A PROFESSIONAL VISIT OUT OF TOWN
BEVERLEY, L. I.,
Monday, August 15.
DEAR CHARLEY:
My leg is worse. Won't you run down here and have a look at it? I
also want your advice about May Derwent.
Aff. yours,
FRED.
When I received this note early on Tuesday morning, I at once made
arrangements for a short absence. Now that duty, and not inclination
alone, called me elsewhere, I had no scruples about leaving New York;
and when, a few hours later, after visiting my most urgent cases, I
found myself on a train bound for Beverley, I blessed Fred's leg, which
had procured me this unexpected little holiday. What a relief it was to
leave the dust and the noise of the city behind, and to feast my eyes
once more on the sight of fields and trees.
On arriving at my destination, I drove immediately to the Cowper's
cottage. I found Fred in bed, with his leg a good deal swollen. His
anxiety to go to the Derwents had tempted him to use it before it was
sufficiently strong; consequently, he had strained it, and would now be
laid up with it for some time longer.
"Well, Charley," he said, when I had finished replacing the bandages, "I
don't suppose you are very sorry to be in this part of the world, eh? My
leg did you a good turn, didn't it?"
I assented, curtly, for, although I agreed with him from the bottom of
my heart, I didn't mean to be chaffed on a certain subject, even by him.
In order, probably, to tease me, he made no further allusion to the
other object of my visit, so that I was, at last, forced to broach the
subject myself.
"Oh, May? She's really much better. There is no doubt of it. I think the
idea of brain fever thoroughly frightened her, for now she meekly obeys
orders, and takes any medicine I prescribe without a murmur."
"Well, but then why did you write that you wished to consult me about
her?"
"Because, Charley," he replied, laying aside his previously flippant
manner, "although her general health has greatly improved, I can't
say as much for her nervous condition. The latter seems to me so
unsatisfactory that I am beginning to believe that Mrs. Derwent was
not far wrong when she suggested that her daughter might be slightly
demented."
I felt myself grow cold, notwithstanding the heat of the day. Then,
remembering the quiet and collected way she had behaved under
circumstances as trying as any I could imagine a girl's being placed in,
I took courage again. May was not insane. I would not believe it.
"At all events," continued Fred, "I felt that she should not be left
without medical care, and, as I can't get out to see her, and as she
detests the only other doctor in the place, I suggested to Mrs. Derwent
that she should consult you. Being a friend of mine, ostensibly here on
a simple visit, it would be the most natural thing in the world for you
to go over to their place, and you could thus see May, and judge of her
condition without her knowing that she was under observation."
"That's well. It is always best to see a nervous patient off guard, if
possible. Now, tell me all the particulars of the case."
When he had done this, I could not refrain from asking whether Norman
was still there.
"Certainly! And seems likely to remain indefinitely."
"Really?"
"Yes! I forgot to tell you that May begged to be allowed to see him
yesterday. As she was able to get up, and lie on the sofa, I consented,
for I feared a refusal would agitate her too much. I only stipulated
that he should not remain with her over half an hour. What occurred
during this meeting, of course, I don't know. But May experienced no bad
effects. On the contrary, her mother writes that she has seemed calmer
and more cheerful ever since."
"They are probably engaged. Don't you think so?" And as I put the
question, I knew that if the answer were affirmative my chance of
happiness was gone for ever.
"I don't believe it," he answered, "for after his interview with May,
Norman spent the rest of the day sunk in the deepest gloom. He ate
scarcely anything, and when forced to remain in the house (feeling, I
suppose, that politeness demanded that he should give us at any rate a
little of his society) he moved restlessly from one seat to another.
Several times he tried to pull himself together and to join in the
conversation, but it was no use; notwithstanding all his efforts he
would soon relapse into his former state of feverish unrest. Now, that
doesn't look like the behaviour of a happy lover, does it?
"Since he has been here he has spent most of his time prowling about
the Derwents' house, and as Alice was leaving their place yesterday
evening she caught a glimpse of him hiding behind a clump of bushes just
outside their gate. At least, she is almost sure that it was he, but
was so afraid it would embarrass him to be caught playing sentinel that,
after a cursory glance in his direction, she passed discreetly by.
Afterwards it occurred to her that she should have made certain of his
identity, for the man she saw may have been some questionable character.
We are not sure that May's extreme nervousness is not due to the fact
that she is being persecuted by some unscrupulous person, her brother,
for instance. You know I have always believed that he was in some way
connected with her illness."
"I know you have."
"But to return to Norman," continued Fred. "I not only suspect him of
haunting her door by day, but of spending a good part of the night
there. At any rate, I used to hear him creeping in and out of the house
at all sorts of unusual hours. The first night I took him for a burglar,
and showed what I consider true courage by starting out after him with
an empty pistol and--a crutch!"
"I don't think that anything you have told me, however, is at all
incompatible with his being Miss Derwent's accepted suitor. His distress
is probably due to anxiety about her health." I said this, hoping he
would contradict me.
Whether he would have done so or not I shall never know, for at that
point our conversation was interrupted by the entrance of his sister;
and as it had been previously arranged that she was to drive me over to
the Derwents, we started off at once.
At last I was to see my lady again! It seemed too good to be true.
Having given our names to the butler, we were ushered into a large
drawing-room, redolent with flowers. So this was May's home.
I glanced eagerly about. These chairs had held her slight form; at that
desk she had written, and these rugs had felt the impress of her little
feet. A book lay near me on a small table. I passed my fingers lovingly
over it. This contact with an object she must often have touched gave
me an extraordinary pleasure,--a pleasure so great as to make me forget
everything else,--and I started guiltily, and tried to lay the book down
unobserved, when a tall, grey-haired lady stepped from the veranda into
the room.
Mrs. Derwent greeted Miss Cowper affectionately, and welcomed me with
quiet grace.
"Fred has told me so much about you, Dr. Fortescue, that I am very glad
to meet you at last."
Then, turning to Alice Cowper, she said: "May wants very much to see
you. She is lying in a hammock on the piazza, where it is much cooler
than here. Dr. Fortescue and I will join you girls later."
"You have been told of my daughter's condition?" she inquired, as soon
as we were alone.
"Yes. I hear, however, that there has been a marked improvement since
Sunday."
"There was a great improvement. She seemed much less nervous yesterday,
but to-day she has had another of her attacks."
"I am sorry to hear that. Do you know what brought this one on?"
"Yes. It was reading in the paper of the Frenchman's assault on you!"
"But I don't understand why that should have affected her."
"You will forgive my saying so, Doctor--neither do I, although I am
extremely glad that you escaped from that madman unhurt."
She looked at me for a moment in silence, then said: "When Fred advised
me to consult you about my daughter's health, I knew immediately that I
had heard your name before, but could not remember in what connection I
had heard it mentioned. In fact, it was not until I read in the _Bugle_
that the man who was supposed to have committed the Rosemere murder had,
last night, attempted to kill you that I realized that you were the
young doctor whom my daughter had told me about. You were present when
she was made to give an account of herself to the coroner, were you
not?"
"Yes, but I trust that my slight association with that affair will make
no difference."
She again interrupted me: "It makes the greatest difference, I assure
you. As you are aware of the exact nature of the shock she has
sustained, I am spared the painful necessity of informing a stranger of
her escapade. We are naturally anxious that the fact of her having been
in the building at the time of the murder should be known to as few
people as possible. I am, therefore, very grateful to you for not
mentioning the matter, even to Fred. Although I have been obliged to
confide in him myself, I think that your not having done so indicates
rare discretion on your part."
I bowed.
"You may rely on me," I said. "I have the greatest respect and
admiration for Miss Derwent, and would be most unwilling to say anything
which might lay her open to misconstruction."
"Thank you. Now, Doctor, you know exactly what occurred. You are
consequently better able than any one else to judge whether what she has
been through is in itself enough to account for her present illness."
"She is still very nervous?"
"Incredibly so. She cannot bear to be left alone a minute."
"And you know of no reason for this nervousness other than her
experience at the Rosemere?"
"None."
"May I ask how the news of the butler's attack on me affected her?" How
sweet to think that she had cared at all!
"Very strangely," replied Mrs. Derwent. "After reading the account
of it she fainted, and it was quite an hour before she recovered
consciousness. Since then she has expressed the greatest desire to go to
New York, but will give no reason for this absurd whim. Mr. Norman was
also much upset by the thought of the danger you had incurred."
"Mr. Norman! But I don't know him!"
"So he told me. To be able to feel so keenly for a stranger shows an
extraordinary sensibility, does it not?"
She looked at me keenly.
"It does, indeed! It is most inexplicable!"
"I don't know whether Fred has told you that since my daughter was taken
ill on Sunday she cannot bear to have Mr. Norman out of her sight. He
has been here all day, and now she insists on his leaving the Cowpers
and staying with us altogether. Her behaviour is incomprehensible."
This was pleasant news for me!
"Surely this desire for his society can mean but one thing?"
"Of course, you think that she must care for him, but I am quite sure
that she does not."
"Really?" I could hardly keep the note of pleasure out of my voice.
"If she were in love with him I should consider her conduct quite
normal. But it is the fact of her indifference that makes it so very
curious."
"You are sure this indifference is real and not assumed?"
"Quite sure," replied Mrs. Derwent. "She tries to hide it, but I can see
that his attentions are most unwelcome to her. If he happens, in handing
her something, to touch her accidentally, she visibly shrinks from him.
Oh, Mr. Norman has noticed this as well as I have, and it hurts him."
"And yet she cannot bear him out of her sight, you say?"
"Exactly. As long as he is within call she is quiet and contented, and
in his absence she fidgets. And yet she does not care to talk to him,
and does so with an effort that is perfectly apparent to me. The poor
fellow is pathetically in love, and I can see that he suffers keenly
from her indifference."
"I suppose he expects his patient devotion to win the day in the end."
"I don't think he does. I felt it my duty in the face of May's
behaviour--which is unusual, to say the least--to tell him that I didn't
believe she cared for him or meant to marry him. 'I quite understand
that,' was all he answered. But why he does not expect her to do so, is
what I should like to know. As she evidently can't live without him, I
don't see why she won't live with him.
"But now, Dr. Fortescue," added Mrs. Derwent, rising to leave the room,
"let us go to my daughter. She is prepared to see you. But your visit is
purely social, remember."
A curtain of honeysuckle and roses protected one end of the piazza
from the rays of an August sun, and it was in this scented nook, amid
surroundings whose peace and beauty contrasted strangely with those of
our first meeting, that I at last saw May Derwent again. She lay in a
hammock, her golden head supported by a pile of be-ruffled cushions, and
with one small slipper peeping from under her voluminous skirts. At our
approach, however, she sprang to her feet, and came forward to meet us.
I had thought and dreamt of her for six long weary days and nights, and
yet, now that she stood before me, dressed in a trailing, white gown
of some soft material, slightly opened at the neck and revealing her
strong, white, young throat, her firm, rounded arms bare to the elbow,
and with one superb rose (I devoutly hoped it was one of those I had
sent her) as her only ornament, she made a picture of such surpassing
loveliness as fairly to take my breath away. I had been doubtful as to
how she would receive me, so that when she smilingly held out her hand,
I felt a great weight roll off my heart. Her manner was perfectly
composed, much more so than mine in fact. A beautiful blush alone
betrayed her embarrassment at meeting me.
"Why, Dr. Fortescue," exclaimed Alice Cowper, "you never told me that
you knew May."
"Our previous acquaintance was so slight that I did not expect Miss
Derwent to remember me." I answered evasively, wondering, as I did so,
whether May had confided to her friend where and when it was that we had
met.
"I want to congratulate you, Doctor," said Miss Derwent, changing the
conversation abruptly, "on your recent escape."
"From the madman, you mean? It was a close shave, I assure you. For
several minutes I was within nodding distance of St. Peter."
"How dreadful! But why was the fellow not locked up long before this?"
"I did all I could to have him put under restraint. Several days ago I
told a detective that I was sure not only that Argot was insane, but
that he had committed the Rosemere murder. But he wouldn't listen
to me, and I came very near having to pay with my life for his
pig-headedness. Every one has now come round to my way of thinking
except this same detective, who still insists that the butler is
innocent."
Now that the blush had faded from her cheek, I realised that she was
indeed looking wretchedly pale and thin, and as she leaned eagerly
forward I was shocked to see how her lips twitched and her hands
trembled.
"So it was you who first put the police on the Frenchman's tracks?" she
demanded.
"Yes. But you must remember that the success my first attempt at
detective work has met with is largely due to the exceptional
opportunities I have had for investigating this case. You may have
noticed that no hat was found with the corpse and the police have
therefore been searching everywhere for one that could reasonably be
supposed to have belonged to the murdered man. Now, I may tell you,
although I must ask you not to mention it, as the police do not yet wish
that the fact become known, that it was I who found this missing hat in
Argot's possession. But I can't boast much of my discovery, because the
man brought it into my office himself. All I really did was to keep my
eyes open, you see." I tried to speak modestly, for I was conscious of a
secret pride in my achievement.
"I really cannot see why you should have taken upon yourself to play the
detective!"
I was so startled by May's sudden attack on me that for a moment I
remained speechless. Luckily, Mrs. Derwent saved me from the necessity
of replying, by rising from her chair. Slipping her arm through Miss
Cowper's, she said--casting a significant glance at me: "We will leave
these people to quarrel over the pros and cons of amateur work, and you
and I will go and see what Mr. Norman is doing over there in that arbour
all by himself."
Fred had mentioned that at times May seemed alarmingly oblivious to what
was going on around her, and I now noticed with profound anxiety that
she appeared entirely unconscious of the departure of her mother and
friend.
"Just suppose for a moment that this man Argot," she went on, as if our
conversation had not been interrupted, "is innocent, and yet owing to an
unfortunate combination of circumstances, is unable to prove himself so.
Who should be held responsible for his death but you, Dr. Fortescue! Had
you not meddled with what did not concern you, no one would have thought
of suspecting this wretched Frenchman! You acknowledge that yourself?"
"But, my dear Miss Derwent, why do you take for granted that the fellow
is innocent?--although, in his present state of health, it really does
not make much difference whether he is or not. In this country we do not
punish maniacs, even homicidal ones. We only shut them up till they are
well again. I think, however, that you take a morbid view of the whole
question. Of course, justice sometimes miscarries, but not often, and to
one person who is unjustly convicted, there are hundreds of criminals
who escape punishment. As with everything else--medicine, for instance;
you do your best, take every precaution, and then, if you make a
mistake, the only thing to do is not to blame yourself too severely for
the consequences."
"I quite agree with you," she said, "when to take a risk is part of your
business. But is it not foolhardy to do so when there is no call for
it?--when your inexperience renders you much more likely to commit some
fatal error? What would you say if I tried to perform an operation, for
instance?"
She was working herself into such a state of excitement that I became
alarmed; so, abruptly changing the subject, I inquired after her health.
She professed to feel perfectly well (which I doubted). Still I did not
take as serious a view of her case as Fred had done; for I knew--what
both he and Mrs. Derwent ignored--that while in town the poor girl had
been through various trying experiences. During that time she had not
only been forced to break with Greywood, to whom I was sure she had been
engaged, but an entanglement, the nature of which I did not know, had
induced her to give shelter secretly, and at night, to two people of
undoubtedly questionable character. The shock of the murder was but a
climax to all this. No wonder that my poor darling--her heart bleeding
from the uprooting of an affection which, however unworthy the object
of it had proved, must still have been difficult to eradicate; her mind
harassed by the fear of impending disgrace to some person whom I must
believe her to be very intimately concerned with; her nerves shaken by
the horror of a murder under her very roof--should return to the haven
of her home in a state bordering on brain fever. That she had not
succumbed argued well for her constitution, I thought.
"Fred is quite worried about you, and asked me to beg you to take great
care of yourself," I ventured to say.
"What nonsense! What I need is a little change. I should be all right if
I could get away from here."
"This part of the world _is_ pretty hot, I acknowledge. A trip to Maine
or Canada would, no doubt, do you a lot of good."
"But I don't want to go to Maine or Canada--I want to go to New York."
"To New York?"
"Yes, why not? I find the country dull, and am longing for a glimpse of
the city."
"But the heat in town is insufferable, and there is nothing going on
there," I reminded her.
"Roof gardens are always amusing, and when the heat gets to a certain
point, it is equally unbearable everywhere."
I begged to differ.
"At all events, I want to go there, and my wishing to do so should be
enough for you. O Doctor, make Fred persuade Mamma to take me. As they
both insist that I am ill, I don't see why they won't let me indulge
this whim."
"They think that it would be very bad for you."
"Oh, it never does one any harm to do what one likes."
"What a delightful theory!"
"You will try and persuade Mamma and Fred to allow me to go to New York,
won't you? You are a doctor; they would listen to you."
I glanced down into her beseeching blue eyes, then looked hastily away.
The temptation to allow her to do as she wished was very great. If I
were able to see her every day, what opportunities I should have for
pressing my suit! But I am glad to say that the thought of her welfare
was dearer to me than my hopes even. So I conscientiously used every
argument I could think of to induce her to remain where she was. But, as
she listened, I saw her great eyes fill slowly with tears.
"Oh, I must go; I must go," she cried; and, burying her head in a
cushion, she burst into a flood of hysterical weeping.
Her mother, hearing the commotion, flew to my assistance, but it was
some time before we succeeded in quieting her. At length, she recovered
sufficiently to be left to the care of her maid.
I was glad to be able to assure Mrs. Derwent that, notwithstanding the
severity of the attack I had witnessed, I had detected in her daughter
no symptom of insanity.
As there was no further excuse for remaining, I allowed Miss Alice to
drive me away. Young Norman, who was returning to the Cowper's to fetch
his bag, went with us; and his company did not add to my pleasure, I
confess. I kept glancing at him, surreptitiously, anxious to discover
what it was that May saw in him. He appeared to me to be a very ordinary
young man. I had never, to my knowledge, met him before; yet, the longer
I looked at him the more I became convinced that this was not the first
time I had seen him, and, not only that, but I felt that I had some
strange association with him. But what? My memory refused to give up
its secret. All that night I puzzled over it, but the following morning
found me with that riddle still unsolved.