Armadale (112 page)

The Resident Dispenser made his appearance shrouded in the necessary white apron from his waist to his feet. The doctor solemnly wrote a prescription for a composing draught, and handed it to his assistant.

‘Wanted immediately, Benjamin,' he said, in a soft and melancholy voice. ‘A lady-patient – Mrs Armadale, Room Number-one, Second-floor. Ah, dear, dear!' groaned the doctor absently; ‘an anxious case, Benjamin – an anxious case.' He opened the brand-new ledger of the establishment, and entered the Case at full length, with a brief abstract of the prescription. ‘Have you done with the laudanum? Put it back, and lock the cabinet, and give me the key. Is the draught ready? Label it “to be taken at bed-time”, and give it to the nurse, Benjamin – give it to the nurse.'

While the doctor's lips were issuing these directions, the doctor's hands were occupied in opening a drawer under the desk on which the ledger was placed. He took out some gaily-printed cards of admission ‘to view the Sanatorium, between the hours of two and four,
P.M
.', and filled them up with the date of the next day, ‘December tenth'. When a dozen of the cards had been wrapped up in a dozen lithographed letters of invitation, and enclosed in a dozen envelopes, he next consulted a list of the families resident in the neighbourhood, and directed the envelopes from the list. Ringing a bell this time, instead of speaking through a tube, he summoned the man-servant, and gave him the letters, to be delivered by hand the first thing the next morning. ‘I think it will do,' said the doctor, taking a turn in the Dispensary when the servant had gone out; ‘I think it will do.' While he was still absorbed in his own reflections, the nurse re-appeared to announce that the lady's room was ready; and the doctor thereupon formally returned to the study to communicate the information to Miss Gwilt.

She had not moved since he left her. She rose from her dark corner when he made his announcement, and, without speaking or raising her veil, glided out of the room like a ghost.

After a brief interval, the nurse came downstairs again, with a word for her master's private ear.

‘The lady has ordered me to call her to-morrow at seven o'clock, sir,' she said. ‘She means to fetch her luggage herself, and she wants to have a cab at the door as soon as she is dressed. What am I to do?'

‘Do what the lady tells you,' said the doctor. ‘She may be safely trusted to return to the Sanatorium.'

The breakfast hour at the Sanatorium was half-past eight o'clock. By that time Miss Gwilt had settled everything at her lodging, and had returned with her luggage in her own possession. The doctor was quite amazed at the promptitude of his patient.

‘Why waste so much energy?' he asked, when they met at the breakfast-table. ‘Why be in such a hurry, my dear lady, when you had all the morning before you?'

‘Mere restlessness!' she said, briefly. ‘The longer I live, the more impatient I get.'

The doctor, who had noticed before she spoke that her face looked strangely pale and old that morning, observed when she answered him that her expression – naturally mobile in no ordinary degree – remained quite unaltered by the effort of speaking. There was none of the usual animation on her lips, none of the usual temper in her eyes. He had never seen her so impenetrably and coldly composed as he saw her now.
‘She has made up her mind at last,' he thought. ‘I may say to her this morning, what I couldn't say to her last night.'

He prefaced the coming remarks by a warning look at her widow's dress.

‘Now you have got your luggage,' he began gravely, ‘permit me to suggest putting that cap away, and wearing another gown.'

‘Why?'

‘Do you remember what you told me, a day or two since?' asked the doctor. ‘You said there was a chance of Mr Armadale's dying in my Sanatorium?'

‘I will say it again, if you like.'

‘A more unlikely chance,' pursued the doctor, deaf as ever to all awkward interruptions, ‘it is hardly possible to imagine! But as long as it
is
a chance at all, it is worth considering. Say then that he dies, – dies suddenly and unexpectedly, and makes a Coroner's Inquest necessary in the house. What is our course in that case? Our course is to preserve the characters to which we have committed ourselves – you as his widow, and I as the witness of your marriage – and,
in
those characters, to court the fullest inquiry. In the entirely improbable event of his dying just when we want him to die, my idea – I might even say, my resolution – is, to admit that we knew of his resurrection from the sea; and to acknowledge that we instructed Mr Bashwood to entrap him into this house, by means of a false statement about Miss Milroy. When the inevitable questions follow, I propose to assert that he exhibited symptoms of mental alienation shortly after your marriage – that his delusion consisted in denying that you were his wife, and in declaring that he was engaged to be married to Miss Milroy – that you were in such terror of him on this account, when you heard he was alive and coming back, as to be in a state of nervous agitation that required my care – that at your request, and to calm that nervous agitation, I saw him professionally, and got him quietly into the house by a humouring of his delusion perfectly justifiable in such a case – and lastly, that I can certify his brain to have been affected by one of those mysterious disorders, eminently incurable, eminently fatal, in relation to which medical science is still in the dark. Such a course as this (in the remotely possible event which we are now supposing) would be, in your interests and mine, unquestionably the right course to take – and such a dress as
that
is, just as certainly, under existing circumstances, the wrong dress to wear.'

‘Shall I take it off at once?' she asked, rising from the breakfast-table, without a word of remark on what had just been said to her.

‘Any time before two o'clock to-day, will do,' said the doctor.

She looked at him, with a languid curiosity – nothing more. ‘Why before two?' she inquired.

‘Because this is one of my “Visitors' Days”. And the Visitors' time is from two to four.'

‘What have I to do with your visitors?'

‘Simply this. I think it important that perfectly respectable and perfectly disinterested witnesses should see you, in my house, in the character of a lady who has come to consult me.'

‘Your motive seems rather far-fetched. Is it the only motive you have in the matter?'

‘My dear, dear lady!' remonstrated the doctor; ‘have I any concealments from
you
? Surely, you ought to know me better than that?'

‘Yes,' she said, with a weary contempt. ‘It's dull enough of me not to understand you by this time. – Send word upstairs, when I am wanted.' She left him, and went back to her room.

Two o'clock came; and in a quarter of an hour afterwards the Visitors had arrived. Short as the notice had been, cheerless as the Sanatorium looked to spectators from without, the doctor's invitations had been largely accepted nevertheless by the female members of the families whom he had addressed. In the miserable monotony of the lives led by a large section of the middle classes of England, anything is welcome to the women which offers them any sort of harmless refuge from the established tyranny of the principle that all human happiness begins and ends at home. While the imperious needs of a commercial country limited the representatives of the male sex, among the doctor's visitors, to one feeble old man and one sleepy little boy, the women, poor souls, to the number of no less than sixteen – old and young, married and single – had seized the golden opportunity of a plunge into public life. Harmoniously united by the two common objects which they all had in view – in the first place, to look at each other, and in the second place, to look at the Sanatorium – they streamed in neatly dressed procession through the doctor's dreary iron gates, with a thin varnish over them of assumed superiority to all unlady-like excitement, most significant and most pitiable to see!

The proprietor of the Sanatorium received his visitors in the hall with Miss Gwilt on his arm. The hungry eyes of every woman in the company overlooked the doctor as if no such person had existed; and, fixing on the strange lady, devoured her from head to foot in an instant.

‘My First Inmate,' said the doctor, presenting Miss Gwilt. ‘This lady only arrived late last night; and she takes the present opportunity (the only one my morning's engagements have allowed me to give her) of going over the Sanatorium. – Allow me, ma'am,' he went on, releasing Miss Gwilt, and giving his arm to the eldest lady among the visitors. ‘Shattered nerves – domestic anxiety,' he whispered confidentially. ‘Sweet woman! sad case!' He sighed softly, and led the old lady across the hall.

The flock of visitors followed; Miss Gwilt accompanying them in silence, and walking alone – among them, but not of them – the last of all.

‘The grounds, ladies and gentlemen,' said the doctor, wheeling round and addressing his audience, from the foot of the stairs, ‘are, as you have seen, in a partially unfinished condition. Under any circumstances, I should lay little stress on the grounds, having Hampstead Heath so near at hand, and carriage-exercise and horse-exercise being parts of my System. In a lesser degree it is also necessary for me to ask your indulgence for the basement floor, on which we now stand. The waiting-room and study on that side, and the Dispensary on the other (to which I shall presently ask your attention), are completed. But the large drawing-room is still in the decorator's hands. In that room (when the walls are dry – not a moment before) my inmates will assemble for cheerful society. Nothing will be spared that can improve, elevate, and adorn life, at these happy little gatherings. Every evening, for example, there will be music for those who like it.'

At this point there was a faint stir among the visitors. A mother of a family interrupted the doctor. She begged to know whether music ‘every evening' included Sunday evening; and, if so, what music was performed?

‘Sacred music, of course, ma'am,' said the doctor. ‘Handel on Sunday evening – and Haydn occasionally, when not too cheerful. But, as I was about to say, music is not the only entertainment offered to my nervous inmates. Amusing reading is provided for those who prefer books.'

There was another stir among the visitors. Another mother of a family wished to know whether amusing reading meant novels.

‘Only such novels as I have selected and perused myself, in the first instance,' said the doctor. ‘Nothing painful, ma'am! There may be plenty that is painful in real life – but, for that very reason, we don't want it in books. The English novelist
¹
who enters my house (no foreign novelist will be admitted) must understand his art as the healthy
minded English reader understands it in our time. He must know that our purer modern taste, our higher modern morality, limits him to doing exactly two things for us, when he writes us a book. All we want of him is – occasionally to make us laugh; and invariably to make us comfortable.'

There was a third stir among the visitors – caused plainly this time, by approval of the sentiments which they had just heard. The doctor, wisely cautious of disturbing the favourable impression that he had produced, dropped the subject of the drawing-room, and led the way upstairs. As before, the company followed – and, as before, Miss Gwilt walked silently behind them, last of all. One after another, the ladies looked at her with the idea of speaking, and saw something in her face, utterly unintelligible to them, which checked the well-meant words on their lips. The prevalent impression was, that the Principal of the Sanatorium had been delicately concealing the truth, and that his first inmate was mad.

The doctor led the way – with intervals of breathing-time accorded to the old lady on his arm – straight to the top of the house. Having collected his visitors in the corridor, and having waved his hand indicatively at the numbered doors opening out of it on either side, he invited the company to look into any or all of the rooms at their own pleasure.

‘Numbers one to four, ladies and gentlemen,' said the doctor, ‘include the dormitories of the attendants. Numbers four to eight are rooms intended for the accommodation of the poorer class of patients whom I receive on terms which simply cover my expenditure – nothing more. In the cases of these poorer persons among my suffering fellow-creatures, personal piety and the recommendation of two clergymen are indispensable to admission. Those are the only conditions I make; but those I insist on. Pray observe that the rooms are all ventilated, and the bedsteads all iron; and kindly notice as we descend again to the second floor, that there is a door shutting off all communication between the second story and the top story, when necessary. The rooms on the second floor, which we have now reached, are (with the exception of my own room) entirely devoted to the reception of lady-inmates – experience having convinced me that the greater sensitiveness of the female constitution necessitates the higher position of the sleeping apartment, with a view to the greater purity and freer circulation of the air. Here the ladies are established immediately under my care, while my assistant-physician (whom I expect to arrive in a week's time) looks after the gentlemen on the floor beneath. Observe, again, as we descend
to this lower, or first floor, a second door, closing all communication at night between the two stories to every one but the assistant-physician and myself. And now that we have reached the gentlemen's part of the house, and that you have observed for yourselves the regulations of the establishement, permit me to introduce you to a specimen of my system of treatment next. I can exemplify it practically, by introducing you to a room fitted up, under my own directions, for the accommodation of the most complicated cases of nervous suffering and nervous delusion that can come under my care.'