Looking back on events by the light of experience
I perceive clearly that the thunder-cloud which
burst on me and on those who were dear to me had
not gathered unseen. It is true that it had rolled up
swiftly; that the premonitory mutterings, now so
distinct but then so faint and insignificant, gave but a brief
warning. But that was of little consequence, since
whatever warnings there were passed unheeded, as
warnings commonly do, being susceptible of
interpretation only by means of the subsequent events which
they foreshadowed.
The opening scene of the tragedy—if I had but
realized it—was the arrival of the Reverend Amos
Monkhouse from his far-away Yorkshire parish at the house
of his brother Harold. I happened to be there at the
time; and though it was not my concern, since Harold
had a secretary, I received the clergyman when he was
announced. We knew one another well enough by
name though we had never met, and it was with some
interest and curiosity that I looked at the keen-faced,
sturdy, energetic-looking parson and contrasted him
with his physically frail and rather characterless
brother. He looked at me, too, curiously and with a
certain appearance of surprise, which did not diminish
when I told him who I was.
“Ha!” said he, “yes. Mr. Mayfield. I am glad to
have the opportunity of making your acquaintance. I
have heard a good deal about you from Harold and
Barbara. Now I can fit you with a visible personality.
By the way, the maid tells me that Barbara is not at
home.”
“No, she is away on her travels in Kent.”
“In Kent!” he repeated, raising his eyebrows.
“Yes, on one of her political expeditions; organizing
some sort of women’s emancipation movement. I
daresay you have heard about it.”
He nodded a little impatiently. “Yes. Then I
assume that Harold is not so ill as I had supposed?”
I was inclined to be evasive; for, to be quite candid,
I had thought more than once that Barbara might
properly have given a little less attention to her
political hobbies and a little more to her sick husband.
So I replied cautiously:
“I really don’t quite know what his condition is.
You see, when a man has chronically bad health, one
rather loses count. Harold has his ups and downs, but
he always looks pretty poorly. Just now, I should say
he is rather below his average.”
“Ha! Well, perhaps I had better go up and have a
look at him. The maid has told him that I am here.
I wonder if you would be so kind as to show me the
way to his room. I have not been in this house
before.”
I conducted him up to the door of the bedroom and
then returned to the library to wait for him and hear
what he thought of the invalid. And now that the
question had been raised, I was not without a certain
uneasiness. What I had said was true enough. When
a man is always ailing one gets to take his ill-health
for granted and to assume that it will go on without
any significant change. One repeats the old saying of
“the creaking gate” and perhaps makes unduly light
of habitual illness. Might it be that Harold was being
a little neglected? He had certainly looked bad enough
when I had called on him that morning. Was it
possible that he was really seriously ill? Perhaps in actual
danger?
I had just asked myself this question when the door
was opened abruptly and the clergyman strode into the
room. Something in his expression—a mingling, as it
seemed, of anger and alarm—rather startled me;
nevertheless I asked him calmly enough how he found
his brother. He stared at me, almost menacingly, for
a second or two; then slowly and with harsh emphasis
he replied: “I am shocked at the change in him. I am
horrified. Why, good God, Sir! the man is dying!”
“I think that can hardly be,” I objected. “The
doctor saw him this morning and did not hint at anything
of the sort. He thought he was not very well but he
made no suggestion as to there being any danger.”
“How long has the doctor been attending him?”
“For something like twenty years, I believe; so by
this time he ought to understand the patient’s—”
“Tut-tut,” the parson interrupted, impatiently,
“what did you say yourself but a few minutes ago?
One loses count of the chronic invalid. He exhausts
our attention until, at last, we fail to observe the
obvious. What is wanted is a fresh eye. Can you give
me the doctor’s address? Because, if you can, I will
call on him and arrange a consultation. I told Harold
that I wanted a second opinion and he made no
objection; in fact he seemed rather relieved. If we get
a really first-class physician, we may save him yet.”
“I think you are taking an unduly gloomy view of
Harold’s condition,” said I. “At any rate, I hope so.
But I entirely agree with you as to the advisability
of having further advice. I know where Dr. Dimsdale
lives so if you like I will walk round with you.”
He accepted my offer gladly and we set forth at once,
walking briskly along the streets, each of us wrapped
in thought and neither speaking for some time.
Presently I ventured to remark:
“Strictly, I suppose, we ought to have consulted
Barbara before seeking another opinion.”
“I don’t see why,” he replied. “Harold is a
responsible person and has given his free consent. If
Barbara is so little concerned about him as to go away
from home—and for such a trumpery reason, too—I
don’t see that we need consider her. Still, as a matter
of common civility, I might as well send her a line.
What is her present address?”
“Do you know,” I said, shamefacedly, “I am afraid
I can’t tell you exactly where she is at the moment.
Her permanent address, when she is away on these
expeditions, is the head-quarters of the Women’s
Friendship League at Maidstone.”
He stopped for a moment and glowered at me with
an expression of sheer amazement. “Do you mean to
tell me,” he exclaimed, “that she has gone away,
leaving her husband in this condition, and that she is not
even within reach of a telegram?”
“I have no doubt that a telegram or letter would
be forwarded to her.”
He emitted an angry snort and then demanded:
“How long has she been away?”
“About a fortnight,” I admitted, reluctantly.
“A fortnight!” he repeated in angry astonishment.
“And all that time beyond reach of communication!
Why the man might have been dead and buried and
she none the wiser!”
“He was much better when she went away,” I said,
anxious to make the best of what I felt to be a rather
bad case. “In fact, he seemed to be getting on quite
nicely. It is only during the last few days that he
has got this set-back. Of course, Barbara is kept
informed as to his condition. Madeline sends her a
letter every few days.”
“But, my dear Mr. Mayfield,” he expostulated, “just
consider the state of affairs in this amazing household.
I came to see my brother, expecting—from the brief
letter that I had from him—to find him seriously ill.
And I do find him seriously ill; dangerously ill, I
should say. And what sort of care is being taken of
him? His wife is away from home, amusing herself
with her platform fooleries, and has left no practicable
address. His secretary, or whatever you call him,
Wallingford, is not at home. Madeline is, of course,
occupied in her work at the school. Actually, the only
person in the house besides the servants is yourself—a
friend of the family but not a member of the
household at all. You must admit that it is a most
astonishing and scandalous state of affairs.”
I was saved from the necessity of answering this
rather awkward question by our arrival at Dr.
Dimsdale’s house; and, as it fortunately happened that the
doctor was at home and disengaged, we were shown
almost at once into his consulting room.
I knew Dr. Dimsdale quite well and rather liked
him though I was not deeply impressed by his abilities.
However, his professional skill was really no concern
of mine, and his social qualities were unexceptionable.
In appearance and manner he had always seemed to me
the very type of a high-class general practitioner, and
so he impressed me once more as we were ushered into
his sanctum. He shook hands with me genially, and
as I introduced the Reverend Amos looked at him with
a politely questioning expression. But the clergyman
lost no time in making clear the purpose of his visit;
in fact he came to the point with almost brutal
abruptness.
“I have just seen my brother for the first time for
several months and I am profoundly shocked at his
appearance. I expected to find him ill, but I did not
understand that he was so ill as I find him.”
“No,” Dr. Dimsdale agreed, gravely, “I suppose not.
You have caught him at a rather unfortunate time. He
is certainly not so well to-day.”
“Well!” exclaimed Amos. “To me he has the look
of a dying man. May I ask what, exactly, is the matter
with him?”
The doctor heaved a patient sigh and put his
fingertips together.
“The word ‘exactly,’ ” he replied, with a faint smile,
“makes your question a little difficult to answer. There
are so many things the matter with him. For the last
twenty years, on and off, I have attended him, and
during the whole of that time his health has been
unsatisfactory—most unsatisfactory. His digestion has
always been defective, his circulation feeble, he has
had functional trouble with his heart, and throughout
the winter months, more or less continuous respiratory
troubles—nasal and pulmonary catarrh and sometimes
rather severe bronchitis.”
The Reverend Amos nodded impatiently. “Quite so,
quite so. But, to come from the past to the present,
what is the matter with him now?”
“That,” the doctor replied suavely, “is what I was
coming to. I mentioned the antecedents to account for
the consequents. The complaints from which your
brother has suffered in the past have been what are
called functional complaints. But functional disease—if
there really is such a thing—must, in the end, if it
goes on long enough, develop into organic disease. Its
effects are cumulative. Each slight illness leaves the
bodily organs a little less fit.”
“Yes?”
“Well, that is, I fear, what is happening in your
brother’s case. The functional illnesses of the past
are tending to take on an organic character.”
“Ha!” snorted the Reverend Amos. “But what is
his actual condition now? To put it bluntly, supposing
he were to die to-night, what would you write on the
death certificate?”
“Dear me!” said the doctor. “That is putting it
very bluntly. I hope the occasion will not arise.”
“Still, I suppose you don’t regard his death as an
impossible contingency?”
“Oh, by no means. Chronic illness confers no
immortality, as I have just been pointing out.”
“Then, supposing his death to occur, what would you
state to be the cause?”
Dr. Dimsdale’s habitual suavity showed a trace of
diminution as he replied: “You are asking a very
unusual and hardly admissible question, Mr. Monkhouse.
However, I may say that if your brother were to die
to-night he would die from some definite cause, which
would be duly set forth in the certificate. As he is
suffering from chronic gastritis, chronic bronchial
catarrh, functional disorder of the heart and several
other morbid conditions, these would be added as
contributory causes. But may I ask what is the object
of these very pointed questions?”
“My object,” replied Amos, “was to ascertain
whether the circumstances justified a consultation. It
seems to me that they do. I am extremely disturbed
about my brother. Would you have any objection to
meeting a consultant?”
“But not in the least. On the contrary, I should be
very glad to talk over this rather indefinite case with
an experienced physician who would come to it with a
fresh eye. Of course, the patient’s consent would be
necessary.”
“He has consented, and he agreed to the consultant
whom I proposed—Sir Robert Detling—if you
concurred.”
“I do certainly. I could suggest no better man.
Shall I arrange with him or will you?”
“Perhaps I had better,” the parson replied, “as I
know him fairly well. We were of the same year at
Cambridge. I shall go straight on to him now and will
let you know at once what arrangement he proposes.”
“Excellent,” said the doctor, rising with all his
suavity restored. “I shall keep to-morrow as free as I
can until I hear from you, and I hope he will be able
to manage it so soon. I shall be glad to hear what he
thinks of our patient, and I trust that the consultation
may be helpful in the way of treatment.”
He shook our hands heartily and conducted us to
the street door, whence he launched us safely into the
street.
“That is a very suave gentleman,” Amos remarked
as we turned away. “Quite reasonable, too; but you
see for yourself that he has no real knowledge of the
case. He couldn’t give the illness an intelligible
name.”
“It seemed to me that he gave it a good many names,
and it may well be that it is no more than he seems to
think; a sort of collective illness, the resultant of the
various complaints that he mentioned. However, we
shall know more when Sir Robert has seen him; and
meanwhile, I wouldn’t worry too much about the
apparent neglect. Your brother, unlike most chronic
invalids, doesn’t hanker for attention. He has all he
wants and he likes to be left alone with his books.
Shall you see him again to-day?”
“Assuredly. As soon as I have arranged matters
with Detling I shall let Dr. Dimsdale know what we
have settled and I shall then go back and spend the
evening with my brother. Perhaps I shall see you
to-morrow?”
“No. I have to run down to Bury St. Edmunds
to-morrow morning and I shall probably be there three
or four days. But I should very much like to hear
what happens at the consultation. Could you send me
a few lines? I shall be staying at the Angel.”
“I will certainly,” he replied, halting and raising
his umbrella to signal an approaching omnibus. “Just
a short note to let you know what Sir Robert has to
tell us of poor Harold’s condition.”
He waved his hand, and stepping off the kerb,
hopped on to the foot-board of the omnibus as it slowed
down, and vanished into the interior. I stood for a few
moments watching the receding vehicle, half inclined
to go back and take another look at the sick man; but
reflecting that his brother would be presently returning,
I abandoned the idea and made my way instead to the
Underground Railway station and there took a ticket
for the Temple.
There is something markedly infectious in states of
mind. Hitherto I had given comparatively little
attention to Harold Monkhouse. He was a more or less
chronic invalid, suffering now from one complaint and
now from another, and evidently a source of no
particular anxiety either to his friends or to his doctor.
He was always pallid and sickly-looking, and if, on
this particular morning, he had seemed to look more
haggard and ghastly than usual, I had merely noted
that he was “not so well to-day.”
But the appearance on the scene of the Reverend
Amos had put a rather different complexion on the
affair. His visit to his brother had resulted in a severe
shock, which he had passed on to me; and I had to
admit that our interview with Dr. Dimsdale had not
been reassuring. For the fact which had emerged
from it was that the doctor could not give the disease
a name.
It was very disquieting. Supposing it should turn
out that Harold was suffering from some grave, even
some mortal disease, which ought to have been detected
and dealt with months ago. How should we all feel?
How, in particular, would Barbara feel about the
easygoing way in which the illness had been allowed to
drift on? It was an uncomfortable thought; and
though Harold Monkhouse was really no concern of
mine, excepting that he was Barbara’s husband, it
continued to haunt me as I sat in the rumbling train and
as I walked up from the Temple station to my
chambers in Fig Tree Court.
