The contrariety of human nature is a subject that has given a surprising
amount of occupation to makers of proverbs and to those moral
philosophers who make it their province to discover and expound the
glaringly obvious; and especially have they been concerned to enlarge
upon that form of perverseness which engenders dislike of things offered
under compulsion, and arouses desire of them as soon as their attainment
becomes difficult or impossible. They assure us that a man who has had a
given thing within his reach and put it by, will, as soon as it is
beyond his reach, find it the one thing necessary and desirable; even as
the domestic cat which has turned disdainfully from the preferred
saucer, may presently be seen with her head jammed hard in the milk-jug,
or, secretly and with horrible relish, slaking her thirst at the
scullery sink.
To this peculiarity of the human mind was due, no doubt, the fact that
no sooner had I abandoned the clinical side of my profession in favour
of the legal, and taken up my abode in the chambers of my friend
Thorndyke, the famous medico-legal expert, to act as his assistant or
junior, than my former mode of life--that of a locum tenens, or minder
of other men's practices--which had, when I was following it, seemed
intolerably irksome, now appeared to possess many desirable features;
and I found myself occasionally hankering to sit once more by the
bedside, to puzzle out the perplexing train of symptoms, and to wield
that power--the greatest, after all, possessed by man--the power to
banish suffering and ward off the approach of death itself.
Hence it was that on a certain morning of the long vacation I found
myself installed at The Larches, Burling, in full charge of the practice
of my old friend Dr. Hanshaw, who was taking a fishing holiday in
Norway. I was not left desolate, however, for Mrs. Hanshaw remained at
her post, and the roomy, old-fashioned house accommodated three visitors
in addition. One of these was Dr. Hanshaw's sister, a Mrs. Haldean, the
widow of a wealthy Manchester cotton factor; the second was her niece by
marriage, Miss Lucy Haldean, a very handsome and charming girl of
twenty-three; while the third was no less a person than Master Fred, the
only child of Mrs. Haldean, and a strapping boy of six.
"It is quite like old times--and very pleasant old times, too--to see
you sitting at our breakfast-table, Dr. Jervis." With these gracious
words and a friendly smile, Mrs. Hanshaw handed me my tea-cup.
I bowed. "The highest pleasure of the altruist," I replied, "is in
contemplating the good fortune of others."
Mrs. Haldean laughed. "Thank you," she said. "You are quite unchanged, I
perceive. Still as suave and as--shall I say oleaginous?"
"No, please don't!" I exclaimed in a tone of alarm.
"Then I won't. But what does Dr. Thorndyke say to this backsliding on
your part? How does he regard this relapse from medical jurisprudence to
common general practice?"
"Thorndyke," said I, "is unmoved by any catastrophe; and he not only
regards the 'Decline and Fall-off of the Medical Jurist' with
philosophic calm, but he even favours the relapse, as you call it. He
thinks it may be useful to me to study the application of medico-legal
methods to general practice."
"That sounds rather unpleasant--for the patients, I mean," remarked Miss
Haldean.
"Very," agreed her aunt. "Most cold-blooded. What sort of man is Dr.
Thorndyke? I feel quite curious about him. Is he at all human, for
instance?"
"He is entirely human," I replied; "the accepted tests of humanity
being, as I understand, the habitual adoption of the erect posture in
locomotion, and the relative position of the end of the thumb--"
"I don't mean that," interrupted Mrs. Haldean. "I mean human in things
that matter."
"I think those things matter," I rejoined. "Consider, Mrs. Haldean, what
would happen if my learned colleague were to be seen in wig and gown,
walking towards the Law Courts in any posture other than the erect. It
would be a public scandal."
"Don't talk to him, Mabel," said Mrs. Hanshaw; "he is incorrigible. What
are you doing with yourself this morning, Lucy?"
Miss Haldean (who had hastily set down her cup to laugh at my imaginary
picture of Dr. Thorndyke in the character of a quadruped) considered a
moment.
"I think I shall sketch that group of birches at the edge of Bradham
Wood," she said.
"Then, in that case," said I, "I can carry your traps for you, for I
have to see a patient in Bradham."
"He is making the most of his time," remarked Mrs. Haldean maliciously
to my hostess. "He knows that when Mr. Winter arrives he will retire
into the extreme background."
Douglas Winter, whose arrival was expected in the course of the week,
was Miss Haldean's fiancé. Their engagement had been somewhat
protracted, and was likely to be more so, unless one of them received
some unexpected accession of means; for Douglas was a subaltern in the
Royal Engineers, living, with great difficulty, on his pay, while Lucy
Haldean subsisted on an almost invisible allowance left her by an uncle.
I was about to reply to Mrs. Haldean when a patient was announced, and,
as I had finished my breakfast, I made my excuses and left the table.
Half an hour later, when I started along the road to the village of
Bradham, I had two companions. Master Freddy had joined the party, and
he disputed with me the privilege of carrying the "traps," with the
result that a compromise was effected, by which he carried the
camp-stool, leaving me in possession of the easel, the bag, and a large
bound sketching-block.
"Where are you going to work this morning?" I asked, when we had trudged
on some distance.
"Just off the road to the left there, at the edge of the wood. Not very
far from the house of the mysterious stranger." She glanced at me
mischievously as she made this reply, and chuckled with delight when I
rose at the bait.
"What house do you mean?" I inquired.
"Ha!" she exclaimed, "the investigator of mysteries is aroused. He
saith, 'Ha! ha!' amidst the trumpets; he smelleth the battle afar off."
"Explain instantly," I commanded, "or I drop your sketch-block into the
very next puddle."
"You terrify me," said she. "But I will explain, only there isn't any
mystery except to the bucolic mind. The house is called Lavender
Cottage, and it stands alone in the fields behind the wood. A fortnight
ago it was let furnished to a stranger named Whitelock, who has taken it
for the purpose of studying the botany of the district; and the only
really mysterious thing about him is that no one has seen him. All
arrangements with the house-agent were made by letter, and, as far as I
can make out, none of the local tradespeople supply him, so he must get
his things from a distance--even his bread, which really is rather odd.
Now say I am an inquisitive, gossiping country bumpkin."
"I was going to," I answered, "but it is no use now."
She relieved me of her sketching appliances with pretended indignation,
and crossed into the meadow, leaving me to pursue my way alone; and when
I presently looked back, she was setting up her easel and stool, gravely
assisted by Freddy.
My "round," though not a long one, took up more time than I had
anticipated, and it was already past the luncheon hour when I passed the
place where I had left Miss Haldean. She was gone, as I had expected,
and I hurried homewards, anxious to be as nearly punctual as possible.
When I entered the dining-room, I found Mrs. Haldean and our hostess
seated at the table, and both looked up at me expectantly.
"Have you seen Lucy?" the former inquired.
"No," I answered. "Hasn't she come back? I expected to find her here.
She had left the wood when I passed just now."
Mrs. Haldean knitted her brows anxiously. "It is very strange," she
said, "and very thoughtless of her. Freddy will be famished."
I hurried over my lunch, for two fresh messages had come in from
outlying hamlets, effectually dispelling my visions of a quiet
afternoon; and as the minutes passed without bringing any signs of the
absentees, Mrs. Haldean became more and more restless and anxious. At
length her suspense became unbearable; she rose suddenly, announcing her
intention of cycling up the road to look for the defaulters, but as she
was moving towards the door, it burst open, and Lucy Haldean staggered
into the room.
Her appearance filled us with alarm. She was deadly pale, breathless,
and wild-eyed; her dress was draggled and torn, and she trembled from
head to foot.
"Good God, Lucy!" gasped Mrs. Haldean. "What has happened? And where is
Freddy?" she added in a sterner tone.
"He is lost!" replied Miss Haldean in a faint voice, and with a catch in
her breath. "He strayed away while I was painting. I have searched the
wood through, and called to him, and looked in all the meadows. Oh!
where can he have gone?" Her sketching "kit," with which she was loaded,
slipped from her grasp and rattled on to the floor, and she buried her
face in her hands and sobbed hysterically.
"And you have dared to come back without him?" exclaimed Mrs. Haldean.
"I was getting exhausted. I came back for help," was the faint reply.
"Of course she was exhausted," said Mrs. Hanshaw. "Come, Lucy: come,
Mabel; don't make mountains out of molehills. The little man is safe
enough. We shall find him presently, or he will come home by himself.
Come and have some food, Lucy."
Miss Haldean shook her head. "I can't, Mrs. Hanshaw--really I can't,"
she said; and, seeing that she was in a state of utter exhaustion, I
poured out a glass of wine and made her drink it.
Mrs. Haldean darted from the room, and returned immediately, putting on
her hat. "You have got to come with me and show me whore you lost him,"
she said.
"She can't do that, you know," I said rather brusquely. "She will have
to lie down for the present. But I know the place, and will cycle up
with you."
"Very well," replied Mrs. Haldean, "that will do. What time was it," she
asked, turning to her niece, "when you lost the child? and which way--"
She paused abruptly, and I looked at her in surprise. She had suddenly
turned ashen and ghastly; her face had set like a mask of stone, with
parted lips and staring eyes that were fixed in horror on her niece.
There was a deathly silence for a few seconds. Then, in a terrible
voice, she demanded: "What is that on your dress, Lucy?" And, after a
pause, her voice rose into a shriek. "What have you done to my boy?"
I glanced in astonishment at the dazed and terrified girl, and then I
saw what her aunt had seen--a good-sized blood-stain halfway down the
front of her skirt, and another smaller one on her right sleeve. The
girl herself looked down at the sinister patch of red and then up at her
aunt. "It looks like--like blood," she stammered. "Yes, it is--I
think--of course it is. He struck his nose--and it bled--"
"Come," interrupted Mrs. Haldean, "let us go," and she rushed from the
room, leaving me to follow.
I lifted Miss Haldean, who was half fainting with fatigue and agitation,
on to the sofa, and, whispering a few words of encouragement into her
ear, turned to Mrs. Hanshaw.
"I can't stay with Mrs. Haldean," I said. "There are two visits to be
made at Rebworth. Will you send the dogcart up the road with somebody to
take my place?"
"Yes," she answered. "I will send Giles, or come myself if Lucy is fit
to be left."
I ran to the stables for my bicycle, and as I pedalled out into the road
I could see Mrs. Haldean already far ahead, driving her machine at
frantic speed. I followed at a rapid pace, but it was not until we
approached the commencement of the wood, when she slowed down somewhat,
that I overtook her.
"This is the place," I said, as we reached the spot where I had parted
from Miss Haldean. We dismounted and wheeled our bicycles through the
gate, and laying them down beside the hedge, crossed the meadow and
entered the wood.
It was a terrible experience, and one that I shall never forget--the
white-faced, distracted woman, tramping in her flimsy house-shoes over
the rough ground, bursting through the bushes, regardless of the thorny
branches that dragged at skin and hair and dainty clothing, and sending
forth from time to time a tremulous cry, so dreadfully pathetic in its
mingling of terror and coaxing softness, that a lump rose in my throat,
and I could barely keep my self-control.
"Freddy! Freddy-boy! Mummy's here, darling!" The wailing cry sounded
through the leafy solitude; but no answer came save the whirr of wings
or the chatter of startled birds. But even more shocking than that
terrible cry--more disturbing and eloquent with dreadful suggestion--was
the way in which she peered, furtively, but with fearful expectation,
among the roots of the bushes, or halted to gaze upon every molehill and
hummock, every depression or disturbance of the ground.
So we stumbled on for a while, with never a word spoken, until we came
to a beaten track or footpath leading across the wood. Here I paused to
examine the footprints, of which several were visible in the soft earth,
though none seemed very recent; but, proceeding a little way down the
track, I perceived, crossing it, a set of fresh imprints, which I
recognized at once as Miss Haldean's. She was wearing, as I knew, a pair
of brown golf-boots, with rubber pads in the leather soles, and the
prints made by them were unmistakable.
"Miss Haldean crossed the path here," I said, pointing to the
footprints.
"Don't speak of her before me!" exclaimed Mrs. Haldean; but she gazed
eagerly at the footprints, nevertheless, and immediately plunged into
the wood to follow the tracks.
"You are very unjust to your niece, Mrs. Haldean," I ventured to
protest.
She halted, and faced me with an angry frown.
"You don't understand!" she exclaimed. "You don't know, perhaps, that
if my poor child is really dead, Lucy Haldean will be a rich woman, and
may marry to-morrow if she chooses?"
"I did not know that," I answered, "but if I had, I should have said the
same."
"Of course you would," she retorted bitterly. "A pretty face can muddle
any man's judgment."
She turned away abruptly to resume her pursuit, and I followed in
silence. The trail which we were following zigzagged through the
thickest part of the wood, but its devious windings eventually brought
us out on to an open space on the farther side. Here we at once
perceived traces of another kind. A litter of dirty rags, pieces of
paper, scraps of stale bread, bones and feathers, with hoof-marks, wheel
ruts, and the ashes of a large wood fire, pointed clearly to a gipsy
encampment recently broken up. I laid my hand on the heap of ashes, and
found it still warm, and on scattering it with my foot a layer of
glowing cinders appeared at the bottom.
"These people have only been gone an hour or two," I said. "It would be
well to have them followed without delay."
A gleam of hope shone on the drawn, white face as the bereaved mother
caught eagerly at my suggestion.
"Yes," she exclaimed breathlessly; "she may have bribed them to take him
away. Let us see which way they went."
We followed the wheel tracks down to the road, and found that they
turned towards London. At the same time I perceived the dogcart in the
distance, with Mrs. Hanshaw standing beside it; and, as the coachman
observed me, he whipped up his horse and approached.
"I shall have to go," I said, "but Mrs. Hanshaw will help you to
continue the search."
"And you will make inquiries about the gipsies, won't you?" she said.
I promised to do so, and as the dogcart now came up, I climbed to the
seat, and drove off briskly up the London Road.
The extent of a country doctor's round is always an unknown quantity. On
the present occasion I picked up three additional patients, and as one
of them was a case of incipient pleurisy, which required to have the
chest strapped, and another was a neglected dislocation of the shoulder,
a great deal of time was taken up. Moreover, the gipsies, whom I ran to
earth on Rebworth Common, delayed me considerably, though I had to leave
the rural constable to carry out the actual search, and, as a result,
the clock of Burling Church was striking six as I drove through the
village on my way home.
I got down at the front gate, leaving the coachman to take the dogcart
round, and walked up the drive; and my astonishment may be imagined
when, on turning the corner, I came suddenly upon the inspector of the
local police in earnest conversation with no less a person than John
Thorndyke.
"What on earth has brought you here?" I exclaimed, my surprise getting
the better of my manners.
"The ultimate motive-force," he replied, "was an impulsive lady named
Mrs. Haldean. She telegraphed for me--in your name."
"She oughtn't to have done that," I said.
"Perhaps not. But the ethics of an agitated woman are not worth
discussing, and she has done something much worse--she has applied to
the local J.P. (a retired Major-General), and our gallant and unlearned
friend has issued a warrant for the arrest of Lucy Haldean on the charge
of murder."
"But there has been no murder!" I exclaimed.
"That," said Thorndyke, "is a legal subtlety that he does not
appreciate. He has learned his law in the orderly-room, where the
qualifications to practise are an irritable temper and a loud voice.
However, the practical point is, inspector, that the warrant is
irregular. You can't arrest people for hypothetical crimes."
The officer drew a deep breath of relief. He knew all about the
irregularity, and now joyfully took refuge behind Thorndyke's great
reputation.
When he had departed--with a brief note from my colleague to the
General--Thorndyke slipped his arm through mine, and we strolled towards
the house.
"This is a grim business, Jervis," said he. "That boy has got to be
found for everybody's sake. Can you come with me when you have had some
food?"
"Of course I can. I have been saving myself all the afternoon with a
view to continuing the search."
"Good," said Thorndyke. "Then come in and feed."
A nondescript meal, half tea and half dinner, was already prepared, and
Mrs. Hanshaw, grave but self-possessed, presided at the table.
"Mabel is still out with Giles, searching for the boy," she said. "You
have heard what she has done!"