FullReads

Mr. Robert Audley breakfasted in the library. He sat long over his solitary cup of tea, smoking his meerschaum pipe, and meditating darkly upon the task that lay before him.

“I will appeal to the experience of this Dr. Mosgrave,” he though; “physicians and lawyers are the confessors of this prosaic nineteenth century. Surely, he will be able to help me.”

The first fast train from London arrived at Audley at half-past ten o’clock, and at five minutes before eleven, Richards, the grave servant, announced Dr. Alwyn Mosgrave.

The physician from Saville Row was a tall man of about fifty years of age. He was thin and sallow, with lantern jaws, and eyes of a pale, feeble gray, that seemed as if they had once been blue, and had faded by the progress of time to their present neutral shade. However powerful the science of medicine as wielded by Dr. Alwyn Mosgrave, it had not been strong enough to put flesh upon his bones, or brightness into his face. He had a strangely expressionless, and yet strangely attentive countenance. He had the face of a man who had spent the greater part of his life in listening to other people, and who had parted with his own individuality and his own passions at the very outset of his career.

He bowed to Robert Audley, took the opposite seat indicated by him, and addressed his attentive face to the young barrister. Robert saw that the physician’s glance for a moment lost its quiet look of attention, and became earnest and searching.

“He is wondering whether I am the patient,” thought Mr. Audley, “and is looking for the diagnoses of madness in my face.”

Dr. Mosgrave spoke as if in answer to this thought.

“Is it not about your own—health—that you wish to consult me?” he said, interrogatively.

“Oh, no!”

Dr. Mosgrave looked at his watch, a fifty-guinea Benson-made chronometer, which he carried loose in his waistcoat pocket as carelessly as if it had been a potato.

“I need not remind you that my time is precious,” he said; “your telegram informed me that my services were required in a case of—danger—as I apprehend, or I should not be here this morning.”

Robert Audley had sat looking gloomily at the fire, wondering how he should begin the conversation, and had needed this reminder of the physician’s presence.

“You are very good, Dr. Mosgrave,” he said, rousing himself by an effort, “and I thank you very much for having responded to my summons. I am about to appeal to you upon a subject which is more painful to me than words can describe. I am about to implore your advice in a most difficult case, and I trust almost blindly to your experience to rescue me, and others who are very dear to me, from a cruel and complicated position.”

The business-like attention in Dr. Mosgrave’s face grew into a look of interest as he listened to Robert Audley.

“The revelation made by the patient to the physician is, I believe, as sacred as the confession of a penitent to his priest?” Robert asked, gravely.

“Quite as sacred.”

“A solemn confidence, to be violated under no circumstances?”

“Most certainly.”

Robert Audley looked at the fire again. How much should he tell, or how little, of the dark history of his uncle’s second wife?

“I have been given to understand, Dr. Mosgrave, that you have devoted much of your attention to the treatment of insanity.”

“Yes, my practice is almost confined to the treatment of mental diseases.”

“Such being the case, I think I may venture to conclude that you sometimes receive strange, and even terrible, revelations.”

Dr. Mosgrave bowed.

He looked like a man who could have carried, safely locked in his passionless breast, the secrets of a nation, and who would have suffered no inconvenience from the weight of such a burden.

“The story which I am about to tell you is not my own story,” said Robert, after a pause; “you will forgive me, therefore, if I once more remind you that I can only reveal it upon the understanding that under no circumstances, or upon no apparent justification, is that confidence to be betrayed.”