Chapter Eight. What Happened to me.

“Do you consider love an ailment?” I asked, looking at her in quick surprise.

“In many cases,” she responded in a serious tone. “I fear I am no exception to the general rule,” she added meaningly.

Those words amounted to the admission that she had a lover, and I regarded her with considerable astonishment. She was a smart woman. I could only suppose that she and her husband were an ill-assorted pair. Possibly she had married for money, and was now filled with regret, as, alas! is so frequently the case.

“You appear unhappy,” I observed in a sympathetic tone, for my curiosity had been aroused by her words.

“Yes, Doctor,” she answered in a low, intense voice, toying nervously with her fine rings. “To tell the truth, I am most unhappy. I have come up to town to consult you, unknown to my husband, for I have heard that you make the treatment of nervous disorders your speciality.”

“And by whom was I recommended to you?” I inquired, somewhat interested in this new and entirely undeserved fame which I had apparently achieved.

“By an old patient of yours—a lady whom I met at a house-party a month ago, in Yorkshire.”

“But I understood that you were consulting me regarding your craving for stimulants,” I said, as her dark, serious eyes met mine again.

She was a decidedly attractive woman, with the easy air and manner of one brought up in good society.

“The craving for drink is the least dangerous of my ailments,” she responded. “It is the craving for love which is driving me to despair.”

I remained silent for a moment, my eyes fixed upon her.

“Pardon my remark,” I said, at last, in a low tone, “but I gather from your words that some man has come between yourself and your husband.”

“Between myself and my husband!” she echoed in surprise. “Why, no, Doctor. You don’t understand me. I love my husband, and he has no love for me!” Her statement was certainly a most unusual one. She was by no means a simple-minded woman, but, on the contrary, clever and intelligent, with a thorough knowledge of the world. It therefore seemed astounding that she should make this remarkable confession. But I controlled my surprise, and responded—

“You are, unfortunately, but one wife among thousands in exactly the same position. If we only knew the composition of the ancient love-philtre it would be in daily requisition. But, unfortunately, medical science is unable to influence the passion of the heart.”

“Of course,” she sighed. Then, with her eyes cast down upon the small table beside which she was sitting, she added, “I suppose, if the truth were known, you consider me very foolish in making this confession to you, a comparative stranger?”

“I do not consider it foolishness at all,” I hastened to assure her. “A neglected wife must always excite sympathy.”

“And have I yours?”

“Most assuredly,” I answered. “It is evident, from my diagnosis, that you are suffering from sudden and abrupt alterations in the feelings. You are more especially subject to a feeling of malaise, accompanied by mental depression, as at this moment. Therefore, I must endeavour to remove the cause. As regards the affection you bear your husband, I would presume to remind you of the very true adage which declares that ‘Love begets love.’”

“Ah,” she interrupted, “that is untrue in my case.”

“Am I, then, to understand that your husband is attracted by some other person?”

“I really don’t know; I do not know what to think. He is indifferent—that is all.”

“What difference is there in your ages?”

“I am thirty. He is fifty-eight.”

“Ah!” I exclaimed. “And am I to presume that your marriage was a loveless one?”

“Not at all,” she answered quickly. “I was very fond of him, and he made some pretence of affection.”

“And how many years have you been married?”

“Three,” she responded.

According to “Debrett” she had married five years ago, but for such small untruths a woman may always be forgiven.

I looked at her, unable to entirely satisfy myself regarding her. She seemed suffering from an agitation which she was striving with all her might to control. That her nervous organisation was impaired was no doubt correct, but it struck me that the cause of it all was some sudden and terrible shock to the system.

“I assure you that you have my sympathy in your mental distress,” I said at length. “There have always been fatalists who have argued that we must accept without question what is sent us, that we must bow in submission to a ‘will’ without really seeking to find out what the ‘will’ is.”

“Yes,” she said thoughtfully. “It is quite impossible not to admit that the increased knowledge of the laws which regulate the visible universe has increased our living faith and added to the glory of the Almighty, while it has made it more difficult for men to make gods after their own image and use them for their own purposes.”

“Exactly,” I said. “Modern medicine is teaching us every day that much bodily suffering is due to man’s wilful neglect of the beneficent laws of Nature. That diseases are due to ignorance and disregard of law, and are not ‘sent’ as scourges by a petulant and capricious deity, is clearly a doctrine which in no way dims the glory of God.”

“I quite agree,” she responded. Then, in a low tone, more confidential than before, she added, “You, Doctor, have expressed sympathy for me in my distress, and I look to you for assistance. Curious though it may seem, I have scarcely a single friend in whom I can confide.”

“I shall respect your confidence, as is my duty,” I answered, “and will do my best to stifle your craving for stimuli.”

“But the love of my husband?”

“Endeavour to live uprightly and honestly, and show him your true worth above all other women,” I said. “It is the only way.”

“I have done so,” she answered sadly, “but have failed.”

“Do not give up. A man is never wholly proof against a good woman, especially if that woman be his wife.”

A silence fell between us.

“And may I count upon your aid in all this, Doctor?” she asked, with some hesitation.

“Certainly,” I responded. “If I can give you any advice, I shall always be pleased to do so.”

“But my husband must know nothing. Recollect I have consulted you unknown to him.”

“As you wish, of course.”

“And, in future, if I wish to see you, may I call at your surgery?”

“If you desire,” I replied. “But I am only locum tenens for my friend, Doctor Raymond, who is in the country. Perhaps I may go into practice in the country afterwards.”

“And leave me!” she exclaimed anxiously. “I hope not.”

“I shall still consider you my patient,” I said.

“No,” she said. “I trust that you will regard me as more than a mere patient—as your friend.”

“I am honoured by your friendship,” I replied. “And if I can, at any time, do anything to assist you in this mental trouble of yours, I will do it with pleasure.”

I had, during our conversation, been attracted by her frankness of manner and the evident sorrow which weighed so heavily upon her. She had confessed to me, and we had now become friends. My position was a curious one: the adviser of a woman who was wearing out her heart for her husband’s love. It was not altogether devoid of danger either, for her ladyship was an exceedingly attractive woman.

I had written the prescription and handed it to her, but, apparently in no mood to allow me to go, she did not rise.

While I had been busily writing at the little escritoire her manner had apparently changed, for she was no longer the serious, nervous woman of ten minutes before, but quite gay and vivacious, with a look of triumph in her fine, dark eyes.

“I am very glad, Doctor Colkirk, that you have promised to assist me,” she said, laughing merrily and stretching out her tiny foot from beneath the hem of her skirt with a distinct air of coquetry. “I feel sure that we shall be excellent friends.”

“I hope so,” I replied. “But you must be careful of your general health, and persevere with the treatment.”

“I don’t care much for chemists’ concoctions,” she laughed. “It’s very good of you to have given me this prescription, but I don’t propose to make use of it.”

“Why not?” I inquired in quick surprise.

“Because I only described to you imaginary symptoms,” she laughed mischievously. “I enjoy a glass of port immensely after dinner, but further than that never touch stimulants, nor have any inclination for them.”

“So you have deceived me,” I said severely, for it seemed as though she wished to poke fun at me.

“Yes. But I hope you will forgive me,” she answered, laughing.

“I cannot see what motive you can have in calling me in to describe a malady from which you are not suffering. A doctor’s time is valuable.”

“I had a motive.”

“And pray what was it?”

“Well, I wished to make your acquaintance,” she answered boldly, without hesitation.

“You adopted a rather unusual course,” I remarked, somewhat annoyed.

“I think, under the circumstances, this little ruse of mine may possibly be forgiven,” she answered. “I am not the first woman who has called in a doctor professionally merely in order to make his acquaintance.”

“And for what reason did you wish to know me?”

“I trust you are not annoyed with me?” she exclaimed. “You must admit that I acted the part of the nervous woman so well that even you, a medical man, were, deceived.”

“I admit that you have taken an unfair advantage of me,” I answered calmly, wondering why she should thus have sought my acquaintance.

“But you will forgive me, Doctor, won’t you?” she urged.

“If you will tell me the reason you were so desirous of meeting me.”

“I wanted to know you.”

“Why?”

“I had seen you in the distance many times, and desired to become personally acquainted with you.”

“For what reason?”

She hesitated, and I thought I detected a faint blush upon her cheek.

“I—well, I wished to number you among my friends.”

“Then I presume that the story regarding your husband is also a fiction?” I said, surprised that I had previously formed such an entirely wrong impression of her.

“No, not exactly,” she responded. “I hope to have the pleasure of introducing you to him some day ere long.”

“I shall of course be delighted,” I answered in a tone which I fear did not convey any desire on my part to be honoured by the baronet’s acquaintance. “But, having deceived me as you have to-day, I confess that my confidence is somewhat shaken.”

She laughed and raised her hand to her hair.

“Ah! it is always best to commence by being enemies and to end by being friends.”

“You intend, then, that we shall be friends?”

“Of course. That is the reason why I asked you to call on me.”

“But where have you seen me?”

“Oh, in lots of places,” she answered vaguely. Her attitude was very strange. Could it be possible that she had seen me, and, becoming attracted by my personal appearance, had found out who and what I was? Was it possible that she intended that I should be her lover?

The thought flashed across my mind as she sat there smiling upon me, displaying an even row of pearly teeth, while her face was radiant with triumph and happiness. I had promised friendship to this woman, who had so cleverly formed my acquaintance.

“Tell me one place where we have met,” I asked, for, to my knowledge, I had never set eyes upon her before that morning.

“You were having supper at the Savoy with your friend, Doctor Raymond, one night three weeks ago,” she answered. “On the following evening you both dined together at the exhibition at Earl’s Court.”

“And you saw us at both places?” I exclaimed, surprised.

“Yes,” she laughed. “You see how well acquainted I have been with your recent movements.”

“I had no idea that any lady had been taking an interest in my unimportant self,” I laughed.

Yes, it was true, this woman was seeking to fascinate me by those wiles so purely feminine. But I laughed within myself, for I was fortunately proof against it all. The incident was decidedly amusing. Of a verity the doctor is bound to steel his heart against many feminine blandishments.

Ere the words had left my lips, however, our conversation was interrupted by a woman’s voice outside the room, crying merrily—

“Nora! Nora! Where are you? We shall be so awfully late!”

And an instant later a young girl, dressed to go out, burst gaily into the room. She drew back with a quick word of apology when she recognised that her ladyship was not alone, but at sight of her I sat there dumb-stricken and rigid as a statue.

Was I dreaming? Could it be, after all, only a mere chimera of an excited imagination? No; I knew myself to be in full possession of all my faculties. The mystery was inscrutable. There before me, somewhat abashed by her own unceremonious intrusion, her soft cheeks slightly flushed, radiant and in perfect health, stood my dead wife in the flesh!