Day after day I watched her closely. Fear made observation keen. I had
fondly hoped that both Mrs. Williams and I had been mistaken--that our
commonplace minds had confounded the brisk and illogical expression of
an agile intellect with madness. But conviction came at last: I could
doubt no longer; her strange speech, her wild ways, her eyes sometimes
startling me with their brilliancy, sometimes paining me with their
sadness, admitted only of one interpretation.
My pen is powerless to describe the feeling of misery that took
possession of me. The stern necessity of self-control made the
suffering more sharp. I dared not by word or look hint my suspicion,
lest the avowal, however vague, might precipitate the fruition of her
madness. My apprehensions exaggerated the results of observation,
and gave to her actions and language a greater importance than they
probably deserved.
And all the long days were filled for me with a weird and tearful
pathos. For her love grew greater and greater, grew to a wildness
and depth that marked her derangement more plainly than any other
illustration. She followed me from room to room, into the garden,
sometimes at a distance, sometimes at my side. She would throw herself
at my feet, rest her cheek on my knee and look up at me with her large
and wonderful eyes, of which the beauty became more startling as her
insanity grew more vigorous.
I once fancied that her past held some sorrow which might contribute
to mature, if it did not actually feed her madness. I had little faith
in my power of winning confession; and her exquisite sensibilities and
my own clumsy judgment alike prohibited the ordeal of examination. Yet
I resolved to question her, and did, at wide intervals, and rather by
implication than by direct interrogation; but won no more from her
than she had before told me. She said that her married life had been
miserable, but that its misery now was forgotten in my love. She never
recurred to it. She dared not. She felt that she had been destined
for me, and she thought there was something menacing to her future in
remembering that another one occupied the position that should have
been always mine. The task of questioning was sadly embarrassed by her
inconsequential language. Day by day her speech grew more incoherent.
Instinct, so far as her passions were concerned, supplied the place
of memory; her memory grew visibly impaired. She could discuss with
pertinent consistency the first portion of a topic; but the rest
slipped from her, and she fell with strange abruptness into another
subject, without manifesting the slightest uneasiness at the sharp
departures of her mind.
I took counsel of Mrs. Williams, who implored me to conceal my fears
from my wife.
"She is young, Sir," she said, "and her reason may get the upper hand
yet. It is not as if she was utterly wild. If there's much strangeness
there's likewise much sense in what she says. This proves she's capable
of reasoning; and there's no telling at her time of life what nature
mayn't do for her."
"My position is terrible," I said. "This kind of existence is life in
death. It is hard--it is hard to see one I love so well, who loves me
with so pure and rare a love, slowly succumbing to this most awful of
human diseases. Cannot I save her? Would a change benefit her, do you
think?"
"I doubt it, Sir. It is not always thought wise to change the
residences of people so afflicted. Their feelings will reason for them
when they are surrounded with familiar things. If you bring them among
strangers and into strange places their poor faculties haven't the
power to grasp what they hear and see. It's like cutting the thread
that supports them."
"But it is impossible that I can sit quietly by and see her decaying,
as it were, before me. I must do something."
"Would you like to have a doctor to see her, Sir?"
"I have thought of that. I have thought of taking her to London. But
what excuse could I make--what would she think?"
"Wouldn't it be better to have a doctor down here, Sir?"
"To be sure it would," I replied, grasping the idea at once. "I could
pretend he was a friend."
"Yes, Sir; and he wouldn't require to stop longer than two or three
days."
"Perhaps not. He would see her in all her moods and come to a
conclusion on which he would base his advice."
I was turning from her when she said,
"I believe, Sir, Mr. Martelli is at Cliffegate."
"Martelli?" I exclaimed, stopping short.
"Why, Sir, so Sarah says," (Sarah was the housemaid). "She was that way
yesterday, and says she saw him sitting on the beach."
"I can hardly believe it. What should Martelli do here?--unless,
indeed, he has taken a situation at a school--but you have no schools
here, have you?"
"No, Sir. But it is quite likely Sarah was mistaken. She was in a
hurry, and the gentleman she saw might well happen to be a stranger.
Yet she declares the person she saw was Mr. Martelli."
"Perhaps he has returned to Cliffegate wishing to return to me: but it
is out of the question that I could receive him now."
I retreated to the library and wrote a letter to an old medical
gentleman who was long my mother's adviser and mine. I set my position
before him with the bluntness I knew he relished, and asked him if he
could oblige me with the name of any medical man who he thought would
have leisure and skill enough to carry out my stratagem. He sent me a
long reply, saying he had spoken to a friend who had made the treatment
of insanity his study, who would be happy to carry out my wishes. To
obviate all chance of exciting my wife's suspicions he advised me to
come to London and settle the programme; "for," he continued, "madness
is often subtle enough to mislead the most practised observer, and it
would therefore be absolutely necessary that Dr. F----'s visit to your
house should be so contrived as to seem perfectly consistent with the
excuse for his visit which you will contrive."
I saw the wisdom of this and determined to go to London.
As some pretence for my absence was needful, I pretended that I had
received a letter on a business matter of great urgency. A large sum,
I said, was at stake, and my presence in town was imperative. Geraldine
was very reluctant to let me go. Her large eyes filled, and her beauty
became mournful, as though some great sorrow had entered her heart.
"I shall be counting the hours, day and night, until you return," she
said. "But how blank the time will be without you! I shall not care to
eat or drink, or go into the garden. Is it not you who make all those
flowers beautiful, and this home dear and sweet to me as heaven?"
"But I will not be long gone, Geraldine. And do you not know that
little separations like these sweeten love, as the clouds in the sky
make the sunshine more brilliant when their shadows pass?"
"Our love does not want brightening," she answered, with a sob. "But
since you must go, I will pray to the Blessed Virgin to watch over you
and bring you safe back to me; for though you do not love her as I do,
she loves you and will never forsake you."
I kissed her, and in a few hours after we parted.
I reached London late at night, and next morning drove to the house
of my friend. He received me very cordially. I learned to my regret
that Dr. F---- had been suddenly summoned to the death-bed of a near
relation, and was not likely to return for three days. I thought more
of Geraldine than myself. But my friend consoled me by saying that my
absence might benefit her; anxiety for my return would give definite
occupation to her mind; the longer indeed my absence was protracted the
better, for fear and hope would steady by their weight the vibrations
of her reason, while expectancy would serve as a leader to her
thoughts, marshal them and keep them in a kind of logical order.
I wrote to her, saying that my return was unavoidably delayed, but
promised I would do my utmost to be with her on Wednesday. I added that
in all probability I should return with a friend, and desired her to
tell Mrs. Williams to get the spare room ready.
On the Tuesday afternoon I met Dr. F---- by appointment at the house
of my friend. I found him reserved, but gentlemanly. He asked me many
questions about my wife, to all which I replied as fully as I could. He
announced his willingness to return with me and to give his opinion;
and in reply to my inquiry named a fee which I thought sufficiently
moderate.
We left London next morning by an early train and reached Cornpool at
about three in the afternoon. I had telegraphed for my phaeton to be in
waiting and a little after four we halted at the gate of Elmore Court.
Mrs. Williams received us. I asked anxiously after Geraldine. Dr. F----
drew near to hear the reply.
"I cannot tell what has come over her, Sir. Since yesterday she has
been as changed as though she had been suddenly taken with illness.
She fretted a little after you left, but she cleared up before long,
and got talking with me on the pleasure it gave her to think of your
return. I couldn't help taking notice that she talked much more
rationally than she used, and I thought that the health of her mind
might be coming back to her. But yesterday morning, when she came down
to breakfast, I was shocked by her looks. She was white as a sheet;
her eyes rolled, and she talked so wildly and quick I couldn't follow
her. My fear was that something had happened to you, Sir. But when I
asked her if she had heard bad news from master, she clutched me by the
arm and cried out piteously, 'Is there bad news? is there bad news?'
I answered, 'Not that I know of.' On which she left me, and stood
muttering to herself."
"But where is she now?" I asked.
"She should be in the drawing-room, Sir."
I did not stop to ask if she had expected me; but directing Mrs.
Williams to conduct Dr. F---- to his bedroom ran to the drawing-room.
I found her walking to and fro with her hands behind her. Mrs. Williams
was right. An extraordinary change had come over her since we parted.
Her face was ashen pale; beneath her eyes the flesh had fallen and
turned dark; her eyes flashed, but a look of fear came into her face
when she saw me.
"Geraldine--dear Geraldine!" I cried, approaching her with outstretched
arms.
She stood stock still, then all at once bounded forward with a sharp
cry.
"It is my darling boy!" she said, throwing her arms around my neck.
I kissed her; but I felt her tremble in my embrace. I led her to a sofa.
"Did you not expect me, Geraldine?"
"Yes, I knew you would come."
"And you would not receive me at the door?"
"Have you not come to me?"
"Of course I have. But, dearest, you look ill. Has anything happened
since we parted?"
"What should happen?" she said, pushing my hair off my forehead. "But I
am sick--I am sick for wanting you."
"I could not come before, as I told you. But now that you have me, will
you brighten up? I do not like your worn air. Those white cheeks do
not become you."
"You will give me health, Arthur."
"If God permits me!" I said fervently, pained by the great pathos of
her eyes and the troubled frightened expression of her face. "I have
brought a friend with me, Geraldine. Perhaps he will help me to make
you well."
"What friend?"
"Did not I tell you of my intention to bring a friend from London?"
"Did you?" she asked, with a bewildered look. Then feeling in her
pocket she produced my letter. "How often have I kissed it!" she said,
as though to herself; "but I do not want it, now that I have him with
me."
"There," said I, opening the letter and pointing to the passage in it:
"do you not remember reading those lines?"
She knitted her brow like one in deep reflection; and looking up, with
her face softened with rather the shadow of a smile than a smile,
answered, "Yes--I ran with it to Mrs. Williams and told her to get the
spare room ready."
Just then the door opened and a servant ushered in Dr. F----. I rose
and introduced him to Geraldine. He bowed with polite reserve. She
inclined her head and sat watching him as a child might.
He appeared to take no notice of her. He began a light conversation
with me, wandering from topic to topic, evidently with the design of
engaging her attention and inducing her to speak. Now and then I caught
him looking at her.
She rose after a little, as if his presence made her uneasy, and went
to the window; but soon returned and resumed her seat by my side. All
at once she asked:
"Are you an old friend of my husband?"
"We have known each other some time."
"How came you to meet?"
"We met at the house of a common friend."
"Were you _very_ pleased to see him?"
He answered with a smile, "It is always pleasing to meet with one's
friends."
"Arthur," she said, turning to me, "it is not fair in you to call
anyone 'friend' but me. 'Acquaintance' is what you should call
everybody but Geraldine."
"I call you my wife, dearest; and that is a higher name than all."
"Mr. Fenton," she said, addressing him by the name I had introduced him
by, "do you think Arthur has any friend who would mourn if he left him
for only a day?"
"He is fortunate if he has, Mrs. Thorburn."
"I did, Mr. Fenton. And has he a friend who, if he were lying ill,
would wish to be ill too? who, if he were dying would wish to be dying?
who, if he were dead, would kill himself, if he could not die for
grief, that he might be by his side in the grave?" Her eyes sparkled,
her nostrils dilated; she added proudly: "He has only one friend who
would wish all this for his dear sake, and she is his wife."
"I am sure he is very sensible of your devotion," he answered, gravely.
She again left my side. So restless was she that even when she was
seated her form swayed like one who is ever about to rise. Dr. F----
and I exchanged looks. She abruptly called from the window, "Mr.
Fenton, have you seen the garden?"
"Not yet, Mrs. Thorburn," he answered, approaching her.
"Come, Arthur," she called, "we will show Mr. Fenton our flowers."
I wished them to be alone, so I answered that I would change my coat
and then join them. Saying which I left the room.
But I was hardly in the hall before she came running after me. She took
my hand and kissed it, saying, "Do you think I can be away from you?"
"But you should not leave our guest alone, Geraldine. I will join you
in a few minutes."
"What is our guest compared to you, Arthur? Have you not been away
from me? It was cruel to bring that man here; he comes between us; you
are not _all_ my own now. He will require your attention, and I shall
_hate_ him because you give it. I will ask him to go away."
I detained her by the hand, fearing she would actually carry out her
threat.
"If you love me, darling," I said, "you will be courteous to this
gentleman. You will not refuse me this favour."
"If you asked me to love him, I would try to love him," she answered
submissively, her lips tremulous, her eyes downcast.
"That would make me jealous. I only want you to be courteous. Return to
him now, show him over the grounds, and justify my great love for you
by letting him see how sweet you can be."
She gave me a long look and returned to the drawing-room.
When afterwards I went downstairs I stood at the window watching them
before I entered the grounds. They were traversing a broad walk. She
looked incessantly towards the house; but sometimes she would loiter
with an air of strange _abandon_, or bend to pick a flower and follow
her companion with a bound.
Alas! I did not need Dr. F---- to confirm my fears. There was not a
look, a remark, even an attitude of hers, that did not now insinuate
derangement. How she loved me! Those earnest glances at the house were
for me. Pitiful it was to think on such a passion corrupted by madness.
What a sorrowful pageant her beauty, her devotion, her innocence made!
It was the Dance of Death; the graces marshalled by a skeleton. Was I
worthy of her love? Yes, for I loved her well, too. She must have known
it, to have been so fond of me. Instinct in this stood her in the place
of reason. She loved me with her spirit; she recognised my love by the
faculties of her spirit. Had her brain interpreted her experiences her
devotion must have been less deep.