Doctor Sally Read online

  “And you want me to go to a sanatorium?”

  “I think you ought to.”

  “Well,” said Lottie, “it all looks funny to me!”

  The door opened and Lord Tidmouth appeared. He seemed pleased with himself.

  “Hullo!“ said Lord Tidmouth. “I say, I’ve snaffled a medicine-man.” His eye rested on Sally. He stared. “Hullo!”

  Sally returned his gaze composedly.

  “I have already examined the patient,” she said.

  “You have?“ said Lord Tidmouth, perplexed.

  “Yes. My name is Doctor Smith.”

  “Doctor Smith?”

  “Doctor Smith.”

  Lord Tidmouth’s was not a very agile brain, but it was capable of flashes of intuition.

  “You mean you’re a doctor?“ he said brightly.

  “Yes.”

  “I see. Of course,” said Lord Tidmouth, with the air of a man who is always prepared to listen to reason, “there are lady doctors.”

  “Yes. I’m one of them.”

  “Absolutely. Yes, I see your point. I say,” said Lord Tidmouth, “this is rather awkward. Old Bill sent me to get a doctor, and I grabbed one in the lobby.”

  “I’m afraid there’s nothing for him to do here.”

  “Not a thing,” agreed Lottie. “What do you think I’m doing here, Squiffy, you poor nut—holding a medical convention?”

  Lord Tidmouth rubbed his chin.

  “But he’s apt to be a bit shirty, isn’t he, if he finds I’ve lugged him up here for nothing? He wasn’t any too pleased at having to come at all. He was on his way to the links.”

  “Oh, well,” said Sally, sympathizing with his concern, “as you’ve called him in, we can have a consultation, if he likes. Where is he?”

  “Navigating the stairs. Stout old boy, not very quick on his pins.” He went to the door. “This way, doc,” he called.

  A puffing noise without announced that the medicine-man was nearing journey’s end. The next moment he had entered, and Sally, turning to the door, was surprised to find that this was no stranger in her midst but an old acquaintance.

  “Why, Sir Hugo!“ she said.

  Sir Hugo Drake had just enough breath left to say, “God bless my soul! You here?“ After that he resumed his puffing.

  Lord Tidmouth became apologetic.

  “I’m awfully sorry,“ he said, addressing his panting captive. “I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding.”

  “This gentleman,” explained Sally, “didn’t know that I was here.”

  “No,” said his lordship. “The whole trouble was, you see, Old Bill got the wind up and sent the entire strength of the company out scouring the town for medicos. It begins to look like a full house.”

  Sir Hugo realized the position.

  “No need for me at all, eh? Well, I’m just as pleased. I’ve an appointment on the links. Of course, if you’d like a consultation—”

  “Could you spare the time?“ asked Sally.

  “Certainly, if you wish it. Mustn’t take too long, though.”

  “Oh, of course not; only a few minutes.”

  “Very well, then. This young lady the patient?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, step into the bedroom, young lady, and we’ll go into your case.”

  Lottie rose obediently. She was feeling a little flattered at this inrush of doctors on her behalf.

  “She says I ought to go into a sanatorium,” she said, indicating Sally.

  “Subject to Sir Hugo’s opinion,” said Sally.

  Sir Hugo nodded.

  “Oh, we’ll thrash the whole thing out, never fear. We’ll go into the case minutely. Run along, my dear.”

  “Well, I ought to be all right between the two of you,” said Lottie, and closed the bedroom door behind her.

  Lord Tidmouth seemed relieved that matters had reached such an amicable settlement. He had had visions of this red-faced bird setting about him with a niblick.

  “Then I’ll leave you to it—what? I’ve often wondered,“ he said meditatively, “what you doctors talk about when you hold consultations. Lot of deep stuff, I expect.”

  CHAPTER VI

  FOR a moment after the departure of Lord Tidmouth ere was silence in the room. Sir Hugo was still engaged in recovering his full supply of breath. This done, he looked at Sally inquiringly.

  “What’s the trouble?”

  “Oh, nothing,” said Sally. “Just a little nervous.”

  Sir Hugo cocked an eye at the debris on the floor.

  “Seems to have been violent.”

  “Yes. That type. Too many cocktails and cigarettes, and no self-restraint. I thought she ought to have a few weeks’ rest.”

  “I imagined from the way that young fellow snatched me up and carried me off that it was a matter of life and death. Silly idiot! Now I shall be late for my golf match.”

  “How did you get on this morning after you left me?” asked Sally.

  Sir Hugo sighed, as Napoleon might have sighed if somebody had met him after the battle of Waterloo and asked, “Well, how did it all come out?”

  “He beat me four and three.”

  “What a shame!”

  “I didn’t seem able to do anything right,” said Sir Hugo, wallowing in this womanly sympathy. “If I didn’t hook I sliced. And if I didn’t slice I topped.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “I only needed a nine to win the fourteenth, and I ought to have got it easily. But I blew up on the green.”

  “That’s often the way, isn’t it?”

  “Mark you,” said Sir Hugo, “I wasn’t so bad off the tee. Some of my drives were extremely good. It was the short shots that beat me—just the ones you are so wonderful at. If I could play my mashie as you do, my handicap would be down below twenty before I knew where I was.”

  “What do you find is the trouble? Shanking?”

  “No, topping, principally.”

  “You oughtn’t to look up.”

  “I know I oughtn’t, but I do.”

  “Do you think you are gripping right?“ asked Sally.

  “Well, I’m gripping,” said Sir Hugo. “I don’t know if I’m doing it right.”

  “Would you like me to show you?”

  “My dear young lady, I should like it above all things!”

  A monocled head appeared round the edge of the door. Curiosity had been too much for Lord Tidmouth.

  “How are you getting on?“ he inquired.

  “Kindly leave us alone, young man,” said Sir Hugo, testily. “We are at a very difficult point in the diagnosis.”

  “Oh, right-ho. Poo-boop-a-doop,” said Lord Tidmouth amiably, and vanished again.

  Sir Hugo turned to Sally.

  “You were saying you would show me—”

  Sally stretched out a hand towards the golf-bag.

  “May I borrow one of your clubs?“ she said. “Now, then. So much depends on the right grip. Do you use the Vardon?”

  “I used to, but lately I’ve gone back to the double-V.”

  “Well, the great thing is not to grip too tightly. Grip firmly but lightly.”

  “Firmly but lightly. I see.”

  “The hands should be kept low, and, above all, should finish low. So many people finish their iron shots with the hands up, as if they were driving.”

  “True,” said Sir Hugo. “True.”

  “At the finish of the chip-shot the club should be very little above the horizontal. Not like in the drive.”

  Sir Hugo nodded.

  “I see. Talking of driving, it may interest you to hear of a little experience I had the other day. I had made my drive—”

  “A rather similar thing once happened to me,” said Sally. “It was this way—”

  “I went to play my second,” proceeded Sir Hugo, who may not have been much good as a golfer, but stood almost alone as a golf bore. A man who had out-talked tough, forceful men in clubs, he was not going t
o let himself be silenced by a mere girl. “I went to play my second, and, believe me or believe me not—”

  “What do you think?“ said Sally. “I found—”

  “I just”

  “I simply—”

  The bedroom door opened abruptly.

  “Haven’t you two finished yet?“ asked Lottie peevishly.

  Sir Hugo started like one awakened from a beautiful dream.

  “Oh, quite, quite,” he said, embarrassed. “We were just about to call you. We’ve examined your case from every angle—”

  “And Sir Hugo agrees with me—” said Sally.

  “Exactly. That your trouble—”

  “Is a slight matter of nerves—”

  “Nothing of any consequence, though disagreeable—”

  “And you must be kept in a sanatorium—”

  “Firmly but lightly,” said Sir Hugo. “I mean —ah—just so.”

  Lord Tidmouth manifested himself again.

  “Hullo!“ he said. “Consultation over?”

  “Yes,” said Lottie. “They say I ought to go to a sanatorium.”

  “I can recommend this one,” said Sir Hugo. “I will write down the address.”

  “Oh, all right,” said Lottie. “Leave it on the table. I’m going out.”

  “To find Bill?” said Lord Tidmouth. “He’s probably on the front somewhere.”

  Lottie laughed a bitter laugh.

  “Bill? I don’t want Bill. I’ve nothing to say to Mr. Bannister. If I’m to be dumped in a sanatorium, I’m going to get in a bit of dancing first. Come along and shake them up, Squiffy?”

  “Absolutely,” agreed Lord Tidmouth. “Just what the old system needs. Well, toodle-oo everybody.”

  Sir Hugo was staring open-mouthed at the closed door. He had the air of a man who has received an unpleasant shock.

  “Bannister, did she say?”

  “Yes. Mr. Bannister was here when I came. He went out.”

  Sir Hugo snorted powerfully.

  “So this is the woman he’s been fooling around with! I might have guessed it would be some peroxide blonde.”

  Sally saw daylight.

  “Is Mr. Bannister the nephew you were telling me about?”

  “He is. And that is the woman! Of all the maddening, worthless nephews a man was ever cursed with—” He paused, and seemed to ponder. “Just show me that grip once more, will you?“ he said, coming out of his reverie.

  “All right,” said Sally agreeably.” But don’t you want to worry about your nephew?”

  “He can wait,” said Sir Hugo grimly.

  “I see. Well, give me your hands.”

  She took his hands and clasped them round the club. And it was in this attitude that Bill, returning for the latest bulletin, found them.

  Bill’s first emotion was one of excusable wrath at the spectacle. Here was the only girl he had ever really loved, and he had no sooner left her than she started holding hands with a man of advanced years in a suit of plus-fours of the kind that makes horses shy. He cleared his throat austerely, and was about to speak when the plus-foured one turned.

  “William!“ he said, and Bill wilted.

  If one of the more austere of the minor prophets had worn plus-fours he would have looked just as Sir Hugo Drake was looking now. The great specialist had drawn himself up, and he could not have regarded Bill more sternly if the latter had been a germ.

  “So I’ve found you, have I!”

  “Oh, hullo, uncle!“ said Bill.

  “Don’t say ‘Oh, hullo, uncle!’ to me,” boomed Sir Hugo.” This is a pleasant surprise for a man who stands in loco parentis, is it not? I come down here to this place, to this Bingley-on-Sea, and before I’ve hardly had time to put a ball down on the first tee I am called in to attend to your female associates!”

  “Uncle, please!”

  Sir Hugo strode to the door.

  “I am returning to Woollam Chersey to-night, William,” he said.” I shall expect you to accompany me.”

  “I can’t!”

  “Why not?”

  Bill looked helplessly at Sally.

  “I’ll be back in a day or two,” he said.

  “Then I shall remain till you leave,” said Sir Hugo.” And let me tell you, I shall watch this suite like a hawk.”

  “There’s no need for you to watch this suite—”

  “There is every need for me to watch this suite. Good God, boy, I’ve seen the female! If you imagine that I’m going to stand idly by and see you get yourself inextricably entangled with a woman who dyes her hair and throws tea-cups about hotels you are vastly mistaken.” He looked at his watch.” Great heavens! Is that the time? I must fly. I’ll remember what you told me about that grip. Firmly but lightly. Hands not too much over. William, I shall be seeing you again. We will discuss this affair then.”

  Although his uncle—corporeally considered—had left him, his aura of influence seemed still to oppress William Bannister. He gulped once or twice before speaking.

  “How on earth did he get here?“ he gasped.

  “Lord Tidmouth found him in the lobby and dragged him up,” said Sally.” Poor Mr. Bannister, you don’t have much luck with your medical advisers, do you?” She moved towards the door.” Well, good-bye.”

  Bill quivered.

  “You’re not going?”

  “Yes, I am. Will you give me your address.”

  “Woollam Chersey, Hampshire, finds me.” He drew a deep breath.” How wonderful! You want to write to me?”

  “No. I just want to know where to send my bill.”

  “Good heavens!”

  “What’s the matter?”

  Bill walked across to the sofa and kicked it violently.

  “It’s enough to drive a man mad,” he said.” Whenever I say anything—anything with any sentiment in it—you immediately become the doctor, and freeze me with a cold douche.”

  “What do you expect me to do—swoon in your arms?”

  “You haven’t an atom of feeling in you.”

  “Oh, yes, I have. And some day the right man will bring it out. Cheer up, Mr. Bannister. You look like a sulky baby that’s been refused its bottle.” She laughed.” I think your uncle’s quite right, and you’re still a small boy.”

  Bill scowled.

  “Oh, I’ll prove to you some day that I’m grown up.”

  Sally laughed again.

  “Oh, I’m not saying you may not grow up some day. But at present you’re just a child.”

  “I’m not.”

  “You are.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  There was a knock at the door. The bell-boy entered.

  “Please, sir,” said the bell-boy, “your rocking-horse has arrived.”

  “What!” cried Bill.

  “There!“ said Sally.

  Bill passed a hand through his disordered hair. “‘My rocking-horse? What do you mean, my rocking-horse?”

  “Well, all I know is there’s a rocking-horse outside. Shall I bring it in?”

  “No!” cried Bill.

  “Yes,” said Sally.” Good-bye, Mr. Bannister. Naturally you will want to be alone. You don’t want grown-ups around at a moment like this. Good-bye.”

  “Come back!” shouted Bill.

  But Sally had gone.

  CHAPTER VII

  IF there was a thought in the mind of Lord Tidmouth as he sat, some two weeks after his visit to Bingley-on-Sea, playing solitaire in the living-hall of his friend Bill Bannister’s country-seat at Woollam Chersey in the county of Hampshire, it was a vaguely formulated feeling that life was extremely pleasant, and that there was no getting away from it that these all-male parties were the best. He had had an excellent dinner, the lamps were lit, and it seemed to him that there was nothing whatever to worry about in the world.

  Lord Tidmouth liked peace and quiet. Women, in his experience, militated against an atmosphere of quiet peace. Look at his second wife, for
instance. For the matter of that, look at his third and fourth. He was placidly content that the Manor, Woollam Chersey, harboured, beside himself, only William, his host, inert now in a neighbouring arm-chair, and William’s uncle, Sir Hugo Drake, at present occupied in the passage without, practising putts into a tumbler.

  The room in which Bill and Lord Tidmouth sat was old and panelled. Its furniture was masculine and solid. From the walls portraits of dead-and-gone Bannisters gazed down, and in one corner there was a suit of armour which it was Lord Tidmouth’s practice to tap smartly whenever he passed it. He liked the ringing sound it gave out. What with an occasional tap on this suit of armour, plenty to eat and drink, and sufficient opportunities for playing solitaire, Lord Tidmouth found life at Woollam Chersey satisfactory.

  A kindly soul, he wished he could have thought that his host was in a similar frame of mind. As far as he allowed himself to worry about anything, he was a little worried about good old Bill. The man seemed on edge. Very far from his merry self he had been since that afternoon at Bingley. This troubled Lord Tidmouth at times.

  It did not, however, trouble him to the extent of spoiling his enjoyment in his game of solitaire. With pursed lips he uncovered a card, held it in the air, put it on one of the piles, removed a second card from another pile and put it on a third pile—in fact, went through all the movements peculiar to those addicted to this strange game.

  It is almost inevitable that a man who is playing solitaire will sooner or later sing. Lord Tidmouth, who had for some little time been humming in an undertone, now came boldly into the open and committed himself to the rendition of a popular ballad:

  “I fee-ar naw law in shee-ining arr-mour,

  Though his lance be swift and—er—keen…”

  In his arm-chair Bill stirred uneasily.

  “But I fee-ar, I fee-ar the glarr-moor

  Ther-oo thy der-ooping larr-shes seen,

  I fee-ar, I fee-ar, the glar-moor …

  “Oh, shut up!” said Bill.

  Lord Tidmouth, ceasing to sing, turned amiably.

  “Sorry, old top,” he said.” I thought you were dead.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Playing solitaire, laddie.” He fiddled with the cards, and absently burst into song once more: