"Perhaps you will advise me what to do after you know the nature of the
malady which afflicts me. First of all, however, I wish to speak of
my wife."
"I am ready to listen," I replied.
"You see," he continued, "that she is very delicate?"
"Yes," I replied; "to be frank with you, I should say that Lady Studley
was consumptive."
He started when I said this, and pressed his lips firmly together. After
a moment he spoke.
"You are right," he replied. "I had her examined by a medical man--Sir
Joseph Dunbar--when I was last in London; he said her lungs were
considerably affected, and that, in short, she was far from well."
"Did he not order you to winter abroad?"
"He did, but Lady Studley opposed the idea so strenuously that I was
obliged to yield to her entreaties. Consumption does not seem to take
quite the ordinary form with her. She is restless, she longs for cool
air, she goes out on quite cold days, in a closed carriage, it is true.
Still, except at night, she does not regard herself in any sense as an
invalid. She has immense spirit--I think she will keep up until
she dies."
"You speak of her being an invalid at night," I replied. "What are her
symptoms?"
Sir Henry shuddered quite visibly.
"Oh, those awful nights!" he answered. "How happy would many poor mortals
be, but for the terrible time of darkness. Lady Studley has had dreadful
nights for some time: perspirations, cough, restlessness, bad dreams,
and all the rest of it. But I must hasten to tell you my story quite
briefly. In the beginning of October we saw Sir Joseph Dunbar. I should
then, by his advice, have taken Lady Studley to the Riviera, but she
opposed the idea with such passion and distress, that I abandoned it."
Sir Henry paused here, and I looked at him attentively. I remembered at
that moment what Lady Studley had said about her husband refusing to
leave the Grange under any circumstances. What a strange game of
cross-purposes these two were playing. How was it possible for me to get
at the truth?
"At my wife's earnest request," continued Sir Henry, "we returned to the
Grange. She declared her firm intention of remaining here until
she died.
"Soon after our return she suggested that we should occupy separate
rooms at night, reminding me, when she made the request, of the
infectious nature of consumption. I complied with her wish on condition
that I slept in the room next hers, and that on the smallest emergency I
should be summoned to her aid. This arrangement was made, and her room
opens into mine. I have sometimes heard her moving about at night--I
have often heard her cough, and I have often heard her sigh. But she has
never once sent for me, or given me to understand that she required my
aid. She does not think herself very ill, and nothing worries her more
than to have her malady spoken about. That is the part of the story
which relates to my wife."
"She is very ill," I said. "But I will speak of that presently. Now will
you favour me with an account of your own symptoms, Sir Henry?"
[Illustration: "HE LOCKED THE DOOR AND PUT THE KEY IN HIS POCKET."]
He started again when I said this, and going across the room, locked the
door and put the key in his pocket.
"Perhaps you will laugh at me," he said, "but it is no laughing matter,
I assure you. The most terrible, the most awful affliction has come to
me. In short, I am visited nightly by an appalling apparition. You
don't believe in ghosts, I judge that by your face. Few scientific
men do."
"Frankly, I do not," I replied. "So-called ghosts can generally be
accounted for. At the most they are only the figments of an over-excited
or diseased brain."
"Be that as it may," said Sir Henry, "the diseased brain can give such
torture to its victim that death is preferable. All my life I have been
what I consider a healthy minded man. I have plenty of money, and have
never been troubled with the cares which torture men of commerce, or of
small means. When I married, three years ago, I considered myself the
most lucky and the happiest of mortals."
"Forgive a personal question," I interrupted. "Has your marriage
disappointed you?"
"No, no; far from it," he replied with fervour. "I love my dear wife
better and more deeply even than the day when I took her as a bride to
my arms. It is true that I am weighed down with sorrow about her, but
that is entirely owing to the state of her health."
"It is strange," I said, "that she should be weighed down with sorrow
about you for the same cause. Have you told her of the thing which
terrifies you?"
"Never, never. I have never spoken of it to mortal. It is remarkable
that my wife should have told you that I looked like a man who has seen
a ghost. Alas! alas! But let me tell you the cause of my shattered
nerves, my agony, and failing health."
"Pray do, I shall listen attentively," I replied.
"Oh, doctor, that I could make you feel the horror of it!" said Sir
Henry, bending forward and looking into my eyes. "Three months ago I no
more believed in visitations, in apparitions, in so-called ghosts, than
you do. Were you tried as I am, your scepticism would receive a severe
shock. Now let me tell you what occurs. Night after night Lady Studley
and I retire to rest at the same hour. We say good-night, and lay our
heads on our separate pillows. The door of communication between us is
shut. She has a night-light in her room--I prefer darkness. I close my
eyes and prepare for slumber. As a rule I fall asleep. My sleep is of
short duration. I awake with beads of perspiration standing on my
forehead, with my heart thumping heavily and with every nerve wide
awake, and waiting for the horror which will come. Sometimes I wait half
an hour--sometimes longer. Then I know by a faint, ticking sound in the
darkness that the Thing, for I can clothe it with no name, is about to
visit me. In a certain spot of the room, always in the same spot, a
bright light suddenly flashes; out of its midst there gleams a
preternaturally large eye, which looks fixedly at me with a diabolical
expression. As time goes, it does not remain long; but as agony counts,
it seems to take years of my life away with it. It fades as suddenly
into grey mist and nothingness as it comes, and, wet with perspiration,
and struggling to keep back screams of mad terror, I bury my head in the
bed-clothes."
"But have you never tried to investigate this thing?" I said.
"I did at first. The first night I saw it, I rushed out of bed and made
for the spot. It disappeared at once. I struck a light--there was
nothing whatever in the room."
"Why do you sleep in that room?"
"I must not go away from Lady Studley. My terror is that she should know
anything of this--my greater terror is that the apparition, failing me,
may visit her. I daresay you think I'm a fool, Halifax; but the fact is,
this thing is killing me, brave man as I consider myself."
"Do you see it every night?" I asked.
[Illustration: "IT IS THE MOST GHASTLY, THE MOST HORRIBLE FORM OF
TORTURE.]
"Not quite every night, but sometimes on the same night it comes twice.
Sometimes it will not come at all for two nights, or even three. It is
the most ghastly, the most horrible form of torture that could hurry a
sane man into his grave or into a madhouse."
"I have not the least shadow of doubt," I said, after a pause, "that the
thing can be accounted for."
Sir Henry shook his head. "No, no," he replied, "it is either as you
suggest, a figment of my own diseased brain, and therefore just as
horrible as a real apparition; or it is a supernatural visitation.
Whether it exists or not, it is reality to me and in no way a dream. The
full horror of it is present with me in my waking moments."
"Do you think anyone is playing an awful practical joke?" I suggested.
"Certainly not. What object can anyone have in scaring me to death?
Besides, there is no one in the room, that I can swear. My outer door is
locked, Lady Studley's outer door is locked. It is impossible that there
can be any trickery in the matter."
I said nothing for a moment. I no more believed in ghosts than I ever
did, but I felt certain that there was grave mischief at work. Sir Henry
must be the victim of a hallucination. This might only be caused by
functional disturbance of the brain, but it was quite serious enough to
call for immediate attention. The first thing to do was to find out
whether the apparition could be accounted for in any material way, or if
it were due to the state of Sir Henry's nerves. I began to ask him
certain questions, going fully into the case in all its bearings. I then
examined his eyes with the ophthalmoscope. The result of all this was to
assure me beyond doubt that Sir Henry Studley was in a highly nervous
condition, although I could detect no trace of brain disease.
"Do you mind taking me to your room?" I said.
"Not to-night," he answered. "It is late, and Lady Studley might express
surprise. The object of my life is to conceal this horror from her. When
she is out to-morrow you shall come to the room and judge for yourself."
"Well," I said, "I shall have an interview with your wife to-morrow, and
urge her most strongly to consent to leave the Grange and go away
with you."
Shortly afterwards we retired to rest, or what went by the name of rest
in that sad house, with its troubled inmates. I must confess that,
comfortable as my room was, I slept very little. Sir Henry's story
stayed with me all through the hours of darkness. I am neither nervous
nor imaginative, but I could not help seeing that terrible eye, even in
my dreams.
I met my host and hostess at an early breakfast. Sir Henry proposed that
as the day was warm and fine, I should ride to a neighbouring meet. I
was not in the humour for this, however, and said frankly that I should
prefer remaining at the Grange. One glance into the faces of my host and
hostess told me only too plainly that I had two very serious patients on
my hands. Lady Studley looked terribly weak and excited--the hectic
spots on her cheeks, the gleaming glitter of her eyes, the parched lips,
the long, white, emaciated hands, all showed only too plainly the
strides the malady under which she was suffering was making.
"After all, I cannot urge that poor girl to go abroad," I said to
myself. "She is hastening rapidly to her grave, and no power on earth
can save her. She looks as if there were extensive disease of the lungs.
How restless her eyes are, too! I would much rather testify to Sir
Henry's sanity than to hers."
Sir Henry Studley also bore traces of a sleepless night--his face was
bloodless; he averted his eyes from mine; he ate next to nothing.
Immediately after breakfast, I followed Lady Studley into her
morning-room. I had already made up my mind how to act. Her husband
should have my full confidence--she only my partial view of the
situation.
"Well," I said, "I have seen your husband and talked to him. I hope he
will soon be better. I don't think you need be seriously alarmed about
him. Now for yourself, Lady Studley. I am anxious to examine your lungs.
Will you allow me to do so?"
"I suppose Henry has told you I am consumptive?"
"He says you are not well," I answered. "I don't need his word to assure
me of that fact--I can see it with my own eyes. Please let me examine
your chest with my stethoscope."
She hesitated for a moment, looking something like a wild creature
brought to bay. Then she sank into a chair, and with trembling fingers
unfastened her dress. Poor soul, she was almost a walking skeleton--her
beautiful face was all that was beautiful about her. A brief examination
told me that she was in the last stage of phthisis--in short, that her
days were numbered.
"What do you think of me?" she asked, when the brief examination was
over.
"You are ill," I replied.
"How soon shall I die?"
"God only knows that, my dear lady," I answered.
"Oh, you needn't hide your thoughts," she said. "I know that my days are
very few. Oh, if only, if only my husband could come with me! I am so
afraid to go alone, and I am fond of him, very fond of him."