"Show her in," I said, hastily, and the next moment a tall,
slightly-made, fair-haired girl entered the room.
She looked very young, scarcely more than twenty, and I could hardly
believe that she was, what her card indicated, a married woman.
The colour rushed into her cheeks as she held out her hand to me. I
motioned her to a chair, and then asked her what I could do for her.
"Oh, you can help me," she said, clasping her hands and speaking in a
slightly theatrical manner. "My husband, Sir Henry Studley, is very
unwell, and I want you to come to see him--can you?--will you?"
"With pleasure," I replied. "Where do you live?"
"At Studley Grange, in Wiltshire. Don't you know our place?"
"I daresay I ought to know it," I replied, "although at the present
moment I can't recall the name. You want me to come to see your husband.
I presume you wish me to have a consultation with his medical
attendant?"
"No, no, not at all. The fact is, Sir Henry has not got a medical
attendant. He dislikes doctors, and won't see one. I want you to come
and stay with us for a week or so. I have heard of you through mutual
friends--the Onslows. I know you can effect remarkable cures, and you
have a great deal of tact. But you can't possibly do anything for my
husband unless you are willing to stay in the house and to notice his
symptoms."
[Illustration: "LADY STUDLEY SPOKE WITH GREAT EMPHASIS."]
Lady Studley spoke with great emphasis and earnestness. Her long,
slender hands were clasped tightly together. She had drawn off her
gloves and was bending forward in her chair. Her big, childish, and
somewhat restless blue eyes were fixed imploringly on my face.
"I love my husband," she said, tears suddenly filling them--"and it is
dreadful, dreadful, to see him suffer as he does. He will die unless
someone comes to his aid. Oh, I know I am asking an immense thing, when
I beg of you to leave all your patients and come to the country. But we
can pay. Money is no object whatever to us. We can, we will, gladly pay
you for your services."
"I must think the matter over," I said. "You flatter me by wishing for
me, and by believing that I can render you assistance, but I cannot take
a step of this kind in a hurry. I will write to you by to-night's post
if you will give me your address. In the meantime, kindly tell me some
of the symptoms of Sir Henry's malady."
"I fear it is a malady of the mind," she answered immediately, "but it
is of so vivid and so startling a character, that unless relief is soon
obtained, the body must give way under the strain. You see that I am
very young, Dr. Halifax. Perhaps I look younger than I am--my age is
twenty-two. My husband is twenty years my senior. He would, however, be
considered by most people still a young man. He is a great scholar, and
has always had more or less the habits of a recluse. He is fond of
living in his library, and likes nothing better than to be surrounded by
books of all sorts. Every modern book worth reading is forwarded to him
by its publisher. He is a very interesting man and a brilliant
conversationalist. Perhaps I ought to put all this in the past tense,
for now he scarcely ever speaks--he reads next to nothing--it is
difficult to persuade him to eat--he will not leave the house--he used
to have a rather ruddy complexion--he is now deadly pale and terribly
emaciated. He sighs in the most heartrending manner, and seems to be in
a state of extreme nervous tension. In short, he is very ill, and yet he
seems to have no bodily disease. His eyes have a terribly startled
expression in them--his hand trembles so that he can scarcely raise a
cup of tea to his lips. In short, he looks like a man who has seen
a ghost."
"When did these symptoms begin to appear?" I asked.
"It is mid-winter now," said Lady Studley. "The queer symptoms began to
show themselves in my husband in October. They have been growing worse
and worse. In short, I can stand them no longer," she continued, giving
way to a short, hysterical sob. "I felt I must come to someone--I have
heard of you. Do, do come and save us. Do come and find out what is the
matter with my wretched husband."
"I will write to you to-night," I said, in as kind a voice as I could
muster, for the pretty, anxious wife interested me already. "It may not
be possible for me to stay at Studley Grange for a week, but in any case
I can promise to come and see the patient. One visit will probably be
sufficient--what your husband wants is, no doubt, complete change."
"Oh, yes, yes," she replied, standing up now. "I have said so scores of
times, but Sir Henry won't stir from Studley--nothing will induce him to
go away. He won't even leave his own special bedroom, although I expect
he has dreadful nights." Two hectic spots burnt in her cheeks as she
spoke. I looked at her attentively.
"You will forgive me for speaking," I said, "but you do not look at all
well yourself. I should like to prescribe for you as well as
your husband."
"Thank you," she answered, "I am not very strong. I never have been, but
that is nothing--I mean that my health is not a thing of consequence at
present. Well, I must not take up any more of your time. I shall expect
to get a letter from you to-morrow morning. Please address it to Lady
Studley, Grosvenor Hotel, Victoria."
She touched my hand with fingers that burnt like a living coal and left
the room.
I thought her very ill, and was sure that if I could see my way to
spending a week at Studley Grange, I should have two patients instead of
one. It is always difficult for a busy doctor to leave home, but after
carefully thinking matters over, I resolved to comply with Lady
Studley's request.
[Illustration: "LADY STUDLEY HAD COME HERSELF TO FETCH ME."]
Accordingly, two days later saw me on my way to Wiltshire, and to
Studley Grange. A brougham with two smart horses was waiting at the
station. To my surprise I saw that Lady Studley had come herself
to fetch me.
"I don't know how to thank you," she said, giving me a feverish clasp of
her hand. "Your visit fills me with hope--I believe that you will
discover what is really wrong. Home!" she said, giving a quick,
imperious direction to the footman who appeared at the window of
the carriage.