The Ashiel Mystery | Page 2

I will write you
out a little prescription. Just a little pill, perfectly pleasant to the taste,
which you must swallow when you feel this alarming depression and
lack of appetite of which you complain; and I am confident that we
shall soon notice an improvement. Above all, my dear Sir, no worry; no
anxiety. Lead a quiet, open-air life; play golf; avoid bathing in cold
water; avoid soup, potatoes, puddings and alcohol; and come and see
me again this day fortnight. Thank you, yes, two guineas. Good-bye."
He pressed Sir Arthur's hand, and shepherded him out of the room.
His patient departed, impressed, soothed and comforted.
After the two weeks had passed, and feeling decidedly better, he
returned.
Sir Ronald on this occasion was absolutely cheerful. He expressed
himself astonished at the improvement, and enthusiastic on the subject
of the excellence of his own advice. He then broke to Sir Arthur the
fact that he was about to take his annual holiday. He was starting for
Norway the next day, and should not be back for six weeks.
"But what shall I do while you are away?" cried his patient, aghast.
"You have advanced beyond my utmost expectations," replied the
doctor, "and the best thing for you now will be to go out to Vichy, and
take a course of the waters there. I should have recommended this in
any case. My intended departure makes no difference. Let me earnestly
advise you to start for France to-morrow."
Sir Arthur had by this time developed a blind faith in Sir Ronald
Tompkins and did not dream of ignoring his suggestion. He threw over
all the engagements he had made since arriving in England; packed his
trunks once more; and, if he did not actually leave the country until two

or three days later, it was only because he was not able to get a sleeping
berth on the night express at such short notice.
The end of the week saw him installed at Vichy, the most assiduous
and conscientious of all the water drinkers assembled there.
It was on the veranda of his hotel that he made the acquaintance of Mrs.
Meredith.
She was twenty-five, rich, beautiful and a widow, her husband having
been accidentally killed within a few months of their marriage. After a
year or so of mourning she had recovered her spirits, and led a gay life
in English society, where she was very much in request.
Sir Arthur had seen few attractive women of late, the ladies of Baku
being inclined to run to fat and diamonds, and he thought Lena
Meredith the most lovely and the most wonderful creature that ever
stepped out of a fairy tale.
From the very moment he set eyes on her he was her devoted slave, and
after the first few days a more constant attendant than any shadow--for
shadows at best are mere fair-weather comrades. He seldom saw the
lady alone, for she had with her a small child, not yet a year old, of
which she was, as it seemed to Sir Arthur, inordinately fond; and
whether she were sitting under the trees in the garden of the hotel, or
driving slowly along the dusty roads--as was her habit each
afternoon--the baby and its nurse were always with her, and by their
presence put an effective check to the personalities in which he was
longing to indulge. It would have taken more than a baby to discourage
Sir Arthur, however: he cheerfully included the little girl in his
attentions; and, as time went on, became known to the other invalids in
the place by the nickname of "the Nursemaid."
Mrs. Meredith took his homage as a matter of course. She was used to
admiration, though she was not one of those women to whom it is
indispensable. She considered it one of the luxuries of life, and held
that it is more becoming than diamonds and a better protection against
the weather than the most expensive furs. At first she looked upon the

obviously stricken state of Sir Arthur with amusement, combined with
a good deal of gratification that some one should have arisen to
entertain her in this dull health resort; but gradually, as the weeks
passed, her point of view underwent a change. Whether it was the
boredom of the cure, or whether she was touched by the unselfish
devotion of her admirer, or whether it was due merely to the accident
that Sir Arthur was an uncommonly good-looking young man and so
little conscious of the fact, from one cause or another she began to feel
for him a friendliness which grew quickly more pronounced; so that at
the end of a month, when he found her, for the first time walking alone
by the lake, and