LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXIII, Issue 2377, 15 November 1881, Page 4

LITERATURE.

MY UNFORTUNATE PATIENT. VEOM THE NOTE-BOOK OF A LONDON DOCTOR. [From "Chambers Journal."] Ono brilliant, sunshiny morning In the month of June, I chanced to be passing St. George's, Hanover square I was on my way on foot to Brooke-street, to visit a patient; for I was a young doctor then, just struggling into a fair practice. Perceiving a crowd of persons clustering round the gates of the fashionable church, I paused for an Instant to g»ze, with the rest, at the happy pair, who, just as I reached it, were issuing from its gloomy-looking portals. The bridegroom I rapidly scanned, seeing in him a good-looking young fellow of perhaps seven or eight-and-twenty, with a stalwart wellknit figure, which his closely-fitting frockcoat showed to the greatest advantage. His whole face shone with the most evident pride and happiness, as he led his newlymade wife down to the well-appointed carriage which awaited them. One glance at the adornlngß was enough ; they were forgotten when I beheld the face of the bride—a face lovelier, I thought, than any I had ever before seen. The delicate oval face was slightly pale, and the perfect lips were drawn rather closely together In a scarlet curve, as if some effort had bsen made to retain her self-possession during what I should fancy mo.it women must find a somewhat trying ordeal ; bnt the violet dark-fringed eyes were raised with wonderful calmness as she stood for a moment almost surveying us with an inquiring expression in them, as if marvelling at the curiosity of the bystanders. Certainly, Bhe was fair to look upon } and as they drove off, I could not help thinking him a fortunate man who could call so fair a flower his own. I hurried on, wishing them well, and wondering at the different lots in life—some so rich, so free from care, ao favored by fortune ; others so poor, so worn by sordid anxieties, so pursued by misfortune, A few days afterwards, when my eye caught an announcement in the " Morning Post," I read it, fancying, as the date corresponded, that it must refer to the very wedding I had seen. It ran thus : 'At St George's, Hanover square, on the 10th instant, by the Beverend Martyn Wentworth, rector of Compton Verney, Northamptonshire, Montagu Meredith, Esq., of Monkwell Abbey, to Clarice, only child of the late John Delacour.' Clarioe Meredith! It was a pretty name, I thought, About six months after the foregoing circumstance I was myself married; and if my wife oonld not boast of perfect beauty, she was fair enough in my eyes, and a very happy home she made for me. I had been more than usually occupied one very gloomy day in November, when the densest _of London fogs seemed bent upon penetrating even Into the comfortable bright little drawing-room where my wife and I were seated, hoping most devoutly that no summons might arrive to take me out on such an evening ; when suddenly the bell rang. A carriage had driven np to our door, and I was told that a lady wished to see me on particular business. I immediately descended to my consulting room, on entering which I perceived a lady seated. She half rose at my entrance, bat sank back with an air half languid, half graceful. Then she raised her veil; and I oould scarcely repress an exclamation of surprise when, as she turned her face towards me, I recognised, perhaps lovelier than ever, the bride I had seen at St. George's. 'Mr Darrell ?' she asked, in a sweet silvery voice, with a half inquiring smile. I bowed my affirmative; and she continued—

' I must introduce myself to you, Dootor Barrel). I am Mrs Meredith ; and I have been advwed to come to you and I _ am anxious to have your opinion upon what ia to me a matter of almost life or death.'

Presently Mrs Moredtth explained that it was not of her owa health she wished to apeak, bnt of her husband's. ' Has he been loDg ill ?' I asked. , "Sea,' she replied ; • I think I can almost fix the date when I first became anxious about him. We have been married nearly two years ; but it was only lately that I began to grow uneasy.' ' And what are the symptoms ?' I asked; • what Is supposed to be his complaint ?' ' Ah,' said she, ' that is just what we wish to discover ; and I—oh, doctor !' here she passed a fragile pocket handkerchief over her eyes—' I dare not say what I think. I want him to have the very beat of advice, but ' and again she paused ;' I _ hope you understand that thia interview is in the strictest sense confidential V

I assured her she might roly upon the utmost respect being pild to her confidence, and she continued—- ' He was the best and kindest of husbands for some time. We were so happy—in fact there seemed no shadow—till be got ill. I can't think what bronght it on; but it seemed to change him totally ; not to hi friends merely, but to me, who loved him best. I am terribly anxious—sometimes terribly afraid.' ' Has his physician seen him ?' I asked, growing more interested in my fair visitor. 1 No,' she replied; ' you can readily understand that I shrank from anything like publicity, as I dreaded what he might say was necessary ; and my poor husband has a rooted dislike to him. I want you to see him—to come wholly unbiassed, and, If necessary, to have a consultation with whoever we may agree would be most likely to understand his case.'

She had a habit of not finishing her sentences, leaving me to infer perhaps more than I ought. However, of course I could form no medical opinion of the case until I had seen the patient, though my conclusions from her account pointed naturally towards one direction. She conversed with me for a short time longer, cnce or twice giviDg way to considerable emotion ; not to be wondered at under such trying circumstances, for I gathered that she had no near lelations to turn to ; nor had Mr Meredith, excepting a sister, who was married, and with whom Mrs Meredith had never been on very cordial terms. She gave me her card, with their town direction —Grosvenor Gardens; and, after promising to call at an early honr next day, she rolled off in an elegant carriage. It was quite a coincidence, after my having been so struck by her on her wedding day, that Bhe should have come to me; and I felt more than a usual amount of curiosity and interest with regard to my new patient. I went to Grosvenor Gardens according to promise, and was ushered into a drawingroom, furnished with the most lavish disregard to expense, and adorned in every direction with exquisite flowers. In an inner room a gentleman was seated. He threw aside his newspaper, and informed me, with much courtesy, that his cousin would be down directly. He was a slightly built, rather dark man of about five or six and thirty, with dark and, I thought, rather shifty eyes, bat good features, and dressed in the extreme of fashion. ' Mrs Meredith is my cousin " he explained ; ' it was by my advice she applied to you, Mr Darrell; we are seriously uneasy about Mr Meredith ; he does not seem to get better ; in fact'—and here the jewelled fingers tapped his forehead significantly—'it is a case of not all there, or lam much mistaken.' 'Let us hope you are,' I replied; and at that moment the drawing-room door was opened, and Mrs Meredith herself, looking wonderfully lovely, came in. She greeted me with a mixture of cordiality and nervousness, and went through a form of introduction between • her cousin Mr Henry Stretton, and Doctor Darrell;' Bffcer which Bhe immediately proposed that I should accompany her up. stairs.

The bed-room waa a spacious one ; but the light was so dim, I could at first just discern a canopied bed in the oentre of the room, shaded also by curtains, and the outline of a figure underneath the coverings. Mrß Meredith approached the bsd, and bent over it. murmuring, in a low but distinct voice : ' Here is Harry's doctor come to see> you ; yon will speak to him—won't yon, Montagu V The reply was inaudible; and she continued :—'He won't hurt you; it is to do yon good; do, Montagu—' 'I am afraid it is almost too dark,' I interrupted ; 'if Mr Meredith will allow me, I will let a little light in upon us.' 'He dislikes light,' she answered ; but I moved the curtain of the bed slightly, and discerned a wasted hand lying listlessly upon the coverlet; and on the pillow his head was to be seen, the face turned from us, ' I want no doctors,' he uttered in a . weary tone ; ' leave me In peace; I am , dying; leave me alone.'

Mrs Meredith turned a hopeless look towards me ; but I drew still nearer him, | and cheerfully assured him that I did not j intend to let him die if I could help it. A hoavy sigh was the only response. But I interrupted it as a sort of permission to do my best for him ; so I laid my finger upon his pulse, which I found extremely feeble. The "next point to which I directed my attention were his eyes. I asked him to look at me ; and immediately he turned them slowly with a Btrange expression that startled me, ' How is your appetite, Mr Meredith ?' I asked. ' Very indifferent,' replied his wife promptly ; 'in fact, sometimes he won't eat at all.' I made some other general inquiries with regard to his health; all of which Mis Meredith answered, the patient himself remaining pertectly silent. ' I will give Mr Meredith some medicine,' I said at last; my idea, however, is that perfect change and cheerful society would do more for him than anything else.' As I spoke, I looked towards the sick man, and observed that the averted eyes wore now filled with tears. I felt intensely sorry for him. ' He hates society,' said hia wife ; 'I wish he liked it," ' We must hope he will like it by-and-by, when he gets stronger; I will do my best for you, Mr Meredith,' I concluded as I took my leave; ' but you must help yourself too ; vou must cheer up—that's the great thing.' I gently took his hand ; but there was no responsive movement, only another weary sigh. ' It Is terrible,' said Mrs Meredith, when we had returned to the drawing-room, ' this la one of his gloomy days ; he won't say a word. But it is less dreadful than his violent ones. What do you think of him, Doctor Darrell ?' 'lt is impossible to form an opinion until I have seen more of him,' I replied. • I fear it is his mind,' said she ; * that is my terrible dread. Death is nothing to that,' 1 Has he any anxieties, Mrs Meredith?' I asked. 'Oh no; none,' she answered readily, j ust the faintest tinge of color rising on her . fair cheek—' none whatever.'

'This medicine which I think of giving to him is merely a soothing, eafe kind of sedative. I shall know in a day or two better what course to follow. T.n the meantime, I ehould advisa you to make the room more cheerful. Draw up the blinds ; talk to him, and endeavor to interest him in the papers, 00 anything. Pray tell me, is there any insanity in his family ?' She hesitated, paused, and then, in great agitation, admitted that there was. This, of course, made me feel the case was a very responsible one, and I resolved to study it most oarefully. I thought a great deal about my new patient. A vagne suspicion kept floating through my mind that there was some mystery about his illness, of a kind which I must discover if I wanted to save his life. Her introduction of me as ' Harry's doctor ' had evidently created an unfavourable impression on the invalid. Could Harry and Mr Stretton be one and the same personage V Doubtless so. I paid several visits, without, 1 must say, getting much beyond where I had been the first day. He was very ill; but the remedies I ordered had no visible effect—which surprised me, as I had latterly prescribed a somewhat powerful drug. Mrs Meredith was apparently always In olose attendance npon him ; and during my visits she invariably remained present, thereby, as I felt certain, exercising a silent control over her husband. I resolved to pay an evening visit without notion ; and as the case demanded attention I went to Grosvenor Gardens about eight o'clock one night. Mrs Meredith was out; she had gone to the theatre with Mr Stretton. Thare was an evident unwillingness on the part of the butler to allow mo to see Mr Meredith ; but I took not the smallest notice, and walked quietly upstairs. To my astonishment I heard the sounds of very unmusical laughter issuing from the dressing-room which communicated with the bedroom; but my patient's room was in total darkness. I had to grope my way to the dressing-room ; and, pushing open the door, beheld two most for-bidding-looking men regaling themselves with supper, and sundries consisting of the contents of several suspicious-looking bottles. ' Who are you ?' I asked, (To be continued.)