A real faint, or suspension of the heart's action, is never a long
affair. When Hetty fell in an unconscious state against the body of her
dead husband she quickly recovered herself. Her intellect was keen
enough, and she knew exactly what had happened. The nice black stuff
which gave such pleasant dreams had killed Vincent. She had therefore
killed him. Yes, he was stone dead--she had seen death once or twice
before, and could not possibly mistake it. She had seen her mother die
long ago, and had stood by the deathbed of more than one neighbor. The
cold, the stiffness, the gray-white appearance, all told her beyond the
possibility of doubt that life was not only extinct, but had been
extinct for at least a couple of hours. Her husband was dead. When she
had given him that fatal dose he had been in the full vigor of youth and
health--now he was dead. She had never loved him in life; although he
had been an affectionate husband to her, but at this moment she shed a
few tears for him. Not many, for they were completely swallowed up in
the fear and terror which grew greater and greater each moment within
her. He was dead, and she had killed him. Long ago she had concealed the
knowledge of a murder because she loved the man who had committed it.
Now she had committed murder herself--not intentionally, no, no. No more
had she intended to kill Vincent than Awdrey when he was out that night
had intended to take the life of Horace Frere. But Frere was dead and
now Vincent was dead, and Hetty would be tried for the crime. No, surely
they could not try her--they could not possibly bring it home to her.
How could a little thing like she was be supposed to take the life of a
big man? She had never meant to injure him, too--she had only meant to
give him a good sleep, to rest him thoroughly--to deceive him, of
course--to do a thing which she knew if he were aware of would break his
heart; but to take his life, no, nothing was further from her thoughts.
Nevertheless the deed was done.
Oh, it was horrible, horrible--she hated being so close to the dead
body. It was no longer Vincent, the man who would have protected her at
the risk of his life, it was a hideous dead body. She would get away
from it--she would creep up close to Rover. No wonder Rover hated the
room; perhaps he saw the spirit of her husband. Oh, how frightened she
was! What was the matter with her side?--why did her heart beat so
strangely, galloping one, two, three, then pausing, then one, two, three
again?--and the pain, the sick, awful pain. Yes, she knew--she was sick
to death with terror.
She got up presently from where she had been kneeling by her dead
husband's side and staggered across to the fireplace. She tried wildly
to think, but she found herself incapable of reasoning. Shivering
violently, she approached the table, poured out a cup of the cocoa which
was still hot, and managed to drink it off. The warm liquid revived her,
and she felt a shade better and more capable of thought. Her one
instinct now was to save herself. Vincent was dead--no one in all the
world could bring him back to life, but, if possible, Hetty would so act
that not a soul in all the country should suspect her. How could she
make things safe? If it were known, known everywhere, that she was away
from him when he died, then of course she would be safe. Yes, this fact
must be known. Once she had saved the Squire, now the Squire must save
her. It must be known everywhere that she had sought an interview with
him--that at the time when Vincent died she was in the Squire's
presence, shut up in the office with him, the door locked--she and the
Squire alone together. This secret, which she would have fought to the
death to keep to herself an hour ago, must now be blazoned abroad to a
criticising world. The lesser danger to the Squire must be completely
swallowed up in the greater danger to herself. She must hurry to him at
once and get him to tell what he knew. Ah, yes, if he did this she would
be safe--she remembered the right word at last, for she had heard the
neighbors speak of it when it a celebrated trial was going on in
Salisbury--she must prove an alibi--then it would be known that she had
been absent from home when her husband died.
The imminence of the danger made her at last feel quiet and steady. She
took up the lighted candle and went into the dairy--she unlocked the
cupboard in the wall and took out the bottle of laudanum. Returning to
the kitchen she emptied the contents of the bottle into the range and
then threw the bottle itself also into the heart of the fire--she
watched it as it slowly melted under the influence of the hot fire--the
laudanum itself was also licked up by the hungry flames. That tell-tale
and awful evidence of her guilt was at least removed. She forgot all
about Susan having seen the liquid in the morning--she knew nothing
about the evidence which would be brought to light at a coroner's
inquest--about the facts which a doctor would be sure to give. Nothing
but the bare reality remained prominently before her excited brain.
Vincent was dead--she had killed him by an overdose of laudanum which
she had given him in all innocence to make him sleep--but yet, yet in
her heart of hearts, she knew that her motive would not bear
explanation.
"Squire will save me," she said to herself--"if it's proved that I were
with Squire I am safe. I'll go to him now--I'll tell 'im all at once.
It's late, very late, and it's dark outside, but I'll go."
Hetty left the room, leaving the dog behind her--he uttered a frightful
howl when she did so and followed her as far as the door--she shut and
locked the door--he scratched at it to try and release himself, but
Hetty took no notice--she was cruel as regarded the dumb beast's fear in
her own agony and terror.
She ran upstairs to her room, put on her hat and jacket, and went out.
Stumbling and trembling, she went along the road until she reached the
summit of the hill which led straight down in a gentle slope toward
Grandcourt. She was glad the ground sloped downward, for it was
important that she should quicken her footsteps in order to see the
Squire with as little delay as possible. She was quite oblivious of the
lapse of time since her last visit, and hoped he might still be in the
office. She resolved to try the office first. If he were not there she
would go on to the house--find him she must; nothing should keep her
from his presence to-night.
She presently reached Grandcourt, entered the grounds by a side entrance
and pursued her way through the darkness. The sky overhead was cloudy,
neither moon nor stars were visible. Faltering and falling she pressed
forward, and by and by reached the neighborhood of the office. She saw a
light burning dimly behind the closed blinds--her heart beat with a
sense of thankfulness--she staggered up to the door, brushing her dress
against the door as she did so--she put up her hand and knocked feebly.
The next instant the door was opened to her--a man, a total stranger,
confronted her, but behind him she saw Awdrey. She tottered into the
room.
The comparative light and warmth within, after the darkness and chilly
damp of the spring evening, made her head reel, and her eyes at first
could take in no object distinctly. She was conscious of uttering
excited words, then she heard the door shut behind her. She looked
round--she was alone with the Squire. She staggered up to him, and fell
on her knees.
"You must save me as I saved you long ago," she panted.
"What is it? Get up. What do you mean?" said Awdrey.
"I mean, Squire--oh! I mean I wanted to come to you to-day, but
Vincent,"--her voice faltered--"Vincent were mad wi' jealousy. He
thought that I ought not to see you, Squire; he had got summat in his
brain, and it made him mad. He thought that, perhaps, long ago, Squire,
I loved you--long ago. I'm not afeared to say anything to-night, the
truth will out to-night--I loved you long ago, I love you still; yes,
yes, with all my heart, with all my heart. You never cared nothin' for
me, I know that well. You never did me a wrong in thought or in deed, I
know that well also; but to me you were as a god, and I loved you, I
love you still, and Vincent, my husband, he must have seen it in my
face; but you did me no wrong--never, in word or in deed--only loved
you--and I love you still."
"You must be mad, girl," said Awdrey. "Why have you come here to tell me
that? Get up at once; your words and your actions distress me much. Get
up, Hetty; try to compose yourself."
"What I have come to say had best be said kneeling," replied Hetty; "it
eases the awful pain in my side to kneel. Let me be, Squire; let me
kneel up against your father's desk. Ah! that's better. It is my
heart--I think it's broke; anyhow, it beats awful, and the pain is
awful."
"If you have come for any other reason than to say the words you have
just said, say them and go," replied Awdrey.
Hetty glanced up at him. His face was hard, she thought it looked cruel,
she shivered from head to foot. Was it for this man she had sacrificed
her life? Then the awful significance of her errand came over her, and
she proceeded to speak.
"Vincent saw the truth in my face," she continued. "Anyhow, he was mad
wi' jealousy, and he said that I worn't to come and see yer. He heard me
speak to yer last night, he heard me say it's a matter o' life and death
and he wor mad. He said I worn't to come; but I wor mad too, mad to
come, and I thought I'd get over him by guile. I put summat in his
stout, and he drank it--summat, I don't know the name, but I had took it
myself and it always made me a sight better, and I gave it to 'im in his
stout and he drank it, and then he slept. He lay down on the settle in
the kitchen, and he went off into a dead sleep. When he slept real sound
I stole away and I come to you. I saw you this evening and you spoke to
me and I spoke to you, and I begged of you to keep our secret, and I
thought perhaps you would, and I come away feelin' better. I went back
'ome, and the place were quiet, and I got into the kitchen. Vincent was
lying on the settle sound asleep. I thought nought o' his sleepin', only
to be glad, for I knew he'd never have missed me. I made his supper for
him, and built up the fire, and I lit the lamps in the house, and I took
off my outdoor things. The dog howled, but I didn't take no notice.
Presently I went up to Vincent, and I shook 'im--I shook 'im, 'ard, but
he didn't wake. I took his hand in mine, it wor cold as ice; I listened
for his breath, there wor none. Squire," said Hetty, rising now to her
feet, "my man wor dead; Squire, I have killed 'im, just the same as you
killed the man on Salisbury Plain six years ago. My husband is dead, and
I have killed him. Squire, you must save me as I saved you."
"How?" asked Awdrey. His voice had completely altered now. In the
presence of the real tragedy all the hardness had left it. He sank into
a chair near Hetty's side, he even took one of her trembling hands in
his.
"How am I to help you, you poor soul?" he said again.
"You must prove an alibi--that's the word. You must say 'Hetty wor wi'
me, she couldn't have killed her man,' you must say that; you must tell
all the world that you and me was together here."
"I'll do better than that," said Awdrey suddenly.
"What do you mean?" Hetty started back and gazed at him with a queer
mixture of hope and terror in her face. "Better--but there ain't no
better," she cried. "Ef you don't tell the simple truth I'll be hanged;
hanged by the neck until I die--I, who saved you at the risk of my own
soul nearly six years gone."
"I'll not let you be hanged," said Awdrey, rising. "Get up, Hetty; do
not kneel to me. You don't quite know what you have done for me
to-night. Sit on that chair--compose yourself--try to be calm. Hetty,
you just came in the nick of time. God and the devil were fighting for
my soul. In spite of all the devil's efforts God was getting the better
of it, and I--I didn't want him to get the best. I wanted the devil to
help me, and, Hetty, I even prayed to him that he might come and help
me. When I saw you coming into the room I thought at first that my
prayer was answered. I seemed to see the devil on your face. Now I see
differently--your presence has lifted a great cloud from before my
mind--I see distinctly, almost as distinctly as if I were in hell
itself, the awful consequences which must arise from wrong-doing. Hetty,
I have made up my mind; you, of all people, have been the most powerful
advocate on the side of God to-night. We will both do the right,
child--we will confess the simple truth."
"No, Squire, no; they'll kill me, they'll kill me, if you don't help me
in the only way you can help me--you are stronger than me, Squire--don't
lead me to my death."
"They won't kill you, but you must tell the whole truth as I will tell
the truth. It can be proved that you gave the poison to your husband
with no intent to kill--that matter can be arranged promptly. Come with
me, Hetty, now--let us come together. If you falter I'll strengthen you;
if I falter you'll strengthen me. We will go together at once and
tell--tell what you saw and what I did nearly six years ago."
"What you did on Salisbury Plain?" she asked.
"Yes, the time I killed that man."
"Never, never," she answered; she fell flat on her face on the floor.
Awdrey went to her and tried to raise her up.
"Come," he said, "I have looked into the very heart of evil, and I
cannot go on with it--whatever the consequence we must both tell the
truth--and we will do it together; come at once."
"You don't know what will happen to you," said Hetty. She shivered as
she lay prone before him.
"No matter--nothing could happen so bad as shutting away the face of
God. I'll tell all, and you must tell all. No more lies for either of
us. We will save our souls even if our bodies die."
"The pain--the pain in my side," moaned Hetty.
"It will be better after we have gone through what is before us. Come,
I'll take your hand."
She gave it timidly; the Squire's fingers closed over it.
"Where are we to go?" she asked. "Where are you taking me?"
"Come with me. I'll speak. Presently it will be your turn--after they
know all, all the worst, it will be your turn to speak."
"Who are to know all, Squire?"
"My wife, my sisters, Mrs. Everett, my friends."
"Oh, God, God, why was I ever born!" moaned Hetty.
"You'll feel better afterward," said Awdrey. "Try and remember that in
the awful struggle and ordeal of the next few minutes your soul and mine
will be born again--they will be saved--saved from the power of evil. Be
brave, Hetty. You told me to-night that you loved me--prove the
greatness of your love by helping me to save my own soul and yours."
"I wonder if this is true," said Hetty. "You seem to lift me out of
myself." She spoke in a sort of dull wonder.
"It is true--it is right--it is the only thing; come at once."
She did not say any more, nor make the least resistance. They left the
office together. They trod softly on the gravel path which led to the
main entrance of the old house. They both entered the hall side by side.
Hetty looked pale and untidy; her hair fell partly down her back; there
were undried tears on her cheeks; her eyes had a wild and startled gleam
in them; the Squire was also deadly pale, but he was quiet and composed.
The fierce struggle which had nearly rent his soul in two was completely
over at that moment. In the calm there was also peace, and the peace had
settled on his face.
Mrs. Henessey was standing in the wide entrance hall. She started when
she saw her brother; then she glanced at Hetty, then she looked again at
the Squire.
"Why, Robert!" she said, "Robert!"
There was an expression about Hetty's face and about Awdrey's face which
silenced and frightened her.
"What is it?" she said in a low voice, "what is wrong?"
"Where are the others?" asked the Squire. "I want to see them all
immediately."
"They are in the front drawing-room--Margaret, Dr. Rumsey, Dorothy, my
husband and Dorothy's, and Margaret's uncle, Mr. Cuthbert."
"I am glad he is there; we shall want a magistrate," said Awdrey.
"A magistrate! What is the matter?"
"You will know in a moment, Anne. Did you say Rumsey was in the
drawing-room?"
"Yes; they are all there. Margaret is playing the "Moonlight
Sonata"--you hear it, don't you through the closed doors--she played so
mournfully that I ran away--I hate music that affects me to tears."
Awdrey bent down and said a word to Hetty; then he looked at his sister.
"I am going into the drawing-room, and Hetty Vincent will come with me,"
he said.
"I used to know you as Hetty Armitage," said Anne. "How are you, Hetty?"
"She is not well," answered Awdrey for her, "but she will tell you
presently. Come into the drawing-room, too, Anne; I should like you to
be present."
"I cannot understand this," said Anne. She ran on first and opened the
great folding-doors--she entered the big room, her face ablaze with
excitement and wonder--behind her came Awdrey holding Hetty's hand.
There was an expression on the Squire's face which arrested the
attention of every one present. Mr. Cuthbert, who had not seen him since
his return home, rose eagerly from the deep arm-chair into which he had
sunk, intending to give him a hearty welcome, but when he had advanced
in the Squire's direction a step or two, he paused--he seemed to see by
a sort of intuition that the moment for ordinary civilities was not
then. Margaret left her seat by the piano and came almost into the
centre of the room. Her husband's eyes seemed to motion her back--her
uncle went up to her and put his hand on her shoulder; he did not know
what he expected, nor did Margaret, but each one in the room felt with
an electric thrill of sympathy that a revelation of no ordinary nature
was about to be made.
Still holding Hetty's hand, Awdrey came into the great space in front of
the fireplace; he was about to speak when Rumsey came suddenly forward.
"One moment," he said. "This young woman is very ill; will some one
fetch brandy?" He took Hetty's slight wrist between his finger and
thumb, and felt the fluttering pulse.
Anne rushed away to get the brandy. The doctor mixed a small dose, and
made Hetty swallow it. The stimulant brought back a faint color to her
cheeks, and her eyes looked less dull and dazed.
"I have come into this room to-night with Hetty Vincent, who used to be
Hetty Armitage, to make a very remarkable statement," said Awdrey.
Rumsey backed a few steps. He thought to himself: "We shall get now to
the mystery. He has made up his mind on the side of the good--brave
fellow! What can all this mean? What is the matter with that pretty
girl? She looks as if she were dying. What can be the connection between
them?"
"What can be the connection between them?" was also the thought running
in the minds of every other spectator. Margaret shared it, as her
uncle's hand rested a little heavier moment by moment on her slight
shoulder. Squire Cuthbert was swearing heavily under his breath. The
sisters and their husbands stood in the background, prepared for any
"denouement"--all was quietness and expectancy. Mrs. Everett, who up to
the present instant had taken no part in the extraordinary scene,
hurried now to the front.
"Squire," she said, "I don't know what you are going to say, but I can
guess. In advance, however, I thank you from my heart; a premonition
seizes me that the moment of my son's release is at hand. You have got
this young woman to reveal her secret?"
"Her secret is mine," said Awdrey.
Squire Cuthbert swore aloud.
"Just wait one moment before you say anything," said Awdrey, fixing his
eyes on him. "The thing is not what you imagine. I can tell the truth in
half-a-dozen words. Mrs. Everett, you are right--you see the man before
you who killed Horace Frere on Salisbury Plain. Your son is innocent."
"My God! You did this?" said Mrs. Everett.
"Robert, what are you saying?" cried Margaret.
"Robert!" echoed Anne.
"Dear brother, you must be mad!" exclaimed Dorothy.
"No, I am sane--I am sure I was mad for a time, but now I am quite sane
to-night. I killed Horace Frere on Salisbury Plain. Hetty Vincent saw
the murder committed; she hid her knowledge for my sake. Immediately
after I committed the deed the doom of my house fell upon me, and I
forgot what I myself had done. For five years I had no memory of my own
act. Rumsey, when I saw my face reflected in the pond, six months ago,
the knowledge of the truth returned to me. I remembered what I had done.
I remembered, and I was not sorry, and I resolved to hide the truth to
the death; my conscience, the thing which makes the difference between
man and beast, never awoke within me--I was happy and I kept well. But
yesterday--yesterday when I came home and saw my people and saw Hetty
here, and noticed the look of suffering on your face, Mrs. Everett, the
voice of God began to make itself heard. From that moment until now my
soul and the powers of evil have been fighting against the powers of
good. I was coward enough to think that I might hide the truth and
suffer, and live the life of a hypocrite." The Squire's voice, which had
been quite quiet and composed, faltered now for the first time. "It
could not be done," he added. "I found I could not close with the
devil."
At this moment a strange thing happened. Awdrey's wife rushed up to him,
she flung her arms round his neck, and laid her head on his breast.
"Thank God!" she murmured. "Nothing matters, for you have saved your
soul alive."
Awdrey pushed back his wife's hair, and kissed her on her forehead.
"But this is a most remarkable thing," said Mr. Cuthbert, finding his
tongue, and coming forward. "You, Awdrey--you, my niece's husband, come
quietly into this room and tell us with the utmost coolness that you are
a murderer. I cannot believe it--you must be mad."
"No, I am perfectly sane. Hetty Vincent can prove the truth of my words.
I am a murderer, but not by intent. I never meant to kill Frere;
nevertheless, I am a murderer, for I have taken a man's life."
"You tell me this?" said Squire Cuthbert. "You tell me that you have
suffered another man to suffer in your stead for close on six years."
"Unknowingly, Squire Cuthbert. There was a blank over my memory."
"I can testify to that," said Rumsey, now coming forward. "The whole
story is so astounding, so unprecedented, that I am not the least
surprised at your all being unable to make a just estimate of the true
circumstances at the present moment. Nevertheless, Awdrey tells the
simple truth. I have watched him as my patient for years. I have given
his case my greatest attention. I consider it one of the most curious
psychological studies which has occurred in the whole of my wide
experience. Awdrey killed Horace Frere, and forgot all about it. The
deed was doubtless done in a moment of strong irritation."
"He was provoked to it," said Hetty, speaking for the first time.
"It will be necessary that you put all that down in writing," said
Rumsey, giving her a quick glance. "Squire, I begin to see a ghost of
daylight. It is possible that you may be saved from the serious
consequences of your own act, if it can be proved before a jury that you
committed the terrible deed as a means of self-protection."
"It was for that," said Hetty again. "I can tell exactly what I saw."
The excited people who were listening to this narrative now began to
move about and talk eagerly and rapidly. Rumsey alone altogether kept
his head. He saw how ill Hetty was, and how all-important her story
would be if there was any chance of saving Awdrey. It must be put in
writing without delay.
"Come and sit here," he said, taking the girl's hand and leading her to
a chair. All the others shrank away from her, but Mrs. Everett, whose
eyes were blazing with a curious combination of passionate anger and
wild, exultant joy, came close up to her for a moment.
"Little hypocrite--little spy!" she hissed. "Don't forget that you have
committed perjury. Your sentence will be a severe one."
"Hush," said Rumsey, "is this a moment--?" A look in his eyes silenced
the widow--she shrank away near one of the windows to relieve her
overcharged feelings in a burst of tears.
"Sit here and tell me exactly what you saw," said Rumsey to Hetty. "Mr.
Cuthbert, you are doubtless a magistrate?"
"Bless my stars, I don't know what I am at the present moment," said the
worthy Squire, mopping his crimson brow.
"Try to retain your self-control--remember how much hangs on it. This
young woman is very ill--it will be all important that we get her
deposition before----" Rumsey paused; Hetty's eyes were fixed on his
face, her lips moved faintly.
"You may save the Squire after all if you tell the simple truth," said
Rumsey kindly, bending toward her and speaking in a low voice. "Try and
tell the simple truth. I know you are feeling ill, but you will be
better afterward. Will you tell me exactly what happened? I shall put it
down in writing. You will then sign your own deposition."
"I'll tell the truth," said Hetty--"is it the case that if I tell just
the truth I may save Squire?"
"It is his only chance. Now begin."
The others crowded round when Hetty began to speak; all but Mrs.
Everett, who still sat in the window, her face buried in her
handkerchief.
Hetty began her tale falteringly, often trembling and often pausing, but
Rumsey managed to keep her to the point. By and by the whole queer story
was taken down and was then formally signed and sworn to. Rumsey finally
folded up the paper and gave it to Squire Cuthbert to keep.
"I have a strong hope that we may clear Awdrey," he said. "The case is a
clear one of manslaughter which took place in self-defence. Mrs.
Vincent's deposition is most important, for it not only shows that
Awdrey committed the unfortunate deed under the strongest provocation,
but explains exactly why Frere should have had such animosity to the
Squire. Now, Mrs. Vincent, you have rendered a very valuable service,
and as you are ill we cannot expect you to do anything further
to-night."
Here Rumsey looked full at Margaret.
"I think this young woman far too unwell to leave the house," he
said--"can you have a room prepared for her here?"
"Certainly," said Margaret; she went up to Hetty and laid one of her
hands on her shoulder.
"Before Hetty leaves the room, there is something to be said on her own
account," said the Squire.
He then related in a few words the tragedy which had taken place at the
Gable Farm. While he was speaking, Hetty suddenly staggered to her feet
and faced them.
"If what I have told to-night will really save you, Squire, then nothing
else matters," she said; "I'm not afeared now, for ef I 'ave saved you
at last, nothing matters,"--her face grew ghastly white, she tumbled in
a heap to the floor.
The doctor, Margaret, and the Squire rushed to her assistance, but when
they raised her up she was dead.
"Heart disease," said Rumsey, afterward, "accelerated by shock."
* * * * *
A few more words can finish this strange story. At the Squire's own
request, Mr. Cuthbert took the necessary steps for his arrest, and
Rumsey hurried to town to get the interference of the Home Secretary in
the case of Everett, who was suffering for Awdrey's supposed crime in
Portland prison. The doctor had a long interview with one of the
officials at the Home Office, and disclosed all the queer circumstances
of the case. Everett, according to the Queen's Prerogative, received in
due course a free pardon for the crime he had never committed, and was
restored to his mother and his friends once again.
Awdrey's trial took place almost immediately afterward at Salisbury. The
trial was never forgotten in that part of the country, and was the one
topic of conversation for several days in the length and breadth of
England. So remarkable and strange a case had never before been
propounded for the benefit of the jury, but it was evident that the very
learned Judge who conducted the trial was from the first on the side of
the prisoner.
Hetty's all-important deposition made a great sensation; her evidence
was corroborated by Mrs. Armitage, and when Rumsey appeared as a witness
he abundantly proved that Awdrey had completely forgotten the deed of
which he had been guilty. His thrilling description of his patient's
strange case was listened to with breathless attention by a crowded
court. The trial lasted for two days, during which the anxiety of all
Awdrey's friends can be better imagined than described. At the end of
the trial, the jury returned a verdict of "Not Guilty." In short, his
strange case had been abundantly proved: he had done what he did without
intent to kill and simply as a means of self-defence.
On the evening of his return to Grandcourt, he and Margaret stood in the
porch together side by side. It was a moonlight night, and the whole
beautiful place was brightly illuminated.
"Robert," said the wife, "you have lived through it all--you will now
take a fresh lease of life."
He shook his head.
"It is true that I have gone through the fire and been saved," he said,
"but there is a shadow over me--I can never be the man I might have
been."
"You can be a thousand times better," she replied with flashing eyes,
"for you have learned now the bitter and awful lesson of how a man may
fall, rise again, and in the end conquer."
THE END.
End of Project Gutenberg's Dr. Rumsey's Patient, by L. T. Mead and Dr. Halifax