The House on the Fens

CHAPTER I.--THE WAYS OF DEATH Dr. Methuen's beautifully appointed consulting-room, with, all evidence about it of how successful his practice must be, was not infrequently the stage upon which poignant tragedies of life were set, and the curtain had just been rung up upon one more. A patient had been told he was suffering from the rather rare disease of myeloid leukaemia, a persistent increase of the white corpuscles of the blood, and that there was no hope for him. Medical science knew of no cure or, indeed, of any way of retarding the approaching death. Dr. Methuen's manner was grave and solemn, as was natural when having to break to an unsuspecting patient that he was in the throes of a mortal disease. But then, as far as the doctor was concerned, it was all in the day's work and the memory of the incident would speedily pass out of his well-ordered mind. In the evening he would go home as usual to his family, dine well, read, or play a hand or two of bridge until about eleven o'clock, and then turn into bed for a good night's rest. And that was how it should be, for, if he were to continue to carry on his large consulting practice successfully, other people's misfortunes must never be allowed to interfere in any way with the methodical daily routine of his life. Still, always a keen student of psychology, and realising fully that no medical practitioner can be a success in his profession if he is not, he was always interested in the way in which a patient received his sentence of death. And he was particularly interested now. When he delivered a verdict of this nature some took it bravely, their blanched faces and parted lips alone betraying the emotion which they felt. Others, however, would tremblingly implore for the possibility of a mistaken diagnosis, and yet others, again, would burst into paroxysms of uncontrollable tears. But this patient now before him had become only as if furiously angry. His jaw had set hard, his face become black and scowling, and there was a snarl in his tones as he asked, "And so I am to pass out at thirty-four while others enjoy their lives up to more than double that age?" "But you will not die suddenly," said Dr. Methuen, trying to soften down the blow, "and you will not die in pain. You will simply gradually become weaker and in time have to take to your bed." He shrugged his shoulders. "But, of course, if you would like a second opinion, although I am afraid the microscope leaves no doubt whatsoever, I would suggest your consulting Dr. Price Edwards. He----" "I want no other opinion," interrupted the patient brusquely. "I am quite convinced." He spoke contemptuously. "I thought there was something peculiar in Dr. Bain's manner when he told me to come to you. He seemed so anxious to get me out of his place as quickly as possible as if he was expecting some catastrophe would happen to me there." The scowl returned to his face. "And you say I have even less than a year to live?" Dr. Methuen nodded gravely. "I am afraid not many months. You see, you have been in this condition for a long time." "Gad, and I only thought I was run down and wanted a tonic!" exclaimed the patient. "That's what I went to my own man for." His tone became almost a violent one. "The miserable coward, why didn't he tell me himself instead of going through the farce of sending me on to you?" "Well, you can do anything you like now," said the doctor soothingly, "for nothing will make you either better or worse. Just live from day to day and give yourself the best of everything you can." "Good advice, that!" scoffed the patient ironically. "With this cursed disease on me I shall naturally feel inclined for all sorts of pleasures." He rose abruptly to his feet. "What's your fee, now?" "Three guineas, please." The patient opened his wallet and passed over a banknote. To the doctor's astonishment he saw it was one for 50. "But--er----" he began. "Oh, it'll be a good one," said the patient sharply. "I got it off a bookmaker at Sandown Park on Saturday and the man's well known to everybody." "But it's a large one to give change for," said the doctor. He hesitated a moment and then went on quickly. "Still, as it happens I can manage it. I've just been paid a large account in cash." He unlocked a drawer in his desk and, abstracting a sheaf of notes, counted out the required change, and handed it to the patient. The latter, without verifying its correctness, crushed up the notes and thrust them into his trouser pocket. "Good morning," he said and, without another word, and giving the doctor no time to precede him, he let himself out of the consulting-room. For a long minute the doctor continued to stand by his desk, interestedly regarding the 50 bank-note which he was holding in his hand. "I'll give it to Elsie for her birthday," he said at length. "She'll never have seen a bank-note for 50, and it'll be a novelty to her." His thoughts reverted to the patient, and he frowned. "An unpleasant fellow, and quite likely to become mental. His expression was almost maniacal. I shouldn't wonder if he did away with himself." In the meantime the man whose sentence of death he had pronounced was walking defiantly down the street. As when in the consulting-room, he was showing no signs of fear, but only those of an intense and almost ungovernable rage. He felt as if someone had tricked him and, helpless and bound hand and foot, he was being handed over to a revengeful enemy. Hailing a taxi, he was driven to a fashionable and expensive restaurant and there proceeded to order an elaborate meal and a bottle of the best champagne. But the food almost choked him and the wine brought no feeling of exhilaration. The restaurant was beginning to fill up for luncheon and he looked round scowlingly at the happy and animated throng. He took in the pretty girls with the smiling, carefree men who were escorting them, and their joy of life struck at him like a stinging blow. Why should happiness and pleasure of so many years be before them when it was ordained he should die so soon? Ah, how he'd love to drag them down into oblivion with him! If he could only press a button and crash the whole world into ruins! If he were doomed to die, then everyone should die with him if it were only in his power! Then he thought of his friends, his smiling, sleek, complacent friends, and--something seemed to snap with great violence in his brain. A red mist rose up before his eyes and he gnashed his teeth in rage. They were hypocrites every one of them. When he was rotting in his coffin they would carry on just the same as if he had never been, smiling and laughing, kissing pretty girls, eating good dinners, golfing, going to races and--bah! now he saw things clearly, how he hated them all! His thoughts ran on and, giving rein to his imagination, his eyes gloated in vengeful ecstasy. He turned now to his meal with more zest and, drinking his champagne to the last drop, something of a feeling of well-being coursed through him. Presently he left the restaurant, carrying himself with quite a jaunty air. Sir George and Lady Almaine were entertaining some friends to dinner in their beautiful home in Hampstead, and if there were anywhere a happy man it should surely have been the good-looking baronet. He was only thirty years of age, in the best of health, of ample means, and barely a year previously had married a beautiful young girl who had just recently presented him with a son and heir. He was a typical English gentleman, of a restrained and quiet disposition and with his emotions, to all appearances, always kept well under control. He had looked many times at his wife during the meal and had thought, as he so often did, how really lovely she was. Not yet twenty-two, her profile was clear-cut, her complexion of flawless ivory and cream, and she had long-lashed, calm grey eyes. The serenity of her Madonna-like face was relieved, however, by the hint of warmth and passion in her very pretty mouth. The formation of the beautifully moulded lips was a perfect Cupid's bow. The other women there were certainly all attractive but they could none of them compare with their hostess. Mrs. Hutchings-Vane was a vivacious widow in the early thirties, the dainty prettiness of Alma Livingstone would make any man look twice at her and the two sisters, Joan and Mary Rising, if good looks counted for anything, would certainly not remain in their maiden states for long. Of the men, there was Dr. Revire, a rising Harley Street physician, and the despair of many mothers with marriageable daughters; Major Sampon, an old friend of Sir George and his wife; the alert-looking, suave Arnold Gauntry, a successful rubber broker in the city, Julian Travers, a lean-jawed barrister with the mobile mouth of the orator, and the debonair Gilbert Larose, the one-time well-known international detective. All the men guests were bachelors, except Larose, who had married Lady Ardane, the wealthy widow of the late Sir Charles Ardane. The meal over, while the ladies chatted in the drawing-room, the men adjourned to Sir George's study for some poker. They were all well-seasoned card players and, while the limit was not made unduly high, it was, nevertheless, still high enough to suggest all the players were well-to-do and that the loss of ten or twenty pounds would not worry them in any way. For an hour and longer the game proceeded with the utmost good fellowship, it being laughingly remarked, however, that whenever Major Sampon was the dealer he always somehow managed to get a good hand. Then a most unfortunate thing happened. It had been Major Sampon's turn again to deal and the betting was high, with a good sum showing on the table. Then when the cards came to be put down it was seen that the major had the best hand, with four kings and the three of diamonds. He was about to pick up the pool, for the fourth time it was remembered when he had been dealing, when Larose, who was seated next to him, exclaimed suddenly, "Hullo, but this won't do! There's a card there on the carpet, just by your feet. You must have dropped one when dealing." The other players craned their necks and, sure enough, there was the two of spades lying under the major's chair. A few moments of most embarrassed silence followed, with the major getting furiously red. "I'm afraid that'll have to nullify the hand," said Larose frowningly. "Of course, it was an accident, but it leaves a doubt as to what your original five cards really were and----" "You damned policeman!" roared the major in a sudden burst of temper. "You accuse me of cheating?" "Not for a moment," replied Larose quietly and with his temper well in hand, "but you must see----" "But you do mean I cheated!" shouted the major. He could hardly get his breath. "You cad, you've no business to be here at all. You are aping the gentleman on your wife's money. Everyone knows you only married her because of that and----" "Shut up, Sampon," called out Sir George angrily. "Remember you are a guest here and that this gentleman is my friend. You are entirely in the wrong." The major sprang up from his chair. "Well, at any rate I won't play any more," he shouted, his rage in no wise abated. He sneered. "I'll go where the company is more to my liking," and, striding over to the door, he let himself out of the room and banged the door to behind him. Sir George was all apologies. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Larose," he said miserably. "He didn't really mean anything he said. He was only naturally very upset by finding himself in such an awkward predicament."