my visitor evidently noticed my stupefaction. she must have done, or she would not have been a woman.
the reason of my sudden surprise was not because i recognized her, but on account of her perfect and amazing beauty. every doctor sees some pretty faces in the course of practise, but having been asked to set down the chief details of this romance, i must here confess that never in all my life had i set eyes upon such a sweet and charming countenance.
i judged her to be about twenty, and the manner in which she entered the dingy consulting-room that reeked with the pungent odour of iodoform showed that, although not well dressed, she was nevertheless modest and well bred. she wore a plain, black tailor-made skirt, a trifle the worse for wear, a white cotton blouse, a small black hat, and black gloves. but her face held me fascinated; i could not take my eyes off it. it was oval, regular, with beautifully-moulded cheeks, a small, well-formed mouth, and fine arched brows, while the eyes, dark and sparkling, looked out at me half in wonder, half in fear. hers was a kind of half-tragic beauty, a face intensely sweet in its expression, yet with a distinct touch of sadness in its composition, as though her heart were burdened by some secret.
this latter fact seemed patent to me from the very first instant of our meeting.
“is dr. whitworth in?” she inquired, in a soft, rather musical voice, when i bowed and indicated a chair.
“no,” i responded, “he’s not. my name is pickering, and i am acting for the doctor, who is away on a holiday.”
“oh!” she ejaculated, and i thought i detected that her jaw dropped slightly, as though she were disappointed. “will dr. whitworth be away long?”
“another fortnight, i believe. he is not very well, and has gone to cornwall. are you one of his patients? if so, i shall be delighted to do what i can for you.”
“no,” she responded; “but my brother is, and, being taken worse, wanted to consult him.”
“i shall be very pleased to see him, if you think he would care for it,” i said rather eagerly, i believe, if the truth were told.
she seemed undecided. when a person is in the habit of being attended by one medical man, a fresh one is always at a disadvantage. people have such faith in their “own doctor,” a faith that is almost a religion, often misplaced, and sometimes fatal. the old-fashioned family doctor with his out-of-date methods, his white waistcoat, and his cultivated gravity still flourishes, even in these enlightened days of serums and light cures. and in order to impress their patients, they sometimes prescribe unheard of medicines that are not to be found even in “squire.”
“dr. whitworth has attended my brother for several years, and has taken a great interest in his case,” she said reflectively.
“what is his ailment?” i inquired.
“an internal one. all the doctors he has seen appear to disagree as to its actual cause. he suffers great pain at times. it is because he is worse that i have come here.”
“perhaps i can prescribe something to relieve it,” i suggested. “would you like me to see him? i am entirely at your disposal.”
“you are extremely kind, doctor,” she replied. “but we live rather a long way off, and i am afraid at this time of night——”
“oh, the hour is nothing, i assure you,” i laughed, interrupting her. “if i can do anything to make your brother more comfortable, i’ll do so.”
she was still undecided. somehow i could not help thinking that she regarded me with a strange fixed look—a glance which indeed surprised me. having regard to the strange dénouement of the interview, i now recollect every detail of it, and can follow accurately the working of her mind.
“well,” she said at last, rather reluctantly it seemed, “if you are quite sure the distance is not too far, it would be most kind of you to come. i’m sure you could give frank something to allay his pain. we live at dartmouth hill, blackheath.”
“oh, that’s not so very far,” i exclaimed, eager to be her companion. “a cab will soon take us there.”
“dr. whitworth usually comes over to visit my brother once a week—every thursday. did he tell you nothing of his case?”
“no. probably he considers him a private patient, while i am left in charge of the poorer people who come to the dispensary.”
“ah! i understand,” she said, drawing the black boa tighter around her throat, as though ready for departure.
i made some inquiries regarding the region where her brother’s pain was situated, and, placing a morphia case and bottles of various narcotics in my well-worn black bag, put on my hat and announced my readiness to accompany her.
as i turned again to her i could not fail to notice that the colour in her face a moment before had all gone out of it. she was ashen pale, almost to the lips. the change in her had been sudden, and i saw that as she stood she gripped the back of her chair, swaying to and fro as though every moment she might collapse in a faint.
“you are unwell,” i said quickly.
“a—a little faintness. that is all,” she gasped.
without a moment’s delay i got her seated, and rushing into the dispensary obtained restoratives, which in a few minutes brought her back to her former self.
“how foolish!” she remarked, as though disgusted with herself. “forgive me, doctor; i suppose it is because i have been up two nights with my brother and am tired out.”
“of course; that accounts for it. you have over-taxed your strength. have you no one who can take your place?”
“no,” she responded, with a strange sadness which seemed an index to her character; “i have, unfortunately, no one. frank is rather irritable, and will have nobody about him except myself.”
brother and sister appeared devoted to each other.
she spoke of him in a tone betraying that deep fraternal affection which nowadays is not common.
i waited while the boy siddons closed the surgery and put out the lights, and then, having locked the outer door, we walked together to the cab-stand at the top of beresford street and entered a hansom, giving directions to drive to blackheath.
the man seemed rather surprised at such an order at such an hour, but nevertheless, nothing loth to take a fare outside the radius, he whipped up, and drove straight down the boyson road, through into albany road, one of the decayed relics of bygone camberwell when the suburb was fashionable in the days of george the third, and on into that straight, never-ending thoroughfare, the old kent road.
seated side by side our conversation naturally turned upon conversational subjects, and presently she remarked upon the great heat of the day just closed, whereupon i told her how oppressed i had been by it, because of my recent voyage where the sea breeze was always fresh and the spray combined with the brilliant sunshine.
“ah!” she sighed, “i would so much like to go abroad. i’ve never been farther than paris, and, after all, that’s so much like london. i would dearly like a voyage up the mediterranean. the ports you put into must have been a perfect panorama of the various phases of life.”
“yes,” i said, “the italian is so different from the syrian, the syrian from the african, and the african from the spanish. it is all so fresh and new. you would be charmed with it. the only disagreeable part is the return to hot and overcrowded london.”
“myself, i hate london,” was her remark. “the fresh open country always appeals to me, and blackheath, you know, is better than nothing at all.”
i had to confess that i was not acquainted with blackheath. apart from my term at the hospital and a year or two doing locum tenens work in london i knew more of the country than of the metropolis. unless one is a london-born man one never knows and never in his heart loves london. he may delight in its attractions, its social advantages, and its pecuniary possibilities, but at heart he shudders at the greyness of its streets, the grime of the houses, and the hustling, whirling, selfish crowds. to the man country-born, be he peer or commoner, london is always intolerable for any length of time; he sighs for the open air, the green of nature, the gay songs of the birds, and the freedom of everything. unfortunately, however, the country is not fashionable, save in autumn for shooting and in winter for hunting, even though the london season may be, to the great majority, an ordeal only to be borne in order to sustain the social status.
i ask of you, my readers—who perhaps work in the city and go to and from the suburbs with clock-work regularity—whether you would not be prepared to accept a lower wage if you could carry on that same profession in the country and live in a house with a real garden instead of one of a row of jerry-built “desirable residences” so crowded together that what was once a healthy and splendid suburb is nowadays as cramped as any street in central london? you know your house, a place that was run up in six weeks by a speculative builder; you know your garden, a dried-up, stony strip of back yard, where even the wallflowers have a difficulty in taking root; you know your daily scramble to get into a train for the city—nay, the hard fight to keep a roof over your head and the vulpine animal from the door. yes, you would move into the country if you only could, for your wife and children would then be strong and well, instead of always sickly and ailing. but what is the use of moralizing? there is no work for you in the country, so you are one of millions of victims who, like yourself, are compelled to stifle and scramble in london, or to starve.
all this we discussed quite philosophically as we rode together through that hot summer’s night, first past shops and barrows where lights still burned, and then away down the broad road, dark save for the long row of street-lamps stretching away into the distance.
i found her a bright and interesting companion. she seemed of a rather reflective turn of mind, but through all her conversation ran that vein of sadness which from the first had impressed itself upon me. from what she led me to believe, her brother and she were in rather straitened circumstances, owing to the former’s long illness. he had been head cashier with a firm in cannon street, but had been compelled to resign three years ago and had not earned a penny since. i wondered whether she worked at something, typewriting or millinery, in order to assist the household, but she told me nothing and i did not presume to ask.
it is enough to say that i found myself charmed by her, even on this first acquaintance. although so modest and engaging, she seemed to possess wonderful tact. but after all, now that i reflect, tact is in the fair sex inborn, and it takes a clever man to outwit a woman when she is bent upon accomplishing an object.
she told me very little about herself. in fact, now i recall the curious circumstances, i see that she purposely refrained from doing so. to my leading questions she responded so na?vely that i was entirely misled.
how is it, i wonder, that every man of every age will run his head against a wall for the sake of a pretty woman? given a face out of the ordinary rut of english beauty, a woman in london can command anything, no matter what her station. it has always been so the whole world over, even from the old days of troy and rome—a fair face rules the roost.
we had crossed a bridge over a canal—deptford bridge i think it is called—and began to ascend a long hill which she told me led on to blackheath. she had grown of a sudden thoughtful, making few responses to my observations. perhaps i had presumed too much, i thought; perhaps i had made some injudicious inquiry which annoyed her. but she was so charming, so sweet of temperament, and so bright in conversation, that my natural desire to know all about her had led me into being a trifle more inquisitive than the circumstances warranted.
“doctor,” she exclaimed suddenly, in a strange voice; “i hope you will not take as an offence what i am about to say,” and as she turned to me the light of a street lamp flashing full on her face revealed to me how white and anxious it had suddenly become.
“certainly not,” i answered, not without surprise.
“well, i have reconsidered my decision, and i think that in the circumstances you had better not see my brother, after all.”
“not see your brother!” i exclaimed, surprised.
“no. i—i’m awfully sorry to have brought you out here so far, but if you will allow me to get out i can walk home and you can drive back.”
“certainly not,” i answered. “now i’m so close to your house i’ll see your brother. i can no doubt relieve his pain, and for that he would probably be thankful.”
“no,” she said, involuntarily laying her hand upon my sleeve, “i cannot allow you to accompany me farther;” and i felt her hand tremble.
surely there is no accounting for the working of a woman’s mind, but i certainly believed her to be devoid of any such caprice as this.
i argued with her that if her brother were in pain it was only right that i should do what i could to relieve him. but she firmly shook her head.
“forgive me, doctor,” she urged anxiously. “i know you must think me absurdly whimsical, but this decision is not the outcome of any mere whim, i assure you. i have a reason why i absolutely insist upon us parting here.”
“well, of course, if you really deny me the privilege of accompanying you as far as your house i can do nothing but submit,” i said very disappointedly. “i shall tell dr. whitworth of your call. what name shall i give him?”
“miss bristowe.”
“and are you quite determined that i shall go no farther?” i asked earnestly.
“quite.”
i saw some hidden reason in this decision, but what it was i failed to make out. she was certainly most determined, and, further, she seemed to have been suddenly filled with an unusual excitement, betrayed in her white, almost haggard, face.
so i stopped the cab at last, just as we reached the dark heath.
“i must say that i am very disappointed at this abrupt ending to our brief acquaintanceship,” i said, taking her hand and helping her out.
“ah! doctor,” she sighed. then, in a voice full of strange meaning, she added: “perhaps one day you will learn the real reason of this decision. i thank you very much for accompanying me so far. good-night.”
she allowed her hand to rest in mine for a moment; then turned and was lost in the darkness, leaving me standing beside the cab.
