“It seemed to me that he gave it a good many names, and it may well be that it is no more than he seems to think; a sort of collective illness, the resultant of the various complaints that he mentioned. However, we shall know more when Sir Robert has seen him; and meanwhile, I wouldn’t worry too much about the apparent neglect. Your brother, unlike most chronic invalids, doesn’t hanker for attention. He has all he wants and he likes to be left alone with his books. Shall you see him again to-day?”
“Assuredly. As soon as I have arranged matters with Detling I shall let Dr. Dimsdale know what we have settled and I shall then go back and spend the evening with my brother. Perhaps I shall see you to-morrow?”
“No. I have to run down to Bury St. Edmunds to-morrow morning and I shall probably be there three or four days. But I should very much like to hear what happens at the consultation. Could you send me a few lines? I shall be staying at the Angel.”
“I will certainly,” he replied, halting and raising his umbrella to signal an approaching omnibus. “Just a short note to let you know what Sir Robert has to tell us of poor Harold’s condition.”
He waved his hand, and stepping off the kerb, hopped on to the foot-board of the omnibus as it slowed down, and vanished into the interior. I stood for a few moments watching the receding vehicle, half inclined to go back and take another look at the sick man; but reflecting that his brother would be presently returning, I abandoned the idea and made my way instead to the Underground Railway station and there took a ticket for the Temple.
There is something markedly infectious in states of mind. Hitherto I had given comparatively little attention to Harold Monkhouse. He was a more or less chronic invalid, suffering now from one complaint and now from another, and evidently a source of no particular anxiety either to his friends or to his doctor. He was always pallid and sickly-looking, and if, on this particular morning, he had seemed to look more haggard and ghastly than usual, I had merely noted that he was “not so well to-day.”
But the appearance on the scene of the Reverend Amos had put a rather different complexion on the affair. His visit to his brother had resulted in a severe shock, which he had passed on to me; and I had to admit that our interview with Dr. Dimsdale had not been reassuring. For the fact which had emerged from it was that the doctor could not give the disease a name.
It was very disquieting. Supposing it should turn out that Harold was suffering from some grave, even some mortal disease, which ought to have been detected and dealt with months ago. How should we all feel? How, in particular, would Barbara feel about the easygoing way in which the illness had been allowed to drift on? It was an uncomfortable thought; and though Harold Monkhouse was really no concern of mine, excepting that he was Barbara’s husband, it continued to haunt me as I sat in the rumbling train and as I walked up from the Temple station to my chambers in Fig Tree Court.
Chapter II.
Barbara Monkhouse Comes Home
In the intervals of my business at Bury St. Edmunds I gave more than a passing thought to the man who was lying sick in the house in the quiet square at Kensington. It was not that I had any very deep feeling for him as a friend, though I liked him well enough. But the idea had got into my mind that he had perhaps been treated with something less than ordinary solicitude; that his illness had been allowed to drift on when possibly some effective measures might have been taken for his relief. And as it had never occurred to me to make any suggestions on the matter or to interest myself particularly in his condition, I was now inclined to regard myself as a party to the neglect, if there had really been any culpable failure of attention. I therefore awaited with some anxiety the letter which Amos had promised to send.