Other memorable books by Meade, all written in collaboration with Eustace, include A Master of Mysteries (1898); The Gold Star Line (1899); The Sanctuary Club (1900), featuring an unusual health club in which a series of murders is committed by apparently supernatural means; and The Sorceress of the Strand (1903), in which Madame Sara, an even more sinister villainess than Madame Koluchy, specializes in murder.
Born in Ireland, Meade later moved to London, where she married, wrote prolifically, and became an active feminist and a member of the Pioneer Club, a progressive women’s club founded in 1892—members were identified by number, rather than name, to emphasize the unimportance of social position. In her spare time, she worked as the editor of Atalanta, a popular girls’ magazine.
“An Oak Coffin” was originally published in the March 1894 issue of The Strand Magazine; it was first collected in Stories from the Diary of a Doctor (London, George Newnes, 1894).
AN OAK COFFIN
L. T. Meade & Clifford Halifax
On a certain cold morning in early spring, I was visited by two ladies, mother and daughter. The mother was dressed as a widow. She was a tall, striking-looking woman, with full, wide-open dark eyes, and a mass of rich hair turned back from a white and noble brow. Her lips were firm, her features well formed. She seemed to have plenty of character, but the deep lines of sadness under her eyes and round her lips were very remarkable. The daughter was a girl of fourteen, slim to weediness. Her eyes were dark, like her mother’s, and she had an abundance of tawny brown and very handsome hair. It hung down her back below her waist, and floated over her shoulders. She was dressed, like her mother, in heavy mourning, and round her young mouth and dark, deep eyes there lingered the same inexpressible sadness.
I motioned my visitors to chairs, and waited as usual to learn the reason of their favouring me with a call.
“My name is Heathcote,” said the elder lady. “I have lately lost my husband. I have come to you on account of my daughter—she is not well.”
I glanced again more attentively at the young girl. I saw that she looked over-strained and nervous. Her restlessness, too, was so apparent that she could scarcely sit still, and catching up a paper-knife which stood on the table near, she began twirling it rapidly between her finger and thumb.
“It does me good to fidget with something,” she said, glancing apologetically at her mother.
“What are your daughter’s symptoms?” I asked.
Mrs. Heathcote began to describe them in the vague way which characterizes a certain class of patient. I gathered at last from her words that Gabrielle would not eat—she slept badly—she was weak and depressed—she took no interest in anything.
“How old is Miss Gabrielle?” I asked.
“She will be fifteen her next birthday,” replied her mother.
All the while Mrs. Heathcote was speaking, the young daughter kept her eyes fixed on the carpet—she still twirled the paper-knife, and once or twice she yawned profoundly.
I asked her to prepare for the usual medical examination. She complied without any alacrity, and with a look on her face which said plainly, “Young as I am, I know how useless all this fuss is—I only submit because I must.”
I felt her pulse and sounded her heart and lungs. The action of the heart was a little weak, but the lungs were perfectly healthy. In short, beyond a general physical and mental debility, I could find nothing whatever the matter with the girl.
After a time, I rang the bell to desire my servant to take Miss Heathcote into another room, in order that I might speak to her mother alone.
The young lady went away very unwillingly. The sceptical expression on her face was more apparent than ever.
“You will be sure to tell me the exact truth?” said Mrs. Heathcote, as soon as we were alone.
“I have very little to tell,” I replied. “I have examined your daughter carefully. She is suffering from no disease to which a name can be attached. She is below par, certainly; there is weakness and general depression, but a tonic ought to set all these matters right.”
“I have tried tonics without avail,” said Mrs. Heathcote.
“Has not your family physician seen Miss Heathcote?”
“Not lately.” The widow’s manner became decidedly hesitating. “The fact is, we have not consulted him since—since Mr. Heathcote’s death,” she said.
“When did that take place?”
“Six months ago.”
Here she spoke with infinite sadness, and her face, already very pale, turned perceptibly paler.
“Is there nothing you can tell me to give me a clue to your daughter’s condition? Is there anything, for instance, preying on her mind?”
“Nothing whatever.”
“The expression of her face is very sad for so young a girl.”
“You must remember,” said Mrs. Heathcote, “that she has lately lost her father.”
“Even so,” I replied; “that would scarcely account for her nervous condition. A healthy-minded child will not be overcome with grief to the serious detriment of health after an interval of six months. At least,” I added, “that is my experience in ordinary cases.”
“I am grieved to hear it,” said Mrs. Heathcote.
She looked very much troubled. Her agitation was apparent in her trembling hands and quivering lips.
“Your daughter is in a nervous condition,” I said, rising. “She has no disease at present, but a little extra strain might develop real disease, or might affect her nerves, already overstrung, to a dangerous degree. I should recommend complete change of air and scene immediately.”
Mrs. Heathcote sighed heavily.
“You don’t look very well yourself,” I said, giving her a keen glance.
She flushed crimson.
“I have felt my sorrow acutely,” she replied.
I made a few more general remarks, wrote a prescription for the daughter, and bade Mrs. Heathcote good-bye. About the same hour on the following morning I was astonished when my servant brought me a card on which was scribbled in pencil the name Gabrielle Heathcote, and underneath, in the same upright, but unformed hand, the words, “I want to see you most urgently.”
A few moments later, Miss Gabrielle was standing in my consulting room. Her appearance was much the same as yesterday, except that now her face was eager, watchful, and all awake.
“How do you do?” she said, holding out her hand, and blushing. “I have ventured to come alone, and I haven’t brought a fee. Does that matter?”
“Not in the least,” I replied. “Pray sit down and tell me what you want.”
“I would rather stand,” she answered; “I feel too restless and excited to sit still. I stole away from home without letting mother know. I liked your look yesterday and determined to see you again. Now, may I confide in you?”
“You certainly may,” I replied.
My interest in this queer child was a good deal aroused. I felt certain that I was right in my conjectures of yesterday, and that this young creature was really burdened with some secret which was gravely undermining her health.
“I am willing to listen to you,” I continued. “You must be brief, of course, for I am a very busy man, but anything you can say which will throw light on your own condition, and so help me to cure you, will, of course, be welcome.”
“You think me very nervous?” said Miss Gabrielle.
“Your nerves are out of order,” I replied.
“You know that I don’t sleep at night?”
“Yes.”
Miss Gabrielle looked towards the door.
“Is it shut?” she asked, excitedly.
“Of course it is.”
She came close to me, her voice dropped to a hoarse whisper, her face turned not only white but grey.
“I can stand it no longer,” she sai
d. “I’ll tell you the truth. You wouldn’t sleep either if you were me. My father isn’t dead!”
“Nonsense,” I replied. “You must control such imaginings, Miss Gabrielle, or you will really get into a very unhealthy condition of mind.”
“That’s what mother says when I speak to her,” replied the child. “But I tell you, this thing is true. My father is not dead. I know it.”
“How can you possibly know it?” I asked.
“I have seen him—there!”
“You have seen your father!—but he died six months ago?”
“Yes. He died—and was buried, and I went to his funeral. But all the same he is not dead now.”
“My dear young lady,” I said, in as soothing a tone as I could assume, “you are the victim of what is called a hallucination. You have felt your father’s death very acutely.”
“I have. I loved him beyond words. He was so kind, so affectionate, so good to me. It almost broke my heart when he died. I thought I could never be happy again. Mother was as wretched as myself. There weren’t two more miserable people in the wide world. It seemed impossible to either of us to smile or be cheerful again. I began to sleep badly, for I cried so much, and my eyes ached, and I did not care for lessons any more.”
“All these feelings will pass,” I replied; “they are natural, but time will abate their violence.”
“You think so?” said the girl, with a strange smile. “Now let me go on with my story: It was at Christmas time I first saw my father. We live in an old house at Brixton. It has a walled-in garden. I was standing by my window about midnight. I had been in bed for an hour or more, but I could not sleep. The house was perfectly quiet. I got out of bed and went to the window and drew up the blind. I stood by the window and looked out into the garden, which was covered with snow. There, standing under the window, with his arms folded, was father. He stood perfectly still, and turned his head slowly, first in the direction of my room and then in that of mother’s. He stood there for quite five minutes, and then walked across the grass into the shelter of the shrubbery. I put a cloak on and rushed downstairs. I unbolted the front door and went into the garden. I shouted my father’s name and ran into the shrubbery to look for him, but he wasn’t there, and I—I think I fainted. When I came to myself I was in bed and mother was bending over me. Her face was all blistered as if she had been crying terribly. I told her that I had just seen father, and she said it was a dream.”
“So it was,” I replied.
Miss Gabrielle’s dark brows were knit in some pain.
“I did not think you would take that commonplace view,” she responded.
“I am sorry I have offended you,” I answered. “Girls like you do have bad dreams when they are in trouble, and those dreams are often so vivid, that they mistake them for realities.”
“Very well, then, I have had more of those vivid dreams. I have seen my father again. The last time I saw him he was in the house. It was about a month ago. As usual, I could not sleep, and I went downstairs quite late to get the second volume of a novel which interested me. There was father walking across the passage. His back was to me. He opened the study door and went in. He shut it behind him. I rushed to it in order to open it and follow him. It was locked, and though I screamed through the key-hole, no one replied to me. Mother found me kneeling by the study door and shouting through the key-hole to father. She was up and dressed, which seemed strange at so late an hour. She took me upstairs and put me to bed, and pretended to be angry with me, but when I told her that I had seen father she burst into the most awful bitter tears and said:—
“ ‘Oh, Gabrielle, he is dead—dead—quite dead!’
“ ‘Then he comes here from the dead,’ I said. ‘No, he is not dead. I have just seen him.’
“ ‘My poor child,’ said mother, ‘I must take you to a good doctor without delay. You must not get this thing on your brain.’
“ ‘Very well,’ I replied; ‘I am quite willing to see Dr. Mackenzie.’ ”
I interrupted the narrative to inquire who Dr. Mackenzie was.
“He is our family physician,” replied the young lady. “He has attended us for years.”
“And what did your mother say when you proposed to see him?”
“She shivered violently, and said: ‘No, I won’t have him in the house.’ After a time she decided to bring me to you.”
“And have you had that hallucination again?” I inquired.
“It was not a hallucination,” she answered, pouting her lips.
“I will humour you,” I answered. “Have you seen your father again?”
“No, and I am not likely to.”
“Why do you think that?”
“I cannot quite tell you—I think mother is in it. Mother is very unhappy about something, and she looks at me at times as if she were afraid of me.” Here Miss Heathcote rose. “You said I was not to stay long,” she remarked. “Now I have told you everything. You see that it is absolutely impossible for ordinary medicines to cure me, any more than ordinary medicines can cure mother of her awful dreams.”
“I did not know that your mother dreamt badly,” I said.
“She does—but she doesn’t wish it spoken of. She dreams so badly, she cries out so terribly in her sleep, that she has moved from her old bedroom next to mine, to one in a distant wing of the house. Poor mother, I am sorry for her, but I am glad at least that I have had courage to tell you what I have seen. You will make it your business to find out the truth now, won’t you?”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Why, of course, my father is alive,” she retorted. “You have got to prove that he is, and to give him back to me again. I leave the matter in your hands. I know you are wise and very clever. Good-bye, good-bye!”
The queer girl left me, tears rolling down her cheeks. I was obliged to attend to other patients, but it was impossible for me to get Miss Heathcote’s story out of my head. There was no doubt whatever that she was telling me what she firmly believed to be the truth. She had either seen her father once more in the flesh, or she was the victim of a very strong hallucination. In all probability the latter supposition was the correct one. A man could not die and have a funeral and yet still be alive; but, then, on the other hand, when Mrs. Heathcote brought Gabrielle to see me yesterday, why had she not mentioned this central and principal feature of her malady? Mrs. Heathcote had said nothing whatever with regard to Gabrielle’s delusions. Then why was the mother so nervous? Why did she say nothing about her own bad dreams, dreams so disturbing, that she was obliged to change her bedroom in order that her daughter should not hear her scream?
“I leave the matter in your hands!” Miss Heathcote had said. Poor child, she had done so with a vengeance. I could not get the story out of my thoughts, and so uncomfortable did the whole thing make me that I determined to pay Dr. Mackenzie a visit.
Mackenzie was a physician in very large practice at Brixton. His name was already familiar to me—on one or two occasions I had met him in consultation. I looked up his address in the Medical Directory, and that very evening took a hansom to his house. He happened to be at home. I sent in my card and was admitted at once.
Mackenzie received me in his consulting-room, and I was not long in explaining the motive of my visit. After a few preliminary remarks, I said that I would be glad if he would favour me with full particulars with regard to Heathcote’s death.
“I can easily do so,” said Mackenzie. “The case was a perfectly straightforward one—my patient was consumptive, had been so for years, and died at last of hemoptysis.”
“What aged man was he?” I asked.
“Not old—a little past forty—a tall, slight, good-looking man, with a somewhat emaciated face. In short, his was an ordinary case of consumption.”
I told Mackenzie all about the visit which I
had received from Mrs. Heathcote, and gave him a faithful version of the strange story which Miss Gabrielle Heathcote had told me that day.
“Miss Gabrielle is an excitable girl,” replied the doctor. “I have had a good deal to do with her for many years, and always thought her nerves highly strung. She is evidently the victim of a delusion, caused by the effect of grief on a somewhat delicate organism. She probably inherits her father’s disease. Mrs. Heathcote should take her from home immediately.”
“Mrs. Heathcote looks as if she needed change almost as badly as her daughter,” I answered; “but now you will forgive me if I ask you a few more questions. Will you oblige me by describing Heathcote’s death as faithfully as you can?”
“Certainly,” replied the physician.
He sank down into a chair at the opposite side of the hearth as he spoke.
“The death, when it came,” he continued, “was, I must confess, unexpected. I had sounded Heathcote’s lungs about three months previous to the time of his death seizure. Phthisis was present, but not to an advanced degree. I recommended his wintering abroad. He was a solicitor by profession, and had a good practice. I remember his asking me, with a comical rise of his brows, how he was to carry on his profession so many miles from Chancery Lane. But to come to his death. It took place six months ago, in the beginning of September. It had been a hot season, and I had just returned from my holiday. My portmanteau and Gladstone bag had been placed in the hall, and I was paying the cabman his fare, when a servant from the Heathcotes arrived, and begged of me to go immediately to her master, who was, she said, dying.
“I hurried off to the house without a moment’s delay. It is a stone’s throw from here. In fact, you can see the walls of the garden from the windows of this room in the daytime. I reached the house. Gabrielle was standing in the hall. I am an old friend of hers. Her face was quite white and had a stunned expression. When she saw me she rushed to me, clasped one of my hands in both of hers, and burst into tears.
The Big Book of Victorian Mysteries Page 24