Читать книгу The Case of Mrs. Ruhmkorff's Will - Percy Andreae - Страница 4

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It was late one hot afternoon towards the middle of June when the matron, calling me into her sanctum at Guy's, placed the following telegram in my hands:—

"To the Matron, Guy's Hospital, London.

"Send immediately bright and capable nurse to Mrs. Francis Cunninghame, Glen Elc, Scadbury. Case of melancholia. Patient a gentleman. Wire time of arrival to Glen Elc, and carriage will be in waiting at Scadbury Junction. Urgent.

"DOCTOR JOSEPH CRACKENTHORPE."

"It is not your turn to go out, Nurse Forsyth," the matron remarked, when I had perused the message, "but you are at present the only one of the available staff who is suited for the case. There is a train to Scadbury at 7.45 p.m. Of course, you are not obliged to go, if you prefer not."

The last words had reference to the fact that I had but barely returned to the hospital from nursing a case of typhoid, and could by the rules of the establishment have claimed exemption from outside duties for a certain period.

But I loved my profession, and feeling no need of rest, I immediately signified my readiness to take charge of the case in question.

A nurse's life is a singular alternation of novelty and monotony. An hour after my interview with the matron I was seated in a cab en route for Liverpool-street station, and within another hour I had alighted at the small country platform dignified by the name of 'Scadbury Junction.' I was just enlisting the services of a porter to convey my trunk outside the station, where I expected to find the conveyance promised in the telegram, when a man in the livery of a footman stepped up to me.

"Leave that to me, miss," he said touching his hat. "The brougham is waiting at the gate. Just step in, and I'll attend to the trunk."

"You are from Glen Elc, I suppose?" I said, handing him my portmanteau and a small satchel which I had on my arm.

"Yes, miss," he answered. "From Mrs. Cunninghame's."

And having aided the porter to raise my trunk to his shoulder, he led the way to the station exit, where a handsome brougham drawn by a pair of well-groomed bays stood in waiting.

"How far is the drive to Glen Elc?" I asked, as it entered the carriage.

"About half-an-hour, miss," the footman said, pulling up the window on one side, and closing the carriage door. "It's likely to be a wet one, too, for there's a storm coming. The trunk is all you've got, I suppose, miss?"

"That is all, thank you," I said.

He climbed up to his seat, the coachman whipped up his horses, and we drove off at a rapid pace along a country road leading, as I supposed, to the village or townlet of Scadbury.

Owing to the thick thunderclouds that had meanwhile gathered overhead, it was too dark at that hour for me to distinguish much of the surroundings through which we passed. Only at intervals a vivid flash of lightning illumined for a moment the more immediate landscape, showing me that the road we were driving along was bounded on one side by a high hedge, beyond which one caught an occasional glimpse of meadows and trees, and on the other by a large green expanse like a common, which was dotted here and there with low shrubs, and looked through the rain that now peltered down in torrents very gloomy and desolate. But I saw no sign of a town or village. Apparently Glen Elc was a country residence in the full sense of the term.

The drive seemed to me interminable. Gradually, however, the horses fell into a slower pace, which presently changed from a trot to a walk, and I felt by the sloping position of the carriage that we were ascending a hill. Of a sudden we stopped. I heard footsteps on a gravel path, then the swinging of a gate, and a moment later we turned into what appeared to be the entrance to some private grounds.

We were at our destination at last, I thought to myself, with a sigh of relief. I peered through the carriage window, and saw lights twinkling in the distance. The storm had now burst in its full fury, and the noise of the thunder was so continuous that it drowned every other sound—even that of the rain which dashed against the carriage windows with a force that was apparent enough to the eye, though, as I have said, I could hear nothing but the crashing explosions overhead.

I am not a believer in omens, but I could not repress a shudder of dismay at the thought of arriving at my journey's end under such tempestuous conditions, and, when the carriage suddenly came to a stop under a kind of portico lighted by a huge lamp encased in red and blue glass, I experienced for the first time a feeling of regret at not having availed myself of my privilege to refuse this case and let one of the other nurses take my place.

With this feeling I alighted and passed into the hall, where a benevolent-looking old butler received me, and, after directing the footman to convey the 'young lady's' luggage to her room, informed me, in a tone of mild reproach, that Mrs. Cunninghame had been anxiously awaiting me for the last half-hour.

The house, I perceived, was large and old-fashioned, but comfortably and handsomely appointed. The room into which the old servitor now proceeded to usher me, leaving me there with the assurance that Mrs. Cunninghame would be downstairs in a few minutes, was a fine specimen of a gentleman's study, panelled in oak, thickly carpeted, with bookshelves all round, and with every indication of comfort and luxury. I had scarcely had time to look round me, however, when the door opened, and a little lady of motherly appearance entered.

As she approached me, an expression of surprise settled on her face, and she eyed me with an air of doubtful scrutiny.

"You are Nurse Forsyth?" she inquired, motioning me to a seat near the lamp. "You must excuse me if I look a little surprised," she added, with a kind, though rather melancholy, smile, "but I scarcely expected anyone quite so young. Pray take off your things. You must have had a very unpleasant drive through this thunderstorm."

I obeyed by divesting myself of my bonnet and dust-cloak. It was not the first time that my youth had been objected to; and although such objections are not of the pleasantest, there was something so distinguished and winning about this little lady that I took it as a compliment rather than otherwise.

"I desire to have a few words with you before I take you to my son," she continued when I had resumed my seat. "I presume Dr. Crackenthorpe has given you his instructions in a general way. But he may have omitted to state that my poor boy is quite unconscious of the gravity of his case, and that it has been thought advisable to keep him in ignorance of it."

I told her that I had so far received no instructions with regard to any patient, but had only been informed that he was suffering from melancholia.

Mrs. Cunninghame shook her head sadly.

"It has been a terrible blow to us," she said. "Three months ago no one dreamed of this dreadful affliction, and even now I cannot bring myself to believe in it. You see, accidents are sometimes so strange, and I have still hopes that our sombre conclusions regarding the cause of Clive's injury may prove to be erroneous."

This was the first intimation I had received that my prospective patient was suffering from an injury—a broken leg, in fact, as Mrs. Cunninghame proceeded to inform me—and I was naturally not a little anxious to ascertain what connection existed between his physical disablement and the melancholy condition into which he had lapsed.

The tears started into the poor lady's eyes as she answered my inquiry.

"We have every reason to fear that poor Clive broke his leg while attempting to destroy himself. Of course it may all have been an accident, and, as I have said, I still trust it may prove so. But," she added in a low, awed tone, "about a month ago he narrowly escaped shooting himself with a pistol. The wound he received, though fortunately slight, was of such a nature that in the doctor's opinion it could only have been inflicted with deliberate intent. It was on that occasion that we learned of a previous attempt of the poor boy to throw himself down a well in the grounds. The under-gardener, who happened most providentially to be at work near the spot, and who grappled with Clive at the critical moment, came forwards afterwards and related what had occurred."

I confess I felt not a little disturbed at these revelations. Under the circumstances, Mr. Clive Cunninghame appeared to be in far greater need of a male keeper than a female sick-nurse.

"Do you attribute your son's unhappy frame of mind to any known cause?" I asked.

Mrs. Cunninghame hesitated before she replied.

"We have our fears," she said evasively; "but we know nothing positively. I have merely entered into these details, nurse, to put you on your guard," she added. "My son has been given to understand that it is merely the condition of his injured limb which renders the presence of a skilled nurse in the house necessary. Nor does anyone else divine the real reason of your coming. You will understand that the nature of Mr. Cunninghame's affliction makes it desirable to avoid anything like publicity. Dr. Crackenthorpe is an old family friend, and I can rely upon him implicitly. Beyond him, however, and one other, no living soul knows the sad truth. Even our household has no inkling of the real state of affairs. If, as I fervently hope and pray, this dark cloud should once be removed from my poor boy's spirit, I desire that the knowledge of its ever having hung over him shall be limited to those only who are nearest and dearest to him."

She spoke so simply that I felt quite affected. Notwithstanding, I registered a mental vow to communicate at once the following morning with the hospital authorities, and request my immediate recall from the case, as I felt it was not one for which I was fitted either physically or otherwise.

"If you will come with me," Mrs. Cunninghame now said, rising, "I will introduce you to your patient."

She passed out of the study, and, conducting me across the hall, stopped in front of a door opposite the room we had left.

"My son's room is next to this one," she said in a whisper, pointing to another door a little further off; "but we pass in and out of it through the adjoining room, which I have had prepared for you. Until now some one has always sat there to be at hand in case of any new misfortune."

Indeed, when we entered I found that it was occupied by the old butler who had received me. He rose when he saw us, and retired upon a signal from Mrs. Cunninghame. From this room a door, partly open, led into another apartment, which we now entered. It had evidently been a reception-room, and was only temporarily fitted up as a sick-chamber. A reading-lamp stood upon a small table in the centre of the room, shedding a strong light on a couch immediately beside it, but so shaded that the rest of the apartment was only dimly lighted. The figure lying on the couch was that of a young man of about 26, who bore a striking resemblance to Mrs. Cunninghame herself. He was apparently deeply absorbed in the book he held before him, for he did not raise his eyes from it until Mrs. Cunninghame stood beside his couch. When he looked up I noticed that he had a singularly handsome face, and a pair of bright, blue-gray eyes, in whose expression there was something fearless and straightforward, which impressed me very agreeably.

"This is Nurse Forsyth, dear," Mrs. Cunninghame said, placing her hand caressingly upon his head.

"I'm sure I am extremely pleased to make the acquaintance of Nurse Forsyth, mother," he answered in a grave tone, which seemed to me to have a tinge of raillery about it. Then, with great deliberation, he laid down his book, reached over to the lamp on the table, turned the shade in such a manner as to throw the light full upon my face, and said: "You won't object to my having a good look at you, nurse? It naturally interests a fellow to see what kind of a tyrant he is going to knuckle under to."

If his tone before had appeared to me one of raillery, the bright, almost jocular manner in which he now spoke was so unmistakable that I looked fairly surprised. Before I could find a suitable reply, however, Mr. Clive Cunninghame suddenly raised himself on his couch, gazed at me with a comical expression of incredulity, then sank back again into his former recumbent position, and, turning to his mother, emitted a low whistle expressive of intense surprise.

"By Jove!" he ejaculated under his breath.

The words were no doubt not intended to reach my ears. They did reach them, however, and caused a temporary blush to mount to my cheeks. Probably Mr. Cunninghame noticed it, for I saw a smile of amusement pass over his features, and he lay there for a moment surveying me with an air of quiet satisfaction.

"Thank you, nurse," he then remarked, in the coolest fashion imaginable. "I'm perfectly satisfied. If we don't get along together very well, I bet it won't be my fault."

The whole situation, after all I had heard of the sad mental condition of my prospective charge, struck me as so ludicrous that I felt for a moment an irrepressible desire to laugh. The very idea of this athletic young gentleman of twenty-six suffering from melancholia seemed to me absurd. Certainly his whole appearance and bearing would have led one to believe him capable of any kind of mischief rather than that of destroying his own existence. Yet the fact remained that the doctor had distinctly stated the case to be one of melancholia; and though I had my grave doubts as to the dreadful conclusions mentioned to me by his mother, it could not be denied that they tallied with, and to a certain extent corroborated, Dr. Crackenthorpe's statement.

Mrs. Cunninghame was regarding her son all this while with an air of anxious solicitude, which I observed she was at pains to conceal from him; for the moment he turned his eyes in her direction her face brightened into a forced smile, and, smoothing his pillow, she said:

"We have not come to have a long conversation with you, dear boy. It is past 10 o'clock, and high time for invalids like you to be asleep. Let nurse make you comfortable for the night, and don't do any more reading this evening."

I fancy he saw me steal an inquisitive glance at the book which lay upon his coverlet, for he gave me a whimsical look, and remarked that his mother always interfered with his studies in this manner.

"I've been accustomed to do a good deal of hard reading, nurse," he said, with great solemnness, "and mother thinks it affects any constitution. But a fellow can't expect to get along in these times without a considerable dash of hard work. Besides, when the habit of study is born in you, there's no struggling against it."

I acquiesced with some remark about the desirability of doing all things in moderation, and, following Mrs. Cunninghame's hint, set about arranging my patient's bed and preparing the room generally for the night. I thought his allusion to his studious habits somewhat self-satisfied and vainglorious, until I happened to remove the book he had been so deeply absorbed in, and in doing so caught a glimpse of its title. It was one of Clark Russell's thrilling sea stories—scarcely the kind of book one would think of in connection with the term 'hard reading.'

"Either," I reflected to myself, "Mr. Clive Cunninghame is a most impudent fraud and a sham, or those about him are labouring under some strange misapprehension as to the real nature of his illness." That he had a broken leg, of this, as I soon convinced myself, there could be no doubt; but a person, I reasoned, may come by a broken leg without necessarily suffering from melancholia.

When I had accomplished all I could do for my patient that evening, Mrs. Cunninghame bade her son good-night, and having conducted me back to the room apportioned to me, left me to make my own arrangements for the night.

It was some time, however, before I could settle to rest. I recapitulated to myself again and again the strange story of Clive Cunninghame's doings as related to me by his mother, and endeavoured to reconcile it with the scene I had just witnessed; but the more I thought about it the more incomprehensible it seemed to me. At last I fell into a troubled slumber, and dreamed a heap of nonsensical things, in which Mrs. Cunninghame and her son and the old butler who had received me all played the part of suicides, whilst I and Dr. Crackenthorpe, who appeared in my dreams as a thin and bent old gentleman with the air of an Oriental magician, were continually occupied in bringing them back to life again by some strange process of sorcery, the secret of which, though exceedingly simple, passed entirely from my memory the moment I awoke.