In White Raiment Read online

Mrs Bishop," I answered as carelessly as Icould. "And I'm confoundedly hungry and tired. Get me a cup of tea anda chop, there's a good woman." And I ascended to Bob's cosy little denfrom which I had been so suddenly called seven days before.

  So Mrs Bishop had written to Bob, and no doubt he would be verysurprised that I had disappeared and left the practice to take care ofitself. He would certainly consider that my gratitude took a curiousform. Therefore, I decided to send him a wire, telling him of my returnand promising explanations later.

  I cast myself wearily into the big leather armchair, and sat plunged inthought until the old housekeeper entered fussily with my tea.

  "Well," I asked, "I suppose there have been no new patients during myabsence?"

  "Oh, yes. One, sir."

  "Who was it?"

  "A lady, sir. She came about noon on the second day of your absence,and said she wished to consult you. I told her that you'd been calledout two days ago, and that you had not returned. She asked when you'dbe in, and I said I didn't know for certain. So she called again later,and seemed very disappointed and anxious. She came next day; but as youwere still absent, she left her card. Here it is." And Mrs Bishoptook a card from the tray on a side-table and handed it to me. Upon itwas the name, "Lady Pierrepoint-Lane."

  "Was she young or old?"

  "Rather young, sir--not more than thirty, I think. She was dressed indeep mourning."

  "And you have seen nothing more of her?" I inquired interestedly."There's no address on the card."

  "She came again two days ago, and finding that you had not returned,left this note, telling me to give it to you on arrival." And the womanfumbled behind the mirror on the mantelshelf and handed me a daintynote, the envelope of which bore a neat coat-of-arms.

  The heading was "88, Gloucester Square, Hyde Park," and the brief noteran--

  "Lady Pierrepoint-Lane would esteem it a favour if Dr Colkirk couldmake it convenient to call upon her at his earliest opportunity."

  Curiosity prompted me to turn to Debrett's _Baronetage_, in Raymond'sbookcase, and from it I discovered that her ladyship was the wife of SirHenry Pierrepoint-Lane, Bart., a wealthy landowner and the patron ofseveral livings in Yorkshire and Shropshire whose principal seat wasAtworth, in Wiltshire. His wife was the eldest daughter of General SirCharles Naylon, late of the Indian army.

  Having re-read the short paragraph in the _Baronetage_, which gave afacsimile of the coat-of-arms upon the envelope, I sipped my tea andthen wrote a short note regretting my absence from home, and stating myintention to call upon the following morning at eleven o'clock. This Idispatched by boy-messenger.

  Hence it was that next morning, when I passed down Stanhope Street andturned into Gloucester Gardens, I felt in no mood to humour andsympathise with the whims and imaginary maladies of a fashionablepatient.

  With a feeling of irritation and low spirits, I mounted the steps of thehouse in Gloucester Square and inquired for my new patient.

  I was ushered into a pretty morning-room, and shortly afterwards thereentered a slim, youngish-looking woman, not exactly handsome, but ofrefined appearance, dark, with hair well coiled by an expert maid, andwearing a simple dress of pearl-grey cashmere, which clung about herform and showed it to distinct advantage. Before she had greeted me Isaw that she was a type subject to nerve-storms, perhaps with a cravingfor stimulants after the reaction.

  "Good morning, Doctor," she exclaimed, crossing the room and greeting mepleasantly. "I received your note last night. You were absent eachtime I called."

  "Yes," I responded. "I was called out to an urgent case, and compelledto remain."

  "Does that happen often in your profession?" she asked, sinking into achair opposite me. "If it does, I fear that doctors' wives must have anuncomfortable time. Your housekeeper was quite concerned about you."

  "But when one is a bachelor, as I am, absence is not of any greatmoment," I laughed.

  At that moment her dark, brilliant eyes met mine, and I fancied Idetected a strange look in them.

  "Well," she said with some hesitation, "I am very glad you have come atlast, Doctor, for I want to consult you upon a secret and very seriousmatter concerning myself, and to obtain your opinion."

  "I shall be most happy to give you whatever advice lies in my power," Iresponded, assuming an air of professional gravity, and preparing myselfto listen to her symptoms. "What is the nature of your ailment?" Iinquired.

  "Well," she answered, "I can scarcely describe it: I seem in perpetuallylow spirits, although I have no cause whatever to be sad, and, further,there is a matter which troubles me exceedingly. I hardly like toconfess it, but of late I have developed a terrible craving forstimulants."

  I put to her a number of questions which it is unnecessary here torecount, and found her exactly as I had supposed--a bundle of nerves.

  "But this unaccountable craving for stimulants is most remarkable," shewent on. "I am naturally a most temperate woman, but nowadays I feelthat I cannot live without having recourse to brandy or some otherspirit."

  "Sometimes you feel quite well and strong, then suddenly you experiencea sensation of being extremely ill?" I suggested.

  "Exactly. How do you account for it?"

  "The feeling of strength and vigour is not necessarily the outcome ofactual strength, any more than is the feeling of weakness the necessaryoutcome of actual weakness," I responded. "A person may be weak to adegree, and the sands of life be almost run out, and yet feeloverwhelmingly strong and exuberantly happy, and, on the other hand,when in sound and vigorous health, he may feel exhausted and depressed.Feelings, especially so with women of the better class, rise into beingin connexion with the nervous system. Whether a person feels well orill depends upon the structure of his nervous system and the way inwhich it is played upon, for, like a musical instrument, it may be madeto give forth gay music or sad."

  "But is not my case remarkable?" she asked.

  "Not at all," I responded.

  "Then you think that you can treat me, and prevent me from becoming adipsomaniac?" she said eagerly.

  "Certainly," I replied. "I have no doubt that this craving can beremoved by proper treatment. I will write you a prescription."

  "Ah?" she exclaimed, with a sigh. "You doctors, with your serums andthe like, can nowadays inoculate against almost every disease. Wouldthat you could give us women an immune from that deadly ailment socommon among my sex, and so very often fatal."

  "What ailment?" I asked, rather surprised at her sudden and impetuousspeech.

  "That of love!" she responded in a low, strained voice--the voice of awoman desperate.

  CHAPTER EIGHT.

  WHAT HAPPENED TO ME.

  "Do you consider love an ailment?" I asked, looking at her in quicksurprise.

  "In many cases," she responded in a serious tone. "I fear I am noexception to the general rule," she added meaningly.

  Those words amounted to the admission that she had a lover, and Iregarded her with considerable astonishment. She was a smart woman. Icould only suppose that she and her husband were an ill-assorted pair.Possibly she had married for money, and was now filled with regret, as,alas! is so frequently the case.

  "You appear unhappy," I observed in a sympathetic tone, for my curiosityhad been aroused by her words.

  "Yes, Doctor," she answered in a low, intense voice, toying nervouslywith her fine rings. "To tell the truth, I am most unhappy. I havecome up to town to consult you, unknown to my husband, for I have heardthat you make the treatment of nervous disorders your speciality."

  "And by whom was I recommended to you?" I inquired, somewhat interestedin this new and entirely undeserved fame which I had apparentlyachieved.

  "By an old patient of yours--a lady whom I met at a house-party a monthago, in Yorkshire."

  "But I understood that you were consulting me regarding your craving forstimulants," I said, as her dark, serious eyes met mine again.

  She was a d
ecidedly attractive woman, with the easy air and manner ofone brought up in good society.

  "The craving for drink is the least dangerous of my ailments," sheresponded. "It is the craving for love which is driving me to despair."

  I remained silent for a moment, my eyes fixed upon her.

  "Pardon my remark," I said, at last, in a low tone, "but I gather fromyour words that some man has come between yourself and your husband."

  "Between myself and my husband!" she echoed in surprise. "Why, no,Doctor. You don't understand me. I love my husband, and he has no lovefor me!" Her statement was certainly