The Lost Heir

"That explains what rather puzzled me the other day," the doctor said. "When I came out into the garden you were sitting together and were laughing and talking. You did not notice me, and it struck me as strange that, while I heard the laughing, I did not hear the sound of your voices until I was within a few paces of you. When Miss Covington noticed me I at once heard your voices."

"Yes, you gave us both quite a start, and Hilda said we must either give up talking silently or let you into our secret; so I don't think that she will be vexed when I tell her that I have let it out."

"I am glad to have the matter explained," he said, "for really I asked myself whether I must not have been temporarily deaf, and should have thought it was so had I not heard the laughing as distinctly as usual. I came to the conclusion that you must, for some reason or other, have dropped your voices to a whisper, and that one or the other was telling some important secret that you did not wish even the winds to hear."

"I think that this is the only secret that we have," Netta laughed.

"Seriously, this is most interesting to me as a doctor, and it is a thousand pities that a system that acts so admirably should not be introduced into this country. You should set up a similar institution here, Miss Purcell."

"I have been thinking of doing so some day. Hilda is always urging me to it, but I feel that I am too young yet to take the head of an establishment, but in another four or five years' time I shall think seriously about it."

"I can introduce you to all the aurists in London, Miss Purcell, and I am sure that you will soon get as many inmates as you may choose to take. In cases where their own skill fails altogether, they would be delighted to comfort parents by telling them how their children may learn to dispense altogether with the sense of hearing."

"Not quite altogether," she said. "It has happened very often, as it did just now, that I have been addressed by someone at whom I did not happen to be looking, and then I have to explain my apparent rudeness by owning myself to be entirely deaf. Unfortunately, I have not always been able to make people believe it, and I have several times been soundly rated by strangers for endeavoring to excuse my rudeness by a palpable falsehood."

"Really, I am hardly surprised," Dr. Leeds said, "for I should myself have found it difficult to believe that one altogether deaf could have been taught to join in conversation as you do. Well, I must be very careful what I say in future while in the society of two young ladies possessed of such dangerous and exceptional powers."

"You need not be afraid, doctor; I feel sure that there is no one here to whom you would venture to give us a bad character."

"I think," he went on more seriously, "that Miss Covington's mother was very wise in warning her against her letting anyone know that she could read conversations at a distance. People would certainly be afraid of her, for gossipmongers would be convinced that she was overhearing, if I may use the word, what was said, if she happened to look at them only casually."

At the end of three months the General became restless, and was constantly expressing a wish to be brought back to London.

"What do you think yourself, Dr. Leeds?" Dr. Pearson said, when he paid one of his usual visits.

"He is, of course, a great deal better than he was when he first came down," the former replied, "but there is still that curious hesitation in his speech, as if he was suffering from partial paralysis. I am not surprised at his wanting to get up to town again. As he improves in health he naturally feels more and more the loss of his usual course of life. I should certainly have advised his remaining here until he had made a good deal further advancement, but as he has set his mind upon it, I believe that more harm would be done by refusing than by his going. In fact, I think that he has, if anything, gone back in the last fortnight, and above all things it is necessary to avoid any course that might cause irritation, and so set up fresh brain disturbances."

"I am quite of your opinion, Leeds. I have noticed myself that he hesitates more than he did a short time since, and sometimes, instead of joining in the conversation, he sits moody and silent; and he is beginning to resent being looked after and checked."

"Yes; he said to me the other day quite angrily, 'I don't want to be treated as a child or a helpless invalid, doctor. I took a mile walk yesterday. I am beginning to feel quite myself again; it will do me a world of good to be back in London, and to drive down to the club and to have a chat with my old friends again.'"

"Well, I think it best that he should not be thwarted. You have looked at the scars from time to time, I suppose?"

"Yes; there has been no change in them, they are very red, but he tells me – and what is more to the point, his man tells me – that they have always been so."

"What do you think, Leeds? Will he ever be himself again? Watching the case from day to day as you have done, your opinion is worth a good deal more than mine."

"I have not the slightest hope of it," the young doctor replied quietly. "I have seen as complete wrecks as he is gradually pull themselves round again, but they have been cases where they have been the victims of drink or of some malady from which they had been restored by a successful operation. In his case we have failed altogether to determine the cause of his attack, or the nature of it. We have been feeling in the dark, and hitherto have failed to discover a clew that we could follow up. So far there has been no recurrence of his first seizure, but, with returning strength and returning brain work, it is in my opinion more than likely that we shall have another recurrence of it. The shock has been a tremendous one to the system. Were he a younger man he might have rallied from it, but I doubt whether at his age he will ever get over it. Actually he is, I believe, under seventy; physically and mentally, he is ninety."

"That is so, and between ourselves I cannot but think that a long continuance of his life is not to be desired. I believe with you that he will be a confirmed invalid, requiring nursing and humoring like a child, and for the sake of Miss Covington and all around him one cannot wish that his life should be prolonged."

"I trust that, when the end comes, Dr. Pearson, it will be gradual and painless, and that there will be no recurrence of that dreadful seizure."

"I hope so indeed. I have seen many men in bad fits, but I never saw anything to equal that. I can assure you that several of the men who were present – men who had gone through a dozen battles – were completely prostrated by it. At least half a dozen of them, men whom I had never attended before, knowing that I had been present, called upon me within the next two or three days for advice, and were so evidently completely unstrung that I ordered them an entire change of scene at once, and recommended them to go to Homburg, take the waters, and play at the tables; to do anything, in fact, that would distract their minds from dwelling upon the painful scene that they had witnessed. Had it not been for that, one would have had no hesitation in assigning his illness to some obscure form of paralysis; as it is, it is unaccountable. Except," he added, with a smile, "by your theory of poison."

The younger doctor did not smile in return. "It is the only cause that I can assign for it," he said gravely. "The more I study the case, the more I investigate the writings of medical men in India and on the East and West Coast of Africa, the more it seems to me that the attack was the work of a drug altogether unknown to European science, but known to Obi women, fetich men, and others of that class in Africa. In some of the accounts of people accused of crime by fetich men, and given liquor to drink, which they are told will not affect them if innocent, but will kill them if guilty, I find reports of their being seized with instant and violent convulsions similar to those that you witnessed. These convulsions often end in death; sometimes, where, I suppose, the dose was larger than usual, the man drops dead in his tracks while drinking it. Sometimes he dies in convulsions; at other times he recovers partially and lingers on, a mere wreck, for some months. In other cases, where, I suppose, the dose was a light one, and the man's relatives were ready to pay the fetich man handsomely, the recovery was speedy and complete; that is to say, if, as is usually the case, the man was not put to death at once upon the supposed proof of his guilt. By what possible means such poison could have found its way to England, for there is no instance of its nature being divulged to Europeans, I know not, nor how it could have been administered; but I own that it is still the only theory by which I can account for the General's state. I need not say that I should never think of giving the slightest hint to anyone but yourself as to my opinion in the matter, and trust most sincerely that I am mistaken; but although I have tried my utmost I cannot overcome the conviction that the theory is a correct one, and I think, Dr. Pearson, that if you were to look into the accounts of the various ways in which the poisons are sold by old negro women to those anxious to get rid of enemies or persons whose existence is inconvenient to them, and by the fetich men in these ordeals, you will admit at least that had you been practicing on the West Coast, and any white man there had such an attack as that through which the General has passed, you would without hesitation have put it down to poison by some negro who had a grudge against him."

"No doubt, no doubt," the other doctor admitted; "but, you see, we are not on the West Coast. These poisons are, as you admit, absolutely unobtainable by white men from the men and women who prepare them. If obtainable, when would they have been brought here, and by whom? And lastly, by whom administered, and from what motive? I admit all that you say about the African poisons. I lately had a long talk about them with a medical man who had been on the coast for four or five years, but until these other questions can be answered I must refuse to believe that this similarity is more than accidental, and in any possible way due to the same cause."

"That is what I have told myself scores of times, and it would be a relief to me indeed could I find some other explanation of the matter. Then, you think that he had better come up to London?"

"I leave the matter in your hands, Dr. Leeds. I would give him a few days longer and try the effect of a slight sedative; possibly his desire to get up to town may die out. If so, he is without doubt better here. If, however, you see that his irritation increases, and he becomes more and more set upon it, by all means take him up. How would you do so? By rail or road?"

"Certainly by rail. I have been trying to make him feel that he is a free agent, and encouraged him in the belief that he is stronger and better. If then I say to him, 'My dear General, you are, of course, free to do as you like, and it may be that the change will be beneficial to you; if the ladies can be ready to-morrow, let us start without further delay,' I consider it quite possible that this ready and cheerful acquiescence may result in his no longer desiring it. One knows that in this respect sick people are very like fractious children. They set their minds on some special article of food, as a child does on a toy, and when it comes they will refuse to touch it, as the child will throw the coveted toy down."

It turned out so in this case. The moment the General found that the doctor was willing that he should go up to town, and the ladies quite ready to accompany him at once, he himself began to raise objections.

"Perhaps it would be as well that we should wait another month," he replied. A little pretended opposition strengthened this view, and the return was postponed. At the end of the month he had made so much progress that, when the longing for London was again expressed, Dr. Leeds offered no opposition, and two days later the whole party went up.

CHAPTER X.

TWO HEAVY BLOWS

During the four months that General Mathieson had remained at Holmwood no one had been more constant in his inquiries as to his health than Mr. Simcoe. He had seen Hilda before she started, and had begged her to let him have a line once a week, saying how her uncle was going on.

"I will get Dr. Leeds to write," she said. "My own opinion will be worth nothing, but his will be valuable. I am afraid that he will find time hang heavily on his hands, and he will not mind writing. I do not like writing letters at the best of times, but in the trouble we are in now I am sure that I shall not be equal to it."

Dr. Leeds willingly undertook the duty of sending a short weekly bulletin, not only to Mr. Simcoe, but to a dozen other intimate friends.

"It is not half an hour's work," he said, when Netta offered to relieve him by addressing the envelopes or copying out his report; "very few words will be sufficient. 'The General has made some slight progress this week,' or 'The General remains in very much the same state,' or 'I am glad to be able to record some slight improvement.' That, with my signature, will be quite sufficient, and when I said that half an hour would be enough I exaggerated: I fancy that it will be all done in five minutes."

Mr. Simcoe occasionally wrote a few lines of thanks, but scarcely a day passed that he did not send some little present for the invalid – a bunch of the finest grapes, a few choice peaches, and other fruit from abroad. Of flowers they had plenty in their own conservatories at Holmwood, while game was abundant, for both from neighbors and from club friends they received so large a quantity that a considerable proportion was sent back in hampers to the London hospitals.

Some of Mr. Simcoe's presents were of a different description. Among them was a machine that would hold a book at any angle desired, while at the same time there was a shelf upon which a cup or tumbler, a spare book or newspaper, could be placed.

"At any rate, Hilda, this Mr. Simcoe of yours is very thoughtful and kind towards your uncle," Netta said.

"Yes," Hilda admitted reluctantly, "he certainly is very thoughtful, but I would much rather he did not send things. We can get anything we want from Warwick or Leamington, or indeed from London, merely by sending a line or a telegram. One hates being under obligations to a man one does not like."

"It seems to me at present that you are unjust, Hilda; and I certainly look forward to seeing him in London and drawing my own conclusions."

"Yes, no doubt you will see him, and often enough too," Hilda said pettishly. "Of course, if uncle means to go to his club, it will be impossible to say that he is unfit to see his friends at home."

Netta, however, did not see Mr. Simcoe on their return, for Dr. Leeds, on the suggestion of Hilda, stated in his last report that the General would be going up to town in a day or two, but that he strongly deprecated any visits until he could see how the invalid stood the journey.

There was no doubt that he stood it badly. Just at first the excitement seemed to inspire him with strength, but this soon died away, and he had to be helped from the railway carriage to the brougham, and lifted out when he arrived at home. Dr. Leeds saw to his being carried upstairs, undressed, and put to bed.

"He is weaker than I thought," he said in reply to Hilda's anxious look when he joined the party downstairs. "I cannot say that it is want of physical strength, for he has walked over a mile several times without apparent fatigue. It seems to me that it is rather failure of will power, or brain power, if you like. I noticed that he very frequently sat looking out of the window, and it is possible that the succession of objects passing rapidly before the eye has had the same effect of inducing giddiness that waltzing has to one unaccustomed to it. I trust that to-morrow the effect will have passed off. I had, as you know, intended to sleep at a friend's chambers to-night; but I should not think of doing so now, but will sit up with him. I will get Roberts to take watch and watch with me. I can lie down on the sofa, and he can wake me should there be any change. I sent him off in a cab, as soon as we got your uncle into bed, to fetch Dr. Pearson; if he is at home, he will be here in a few minutes."

It was, however, half an hour before Dr. Pearson came, as he was out when the cab arrived. He had on the way learned from Tom Roberts the state in which the General had arrived, and he hurried upstairs at once to his room.

"So he has broken down badly, Leeds?"

"Very badly."

"I did not expect it. When I saw him last Sunday he seemed to have made so much progress that I thought there could be no harm in his being brought up to London, though, as I said to you, I thought it would be better to dissuade him from going to his club. He might see a few of his friends and have a quiet chat with them here. His pulse is still much fuller than I should have expected from the account his man gave of him. There is a good deal of irregularity, but that has been the case ever since the attack."

"I think that it is mental rather than bodily collapse," the younger man said. "A sudden failure of brain power. He was absolutely unable to make any effort to walk, or indeed to move his limbs at all. It was a sort of mental paralysis."

"And to some slight extent bodily also," Dr. Pearson said, leaning over the bed and examining the patient closely. "Do you see there is a slight, but distinct, contortion of the face, just as there was after that fit?"

"I see there is. He has not spoken since we lifted him from the railway carriage, and I am afraid that to-morrow we shall find that he has lost, partially or entirely, the power of speech. I fear that this is the beginning of the end."

Dr. Pearson nodded.

"There can be little doubt of it, nor could we wish it to be otherwise. Still, he may linger for weeks or even months."

Hilda read the doctor's opinion in his face when he went downstairs.

"Oh, doctor, don't say he is going to die!" she cried.

"I do not say that he is going to die at once, my dear. He may live for some time yet, but it is of no use concealing from you that neither Dr. Leeds nor myself have the slightest hope of his ultimate recovery. There can be no doubt that paralysis is creeping over him, and that it is most unlikely that he will ever leave his bed again.

"Yes, I know it is hard, dear," he said soothingly, as she burst into tears, "but much as you will regret his loss you cannot but feel that it is best so. He could never have been himself again, never have enjoyed his life. There would have been an ever-present anxiety and a dread of a recurrence of that fit. You will see in time that it is better for him and for you that it should be as it is, although, of course, you can hardly see that just at present. And now I must leave you to your kind friends here."

Miss Purcell knew well enough that just at present words of consolation would be thrown away, and that it was a time only for silent sympathy, and her gentle words and the warm pressure of Netta's hand did more to restore Hilda's composure than any repetition of the doctor's well-meant assurance that all was for the best could do.

"Would you like me to write a line in your name to Colonel Bulstrode?" she asked.

"No, no!" Hilda cried; "it would look as if we had made up your minds that uncle was going to die. If he were conscious it would be different; for I know that Colonel Bulstrode is his greatest friend and is named one of his trustees, and uncle might want to talk to him. Oh, how one wishes at a time like this that one had a brother, or that he had a son alive, or that there was someone who would naturally step in and take everything into his hands!"

"There are his lawyers," Miss Purcell suggested.

"Yes, I did not think of them. Mr. Pettigrew is the other trustee, and is, I know, joint guardian with me of Walter. I am sorry now that we did not leave the dear little fellow down at Holmwood, it will be so sad and dull for him here, and he would have been very happy in the country. But perhaps it is best as it is; if my uncle recovers consciousness he is sure to ask for him. He had come to be very fond of him, and Walter has been so much with him lately."

"Yes, his eyes always used to follow the child about in his play," Miss Purcell said. "I think it is best that he should be here, and as the nursery is at the top of the house he will not be in anyone's way."

There was but little change in General Mathieson's condition next morning, although a slight movement, when Hilda spoke to him, showed that he was dimly conscious of her presence, and when she brought the child down and he laid his hand on that of the General, and said "Good-morning, grandfather," according to his custom, he opened his eyes for a moment, and there was a slight movement of the lips, as if he were trying to speak.

"Thank you, Miss Covington," Dr. Leeds said; "the experiment was worth making, and it proves that his state of unconsciousness is not complete."

Walter always took his dinner with the others when they lunched.

"Where is the child?" Hilda asked the footman; "have you sent him up to tell nurse that lunch is ready?"

"I have not sent up, miss, because nurse has not come back with him from his walk."

"No doubt she will be back in a few minutes," Hilda said. "She is very punctual; I never knew her late before."

Lunch was half over when Tom Roberts came in with a scared expression on his usually somewhat stolid face.

"If you please, miss, nurse wishes to speak to you."

"What is the matter, Roberts?" Hilda exclaimed, starting up. "Has Walter met with an accident?"

"Well, no, miss, not as I know of, but nurse has come home, and she is just like a wild thing; somehow or other Master Walter has got lost."

Hilda, followed by Netta and Miss Purcell, ran out into the hall. The nurse, a woman of two or three and thirty, the daughter of one of the General's tenants, and who had been in charge of the child since he arrived a baby from India, was sitting on a chair, sobbing bitterly. Her bonnet hung down at the back of her head, her hair was unloosed, and she had evidently been running wildly to and fro. Her appearance at once disarmed Hilda, who said soothingly:

"How has it happened, nurse? Stop crying and tell us. I am sure that it could not have been your fault, for you are always so careful with him. There is no occasion to be so terribly upset. Of course he will soon be found. The first policeman who sees him will be sure to take him to the station. Now how did it happen?"

"I was walking along Queen's Road, miss," the woman said between her sobs, "and Master Walter was close beside me. I know that special, because we had just passed a crossing, and I took hold of his hand as we went over – when a man – he looked like a respectable working-man – came up to me and said, 'I see you are a mother, ma'am.' 'Not at all,' said I; 'how dare you say such a thing? I am a nurse; I am in charge of this young gentleman.' 'Well,' said he, 'I can see that you have a kind heart, anyhow; that is what made me speak to you. I am a carpenter, I am, and I have been out of work for months, and I have a child at home just about this one's age. He is starving, and I haven't a bit to put in his mouth. The parish buried my wife three weeks ago, and I am well-nigh mad. Would you give me the money to buy him a loaf of bread?' The man was in such distress, miss, that I took out my purse and gave him a shilling, and thankful he was; he was all but crying, and could not say enough to thank me. Then I turned to take hold of Walter's hand, and found that the child had gone. I could not have been more than two or three minutes talking; though it always does take me a long time to take my purse out of my pocket, still I know that it could not have been three minutes altogether.

"First of all, I went back to the crossing, and looked up and down the street, but he wasn't there; then I thought that perhaps he had walked on, and was hiding for fun in a shop doorway. When I could not see him up or down I got regular frighted, and ran up and down like a mad thing. Once I came back as far as the house, but there were no signs of him, and I knew that he could not have got as far as this, even if he had run all the way. Then I thought of the mews, and I ran back there. Master Walter was very fond of horses, and he generally stopped when we got to the entrance of the mews, and stood looking for a minute or two at the grooms cleaning the horses, and I thought that he might have gone in there. There were two or three men about, but none had seen the child. Still I ran on, and looked into several stables, a-calling for him all the time. When he wasn't there, I went well-nigh stark mad, and I ran up and down the streets asking everyone I met had they seen a child. Then I came back here to tell you."