The Strand Magazine: Volume VII, Issue 37. January, 1894. - Edited by George Newnes
THE STRAND MAGAZINE
_An Illustrated Monthly_
EDITED BY GEORGE NEWNES
Vol. VII., Issue 37. January, 1894.
* * * * *
_Contents._
Stories from the Diary of a Doctor.
By the Authors of "The Medicine Lady."
VII.--The Horror of Studley Grange.
The Queen of Holland.
By Mary Spencer-Warren.
Zig-Zags at the Zoo.
By A. G. Morrison.
XIX.--Zig-Zag Batrachian.
The Helmet.
From the French of Ferdinand Beissier.
The Music of Nature.
By T. Camden Pratt.
Part II.
Portraits of Celebrities at Different Times of Their Lives.
Sir Henry Loch.
Madame Belle Cole.
The Lord Bishop of Peterborough.
Lord Wantage.
Sir Richard Temple, M.P.
A Terrible New Year's Eve.
By Kathleen Huddleston.
Personal Reminiscences of Sir Andrew Clark.
By E. H. Pitcairn.
Beauties:
XIII.--Children.
The Signatures of Charles Dickens (with Portraits).
By J. Holt Schooling.
The Mirror.
From the French of George Japy.
Handcuffs.
By Inspector Moser.
The Family Name.
From the French of Henri Malin.
The Queer Side of Things--
Among the Freaks.--Major Microbe.
Lamps of all Kinds and Times.
The Two Styles.
* * * * *
_Stories from the Diary of a Doctor._
_By the Authors of "THE MEDICINE LADY."_
VII.--THE HORROR OF STUDLEY GRANGE.
[Illustration: "THE HORROR OF STUDLEY GRANGE."]
I was in my consulting-room one morning, and had just said good-bye to
the last of my patients, when my servant came in and told me that a lady
had called who pressed very earnestly for an interview with me.
"I told her that you were just going out, sir," said the man, "and she
saw the carriage at the door; but she begged to see you, if only for two
minutes. This is her card."
I read the words, "Lady Studley."
"Show her in," I said, hastily, and the next moment a tall,
slightly-made, fair-haired girl entered the room.
She looked very young, scarcely more than twenty, and I could hardly
believe that she was, what her card indicated, a married woman.
The colour rushed into her cheeks as she held out her hand to me. I
motioned her to a chair, and then asked her what I could do for her.
"Oh, you can help me," she said, clasping her hands and speaking in a
slightly theatrical manner. "My husband, Sir Henry Studley, is very
unwell, and I want you to come to see him--can you?--will you?"
"With pleasure," I replied. "Where do you live?"
"At Studley Grange, in Wiltshire. Don't you know our place?"
"I daresay I ought to know it," I replied, "although at the present
moment I can't recall the name. You want me to come to see your husband.
I presume you wish me to have a consultation with his medical
attendant?"
"No, no, not at all. The fact is, Sir Henry has not got a medical
attendant. He dislikes doctors, and won't see one. I want you to come
and stay with us for a week or so. I have heard of you through mutual
friends--the Onslows. I know you can effect remarkable cures, and you
have a great deal of tact. But you can't possibly do anything for my
husband unless you are willing to stay in the house and to notice his
symptoms."
[Illustration: "LADY STUDLEY SPOKE WITH GREAT EMPHASIS."]
Lady Studley spoke with great emphasis and earnestness. Her long,
slender hands were clasped tightly together. She had drawn off her
gloves and was bending forward in her chair. Her big, childish, and
somewhat restless blue eyes were fixed imploringly on my face.
"I love my husband," she said, tears suddenly filling them--"and it is
dreadful, dreadful, to see him suffer as he does. He will die unless
someone comes to his aid. Oh, I know I am asking an immense thing, when
I beg of you to leave all your patients and come to the country. But we
can pay. Money is no object whatever to us. We can, we will, gladly pay
you for your services."
"I must think the matter over," I said. "You flatter me by wishing for
me, and by believing that I can render you assistance, but I cannot take
a step of this kind in a hurry. I will write to you by to-night's post
if you will give me your address. In the meantime, kindly tell me some
of the symptoms of Sir Henry's malady."
"I fear it is a malady of the mind," she answered immediately, "but it
is of so vivid and so startling a character, that unless relief is soon
obtained, the body must give way under the strain. You see that I am
very young, Dr. Halifax. Perhaps I look younger than I am--my age is
twenty-two. My husband is twenty years my senior. He would, however, be
considered by most people still a young man. He is a great scholar, and
has always had more or less the habits of a recluse. He is fond of
living in his library, and likes nothing better than to be surrounded by
books of all sorts. Every modern book worth reading is forwarded to him
by its publisher. He is a very interesting man and a brilliant
conversationalist. Perhaps I ought to put all this in the past tense,
for now he scarcely ever speaks--he reads next to nothing--it is
difficult to persuade him to eat--he will not leave the house--he used
to have a rather ruddy complexion--he is now deadly pale and terribly
emaciated. He sighs in the most heartrending manner, and seems to be in
a state of extreme nervous tension. In short, he is very ill, and yet he
seems to have no bodily disease. His eyes have a terribly startled
expression in them--his hand trembles so that he can scarcely raise a
cup of tea to his lips. In short, he looks like a man who has seen
a ghost."
"When did these symptoms begin to appear?" I asked.
"It is mid-winter now," said Lady Studley. "The queer symptoms began to
show themselves in my husband in October. They have been growing worse
and worse. In short, I can stand them no longer," she continued, giving
way to a short, hysterical sob. "I felt I must come to someone--I have
heard of you. Do, do come and save us. Do come and find out what is the
matter with my wretched husband."
"I will write to you to-night," I said, in as kind a voice as I could
muster, for the pretty, anxious wife interested me already. "It may not
be possible for me to stay at Studley Grange for a week, but in any case
I can promise to come and see the patient. One visit will probably be
sufficient--what your husband wants is, no doubt, complete change."
"Oh, yes, yes," she replied, standing up now. "I have said so scores of
times, but Sir Henry won't stir from Studley--nothing will induce him to
go away. He won't even leave his own special bedroom, although I expect
he has dreadful nights." Two hectic spots burnt in her cheeks as she
spoke. I looked at her attentively.
"You will forgive me for speaking," I said, "but you do not look at all
well yourself. I should like to prescribe for you as well as
your husband."
"Thank you," she answered, "I am not very strong. I never have been, but
that is nothing--I mean that my health is not a thing of consequence at
present. Well, I must not take up any more of your time. I shall expect
to get a letter from you to-morrow morning. Please address it to Lady
Studley, Grosvenor Hotel, Victoria."
She touched my hand with fingers that burnt like a living coal and left
the room.
I thought her very ill, and was sure that if I could see my way to
spending a week at Studley Grange, I should have two patients instead of
one. It is always difficult for a busy doctor to leave home, but after
carefully thinking matters over, I resolved to comply with Lady
Studley's request.
[Illustration: "LADY STUDLEY HAD COME HERSELF TO FETCH ME."]
Accordingly, two days later saw me on my way to Wiltshire, and to
Studley Grange. A brougham with two smart horses was waiting at the
station. To my surprise I saw that Lady Studley had come herself
to fetch me.
"I don't know how to thank you," she said, giving me a feverish clasp of
her hand. "Your visit fills me with hope--I believe that you will
discover what is really wrong. Home!" she said, giving a quick,
imperious direction to the footman who appeared at the window of
the carriage.
We bowled forward at a rapid pace, and she continued:--
"I came to meet you to-day to tell you that I have used a little guile
with regard to your visit. I have not told Sir Henry that you are coming
here in the capacity of a doctor."
Here she paused and gave me one of her restless glances.
"Do you mind?" she asked.
"What have you said about me to Sir Henry?" I inquired.
"That you are a great friend of the Onslows, and that I have asked you
here for a week's change," she answered immediately.
"As a guest, my husband will be polite and delightful to you--as a
doctor, he would treat you with scant civility, and would probably give
you little or none of his confidence."
I was quite silent for a moment after Lady Studley had told me this.
Then I said:--
"Had I known that I was not to come to your house in the capacity of a
medical man, I might have re-considered my earnest desire to help you."
She turned very pale when I said this, and tears filled her eyes.
"Never mind," I said now, for I could not but be touched by her
extremely pathetic and suffering face, by the look of great illness
which was manifested in every glance. "Never mind now; I am glad you
have told me exactly the terms on which you wish me to approach your
husband; but I think that I can so put matters to Sir Henry that he will
be glad to consult me in my medical capacity."
"Oh, but he does not even know that I suspect his illness. It would
never do for him to know. I suspect! I see! I fear! but I say nothing.
Sir Henry would be much more miserable than he is now, if he thought
that I guessed that there is anything wrong with him."
"It is impossible for me to come to the Grange except as a medical man,"
I answered, firmly. "I will tell Sir Henry that you have seen some
changes in him, and have asked me to visit him as a doctor. Please trust
me. Nothing will be said to your husband that can make matters at all
uncomfortable for you."
Lady Studley did not venture any further remonstrance, and we now
approached the old Grange. It was an irregular pile, built evidently
according to the wants of the different families who had lived in it.
The building was long and rambling, with rows of windows filled up with
panes of latticed glass. In front of the house was a sweeping lawn,
which, even at this time of the year, presented a velvety and well-kept
appearance. We drove rapidly round to the entrance door, and a moment
later I found myself in the presence of my host and patient. Sir Henry
Studley was a tall man with a very slight stoop, and an aquiline and
rather noble face. His eyes were dark, and his forehead inclined to be
bald. There was a courtly, old-world sort of look about him. He greeted
me with extreme friendliness, and we went into the hall, a very large
and lofty apartment, to tea.
Lady Studley was vivacious and lively in the extreme. While she talked,
the hectic spots came out again on her cheeks. My uneasiness about her
increased as I noticed these symptoms. I felt certain that she was not
only consumptive, but in all probability she was even now the victim of
an advanced stage of phthisis. I felt far more anxious about her than
about her husband, who appeared to me at that moment to be nothing more
than a somewhat nervous and hypochondriacal person. This state of things
seemed easy to account for in a scholar and a man of sedentary habits.
I remarked about the age of the house, and my host became interested,
and told me one or two stories of the old inhabitants of the Grange. He
said that to-morrow he would have much pleasure in taking me over
the building.
[Illustration: "'HAVE YOU A GHOST HERE?' I ASKED, WITH A LAUGH."]
"Have you a ghost here?" I asked, with a laugh.
I don't know what prompted me to ask the question. The moment I did so,
Sir Henry turned white to his lips, and Lady Studley held up a warning
finger to me to intimate that I was on dangerous ground. I felt that I
was, and hastened to divert the conversation into safer channels.
Inadvertently I had touched on a sore spot. I scarcely regretted having
done so, as the flash in the baronet's troubled eyes, and the extreme
agitation of his face, showed me plainly that Lady Studley was right
when she spoke of his nerves being in a very irritable condition. Of
course, I did not believe in ghosts, and wondered that a man of Sir
Henry's calibre could be at all under the influence of this
old-world fear.
"I am sorry that we have no one to meet you," he said, after a few
remarks of a commonplace character had divided us from the ghost
question. "But to-morrow several friends are coming, and we hope you
will have a pleasant time. Are you fond of hunting?"
I answered that I used to be in the old days, before medicine and
patients occupied all my thoughts.
"If this open weather continues, I can probably give you some of your
favourite pastime," rejoined Sir Henry; "and now perhaps you would like
to be shown to your room."
My bedroom was in a modern wing of the house, and looked as cheerful and
as unghostlike as it was possible for a room to be. I did not rejoin my
host and hostess until dinner-time. We had a sociable little meal, at
which nothing of any importance occurred, and shortly after the servants
withdrew, Lady Studley left Sir Henry and me to ourselves. She gave me
another warning glance as she left the room. I had already quite made up
my mind, however, to tell Sir Henry the motive of my visit.
The moment the door closed behind his wife, he started up and asked me
if I would mind coming with him into his library.
"The fact is." he said, "I am particularly glad you have come down. I
want to have a talk with you about my wife. She is extremely unwell."
I signified my willingness to listen to anything Sir Henry might say,
and in a few minutes we found ourselves comfortably established in a
splendid old room, completely clothed with books from ceiling to floor.
"These are my treasures," said the baronet, waving his hand in the
direction of an old bookcase, which contained, I saw at a glance, some
very rare and precious first editions.
"These are my friends, the companions of my hours of solitude. Now sit
down, Dr. Halifax; make yourself at home. You have come here as a guest,
but I have heard of you before, and am inclined to confide in you. I
must frankly say that I hate your profession as a rule. I don't believe
in the omniscience of medical men, but moments come in the lives of all
men when it is necessary to unburden the mind to another. May I give you
my confidence?"
"One moment first," I said. "I can't deceive you, Sir Henry. I have come
here, not in the capacity of a guest, but as your wife's medical man.
She has been anxious about you, and she begged of me to come and stay
here for a few days in order to render you any medical assistance within
my power. I only knew, on my way here to-day, that she had not
acquainted you with the nature of my visit."
While I was speaking, Sir Henry's face became extremely watchful,
eager, and tense.
"This is remarkable," he said. "So Lucilla is anxious about me? I was
not aware that I ever gave her the least clue to the fact that I am
not--in perfect health. This is very strange--it troubles me."
He looked agitated. He placed one long, thin hand on the little table
which stood near, and pouring out a glass of wine, drank it off. I
noticed as he did so the nervous trembling of his hand. I glanced at his
face, and saw that it was thin to emaciation.
"Well," he said, "I am obliged to you for being perfectly frank with me.
My wife scarcely did well to conceal the object of your visit. But now
that you have come, I shall make use of you both for myself and
for her."
"Then you are not well?" I asked.
"Well!" he answered, with almost a shout. "Good God, no! I think that I
am going mad. I know--I know that unless relief soon comes I shall die
or become a raving maniac."
"No, nothing of the kind," I answered, soothingly; "you probably want
change. This is a fine old house, but dull, no doubt, in winter. Why
don't you go away?--to the Riviera, or some other place where there is
plenty of sunshine? Why do you stay here? The air of this place is too
damp to be good for either you or your wife."
Sir Henry sat silent for a moment, then he said, in a terse voice:--
"Perhaps you will advise me what to do after you know the nature of the
malady which afflicts me. First of all, however, I wish to speak of
my wife."
"I am ready to listen," I replied.
"You see," he continued, "that she is very delicate?"
"Yes," I replied; "to be frank with you, I should say that Lady Studley
was consumptive."
He started when I said this, and pressed his lips firmly together. After
a moment he spoke.
"You are right," he replied. "I had her examined by a medical man--Sir
Joseph Dunbar--when I was last in London; he said her lungs were
considerably affected, and that, in short, she was far from well."
"Did he not order you to winter abroad?"
"He did, but Lady Studley opposed the idea so strenuously that I was
obliged to yield to her entreaties. Consumption does not seem to take
quite the ordinary form with her. She is restless, she longs for cool
air, she goes out on quite cold days, in a closed carriage, it is true.
Still, except at night, she does not regard herself in any sense as an
invalid. She has immense spirit--I think she will keep up until
she dies."
"You speak of her being an invalid at night," I replied. "What are her
symptoms?"
Sir Henry shuddered quite visibly.
"Oh, those awful nights!" he answered. "How happy would many poor mortals
be, but for the terrible time of darkness. Lady Studley has had dreadful
nights for some time: perspirations, cough, restlessness, bad dreams,
and all the rest of it. But I must hasten to tell you my story quite
briefly. In the beginning of October we saw Sir Joseph Dunbar. I should
then, by his advice, have taken Lady Studley to the Riviera, but she
opposed the idea with such passion and distress, that I abandoned it."
Sir Henry paused here, and I looked at him attentively. I remembered at
that moment what Lady Studley had said about her husband refusing to
leave the Grange under any circumstances. What a strange game of
cross-purposes these two were playing. How was it possible for me to get
at the truth?
"At my wife's earnest request," continued Sir Henry, "we returned to the
Grange. She declared her firm intention of remaining here until
she died.
"Soon after our return she suggested that we should occupy separate
rooms at night, reminding me, when she made the request, of the
infectious nature of consumption. I complied with her wish on condition
that I slept in the room next hers, and that on the smallest emergency I
should be summoned to her aid. This arrangement was made, and her room
opens into mine. I have sometimes heard her moving about at night--I
have often heard her cough, and I have often heard her sigh. But she has
never once sent for me, or given me to understand that she required my
aid. She does not think herself very ill, and nothing worries her more
than to have her malady spoken about. That is the part of the story
which relates to my wife."
"She is very ill," I said. "But I will speak of that presently. Now will
you favour me with an account of your own symptoms, Sir Henry?"
[Illustration: "HE LOCKED THE DOOR AND PUT THE KEY IN HIS POCKET."]
He started again when I said this, and going across the room, locked the
door and put the key in his pocket.
"Perhaps you will laugh at me," he said, "but it is no laughing matter,
I assure you. The most terrible, the most awful affliction has come to
me. In short, I am visited nightly by an appalling apparition. You
don't believe in ghosts, I judge that by your face. Few scientific
men do."
"Frankly, I do not," I replied. "So-called ghosts can generally be
accounted for. At the most they are only the figments of an over-excited
or diseased brain."
"Be that as it may," said Sir Henry, "the diseased brain can give such
torture to its victim that death is preferable. All my life I have been
what I consider a healthy minded man. I have plenty of money, and have
never been troubled with the cares which torture men of commerce, or of
small means. When I married, three years ago, I considered myself the
most lucky and the happiest of mortals."
"Forgive a personal question," I interrupted. "Has your marriage
disappointed you?"
"No, no; far from it," he replied with fervour. "I love my dear wife
better and more deeply even than the day when I took her as a bride to
my arms. It is true that I am weighed down with sorrow about her, but
that is entirely owing to the state of her health."
"It is strange," I said, "that she should be weighed down with sorrow
about you for the same cause. Have you told her of the thing which
terrifies you?"
"Never, never. I have never spoken of it to mortal. It is remarkable
that my wife should have told you that I looked like a man who has seen
a ghost. Alas! alas! But let me tell you the cause of my shattered
nerves, my agony, and failing health."
"Pray do, I shall listen attentively," I replied.
"Oh, doctor, that I could make you feel the horror of it!" said Sir
Henry, bending forward and looking into my eyes. "Three months ago I no
more believed in visitations, in apparitions, in so-called ghosts, than
you do. Were you tried as I am, your scepticism would receive a severe
shock. Now let me tell you what occurs. Night after night Lady Studley
and I retire to rest at the same hour. We say good-night, and lay our
heads on our separate pillows. The door of communication between us is
shut. She has a night-light in her room--I prefer darkness. I close my
eyes and prepare for slumber. As a rule I fall asleep. My sleep is of
short duration. I awake with beads of perspiration standing on my
forehead, with my heart thumping heavily and with every nerve wide
awake, and waiting for the horror which will come. Sometimes I wait half
an hour--sometimes longer. Then I know by a faint, ticking sound in the
darkness that the Thing, for I can clothe it with no name, is about to
visit me. In a certain spot of the room, always in the same spot, a
bright light suddenly flashes; out of its midst there gleams a
preternaturally large eye, which looks fixedly at me with a diabolical
expression. As time goes, it does not remain long; but as agony counts,
it seems to take years of my life away with it. It fades as suddenly
into grey mist and nothingness as it comes, and, wet with perspiration,
and struggling to keep back screams of mad terror, I bury my head in the
bed-clothes."
"But have you never tried to investigate this thing?" I said.
"I did at first. The first night I saw it, I rushed out of bed and made
for the spot. It disappeared at once. I struck a light--there was
nothing whatever in the room."
"Why do you sleep in that room?"
"I must not go away from Lady Studley. My terror is that she should know
anything of this--my greater terror is that the apparition, failing me,
may visit her. I daresay you think I'm a fool, Halifax; but the fact is,
this thing is killing me, brave man as I consider myself."
"Do you see it every night?" I asked.
[Illustration: "IT IS THE MOST GHASTLY, THE MOST HORRIBLE FORM OF
TORTURE.]
"Not quite every night, but sometimes on the same night it comes twice.
Sometimes it will not come at all for two nights, or even three. It is
the most ghastly, the most horrible form of torture that could hurry a
sane man into his grave or into a madhouse."
"I have not the least shadow of doubt," I said, after a pause, "that the
thing can be accounted for."
Sir Henry shook his head. "No, no," he replied, "it is either as you
suggest, a figment of my own diseased brain, and therefore just as
horrible as a real apparition; or it is a supernatural visitation.
Whether it exists or not, it is reality to me and in no way a dream. The
full horror of it is present with me in my waking moments."
"Do you think anyone is playing an awful practical joke?" I suggested.
"Certainly not. What object can anyone have in scaring me to death?
Besides, there is no one in the room, that I can swear. My outer door is
locked, Lady Studley's outer door is locked. It is impossible that there
can be any trickery in the matter."
I said nothing for a moment. I no more believed in ghosts than I ever
did, but I felt certain that there was grave mischief at work. Sir Henry
must be the victim of a hallucination. This might only be caused by
functional disturbance of the brain, but it was quite serious enough to
call for immediate attention. The first thing to do was to find out
whether the apparition could be accounted for in any material way, or if
it were due to the state of Sir Henry's nerves. I began to ask him
certain questions, going fully into the case in all its bearings. I then
examined his eyes with the ophthalmoscope. The result of all this was to
assure me beyond doubt that Sir Henry Studley was in a highly nervous
condition, although I could detect no trace of brain disease.