JOHN THORNDYKE
The sexual preferences or affinities of men and women have always
impressed me as very mysterious and inexplicable. I am referring to
the selective choice of individuals, not to the general attraction of
the sexes for one another. Why should a particular pair of human
beings single one another out from the mass of their fellows as
preferable to all others? Why to one particular man does one
particular woman and no other become the exciting cause of the emotion
of love? It is not a matter of mere physical beauty or mental
excellence, for if it were men and women would be simply classifiable
into the attractive and the non-attractive; whereas we find in
practice that a woman who may be to the majority of men an object of
indifference, is to some one man an object of passionate love; and
vice-versa. Nor is love necessarily accompanied by any delusions as to
the worth of its object, for it will persist in spite of the clear
recognition of personal defects and in conscious conflict with
judgment and reason.
The above reflections, with others equally profound, occupied my mind
as I sat on a rather uncomfortable little rush-seated chair in the
nave of Rochester Cathedral; whither I had proceeded in obedience to
orders from Mrs. Dunk, to attend the choral afternoon service; and
they were occasioned by the sudden recognition--not without
surprise--of the very deep impression that had been made on me by my
patient, Mrs. Frood. For the intensity of that impression I could not
satisfactorily account. It is true that her circumstances were
interesting and provocative of sympathy. But that was no reason for
the haunting of my thoughts by her, of which I was conscious. She was
not a really beautiful woman, though I thought her more than commonly
good-looking; and she had evidently made no particular impression on
Bundy. Yet, though I had seen her but three times, including my first
meeting with her a year ago, I had to recognize that she had hardly
been out of my thoughts since, and I was aware of looking forward with
ridiculous expectancy to my proposed visit to her this evening.
Thus, speculations on the meaning of this preoccupation mingled
themselves with other speculations, as, for instance, on the abrupt
changes of intention suggested by half of an Early English arch
clapped up against a Norman pier; and as my thoughts rambled on,
undisturbed by a pleasant voice, intoning with soothing
unintelligibility somewhere beyond the stone screen, I watched with
languid curiosity the strangers who entered and stole on tip-toe to
the nearest vacant chair. Presently, however, as the intoning voice
gave place to the deep, pervading hum of the organ, a visitor entered
who instantly attracted my attention.
He was obviously a personage--a real personage; not one of those who
have achieved greatness by the free use of their elbows, or have had
it thrust upon them by influential friends. This was an unmistakable
thoroughbred. He was a tall man, very erect and dignified in carriage,
and in spite of his iron-grey hair, evidently strong, active, and
athletic. But it was his face that specially riveted my attention: not
merely by reason that it was a handsome, symmetrical face, inclining
to the Greek type, with level brows, a fine, straight nose, and a
shapely mouth, but rather on account of its suggestion of commanding
strength and intelligence. It was a strangely calm--even
immobile--face; but yet it conveyed a feeling of attentiveness and
concentration, and especially of power.
I watched the stranger curiously as he stepped quietly to a seat not
far from me, noting how he seemed to stand out from the ordinary men
who surrounded him, and wondering who he was. But I was not left to
wonder very long. A few moments later another visitor arrived, but not
a stranger this time; for in this newcomer I recognized an old
acquaintance, a Dr. Jervis, whom I had known when I was a student and
when he had taken temporary charge of my uncle’s practice. Since then,
as I had learned, he had qualified as a barrister and specialized in
legal medicine as the coadjutor of the famous medical jurist, Dr. John
Thorndyke.
For a few moments Jervis stood near the entrance looking about the
nave, as if in search of someone. Then, suddenly, his eye lighted on
the distinguished stranger, and he walked straight over to him and sat
down by his side; from which, and from the smile of recognition with
which he was greeted, I inferred that the stranger was none other than
Dr. Thorndyke himself.
Jervis had apparently not seen, or at least not recognized me, but, as
I observed that there was a vacant chair by his side, I determined to
renew our acquaintance and secure, if possible, a presentation to his
eminent colleague. Accordingly, I crossed the nave, and, taking the
vacant chair, introduced myself, and was greeted with a cordial
hand-shake.
The circumstances did not admit of conversation, but presently, when
the anthem appeared to be drawing to a close, Jervis glanced at his
watch and whispered to me: “I want to hear all your news, Strangeways,
and to introduce you to Thorndyke; and we must get some tea before we
go to the station. Shall we clear out now?”
As I assented he whispered to Thorndyke, and we all rose and filed
silently towards the door, our exit covered by the concluding strains
of the anthem. As soon as we were outside Jervis presented me to his
colleague, and suggested an immediate adjournment to some place of
refreshment. I proposed that they should come and have tea with me,
but Jervis replied: “I’m afraid we haven’t time to-day. There is a
very comfortable teashop close to the Jasperian gate-house. You had
better come there and then perhaps you can walk to the station with
us.”
We adopted this plan, and when we had established ourselves on a
settle by the window of the ancient, low-ceiled room and given our
orders to a young lady in a becoming brown costume, Jervis proceeded
to interrogate.
“And what might you be doing in Rochester, Strangeways?”
“Nominally,” I replied, “I am engaged in medical practice. Actually, I
am a gentleman at large. I have taken a death vacancy here, and I
arrived yesterday morning.”
“Any patients?” he inquired.
“Two at present,” I answered. “One I brought down with me and returned
empty this morning. The other is his wife.”
“Ha,” said Jervis, “a concise statement, but obscure. It seems to
require amplification.”
I accordingly proceeded to amplify, describing in detail my journey
from town and my subsequent dealings with my fellow-traveller. The
circumstances of Mrs. Frood, being matters of professional confidence,
I was at first disposed to suppress; but then, reflecting that my two
friends were in a position to give expert opinions and advice, I put
them in possession of all the facts that were known to me, excepting
the Regent’s Park incident, which I felt hardly at liberty to
disclose.
“Well,” said Jervis, when I had finished, “if the rest of your
practice develops on similar lines, we shall have to set up a branch
establishment in your neighbourhood. There are all sorts of
possibilities in this case. Don’t you think so, Thorndyke?”
“I should hardly say ‘all sorts,’” was the reply. “The possibilities
seem to me to be principally of one sort; extremely disagreeable for
the poor lady. She has the alternatives of allowing herself to be
associated with this man--which seems to be impossible--or of spending
the remainder of her life in a perpetual effort to escape from him;
which is an appalling prospect for a young woman.”
“Yes,” agreed Jervis, “it is bad enough. But there seems to me worse
possibilities with a fellow of this kind; a drinking, drug-swallowing,
hysterical degenerate. You never know what a man of that type will
do.”
“You always hope that he will commit suicide,” said Thorndyke; “and to
do him justice, he does, fairly often show that much perception of his
proper place in nature. But, as you say, the actions of a mentally and
morally abnormal man are incalculable. He may kill himself or he may
kill somebody else, or he may join with other abnormals to commit
incomprehensible and apparently motiveless political crimes. But we
will hope that Mr. Frood will limit his activities to sponging on his
wife.”
The conversation now turned from my affairs to those of my friends,
and I ventured to inquire what had brought them to Rochester.
“We came down,” said Jervis, “to watch an inquest for one of our
insurance clients. But after all it has had to be adjourned for a
fortnight. So we may have the pleasure of seeing you again.”
“We won’t leave it to chance,” said I. “Let us settle that you come to
lunch with me, if that will be convenient. You can fix your own time.”
My two friends consulted, and, having referred to their time-table,
accepted the invitation for one o’clock on that day fortnight; and
when I had “booked the appointment,” we finished our tea and sallied
forth, making our way over the bridge to Strood Station, at the main
entrance to which I wished them adieu.
As I turned away from the station and sauntered slowly along the shore
before recrossing the bridge, I recalled the conversation of my two
colleagues with a certain vague discomfort. To both of them, it was
evident, the relations of my fair patient and her husband presented
sinister possibilities, although I had not informed them of the actual
murderous attack; and though the more cautious reticent Thorndyke had
seemed to minimize them, his remarks had expressed what was already in
my own mind, accentuated by what I knew. These nervy, abnormal men are
never safe to deal with. Their unstable emotions may be upset in a
moment and then no one can tell what will happen. It was quite
possible that Frood had come to Rochester with the perfectly peaceable
intention of inducing his wife to return to him. But this was far from
certain, and I shuddered to think of what might follow a refusal on
her part. I did not like that knife. I have a sane man’s dislike of
lethal weapons of all kinds; but especially do I dislike them in the
hands of those whose self-control is liable to break down suddenly.
It was true that this man had not succeeded in finding his wife, and
even seemed to have given up the search. But I felt pretty certain
that he had not. Somehow, he had discovered that she was in the town,
and from the same source he might get further information; and, in any
case, I felt no doubt that he would renew the pursuit, and that, in
the end, he would find her. And then--but at this point I found myself
opposite the house and observed Mrs. Gillow standing on the doorstep,
fumbling in her pocket for the latch-key. She had just extracted it,
and was in the act of inserting it into the latch when I crossed the
road and made my presence known. She greeted me with a wan smile as I
ascended the steps, and, having by this time got the door open,
admitted me to the hall.
“I gave Mrs. Frood your message at lunch-time, sir,” said she, in a
depressed tone, “and I believe she has come in.” Here, having closed
the street door, she rapped softly with her knuckles at that of the
front room, whereupon the voice to which Bundy objected so much called
out: “Come in, Mrs. Gillow.”
The latter threw the door open. “It is the doctor, Madam,” said she;
and on this announcement, I walked in.
“I didn’t hear you knock,” said Mrs. Frood, rising, and holding out
her hand.
“I didn’t knock,” I replied. “I sneaked in under cover of Mrs.
Gillow.”
“That was very secret and cautious of you,” said she. “You make me
feel like a sort of feminine Prince Charlie, lying perdu in the
robbers’ cavern; whereas, I have actually been taking my walks abroad
and brazenly looking in the shop windows. But I have kept a sharp
lookout, all the same.”
“There really wasn’t any need,” said I. “The siege is raised.”
“You don’t mean that my husband has gone?” she exclaimed.
“I do, indeed,” I answered; and I gave her a brief account of the
events of the morning, suppressing my unofficial part in the
transaction.
“Do you think,” she asked, “that the matron paid his fare out of her
own pocket?”
“I am sure she didn’t,” I answered hastily. “She touched some local
altruist for the amount; it was only a few shillings, you know.”
“Still,” she said, “I feel that I ought to refund those few shillings.
They were really expended for my benefit.”
“Well, you can’t,” I said with some emphasis. “You couldn’t do it
without disclosing your identity, and then you would have some
philanthropist trying to effect a reconciliation. Your cue is to keep
yourself to yourself for the present.”
“For the present!” she echoed. “It seems to me that I have got to be a
fugitive for the rest of my natural life. It is a horrible position,
to have to live in a state of perpetual concealment, like a criminal,
and never dare to make an acquaintance.”
“Don’t you know anyone in Rochester?” I asked.
“Not a soul,” she replied, “excepting Mr. Japp, who is a relative by
marriage--he was my aunt’s brother-in-law--his partner, and Mrs.
Gillow and you. And you all know my position.”
“Does Mrs. Gillow know the state of affairs?” I asked in some
surprise.
“Yes,” she answered, “I thought it best to tell her, in confidence, so
that she should understand that I want to live a quiet life.”
“I suppose you haven’t cut yourself off completely from all your
friends?” said I.
“Very nearly. I haven’t many friends that I really care about much,
but I keep in touch with one or two of my old comrades. But I have had
to swear them to secrecy--though it looks as if the secret had leaked
out in some way. Of course they all know Nicholas--my husband.”
“And I suppose you have been able to learn from them how your husband
views the separation?”
“Yes. Of course he thinks I have treated him abominably, and he
evidently suspects that I have some motive for leaving him other than
mere dislike of his unpleasant habits. The usual motive, in fact.”
“What Sam Weller would call a ‘priory attachment’?” I suggested.
“Yes. He is a jealous and suspicious man by nature. I had quite a lot
of trouble with him in that way before that final outbreak, though I
have always been most circumspect in my relations with other men.
Still, a woman doesn’t complain of a little jealousy. Within reason,
it is a natural, masculine failing.”
“I should consider a tendency to use a knitted silk necktie for
purposes which I need not specify as going rather beyond ordinary
masculine failings,” I remarked drily; on which she laughed and
admitted that perhaps it was so. There was a short pause; then,
turning to a fresh subject, she asked:
“Do you think you will get any of Dr. Partridge’s practice?”
“I suspect not, or at any rate very little; and that reminds me that I
have not yet inquired as to my patient’s condition. Are you any
better?”
As I asked the question, I looked at her attentively, and noted that
she was still rather pale and haggard, so far as I could judge by the
subdued light of the shaded lamp, and that the darkness under the eyes
remained undiminished.
“I am afraid I am not doing you much credit,” she replied, with a
faint smile. “But you can’t expect any improvement while these
unsettled conditions exist. If you could induce my respected husband
to elope with another woman you would effect an immediate cure.”
“I am afraid,” said I, “that is beyond my powers, to say nothing of
the inhumanity to the other woman. But we must persevere. You must let
me look in on you from time to time, just to keep an eye on you.”
“I hope you will,” she replied, energetically. “If it doesn’t weary
you to listen to my complaints and gossip a little, please keep me on
your visiting list. With the exception of Mr. Japp, you are the only
human creature that I hold converse with. Mrs. Gillow is a dear, good
creature, but instinct warns me not to get on conversational terms
with her. She’s rather lonely, too.”
“Yes; you might find it difficult to turn the tap off. I am always
very cautious with housekeepers and landladies.”
She darted a mischievous glance at me. “Even if your landlady happens
to be your patient?” she asked.
I chuckled as I remembered our dual relationship. “That,” said I, “is
an exceptional case. The landlady becomes merged in the patient, and
the patient tends to become a friend.”
“The doctor,” she retorted, “tends very strongly to become a friend,
and a very kind and helpful friend. I think you have been exceedingly
good to me--a mere waif who has drifted across your horizon.”
“Well,” I said, “if you think so, far be it from me to contradict you.
One may as well pick up gratefully a stray crumb of commendation that
one doesn’t deserve to set off against the deserved credit that one
doesn’t get. But I should like to think that all my good deeds in the
future will be as agreeable in the doing.”
She gave me a prim little smile. “We are getting monstrously polite,”
she remarked, upon which we both laughed.
“However,” said I, “the moral of it all is that you ought to have a
friendly medical eye kept on you, and, as mine is the eye that happens
to be available, and as you are kind enough to accept the optical
supervision, I shall give myself the pleasure of looking in on you
from time to time to see how you are and to hear how the world wags.
What is the best time to find you at home?”
“I am nearly always at home after seven o’clock, but perhaps that is
not very convenient for you. I don’t know how you manage your
practice.”
“The fact is,” said I, “that at present you are my practice, so I
shall adapt my visiting round to your circumstances, and make my call
at, or after, seven. I suppose you get some exercise?”
“Oh, yes. Quite a lot. I walk out in the country, and wander about
Chatham and Gillingham and out to Frindsbury. I have been along the
Watling Street as far as Cobham. Rochester itself I rather avoid for
fear of making acquaintances, though it is a pleasant old town in
spite of the improvements.”
As she spoke of these solitary rambles the idea floated into my mind
that, later on, I might perchance offer to diminish their solitude.
But I quickly dismissed it. Her position was, in any case, one of some
delicacy--that of a young woman living apart from her husband. It
would be an act the very reverse of friendly to compromise her in any
way; nor would it tend at all to my own professional credit. A
doctor’s reputation is nearly as tender as a woman’s.
Our conversation had occupied nearly three quarters of an hour, and,
although I would willingly have lingered, it appeared to me that I had
made as long a visit as was permissible. I accordingly rose, and,
having given a few words of somewhat perfunctory professional advice,
shook hands with my patient and let myself out.