Dr. Rumsey did not reply to this for a moment, then he spoke quietly.
"Tell me everything," he said. "Nothing you can say will startle me, but
if there is any possibility of my helping you I must know the case as
far as you can give it me."
"I have but little to say," replied Awdrey. "I am paralyzed day after
day simply by want of feeling. Even a sense of pain, of irritation, is a
relief--the deadness of my life is so overpowering. Do you know the
history of my house?"
"Your wife has told me. It is a queer story."
"It is a damnable story," said Awdrey. "With such a fate hanging over
me, why was I born? Why did my father marry? Why did my mother bring a
man-child into the world? Men with dooms like mine ought never to have
descendants. I curse the thought that I have a child myself. It is all
cruel, monstrous."
"But the thing you fear has not fallen upon you," said Dr. Rumsey.
"Has it not? I believe it has."
"How can you possibly imagine what is not the case?"
"Dr. Rumsey," said Awdrey, advancing a step or two to meet him, "I don't
imagine what I know. Look at me. I am six-and-twenty. Do I look that
age?"
"I must confess that you look older than your years."
"Aye, I should think so. See my hair already mingled with gray. Feel
this nerveless hand. Is this the hand of the English youth of
six-and-twenty? Look at my eyes--how dull they are; are they the eyes of
a man in his prime? No, no, I am going down to the grave as the other
men of my house have gone, simply because I cannot help it. Like those
who have gone before me I slip, and slip, and slip, and cannot get a
grip of life anywhere, and so I go out, or go over the precipice into
God knows what--anyhow I go."
"Poor fellow, he is far worse than I had any idea of," thought the
doctor. He took his patient's hand, and led him to a seat.
"You are quite ill enough to see a doctor," he said, "and ought to have
had advice long ago. I mean to take you up, Awdrey. From this moment you
must consider yourself my patient."
"If you can do anything for me I shall be glad--that is, no, I shall not
be glad, for I am incapable of the sensation, but I am aware it is the
right thing to put myself into your hands. What do you advise?"
"I cannot tell you until I know more. My present impression is that you
are simply the victim of nerve terrors. You have dwelt upon the doom of
your house for so long a time that you are now fully convinced that you
are one of the victims. But you must please remember that the special
feature of the tragedy, for tragedy it is, has not occurred in your
case, for you have never forgotten anything of consequence."
"Only one thing--it sounds stupid even to speak of it, but it worries me
inconceivably. There was a murder committed on Salisbury Plain the night
before I got engaged to Margaret. On that night I lost a walking-stick
which I was particularly fond of."
"Your wife mentioned to me that you were troubled on that point," broke
in Dr. Rumsey. "Pray dismiss it at once and forever from your mind. The
fact of your having forgotten such a trifle is not of the slightest
consequence."
"Do you think so? The fret about it has fastened itself very deeply into
my mind."
"Well, don't think of it again--the next time it occurs to torment you,
just remember that I, who have made brain troubles like yours my special
study, think nothing at all about it."
"Thank you, I'll try to remember."
"Do so. Now, I wish to talk to you about another matter. You sleep
badly."
"Do I?" Awdrey raised his brows. "I cannot recall that fact."
"Nevertheless you do. Your wife speaks of it. Now in your state of
health it is most essential that you should have good nights."
"I always feel an added sense of depression when I am going to bed,"
said Awdrey, "but I am unconscious that I have bad nights--what can
Margaret mean?"
"I trust that your wife's natural nervousness with regard to you makes
her inclined to exaggerate your symptoms, but I may as well say frankly
that some of the things she has mentioned, as occurring night after
night, have given me uneasiness. Now I should like to be with you during
one of your bad nights."
"What do you mean?"
"Come home with me to-night, my good fellow," said the doctor, laying
his hand on Awdrey's shoulder--"we will pass this night together. What
do you say?"
"Your request surprises me very much, but it would be a relief--I will
go," said Awdrey.
He turned and rang the bell as he spoke--a servant appeared, who was
sent with a message to Mrs. Awdrey. She came to the drawing-room in a
few minutes. Her face of animation, wakefulness of soul and feeling,
made a strong contrast to Awdrey's haggard, lifeless expression.
He went up to his wife and put his hand on her shoulder.
"You have been telling tales of me, Maggie," he said. "You complain of
something I know nothing about--my bad nights."
"They are very bad, Robert, very terrible," she replied.
"I cannot recall a single thing about them."
"I wish you could remember," she said.
"I have made a suggestion to your husband," interrupted Dr. Rumsey,
"which I am happy to say he approves of. He returns with me to my house
to-night. I will promise to look after him. If he does happen to have a
bad night I shall be witness to it. Now pray go to bed yourself and
enjoy the rest you sorely need."
Margaret tried to smile in reply, but her eyes filled with tears. Rumsey
saw them, but Awdrey took no notice--he was staring straight into
vacancy, after his habitual fashion.
A moment later he and Rumsey left the house together. Ten minutes
afterward Rumsey opened his own door with a latchkey.
"It is late," he said to his guest. He glanced at the clock as he spoke.
"At this hour I always indulge in supper--it is waiting for me now. Will
you come and have a glass of port with me?"
Awdrey murmured something in reply--the two men went into the
dining-room, where Rumsey, without apparently making any fuss, saw that
his guest ate and drank heartily. During the meal the doctor talked, and
Awdrey replied in monosyllables--sometimes, indeed, not replying at all.
Dr. Rumsey took no notice of this. When the meal, which really only took
a few minutes, was over, he rose.
"I am going to take you to your bedroom now," he said.
"Thanks," answered Awdrey. "The whole thing seems extraordinary," he
added. "I cannot make out why I am to sleep in your house."
"You sleep here as my patient. I am going to sit up with you."
"You! I cannot allow it, doctor!"
"Not a word, my dear sir. Pray don't overwhelm me with thanks. Your case
is one of great interest to me. I shall certainly not regret the few
hours I steal from sleep to watch it."
Awdrey made a dull reply. The two men went upstairs. Rumsey had already
given orders, and a bedroom had been prepared. A bright fire burned in
the grate, and electric light made the room cheerful as day. The bed was
placed in an alcove by itself. In front of the fire was drawn up a deep,
easy chair, a small table, a reading-lamp ready to be lighted, and
several books.
"For me?" said Awdrey, glancing at these. "Excuse me, Dr. Rumsey, but I
do not appreciate books. Of late months I have had a difficulty in
centring my thoughts on what I read. Even the most exciting story fails
to arouse my attention."
"These books are for me," said the doctor. "You are to go straight to
bed. You will find everything you require for the night in that part of
the room. Pray undress as quickly as possible--I shall return at the end
of a quarter of an hour."
"Will you give me a sleeping draught? I generally take chloral."
"My dear sir, I will give you nothing. It is my impression you will have
a good night without having recourse to sedatives. Get into bed now--you
look sleepy already."
The doctor left the room. When he came back at the end of the allotted
time, Awdrey was in bed--he was lying on his back, with his eyes already
closed. His face looked very cadaverous and ghastly pale; but for the
gentle breathing which came from his partly opened lips he might almost
have been a dead man.
"Six-and-twenty," muttered the doctor, as he glanced at him,
"six-and-forty, six-and-fifty, rather. This is a very queer case. There
is something at the root of it. I can no longer make light of Mrs.
Awdrey's fears--something is killing that man inch by inch. He has
described his own condition very accurately. He is slipping out of life
because he has not got grip enough to hold it. Nevertheless, at the
present moment, no child could sleep more tranquilly."
The doctor turned off the electric light, and returned to his own bright
part of the room. The bed in which Awdrey lay was now in complete
shadow. Dr. Rumsey opened a medical treatise, but he did not read. On
the contrary, the book lay unnoticed on his knee, while he himself
stared into the blaze of the fire--his brows were contracted in anxious
thought. He was thinking of the sleeper and his story--of the tragedy
which all this meant to Margaret. Then, by a queer chain of connection,
his memory reverted to Mrs. Everett--her passionate life quest--her
determination to consider her son innocent. The queer scene she had
described as taking place between Hetty and herself returned vividly
once more to the doctor's retentive memory.
"Is it possible that Awdrey can in any way be connected with that
tragedy?" he thought. "It looks almost like it. According to his own
showing, and according to his wife's showing, the strange symptoms which
have brought him to his present pass began about the date of that
somewhat mysterious murder. I have thought it best to make light of that
lapse of memory which worries the poor fellow so much in connection with
his walking-stick, but is there not something in it after all? Can he
possibly have witnessed the murder? Would it be possible for him to
throw any light upon it and save Everett? If I really thought so? But
no, the hypothesis is too wild."
Dr. Rumsey turned again to his book. He was preparing a lecture of some
importance. As he read he made many notes. The sleeper in the distant
part of the room slept on calmly--the night gradually wore itself
away--the fire smouldered in the grate.
"If this night passes without any peculiar manifestation on Awdrey's
part, I shall begin to feel assured that the wife has overstated the
case," thought the doctor. He bent forward as this thought came to him
to replenish the fire. In the act of doing so he made a slight noise.
Whether this noise disturbed the sleeper or not no one can say--Awdrey
abruptly turned in bed, opened his eyes, uttered a heavy groan, and then
sat up.
"There it is again," he cried. "Margaret, are you there?--Margaret, come
here."
Dr. Rumsey immediately approached the bed.
"Your wife is not in the room, Awdrey," he said--"you remember, don't
you, that you are passing the night with me."
Awdrey rubbed his eyes--he took no notice of Dr. Rumsey's words. He
stared straight before him in the direction of one of the windows.
"There it is," he said, "the usual thing--the globe of light and the
picture in the middle. There lies the murdered man on his back. Yes,
that is the bit of the Plain that I know so well--the moon drifts behind
the clouds--now it shines out, and I see the face of the murdered
man--but the murderer, who is he? Why will he keep his back to me? Good
God! why can't I see his face? Look, can't you see for yourself?
Margaret, can't you see?--do you notice the stick in his hand?--it is my
stick--and--the scoundrel, he wears my clothes. Yes, those clothes are
mine. My God, what does this mean?"