AN ADVENTURE
"I am extremely puzzled," said Dr. Jerce, scratching his plump chin
with his right fore-finger--a favourite gesture of his.
"Oh!--a clever man like you."
"Ah-a,--what pleasant feminine flattery."
"The truth. You are celebrated."
"Humph! So is a charlatan, if he advertises himself sufficiently."
"Charlatans don't cure people as you do, doctor,--nor can they ever
hope to be knighted, like someone I know."
"Well," answered the stout man, again tickling his chin. "I am not so
sure of that. Humbug often succeeds, where merit fails. Perhaps," his
little black eyes twinkled, "perhaps that is why I can look forward to
being Sir Daniel Jerce."
The girl looked closely into his bland face. "A charlatan would never
confess to being puzzled."
"In this case," Jerce shrugged, and resumed a quarter-deck walk in the
long drawing-room, "the Archangel Gabriel would be puzzled."
"What can be the matter with Uncle Henry?" observed his listener,
pensively.
"Ask the Archangel Gabriel, Miss Baird."
"Miss Baird?" Like a woman her train of thought switched up a siding.
Jerce coloured all over his large waxen face, and he gulped with
embarrassment. "Of course, I have known you since you were a little
girl," he began, awkwardly, "but----"
She cut him short. "Then why not call me Clarice?"
"Only too delighted," he stuttered. "Clarice, then."
"Clarice _now_, I rather think," she laughed, and, wondering at the
confusion of this usually self-contained physician, returned forthwith
to the topic which had created this conversation. "What can be the
matter with Uncle Henry?" she said again.
Jerce became the medical man at once, and shook his head. "Ten years
of attendance on Horran have left me where I was at the beginning."
"How strange."
"Everything connected with medicine is strange. The human body is a
box of tricks, with which we play, in the dark."
"A box of bricks, you mean."
"As you please. We doctors build up the bodies of the sick, so I
suppose flesh and bones, muscles and nerves, are the bricks. But this
case--Horran's case--humph!" he resumed his walk with knitted brows,
"yes, quite so. I confess that a post-mortem would settle the matter."
Clarice rose with a horrified look. "What a cold-blooded speech. He is
your oldest friend."
"Forgive me. Science is not quite human at times. Of course, I am here
to cure Horran, not to kill him. I should indeed regret losing my
best, and, as you say, my oldest friend. But how can I cure a man,
when I don't know what is the matter with him?"
"What does Dr. Wentworth say?"
Jerce looked at the girl's pretty face and fairly laughed. "Wentworth
is not a prospective knight," said he, dryly.
"Which means--?"
"That I don't wish to boast."
This time Clarice coloured. "I beg your pardon, doctor. I know that
you are everybody and that Dr. Wentworth is nobody. You live in Harley
Street and attend to titled people, while he works in a quiet Essex
town amongst the middle-class and the poor. All the same," she was
determined to have the last word, "the mouse may be able to assist the
lion."
"I prefer a feminine mouse," said the doctor, smiling. "Suppose you
assist me by detailing exactly what has happened."
Clarice leaned an elbow on the mantelpiece, and absently ruffled her
brown hair before replying. "Mr. Horran has been complaining of
headaches," she said at length, "and once or twice he has been sick.
Also on rising suddenly from a chair, he has always felt giddy."
"You tell me nothing new, Miss--I mean Clarice. For ten years Horran
has suffered in this way. Humph! The attacks of giddiness have not
been so frequent, Wentworth tells me."
"No. Only every now and then."
"Humph! And his behaviour?"
"Well," Clarice hesitated, "he has been a trifle excited at times, and
by Dr. Wentworth's advice he gave up his one glass of whisky at
night."
"I see," Jerce once more scratched his chin. "Alcohol excites him."
"Anything unusual seems to excite him, doctor. Mr. Horran gets quite
hysterical at times, and is always thinking of his health."
"Hypochondria!" muttered Jerce, with his eyes on the ground. "And on
this particular occasion?"
"Didn't Dr. Wentworth tell you? Mr. Horran fell down in an epileptic
fit and bit his tongue. We got him to bed, and sent for Dr. Wentworth,
who insisted upon wiring for you."
"Quite so--quite so. Wentworth knows that I am deeply interested in
this most mysterious case. What do these symptoms mean? Whence do they
arise? I wish--" he cast a look on the girl, "no, I won't suggest a
post-mortem again. All the same only a post-mortem can explain these
things."
"Oh, doctor, do you think he will die?"
"No! no! There, there," the doctor patted her hand, "don't cry. Horran
may go on living for the next twenty years--as he is only fifty-four,
I don't see why he shouldn't."
"Then you can't see death?"
"I can't see death, or life, or anything, but a series of most
puzzling symptoms, which neither I, nor Wentworth, nor the whole
College of Surgeons can understand. However, we'll drop the subject
just now, and think of tea."
"Oh, doctor, how can you think of food when--"
"When my patient is sleeping quietly. Why shouldn't I? There's nothing
to be done until he awakes. Then I'll make another examination,
although I don't expect I'll learn anything. I return to town," Jerce
consulted a handsome gold watch, "by the seven train."
"It is very good of you to have come down so promptly."
"Not at all. I would go to the ends of the earth at a moment's notice,
to attend to so interesting a case. Ha! ha! Cold-blooded science
again, Clarice, you see. Come, come, let us say that I came willingly
to see my old and valued friend, Henry Horran."
"Doctor, you are a great man."
"Flattering--very flattering. And why?"
"Great men, I have always read and heard, will never spare anyone in
their aim to attain their ends."
"Humph. That is not quite so flattering. And my ends?"
"You want to find out the cause of this trouble."
"Naturally. I can't cure Horran unless I do."
"Yes. But you are more curious to learn the reason for the disease
than to cure him."
"You wrong me," said the doctor quickly, "and to prove that you wrong
me, I shall assuredly cure Horran, if it be in the power of man to set
him on his legs again. Now you had better go and have some tea and
toast. I'll return to Horran's room, and see Wentworth when he comes
in."
"I can't eat, doctor," said Clarice, making no motion to obey. "That
is foolish. Starving yourself will not cure your guardian. I dare say
you are fond of him. Eh?"
"Have you known me more than twenty years to ask such a question? Of
course, I am very fond of uncle Henry. He is the best of men."
"I agree with you there," said Jerce, earnestly, "but I don't think
your brother agrees with you. That is strange."
"Why so, doctor?"
"You and Ferdy are twins,--twins may have the same likes and
dislikes."
Clarice laughed. "For a clever medical man that is certainly not a
clever speech. Twins are often alike in looks, and entirely different
in disposition."
"I am aware of that," responded Jerce, calmly, "but I have always
noted that you and Ferdy think alike, or did, until lately."
"That is because Ferdy is removed from my influence," said Clarice,
sadly. "He always followed my lead. But since he has gone to town to
stop with you and become a student of medicine, he thinks very
differently from what I do. Naturally, perhaps, since he is seeing
more of the world than I, and is a man."
"You should have been the man, Clarice, and Ferdy, the woman. I wish
to do my best for your brother, because he is your brother, but----"
Jerce made a gesture of annoyance, "Ferdy is so terribly weak."
"Don't be hard on him, doctor," she pleaded. "Ferdy never got on well
with uncle Henry."
"He gets on with no one, my dear, save with those people who pander to
his weaknesses." Clarice clasped her hands and looked anxious.
"Doctor, there is nothing very wrong with Ferdy?" she asked,
faltering. "No! no!" Jerce stopped in his walk to pat her shoulder. "I
look after him as much as I can. Yet I must not disguise from you,
Clarice, that Ferdy is--well, rather wild."
"Rather wild," echoed the girl. "He frequents music-halls, and goes
with people who make pleasure their aim in life. Also he has sometimes
been the worse for alcohol. These things, Clarice, do not lead to
peace, or to greatness."
The girl sat down and covered her face. "When Ferdy came down
yesterday, I noticed that he was not himself. He seems to have
something on his mind."
Jerce shrugged his shoulders. "I dare say he is ashamed of himself."
"Can't something be done? If I spoke--"
"No, my dear," said the doctor, very decidedly, "you will only make
matters worse. Ferdy, for the last twelve months, has been out of
leading strings, and if you try, however delicately, to lecture him,
he will only become obstreperous. But you need not be alarmed. I'll do
what I can. I would do much for you, Clarice."
There was a note in his voice which made the girl look up. The usually
pale face of the doctor was red, and his eyes had a look in them,
which she was woman enough to understand. Rising with a nervous laugh,
Clarice grappled with the situation at once. She did not wish to lose
her amiable companion in a disappointed suitor. "Do what you can for
Ferdy, doctor, and I'll ever be your--friend."
"But suppose I--"
"Friend, doctor," reiterated Clarice, steadily, and withdrew the hand
he had clasped too warmly. "I wonder," stammered the medical man,
nervously, "if you understand exactly what I mean." Clarice smiled. "I
should not be a woman else. I understand, and so I say--friend."
"There is someone else?" asked Jerce, chagrined. Clarice turned the
leading question with an embarrassing laugh. "There is always someone
else, and in this instance the someone else, is my brother Ferdinand.
I rely on you to bring him to his senses."
"Well," said Jerce, struggling back to calmness, "that may be
difficult. You see, Miss Baird--"
"Clarice."
"No," said Jerce, steadily, "never again, until I have the right to
call you Clarice."
"What right? No, no! that's a foolish question," she added hurriedly.
"Doctor, doctor, do not put your feelings into words. Let things
remain as they are. Help Ferdy and cure Uncle Henry, and then--"
"And then?" he bent forward eagerly.
"Then I shall ask you to dance at my wedding," replied the girl, and
fairly ran out of the room. Jerce was so determined that she could
scarcely avoid hearing him speak plainer than she wished. And if he
did speak out, the answer her emotion would force her to give him,
would inevitably create a disagreeable feeling, if not a positive
breach of friendship. This was not to be thought of, as Jerce was
necessary both to help poor weak Ferdy Baird, and to cure Henry Horran
of his mysterious disease. Discretion, as Clarice rightly thought, was
the better part of valour in this especial instance, and therefore she
deliberately ran away. Jerce was left alone.
Naturally, he thought that he was unobserved, and the watcher at the
window could see the various expressions which chased each other
across his usually calm face. Judging from these, Jerce was annoyed
that he had spoken so inopportunely. The fruit was not yet ripe, as he
reflected, after recalling the few words he and Clarice had exchanged.
First, he would have to bring Ferdy back to the paths of virtue; well,
what then? Clarice might--on the other hand she might not. Certainly,
she had laughed away his leading question, but also she had invited
him to dance at her wedding--also laughingly. No! there could be no
one else, and if Jerce saved the two men in which she was most
interested, she might reward him by loving him, as he wished to be
loved. Thanks to the gossip of Mrs. Dumps, the watcher at the window
knew well that Jerce was dwelling in a fool's paradise, but it was not
his intention, or will, to inform Jerce of the gunner officer at
Gattlinsands, five miles away by the seashore.
Jerce, even though presumably alone, did not allow all his feelings to
be seen on his face. But he felt that the room was stifling in spite
of its being a cold winter's evening, and opened the window to gain a
breath of sharp air. As he stepped out, he was suddenly grasped from
behind, and the skilful exercise of a Ju-Jitsu motion placed him
prostrate at the mercy of his assailant. In the light of the
drawing-room lamps streaming through the open window, Jerce could see
that the man wore grey clothes. He would have spoken, or would have
called for assistance, but the grey man placed his hand on what is
called Adam's apple, and paralyzed by pressure the vocal chords. Jerce
lay voiceless and motionless, as though in a state of catalepsy, while
the man went systematically through his pockets with the dexterity of
a thief. In less time than it takes to tell, the assailant had failed
to find what he sought, and, rising quickly, disappeared like a
shadow, or a ghost. All the time he had spoken no word, and had not
allowed his face to be seen. As his retreating feet scrunched the
snow, Jerce, too shaken to rise immediately, lay where he was,
wondering what had taken place, and wondering, most of all, why this
very dexterous thief had gone through his pockets so thoroughly. Then
he rose to his feet and found that his gold watch, his not
inconsiderable sum of money, his rings and his silver match-box were
all safe. Evidently, the assailant was no common thief. He had desired
to find something, and had failed to find it, but what that something
might be, Jerce could not think.
When he came quite to himself--for the shock of the assault had
somewhat stunned him--he rushed along the terrace, and into the
garden, which was parted by a single iron railing from the lane. But
there was no one to be seen. The man in grey had vanished swiftly into
the night, and Jerce could no more guess in which direction he had
gone, than he could surmise why the man had assaulted him. He stared
from the elevation upon which he stood, over the spectral wastes of
snow, and then turned to re-enter. For the moment it was in his mind to
send for the police; but he could give so scanty a description of his
daring opponent, that it hardly seemed worth while. Not even the
cleverest detective could recognise the man, from the mere fact that
he wore grey clothes.
However, just as Jerce turned the corner of the terrace to re-enter by
the still open French window, he heard the click of the iron gate as
it swung to. A tall figure walked briskly up the snowy path, and,
seeing him at the corner of the terrace, advanced towards him with an
ejaculation of astonishment.
"Doctor," exclaimed the new-comer, bending forward to examine the
features of the outraged man in the uncertain light. "I knew you were
coming down, but I did not expect to find you out of doors on this
freezing night."
"Ferdinand!" gasped Jerce, and stretching out his hand, he gripped the
young man by his overcoat collar. Before Baird could expostulate, he
was drawn unresistingly along towards the light streaming from the
open window, and Jerce was looking fiercely at his tall form and grey
clothes. "Tell me why you knocked me down just now?" demanded the
doctor, much ruffled, and short of breath.
Ferdinand started back in genuine surprise. "I knock you down?" he
repeated. "Why, doctor, you must be out of your senses. Why on earth
should I knock you down?"
"To search my pockets for some reason."
Baird laughed at the monstrous charge. "Do you accuse me of robbery?"
"Oh, no! You took nothing, but you searched me. Why?" and Jerce looked
closely at the handsome, weak face of the spruce young gentleman.
"But that you are a rabid teetotaler, doctor," said Ferdinand, with a
shrug, "I should think you had been drinking. I have been for the last
hour at the vicarage seeing Prudence, and before that I visited Mrs.
Dumps' Savoy Hotel to look up the last train to town to-night. I have
just returned, and you accuse me of assaulting you. It's too
ridiculous!" And Baird, annoyed at being kept standing in the cold,
began to fume like a spoilt child.
"I tell you, Ferdinand, that you knocked me down, here--where we are
standing, and searched my pockets thoroughly. I recognise you by the
grey overcoat you are wearing, although you were clever enough to hide
your face."
"Grey clothes, eh?" mused Ferdinand, slowly. "There may be something
in what you say, after all. A tall man in grey clothes, hat and all,
passed me in the High Street, near Grinder's shop."
"Did you see his face?" asked Jerce, doubtfully.
"Yes. I don't usually take notice of a man's face, but this chap was a
stranger here, and looked like a Londoner. He had a lean face, so far
as I could see--yes, and a small black moustache. And--and,--oh, yes,
doctor, there was a criss-cross scar on his cheek, I fancy. But, of
course, he passed too quickly for me to observe him closely."
"A scar on his cheek," said the doctor, loosening his grip. "Humph! I
congratulate you on your rapid powers of observation. Only a woman
could have gathered so much in one moment. I ask your pardon,
Ferdinand. Doubtless, it was this fellow who knocked me down."
"And here," Ferdinand looked round, "in our grounds. What cheek. I
expected he wished to rob you."
"If so, he certainly did not fulfil his intention, even though he had
me at his mercy," said Jerce, dryly, and stepped into the room.
"Shall I go for the police, doctor?"
"No. We'll say no more about it, my boy."
"Do you know this man?" asked Baird, puzzled.
"I fancy I do, if you describe the scar accurately."
"Oh, it was a criss-cross scar, right enough. But if he did not rob
you, or wish to rob you, why did he go through your pockets."
"That," said Jerce, with emphasis, "is as much a mystery to me, as it
is to you."