, it seemed very much as though she had every desire toregain her freedom from a matrimonial bond that galled her. That shewas grief-stricken over his death showed that I had entirely misjudgedher character.
"Is she at home now?" I asked.
"Yes, in her own sitting-room--the room we used as a schoolroom whenthe girls were at home. Sometimes she mopes there all day, onlyspeaking at meals. At others, she takes her dressing-bag and goes awayfor two or three days--just as the fancy takes her. She absolutelydeclines to have a maid."
"You mean that she's just a little--well, eccentric," I remarkedseriously.
"Yes, Doctor," answered the old lady, in a strange voice quite unusualto her, and fixing her eyes upon me. "To tell the truth I fear hermind is slowly giving way."
I remained silent, thinking deeply; and as I did not reply, she added:
"You will meet her at dinner. I shall not let her know you are here.Then you can judge for yourself."
The situation was becoming more complicated. Since the conclusion ofthe inquest I had seen nothing of the widow. She had stayed severaldays with Ethelwynn at the Hennikers', then had visited her aunt nearBath. That was all I knew of her movements, for, truth to tell, I heldher in some contempt for her giddy pleasure-seeking during herhusband's illness. Surely a woman who had a single spark of affectionfor the man she had married could not go out each night to theatresand supper parties, leaving him to the care of his man and a nurse.That one fact alone proved that her professions of love had beenhollow and false.
While the twilight fell I sat in that long, sombre old room thatbreathed an air of a century past, chatting with old Mrs. Mivart, andlearning from her full particulars of Mary's eccentricities. Myhostess told me of the proving of the will, which left the Devonshireestate to her daughter, and of the slow action of the executors. Theyoung widow's actions, as described to me, were certainly strange, andmade me strongly suspect that she was not quite responsible for them.That Mary's remorse was overwhelming was plain; and that fact arousedwithin my mind a very strong suspicion of a circumstance I had notbefore contemplated, namely, that during the life of her husband therehad been a younger male attraction. The acuteness of her grief seemedproof of this. And yet, if argued logically, the existence of a secretlover should cause her to congratulate herself upon her liberty.
The whole situation was an absolute enigma.
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