LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

had been cases—not a few—where visitors had spent weeks in making up their minds to go to Dr. Stonor, and had reached his doorstep only to hurry back home quite unable to face him, and then suffer in secret perhaps for months to come.

      For what would that interview reveal? That the peculiar sensations or pains were due to some trifling disorganisation that a guinea and a prescription would set right, or that the seeds of some fatal disease had begun to shoot?

      Daniel, factotum to Dr. Stonor, had been standing like a spider watching at the slip of a window beside the door waiting for sick flies to come into the doctor’s net.

      “Old game!” said Daniel to himself, as he drew back from the window to observe unseen, and without moving a muscle in his face. For it was Daniel’s peculiarity that he never did move the muscles of his face. He would hold a patient for his master during a painful operation, be scolded, badgered, see harrowing scenes, receive vails, hear praise or abuse of the doctor—for these are both applied to medicine men—and all without making a sign, losing his nerve, or being elated. Daniel was always the same—clean, quiet, self-possessed; and he had seen handsome fair-bearded John Huish descend from a cab, walk up to the door, pass by and go slowly and thoughtfully on, passing his hand over his thick golden beard, looking very tall, manly, and unpatientlike, as he passed on round the Circus.

      “He’ll be back in ten minutes,” said Daniel to himself, as he admitted a regular patient and once more closed the door. It was a quarter of an hour, though, before John Huish came to the house, asked if the doctor was at home, was shown into the waiting-room, and in due course came face to face with the keen, grey, big-headed, clever-looking little practitioner.

      “Ah, Huish, my dear boy! Glad to see you, John. Sit down. This is kind of you, to look me up. I’ve only just come back from a fishing trip—trouting. Old habit. Down this way?”

      “Well, no, doctor,” said the young man hesitatingly. “The fact is, I came to consult you.”

      “Glad of it. I was the first person who ever took hold of your little hand, and the tiny fingers clutched one of mine as if you trusted me. And you always kept it up—eh? I’m very glad.”

      “Glad, sir?”

      “Of course I am,” said the doctor, taking out his keys and unlocking a drawer. “What is it, my boy—a little cheque?”

      “Oh dear no, doctor.”

      “Nothing serious, I hope.”

      “I hope not. I thought I would consult you.”

      “That’s right, my lad. Well, what is it? Going to buy a horse—speculate in the funds—try a yachting trip?”

      “My dear sir,” said Huish, smiling, “you do not understand me. I am afraid I am ill.”

      “Ill? You? Ill?” said the doctor, jumping up and laying his hands on the young man’s shoulders as he gazed into his frank, earnest eyes. “Get up, Jack. You were almost my first baby, and I was very proud of you. Finest built little fellow I ever saw. There, put out your tongue”—he was obeyed—“let’s feel your pulse”—this was done—“here, let me listen at your chest. Pull a long, deep breath;” and the doctor listened, made him pull off his coat and clapped his ear to his back, rumpled his shirt-front as he tapped and punched him all over, concluding by giving the visitor a back-handed slap in the chest, and resuming his seat, exclaiming:

      “Why, you young humbug, what do you mean by coming here with such a cock-and-bull story? Your physique is perfect. You are as sound as a bell. You are somewhere about thirty years old, and you are a deuced good-looking young fellow. What do you want?”

      “You take my breath away, doctor,” said the young man, smiling. “I want to explain.”

      “Explain away, then, my dear boy; but, for goodness’ sake, don’t be such an ass as to think the first time you are a bit bilious, or hipped, or melancholy, that you are ill. Oh, by the way, while I think of it, I had a letter from your people yesterday. They want me to have a run down to Shropshire.”

      “Why not go?”

      “Again? I can’t. Fifty people want me, and they would swear to a man if I went away that I was indirectly murdering them. But come, I keep on chattering. Now then, I say, what’s the matter? In love?”

      The colour deepened a little on the white forehead, and the visitor replied quietly:

      “I should not consult a physician for that ailment. The fact is, that for some while past I have felt as if my memory were going.”

      “Tut! nonsense!”

      “At times it seems as if a perfect cloud were drawn between the present and the past. I can’t account for it—I do not understand it; but things I have done one week are totally forgotten by me the next.”

      “If they are bad things, so much the better.”

      “You treat it very lightly, sir, but it troubles me a great deal.”

      “My dear boy, I would not treat it lightly if I thought there was anything in it; but you do not and never have displayed a symptom of brain disease, neither have your father and mother before you. You are not dissipated.”

      “Oh no! I never—”

      “You may spare yourself the trouble of talking, John, my boy. I could tell in a moment if you had a bit of vice in you, and I know you have not. But come, my lad: to be serious, what has put this crotchet into your head?”

      “Crotchet or no,” said the young man sadly, “I have for months past been tormented with fears that I have something wrong in the head—incipient insanity, or idiocy, if you like to call it so.”

      “I don’t like to call it anything of the kind, John Huish,” said the doctor tartly, “because it’s all nonsense. I have not studied insanity for the last five-and-twenty years without knowing something about it; so you may dismiss that idea from your mind. But come, let’s know something more about this terrible bugbear.”

      “Bugbear if you like, doctor, but here is the case. Every now and then I have people—friends, acquaintances—reminding me of things I have promised—engagements I have made—and which I have not kept.”

      “What sort of engagements?” said the doctor.

      “Well, generally about little bets, or games at cards.”

      “That you owe money on?”

      “Yes,” said Huish eagerly. “I have again and again been asked for money that I owe.”

      “Or are said to owe,” said the doctor drily.

      “Oh, there is no doubt about it,” said Huish. “About a twelvemonth ago, when this sort of thing began—”

      “What sort of thing?” said the doctor.

      “These lapses of memory,” replied Huish. “Oh!”

      “I used to be annoyed, and denied them, till I began to be scouted by the men I knew; and at last one or two of them brought unimpeachable witnesses to prove that I was in the wrong.”

      “Oh, John Huish, my dear boy, how can you let yourself be imposed upon so easily!”

      “There is no imposition, I assure you. I give you the facts.”

      “Facts! Did you ever know anyone come and tell you that he owed you money, and pay you?”

      “Yes, half a dozen times over—heavier amounts than I have had to pay.”

      “Humph! that’s strange,” said the doctor, looking curiously at his visitor.

      “Strange?—it’s fearful!” cried the young man passionately. “It is getting to be a curse to me, and I cannot shake off the horrible feeling that I am losing

Скачать книгу