‘No, sir. She refused to give any name – she said she wouldn’t keep you five minutes[2], and the matter was too important to wait till tomorrow. There she is in the consulting-room; and I don’t know how to get her out.’
Doctor Wybrow considered for a moment. He had met with women in all their varieties – especially the variety which knows nothing of the value of time. A glance at his watch informed him that he must soon begin his rounds among the patients[3] who were waiting for him at their own houses. So he decided to escape.
‘Is the carriage at the door?’ he asked.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Very well. Open the house-door for me without any noise, and leave the lady in the consulting-room. When she gets tired, you know what to tell her. If she asks when I will return, say that I dine at my club, and spend the evening at the theatre. And softly, Thomas! If your shoes creak, I am a lost man.’
He noiselessly led the way into the hall, followed by the servant on tip-toe[4].
Did the lady in the consulting-room suspect him? Or did Thomas’s shoes creak? Was her sense of hearing unusually keen? Exactly as Doctor Wybrow passed his consulting-room, the door opened – the lady appeared on the threshold – and laid her hand on his arm.
‘I entreat you, sir, not to go away. Let me speak to you first.’
The accent was foreign; the tone was low and firm. Her fingers closed gently, and yet resolutely, on the Doctor’s arm.
Neither her language nor her action had the slightest effect. The influence that instantly stopped him, on the way to his carriage, was the silent influence of her face. The contrast between the pallor of her complexion and the glittering metallic brightness in her large black eyes held him literally spellbound. She was dressed in dark colours, with perfect taste; she was of middle height, and (apparently) of middle age – a year or two over thirty. Her nose, mouth, and chin possessed the fineness and delicacy of form. She was unquestionably a handsome person. She produced in the Doctor an overpowering feeling of professional curiosity. The case might be something entirely new in his professional experience.
She perceived that she had produced a strong impression upon him, and dropped her hold on his arm.
‘You have comforted many miserable women ‘ she said. ‘Comfort one more, today.’
And she led the way back into the room.
The Doctor followed her, and closed the door. He placed her in the patients’ chair, opposite the windows. Even in London the sun, on that summer afternoon, was dazzlingly bright. The radiant light flowed in on her. Her eyes met it unflinchingly. The smooth pallor of her unwrinkled skin looked more fearfully white than ever.
She had, strangely enough, nothing to say to him. A curious apathy took possession of this woman. The Doctor merely inquired what he could do for her.
She said abruptly: ‘I have a painful question to ask.’
‘What is it?’
Her eyes travelled slowly from the window to the Doctor’s face.
‘I want to know, if you please, am I going mad?’
Doctor Wybrow was disappointed. Was the new patient only a hypochondriacal woman, whose malady was a disordered stomach and whose misfortune was a weak brain?
‘Why do you come to me?’ he asked sharply. ‘Why don’t you consult a psychiatrist?’
‘I don’t go to a psychiatrist,’ she said, ‘I come to you, because my case is outside of all lines and rules, and because you are famous in your profession for the discovery of mysteries in disease. Are you satisfied?’
He was more than satisfied. She was correctly informed as to his professional position.
‘I am at your disposal,’ he answered. ‘Let me try if I can find out what is the matter with you.’
He put his medical questions. She answered promptly and plainly. The strange lady was, mentally and physically, in excellent health. Not satisfied with questions, he carefully examined the great organs of life. Neither his hand nor his stethoscope could discover anything wrong.
‘I can find nothing the matter with you,’ he said. ‘I can’t even explain the extraordinary pallor of your complexion. You completely puzzle me.’
‘The pallor of my complexion is nothing,’ she answered a little impatiently. ‘In my youth I escaped from death by poisoning. That’s why my skin is so delicate. But that is not important. I wanted your opinion. I believed in you, and you have disappointed me.’
Her head dropped on her breast.
The Doctor’s professional pride was a little hurt.
‘I can help you,’ he remarked, ‘if you choose to help me.’
She looked up.
‘Speak plainly,’ she said. ‘How can I help you?’
‘Plainly, madam, you come to me as an enigma. My art can do much, but not all. For example, something occurred – something quite unconnected with the state of your bodily health – to frighten you about yourself. Is that true?’
She clasped her hands in her lap.
‘That is true!’ she said eagerly. ‘I begin to believe in you again.’
She rose.
‘I will tell you,’ she said. ‘But, I’ll mention no names!’
‘There is no need to mention names. The facts are all I want.’
‘The facts are nothing,’ she said. ‘I have only my own impressions to confess. I will do my best to content you – I will begin with the facts that you want.’
She sat down again and began her strange and wild confession.
Chapter II
‘It is one fact, sir, that I am a widow,’ she said. ‘It is another fact, that I am going to be married again.’
There she paused, and smiled. Doctor Wybrow was not favourably impressed by her smile – there was something at once sad and cruel in it. It came slowly, and it went away suddenly. He began to doubt whether he was wise to listen to her.
The lady went on.
‘My approaching marriage,’ she said, ‘has one embarrassing circumstance connected with it. The gentleman whose wife I am to be, was engaged to another lady when he met with me, abroad: that lady was of his own blood and family, and related to him as his cousin. I have innocently robbed her of her lover, and destroyed her prospects in life. Innocently, I say – because he told me nothing of his engagement. When we next met in England, he told me the truth. I was naturally indignant. He showed me a letter from the lady herself, she was releasing him from his engagement. A noble letter! I cried over it. But the firmness of it – without anger, without a word of reproach – left him no hope. He appealed to my compassion; he appealed to his love for me. You know what women are. I said: yes! In a week more (I tremble as I think of it) we are to be married.’
She really trembled – she paused, before she could go on. The Doctor was waiting for more facts.
‘Excuse me, but I have suffering persons waiting to see me,’ he said. ‘The sooner you can come to the point, the better for my patients and for me.’
The strange smile showed itself again on the lady’s lips.
‘Every word I say is to the point,’ she answered. ‘You will see it yourself.’
She resumed her narrative.
‘Yesterday I was among the visitors at a party. A lady came in late. She took a chair near me; and we were presented to each other. I knew her by name, as she knew me. It was the woman whom I had robbed of her lover, the woman who had written the noble letter. Now listen! I admired her. This is very important, as