That night Dr. F---- and I sat in the library. Geraldine had retired to
rest. Up to that moment we had found no opportunity for conversation,
for she was always near, always at my side.
I had marked his incessant study of her. I had admired the skill with
which he directed her attention--as a steersman directs his bark;
provoking her into speech, perplexing her views to ascertain the
consistency of her mind, then helping her thoughts, to witness whether
her incoherence were due to normal weakness of intellect or to disease.
He had lighted a cigar and sat smoking in silence--a silence I feared
to question. From time to time he looked at me, with pity rather than
embarrassment, and at last he spoke.
"Mr. Thorburn, I should be intruding upon your hospitality were I to
remain over to-morrow."
"I understand. You have no doubt?"
"No doubt."
I mastered an emotion with a struggle.
"Will you give me your opinion?" I said.
"My opinion is that your wife is insane. It is impossible that I
should pronounce upon the degree of her insanity from the short time I
have been with her. The conditions with which she is surrounded must
necessarily retard the growth of her madness. Her love for you and
your presence here exercise a a restraining influence. Yet I am not
satisfied that her mind is free from anxiety."
"What makes you think this?"
"I judge more from her aspect than her manners or language. Her
physical condition implies the presence of some active mental pain,
which is not due to insanity, though it would aggravate it."
"But what could pain her? She is perfectly happy in my love. She will
not suffer me to remove her from this house. Would society benefit her?"
"I think not. If she objects to it she has her reason, and it would
distress her."
"Would a change of air, would a change of scene, be of use? I am rich,
doctor; do not scruple to prescribe. If my fortune would benefit her,
it should be spent."
"I can prescribe only one thing--will you surrender her to my care?"
"No. I could not part with her."
"I am not surprised. Even if I took charge of her, I could not
guarantee her recovery."
"I will take charge of her myself. She would never bear being separated
from me."
"In one sense," he replied, "you would make a better guardian than I.
But the duty of watching the mad is very painful--especially when the
insane person is one we love."
"But you do not think she requires watching yet?"
"Not yet. I mean that there is no need of vigilant scrutiny, though I
should advise you to keep her well in view. Her madness has not yet
emphatically pronounced itself--but it may do so any day. You must
humour her. Her love gives you an influence which no one else could
easily possess. I predict, that when her insane moods are most vehement
she will prove docile to you." He added, after a pause, "you should
procure some woman whom you can trust to watch her. But not yet. Give
her perfect freedom now. But when you find it needful to restrain
her--and that time I fear will come--appoint some keeper of whose
humanity and patience you can have proofs."
"Have you no hope that she will recover?"
"It is impossible for me to pronounce. From the character of the
disease in her, I should say it would grow; but its culmination may
not be intense. Neither good health nor good spirits will much profit
her. Illness, indeed, is sometimes beneficial to madness. I once had
a patient under my charge whom I considered incurable. He was seized
with scarlet fever, which was within an ace of killing him. He escaped
death by a miracle, and when the delirium passed, I found he had
recovered his mind."
"But in the case of my wife, should you think her madness hereditary or
acquired?"
"There again you puzzle me. It would be necessary for me to hear Mrs.
Thorburn's history before I could hazard a conjecture."
"Her history is brief. She married a man who ill-treated her. Her
sufferings must have been great, for it has made her detest the world
and shun society like a plague. But I can discern no madness in this.
It would be the natural attitude of a young mind embittered by wrong.
"As you say, her attitude is no proof of madness, but the cause that
forced her into that attitude may have induced madness."
"You would attribute her derangement to her first husband's
ill-treatment?"
"Her ill-treatment may have been one cause. If there were a previous
disposition to madness a very painful experience would hardly fail to
excite it. In my own mind, I have little doubt that she is oppressed
with some recollection, of which the removal would benefit, if it did
not cure her."
"Surely, I should be able to ascertain it?"
"Better than any one else. But you will have to be very cautious in
your approaches. Yet you will hardly need tuition in such a matter.
Your knowledge of her character will teach you better how to act than
any suggestions from a stranger. With respect to myself, I do not see
that I can be of any further use to you. Indeed, I doubt if my stay
here would be advisable. My presence irritates her; and it must be your
business to keep her mind as composed and tranquil as possible."
"I am perfectly in your hands, doctor; and however you may act, I am
sure it will be for the best."
We remained together until after twelve. Our conversation was entirely
restricted to the one subject. He had had much experience of madness
and illustrated the information I gave him respecting my wife's
derangement by anecdotes of corresponding peculiarities in other cases
he had met with. On separating, I conducted him to his room, and then
returned to see after the house for the night, as was my custom. At the
bottom of the staircase I met Mrs. Williams, candle in hand, going to
bed.
"I am afraid we have kept you up rather late," I said.
"Oh! never mention that, Sir. I only trust and pray that the doctor's
visit here may be of use."
"Of no use, I fear," I replied, "except to confirm my sorrow. He does
not doubt that she is insane."
"I feared so, I feared so," she said, shaking her head.
"He will leave to-morrow, for he can be of no further service here; and
he thinks his presence irritates her."
"He is right, Sir. Mistress came to me this evening, and told me it was
as much as she could do to speak civilly to him. 'What does he want in
this house?' she said. 'Mr. Thorburn can't be with me as he used before
this man came. And he vexes me so, Mrs. Williams. He asks me questions
it pains my head to answer; and I don't like his eyes;' and here she
began to cry."
"Well, he leaves us in the morning. He is keen-sighted and honourable,
and sees that his presence can do no good. I have been troubling myself
to guess what could have worked such a change in Mrs. Thorburn during
my absence. The alteration is too sudden to be due to illness. Nor is
she ill."
"It all came at once, Sir. She was well over night, and next morning,
as I told you, I met her looking downright changed."
"Did she not seem suffering at all the night before?"
"No, Sir, I went to bed at about half-past ten, and left her in the
library. I thought she might be writing to you."
"Am I to believe," I said, "that a sudden access of insanity would
effect such a change? It is possible. Some horror may have seized her
in the night. God only knows what dreadful fancies the diseased mind
will generate to craze the brain. Dr. F---- has told me I must expect
her madness to increase, and that it will be necessary to procure some
one to watch her. Mrs. Williams, would you undertake such a duty?"
"I would not object, Sir. I would do it from pity. She is so delicate
and sweet with all her strangeness, that I could not have the heart to
see her in anybody else's charge."
"By doing this you would be bestowing on me an obligation I could not
repay. It would almost mitigate my grief to think she was tended by
one so worthy and kind as you. Rest assured I shall do my utmost to
recompense you for the trying position you will be placed in."
She curtesied.
"I only beg you will keep the secret. I shall continue residing here
until I see what form her madness takes. Where else could I secure such
privacy--such perfect security from intrusion? From my heart of hearts
I humbly pray God to avert from her and me this most terrible calamity.
But if it be His will that her madness should strengthen, then we will
watch over her as we would over some stricken infant. I may expect
tenderness and love for her from you, Mrs. Williams. You will think
of my devotion, and will take my place when I am from her side; and
cherish, and bear with her; for she deserves it--she deserves it! So
young, so beautiful, so fond--to be blighted like this!"
I buried my face in my hands and burst into tears.
"I will do for her, Sir, as if she was my own child," said Mrs.
Williams in a tremulous tone, moved by my grief. "She shall never want
for love while she is with me."
I took and pressed the kind creature's hand, and passed into the
library. The window stood open as I had left it, for the night, though
it was the autumn, was close. I entered the balcony. The air was dark;
there was no moon; the stars were few and faint. The wind stole through
the trees which towered above the house with a hollow plaining.
The gloom and stillness were friendly to thought and melancholy. Away
down there among those black shadows I had first met her, walking with
a queenly air, her face made marble by sleep, her eyes made sightless
by the slumbering of her soul. Into what a life had her beauty led me!
The intelligence of my spirit had not deceived me. Had it not inspired
me with prophetic forebodings of some such commingling of mine and
this fair creature's destinies as was now realised? Of what sin had I
been guilty to merit this dread expiation? My love was pure; why was it
made a misery?
I was in the act of leaving the balcony when I heard a cry--a human
cry, as of some one in pain or distress. It smote my ear--faint but
defined; but whence it had come, whether from right or left of me, or
from the deep black shadows of the trees beyond, I knew not. I stood
straining my hearing to catch the cry again, but it was not repeated.
Was it a human voice? I might have been mistaken. It might have been
the dull note of some wakeful bird, humanised by my imagination. It
might have been the moan of some homeless dog. I waited wondering.
All at once my thoughts rushed to Geraldine. The cry might have come
from her room; its passage through the open window making it sound as
though uttered in the garden.
I mounted the stairs gently and opened the bedroom door. A candle burnt
on the toilet-table. I glanced at the bed; it was empty, yet her form
had pressed it, and the clothes were disordered.
I hastened downstairs, possessed with a strange belief; I entered the
balcony, passed down the steps, and gained the garden. I walked forward
cautiously, peering to right and left, pausing at intervals to listen,
then advancing noiselessly as before. Half-way down the grounds I
stopped; I heard the sound of footsteps. In a few minutes a figure in
white came out of the gloom and flitted rapidly by me.
I called "Geraldine!" She halted. I went up to her.
"My darling, what are you doing in the garden at this hour? The grass
is wet, and you are thinly clad."
"Who are you?" she asked in a hard whisper.
"Your husband--Arthur."
"Let me feel you."
I took her hand and led her to the house. She did not speak until we
had gained the library. By the light of the candle I saw that her eyes
were dilated, her face quite bloodless, her lips thin, white and rigid.
"Great God, Geraldine! Speak! What is the matter with you?" I cried.
"Let me get to bed--I am weary, weary," she answered.
I closed the window and accompanied her to our bedroom. She moaned like
one under the influence of a narcotic. Her face was almost deformed by
the harshness of its expression. Her fingers worked incessantly, like
those of an infant in a sick slumber.
"Were you walking in your sleep Geraldine?" I asked.
She answered with extraordinary quickness, "Yes, I have been walking in
my sleep."
"I heard a cry; did you utter it?"
She laughed quietly, but without the least change of expression.
"Who else?--who else?" she replied.
"But did you hurt yourself, that you cried out?"
A shrewd light shone in her eyes as she answered:
"I stumbled; the fall awoke me, and in my fear I cried out."
She began to play with her hair, suddenly desisted, and asked
querulously,
"What makes this room red?"
"It is not red, dearest."
"I say it is!" she exclaimed, irritably. "The flame of the candle is
red--the walls are red--your face is red!"
"Your nerves are excited. The shock of awakening has been too great.
Lie down, dearest; you will rise refreshed in the morning."
She seated herself on the edge of the bed, looking at her fingers and
turning them about. Presently she began to cry, but very quietly. I
went to her and kissed her, clasping her in my arms for she trembled
as though she were cold. And indeed she was; her hands and cheeks
were like ice; but her forehead burned. After a little I succeeded in
coaxing her into bed, where she lay sighing as though her heart would
break. I watched by her for half an hour, when the regular respiration
told me she was asleep.
When she rose next morning she looked very very ill. I was greatly
distressed by her appearance and entreated her to remain in bed. But
she declared she must get up; what could she do in bed? She had some
work in the garden, and must go to it. I could not help taking notice
of her constrained manner, as though she addressed me under compulsion.
She appeared to have difficulty in articulating her words; and her
eyes, which the sickness of her body seemed to make more brilliant,
were restless, startled, and impatient. Before leaving the room she
said:
"I do not like your friend, Arthur; when will he go?"
"He is going to-day, love."
"Why did he come?"
Bound to be consistent, I repeated my story of his being a friend whom
I had asked to spend a week at Elmore Court, but who now found he
would have to return to London that day.
"What time will he leave?"
"In the early part of the afternoon, I think."
"I do not mean to see him. I'll go into the garden and hide myself. Do
you know, when he looks at me his eyes give me a pain in the head?"
"I am sure he does not wish to pain you."
"But he does, or he would not look at me like that. And he asks me
questions which trouble me to reply to. I won't meet him."
"Very well," I answered, recollecting Dr. F----'s advice that she
should be humoured.
"And do not bring him near me," she continued, "and do not come and
look for me, for I shall hide myself until he is gone."
"But you are not strong enough to work in the garden. Why will you not
remain indoors? Let Mrs. Williams nurse you a little. You need repose
after what happened last night."
"What happened last night?" she cried, looking sharply up.
If the memory of it had passed, I thought it best not to recall it. So
I answered:
"I am sure, dearest, you need a little nursing. And should you fatigue
yourself in the garden"----
"Tell me of last night," she whispered, creeping close to me.
"Why," I replied, marking her resolution to be answered, "do you not
remember finding yourself walking in your sleep?"
She tossed her hands and laughed out.
"Oh, yes, I remember! But go you downstairs and detain your friend
while I pass. I will breakfast in the housekeeper's room. Tell him I
am ill and cannot be seen."
"Very well," I answered, reluctantly. It did not please me to leave her
to herself. Her face looked wax-like, so delicate and transparent was
the white of her skin, and her eyes actually trembled with the light in
them, as though they reflected the rays of some flickering flame.
I found Dr. F---- in the breakfast-room. I gave him a brief account of
what had happened on the previous night, and of her condition. I also
acquainted him with the aversion he had inspired her with. He replied
that her aversion was an illustration of his influence over insane
persons. The first operation of this influence was hate and distrust;
but fear soon followed. The motto of the mad doctor, he added, was the
expression of the Roman emperor--_oderint dum metuant_.
"She refuses to meet you," I said, "and has gone to hide herself among
the trees. You will require no apology for this behaviour," I added,
with a mournful smile.
"You do right to let her have her own way. Yet you see how necessary
her dislike makes my departure?"
"Yes. It is not wholly impossible that her cunning may have conjectured
the truth, and that she has guessed your mission."
"I should hardly think that; though you are right in accrediting
insanity with a power of perception which is often far beyond the reach
of intellect. The decay of the brain seems to bring the functions of
the spirit into activity. But this perception does not always refer to
material things. Its proper dominion is the immaterial. Where reason
sees order, insanity witnesses disorder; but, on the other hand,
insanity riots in the chaos that lies without the limits of normal
thought, and delights in constructing theories and forms from the
thrice-confounded abstractions it seems to contemplate."
"This would account for many of its delusions."
"After a fashion. But it is hard to reason on the reasonless. The
worst form of madness is the total subversion of the intellectual
faculties; when the mind represents everything totally opposite to
what it is. I remember hearing of two lovers who went mad through a
cruel separation. When they were brought together they recognised each
other, but each denied the other to be the beloved one. A distinguished
mathematician went mad through mistaking the number 6 for an 0 in all
his calculations."
"We can appreciate the horror of madness when it is brought home to us.
Much surely may be done by tenderness and sympathy?"
"They are both severely taxed. I do not utterly despair of your wife,
though she will have to be worse before she is better. My parting
advice, Mr. Thorburn, is to endeavour to ascertain if she is at
all troubled in her mind. If a real sorrow lies there it should be
uprooted; if an imaginary woe it must be reasoned away. You must have
patience; watch her narrowly; sound her persistently, though with
delicacy, and keep her as cheerful as opportunity will allow."
A reference to the time-tables showed a train to be leaving Cornpool at
twelve. Having ordered the phaeton to be in readiness, we went for a
walk towards the sea. It was his own wish to keep away from the house.
The walk was hardly agreeable; my mood was sombre and melancholy, and
all my thoughts were with Geraldine. On our return we found the phaeton
waiting, and having pressed a cheque into his hand, I bade him farewell.