In the spring of 1890 I was asked to see a patient at Croydon with
another doctor in consultation. In this stage of the illness it
was only an ordinary case of somewhat severe typhoid fever, but
the interest lies in the succeeding stages, when complete recovery
seems to have taken place. I have noticed this remarkable illness
in my case-book as an instance of perhaps the most extraordinary
psychological condition which has occurred in my practice, or I might
say in that of any other man.
The patient was a young barrister; he had a wife and three children.
The wife was a pretty, rather nervous-looking woman. On the day when
I went to see her husband, in consultation with the family doctor, I
could not help noticing the intensely anxious expression of her face,
and how her lips moved silently as she followed my words. The illness
was severe, but I did not consider it as specially dangerous, and had,
therefore, only encouraging opinions to give her.
[Illustration: "IN CONSULTATION."]
I saw Mainwaring again at the end of the week. He was then much better,
and I was able to communicate the cheerful tidings to his wife that he
was practically out of danger. He was a man of about three-and-thirty
years of age, tall, and rather gaunt in appearance, with deep-set grey
eyes, and a big, massive brow. I have often noticed his peculiar style
of face and head as belonging to the legal profession. I could quite
believe that he was an astute and clever special pleader. Abbott, the
family doctor, told me that he was a common-law barrister, and I could
well understand his using eloquent words when he pleaded the case of an
unfortunate client.
I did not visit him again, but Abbott wrote to tell me that he had
made an excellent recovery without hitch or relapse. Under these
circumstances his case had almost passed from my memory, when the
following startling incident occurred.
I came home one evening prepared to hurry out again to see a sick
patient, when my servant informed me that a lady was waiting in the
consulting-room to see me.
"Did not you tell her that I am not in the habit of seeing patients at
this hour?" I asked.
"I did, sir," replied the man, "but she would not leave. She says she
will wait your convenience: but, whatever happens, she must have an
interview with you to-night."
"I had better go and see her, and find out what she wants," I murmured
to myself.
I crossed the hall with some impatience, for I had several most anxious
cases on hand, and entered my consulting-room. A slight, girlish
figure was seated partly with her back to me. She sprang up when the
door opened, and I was confronted by the anxious and pleading face of
Mrs. Mainwaring.
"You have come at last," she said, with a deep sigh. "That is a blessed
relief. I have waited for you here because I want to ask your advice. I
am in terrible anxiety about my husband."
"Your husband?" I replied. "But I understood Dr. Abbott to say that he
had recovered perfectly. He said he had ordered him for a month to the
seaside, and then hoped that he might resume his professional work."
"It was so," she replied. "My husband had a quick recovery. I am told
that most typhoid fever patients take a long time to regain their
strength, but in his case this was not so. After the worst was over,
he seemed to get better by strides and bounds. A fortnight ago Dr.
Abbott ordered him to the seaside. I had a fancy for Dover, and thought
of going there. I had even written about lodgings, when my husband
suddenly told me that he did not wish to go to the seaside, and would
prefer spending a fortnight amongst his old haunts at Cambridge. We
went there. We--we were very happy. I left the children at home. It
seemed something like our honeymoon over again. Yesterday morning I
received a letter telling me that my eldest child was not well. I
hurried back to Croydon to see her, telling my husband that I would
rejoin him to-day. My child's illness turned out to be a trivial one,
and I went back to Cambridge by an early train this morning."
Here Mrs. Mainwaring paused and pressed her hand to her heart. Her
face, excessively pale before, now turned almost ghastly. She had
seated herself; she now stood up, the further to emphasize her words.
"When I reached our lodgings," she said, "my landlady met me with the
astounding intelligence that Mr. Mainwaring had packed up all his
belongings and had left Cambridge for London by the express train that
morning.
"This news surprised me, but at first I heard it calmly enough. I
believed that Edward had grown weary of his own society, was anxious
about our little Nancy, and had hurried home. My landlady, however,
looked so mysterious that I felt certain she had something further to
say.
"'Come in, madam, do come in,' she said. 'Perhaps you think your good
gentleman has gone home.'
"'I am sure he has,' I said. 'Can you get me a messenger? I will send
a telegram at once and find out. If Mr. Mainwaring has gone home, he
ought to have arrived by now.'
"My landlady was quite silent for a minute, then she said, gravely:--
"'Perhaps I ought to tell you that Mr. Mainwaring behaved in a very
singular way before he left my house.'
"There was something in the woman's manner which impressed me even more
than her words. I felt my heart beginning to sink. I followed her into
the little sitting-room where my husband and I had spent some happy
hours, and begged of her to explain herself.
"She did so without a moment's hesitation.
"'It all happened early this morning,' she said. 'I brought up
breakfast as usual. Mr. Mainwaring was standing by one of the open
windows.
"'I am going to town,' he said, 'by the express. I shall pack my things
immediately. Bring me my bill.'
"'I was leaving the room to prepare it, when he shouted to me.'
"'How is it those things have got into the room?' he said. 'Take them
away.'
"'What things do you mean, sir?'
"'Those woman's things,' he said, very crossly. 'That work-basket, and
that white shawl.'
"'Why, sir,' I said, staring at him, 'those things belong to your good
lady.'
"'He looked me full in the face and then burst out laughing.'
"'You must be mad,' he said; 'I dislike unseasonable jokes.'
"'He then went into his bedroom and slammed the door noisily behind
him. Half an hour later he had paid the bill, ordered a cab, and gone
off with his luggage. He left all your things behind him, madam.
Mr. Mainwaring was collected and quiet enough, and seemed quite the
gentleman except when he spoke of you; still I don't like the look of
affairs at all.'
"I listened to my landlady," continued poor Mrs. Mainwaring, "while she
told me this strange and most perplexing story. Then I glanced round
the room for confirmation of her words. Yes, my husband and all his
belongings had vanished, but my work-basket, my new hat, my mantle, my
writing-case, and one or two little garments which I was making for the
children, were still scattered about the drawing-room.
"I went into the bedroom and saw the clothes I had left behind me,
flung into a heap in a corner of the room.
[Illustration: "TAKE THEM AWAY."]
"While I was looking at them in a state of mind almost impossible to
describe, my landlady tapped at the door and brought me a note.
"'Under the circumstances, madam,' she said, 'you may like to see this
letter. I have just found it, stamped and directed as you see, on
the davenport in the drawing-room. I think it is in Mr. Mainwaring's
writing.'
"I took it from her and looked at it eagerly. It was addressed in my
husband's writing to a Don of the college (Trinity) where he had taken
his degree. I did not hesitate to open it. Here it is, Dr. Halifax; you
may like to read it. It may possibly help you to throw some light on
this awful mystery."
Mrs. Mainwaring gave me the note as she spoke. It contained the
following words:--
"MY DEAR SIR,--I much regret having missed you when I called yesterday
afternoon to say good-bye. I must take the present opportunity of
thanking you for your kindness to me during the whole of my University
career. I leave Cambridge by an early train this morning, or would call
again to say farewell in person. I hope to call to see you on the first
occasion when I revisit Cambridge.
"Yours sincerely,
"ED. MAINWARING."
I read the letter twice, and then returned it without comment to the
wife.
"Will you redirect it and post it?" I said, after a pause.
She answered me almost in a whisper.
"The strange thing about that letter is this," she said. "It is
addressed to a dead person. Mr. Grainger, Edward's old tutor, has been
dead for many years. My husband felt his death keenly when it occurred.
He has many times told me of the personal interest Mr. Grainger took
in him. Have you no comment to make with regard to this letter, Dr.
Halifax?"
"I shall have plenty to say in a moment," I answered. "That letter
will give us a very important clue to our future actions, but now to
proceed: Have you nothing further to tell me?"
"Yes; after reading the letter, I rushed to the nearest telegraph
office and sent a telegram with a prepaid reply to my home. I waited
with what patience I could for the answer, which came within an hour
and a half. My husband had not returned to Stanley Villa. I then took
the next train to town, and went back to Croydon on the chance of his
having arrived there during the day. He had not done so. Dr. Abbott
happens to be away, so I have come to you. Can you give me advice? Will
you help me in any way?"
"Yes, of course, I will help you," I said. "Pray sit down." She had
been standing with her hands clasped tightly together during the
greater part of our interview. "Your story is a very strange one," I
continued, "and I will give it and you my best attention in a moment. I
must run away first, however, to give some instructions with regard to
one of my patients, then I shall be at your service."
She sank into a chair when I told her to sit down. She was trembling
all over. Her nerves were strung to a high pitch. I went into the hall,
thought for a moment, then, putting on my hat, went out. As I was
leaving the house, I told my servant to take a tray with wine and other
refreshments into the consulting-room. Then I went a few doors off to
see a brother physician. I told him I had a peculiar case to attend
to, and asked him to see after my patients until the following day. I
then went back to Mrs. Mainwaring; she had not touched the wine nor the
biscuits which the servant had brought her.
"Come," I said, "this will never do. You must have this glass of wine
immediately and one or two of these biscuits. You will be able to think
much better and, consequently, to find your husband sooner if you take
some necessary nourishment. Come, that is better."
I poured out a glass of port wine and gave it to her. She took it in
her small, trembling hand and raised it to her lips, spilling the wine
terribly as she did so.
"You will do better now," I said.
[Illustration: "SHE RAISED IT TO HER LIPS."]
"Oh, it doesn't matter about me," she exclaimed, with impatience; "you
have not told me what you think of my story. What possible reason can
there be to account for my husband's most strange conduct?"
"I cannot give you a reason yet," I said. "My impression is that Mr.
Mainwaring's mind is not quite right for the time being. Remember,
I say for the time being. Typhoid is a very grave and terrible
disease. Your husband suffered from an exceptionally serious attack.
His apparently rapid recovery may have induced him to do more than
he really had strength to undertake. If this were so, many strange
symptoms might exhibit themselves. I can tell you more particulars with
regard to the exact nature of his malady after I have seen him. The
thing now is to try and find him. Before we begin our search, however,
I should like to ask you a few questions of a practical nature. How old
is your husband?"
"Nearly thirty-three."
"He took his degree at Cambridge, did he not?"
"Yes--just ten years ago. We talked much of it during the happy
fortnight we spent there. We visited all his old haunts. He was a
Trinity man, and loved his college with an enthusiasm I have seen in
few. I never saw anyone happier than he was during the last fortnight.
His spirits were gay. He seemed scarcely to know fatigue. He was always
hunting up old friends."
"Were there many of the men of his time at Cambridge?"
"No--that was the sad thing. He has been unfortunate with regard to
his friends. He made many, for he was popular and had a sympathetic
manner which attracted people, but some had gone abroad and several had
died. There was a Mr. Leigh in particular. He had been much attached
to him in the old days. But he only heard of his death when we went to
Cambridge, for he had completely lost sight of him for a long time.
This news saddened him for a little."
"When did he hear of Leigh's death?"
"The day before yesterday. The Dean of his college told him. He was
visibly affected for the time, and talked of him to me all the evening.
He told me several incidents with regard to a foreign tour they had
taken together."
"Indeed! And he seemed depressed while he spoke?"
"Only just for a time."
"When did your husband and Mr. Leigh go abroad?"
Mrs. Mainwaring thought for a moment.
"It was just after Edward had taken his degree," she said. "He
mentioned that fact also when he talked over matters the evening before
last."
"From what part of England did Mr. Mainwaring and Mr. Leigh start on
their foreign tour?"
"I think it must have been from Dover. Yes, I remember now; Edward said
that Mr. Leigh arranged to meet him at Dover. He failed to keep his
first appointment, and Edward had to remain at Dover waiting for him
for twenty-four hours."
I thought over this piece of information for some time. The story was
altogether puzzling; the queer thing about it being not so much the
fact of Mainwaring's brain having gone wrong as the strange form his
aberration seemed to have taken. It was too evidently the fact that he
was either possessed by an active dislike to his wife, or had forgotten
her existence.
After some anxious thought I asked Mrs. Mainwaring one or two more
questions.
"Did you notice anything peculiar in your husband the last evening and
night you spent together?"
"Nothing whatever," she replied. "My dear husband was just his old
self. His depression about Walter Leigh soon passed away, and he spoke
cheerfully about his own prospects and said how exceptionally lucky
he considered himself to be able to resume his professional work so
soon after such a severe illness. The evening post, too, brought him
a letter, which cheered him a good deal. It was from a solicitor in
large practice, offering him the brief of a very important case which
was to come on in the criminal courts. Edward was highly delighted at
the thought of this work, which meant large fees, badly needed by us
just at present. Early the next morning the post brought us the news
about Nancy's illness. My husband wished to go with me to Croydon, but
I dissuaded him. I did not consider him strong enough, notwithstanding
his boasted return to health, for this fatigue. He saw me off at the
station, however, and promised to meet me there the following morning,
if the child were well enough for me to return."
"Were you surprised when you did not see him?"
"I was, for he is the sort of man who always keeps any engagement he
makes."
"A few more questions, Mrs. Mainwaring; and first, how long have you
been married?"
"Six years," she said, looking up with a faint blush on her white face,
"and Nancy will be five in a week."
"You never happened to meet this Walter Leigh?"
"Never."
"Did your husband ever speak of him to you until two days ago?"
"It is strange, but he never did. He is, as a rule, a very busy
man--much occupied with a growing practice."
"Did you happen to know any of his college friends?"
"No."
"You were not in any way connected with that part of his life?"
"No; we never met until, at least, three years after my husband left
Cambridge."
"Thank you," I said. "I do not think I have anything further to ask
you."
"But what do you mean to do?" she asked. "We can't sit here quietly and
allow my unhappy husband to roam the country. He _must_ be found, and
at once. He--he may have----" Her lips trembled, she lowered her eyes.
"No," I said. "He has not committed suicide. Rest easy on that point.
From what you tell me of your husband I feel inclined to think--of
course, I may be wrong--but I feel strongly inclined to think that he
is at Dover at the present moment."
"What can you possibly mean?"
"What I say. It is quite within the region of probability that he may
be at Dover waiting for his friend Walter Leigh to join him."
When I said this Mrs. Mainwaring looked at me as if she thought I, too,
had taken leave of my senses. I took no notice of her expressive face.
"I am prepared to go with you to Dover," I said. "Shall we start at
once?"
She looked dubious and terribly anxious.
"It seems a waste of time," she said, after a pause.
"I do not think so," I answered. "Your husband was in a weak state,
notwithstanding his boasted strength. From what you tell me, he
evidently exerted himself more than was wise while at Cambridge. By
doing so, he strained a weakened frame. The brain forms the highest
part of that frame, Mrs. Mainwaring, the highest and also the most
easily put out of order. Your husband exerted his body too much, and
excited his brain by old memories and the regrets which must come to a
man when he visits the scene of vanished friendships. You say that Mr.
Mainwaring was visibly affected when he heard of his great friend's
death?"
"He was, he was. He turned white when the Dean told him. The death
was tragic, too. Walter Leigh was killed on an Alpine expedition. The
marvellous thing was how the news never reached my husband before. This
can only be accounted for by the fact that he spent the year of Mr.
Leigh's death in America."
"All this confirms my theory," I continued, "that your husband's brain,
long weakened by serious illness, suddenly gave way. Brain derangement,
as we know, takes all kinds of unexpected forms. I believe that the
form it has taken in Mainwaring's case is this. He has forgotten the
recent years of his life and has gone back again to his old college
days. His letter to the Don of Trinity College who has so long been
dead confirms this theory. His strange conduct with regard to you,
Mrs. Mainwaring, further strengthens it. I feel almost certain that I
am right in these impressions. They are sufficiently strong to make me
anxious to visit Dover immediately. Now, shall I go alone, or will you
come with me?"
"Of course I'll come with you," she answered.
She rose and began to draw on her gloves.
It was late June now, and the day had been a hot one. The twilight had
faded into night when I assisted Mrs. Mainwaring into a hansom and
directed the driver to take us to Victoria Station.
[Illustration: "I ASSISTED MRS. MAINWARING INTO A HANSOM."]
We caught our train by a minute or two, and in process of time found
ourselves at Dover. During the journey Mrs. Mainwaring scarcely uttered
a word. She had drawn her veil over her face and sat huddled up in a
corner of the carriage, as if she were turned into stone. I saw that
she was partly stunned by the shock, and I felt anxious about her, as
well as her husband.