AT ALL COST, SLEEP?
Dead! Before I kneeled beside him, and, after unbuttoning his
coat, laid my hand on his breast, I knew the man was dead. Before
I turned the lantern on his white face I knew who the man was. Sir
Mervyn Ferrand had paid for his sin with his life! It needed little
professional skill to determine the cause of his death. A bullet fired,
it seemed to me, at close quarters had passed absolutely through the
heart. He must have fallen without a moan. Killed, I knew, by the hand
of the woman he had wronged.
A sneering smile yet lingered on his set features. I could even imagine
the words which had accompanied it, when swift and sudden, without one
moment’s grace for repentance or confession, death had been meted out
to him. At one moment he stood erect and full of life, mocking, it may
be, her who had trusted him and had been betrayed; at the next, before
the sentence he was speaking was completed, he lay lifeless at her
feet, with the snow-flakes beginning to form his winding-sheet!
Oh, it was vengeance! swift, deadly vengeance! But why, oh, why had
she wreaked it? Philippa, my peerless Philippa, a murderess! Oh, it
was too fearful, too horrible! I must be dreaming. All my own thoughts
of revenge left me. It was for the time pity, sheer pity, I felt for
the man, cut off in the prime of his life. While I knew he was alive
I could look forward to and picture the minute when we should stand
coolly seeking to kill one another; but now that he was dead, I hated
him no longer. Ah! death is a sacred thing. Dead! Sir Mervyn Ferrand
dead, and slain by Philippa!
It could not be true! It should not be true! Yet I shuddered as I
remembered the passion she had thrown into those words, “Basil, did you
ever hate a man?” I gave a low cry of anguish as I remembered how I had
hurled from me the pistol she had let fall--the very weapon which had
done the dreadful deed.
Killed by Philippa! Not in a sudden burst of uncontrollable passion,
but with deliberate intent. She must have gone armed to meet him. She
must have shot him through the heart; must have seen him fall. Then,
only then, the horrible deed which she had wrought must have been fully
realized! Then she had turned and fled from the spot in a frenzy. Oh,
my poor girl! my poor girl!
Utterly bewildered by my anguish, I rose from my knees and stood for
a while beside the corpse. It was in that moment I learned how much I
really loved the woman who had done this thing. Over all my grief and
horror this love rose paramount. At all cost I must save her--save her
from the hands of justice; save her from the fierce elements which her
tender frame was even at this moment braving. And as I recalled how
she had sought me yesterday with the tale of her wrong--how she had
wildly fled from me, a few minutes ago, madly, blindly into the night;
as I thought of the injuries she had suffered, and which had led her to
shed this man’s blood; as I contrasted her in her present position with
what she was when first I knew her and loved her, pity began to fade
from my heart; my thoughts toward the lifeless form at my feet grew
stern and sombre, and I found myself beginning, by the old code of an
eye for an eye, to justify, although I regretted, Philippa’s fearful
act. Right or wrong, she was the woman I loved; and I swore I would
save her from the consequences of her crime, even--heaven help me!--if
the accusation, when made, must fall upon my shoulders.
Yet it was not the beginning of any scheme to evade justice which
induced me to raise the dead body and bear it to the side of the road,
where I placed it under the low bank on which the hedge grew. It was
the reverence which one pays to death made me do this. I could not
leave the poor wretch lying in the very middle of the highway, for the
first passer-by to stumble against. To-morrow he would, of course, be
found. To-morrow the hue and cry would be out! To-morrow Philippa, my
Philippa, would--Oh, heavens! never, never, never!
So I laid what was left of Sir Mervyn Ferrand reverentially by the
side of the lonely road. I even tried to close his glassy eyes, and I
covered his face with his own handkerchief. Then with heart holding
fear and anguish enough for a lifetime, I turned and went in search of
the poor unhappy girl.
Where should I seek her? Who knew what her remorse may have urged her
to do? Who knew whither her horror may have driven her? It needs but
to find Philippa lifeless on the road to complete the heaviest tale of
grief which can be exacted from one man in one short night! I clenched
my teeth and rushed on.
I had the road all to myself. No one was abroad in such weather.
Indeed, few persons were seen at night in any weather in this lonely
part of the country. I made straight for my own house. The dismal
thought came to me, that unless Philippa kept to the road she was lost
to me forever. If she strayed to the right or to the left, how on such
a night could I possibly find her? My one hope was, that she would
go straight to my cottage; so thither I made the best of my way. If
she had not arrived, I must get what assistance I could, and seek for
her in the fields to the right and left of the road. It was a dreary
comfort to remember that all the ponds and spaces of water were frozen
six inches thick!
I hesitated a moment when I reached her late residence. Should I
inquire if she had returned thither? No; when morning revealed the
ghastly event of the night, my having done so would awake suspicion.
Let me first go home.
Home at last! In a moment I shall know the worst. I opened the slide
of my lantern, which was still alight, and threw the rays on the path
which led to my door. My heart gave a great bound of thankfulness.
There on the snow, not yet obliterated by more recent flakes, were the
prints of a small foot. Philippa, as I prayed but scarcely dared to
hope she might, had come straight to my house.
My man opened the door for me. It was well I had seen those footprints,
as my knowledge of Philippa’s arrival enabled me to assume a natural
air.
“My sister has come?” I asked.
“Yes, sir; about a quarter of an hour ago.”
“We missed each other on the road. What a night!” I said, throwing off
my snow-covered coat.
“Where is she now?” I asked.
“In the sitting-room, sir.” Then, lowering his voice, William added,
“She seemed just about in a tantrum when she found you weren’t at home.
I expect we shall find her a hard lady to please.”
William, in spite of his stolidity, occasionally ventured upon some
liberty when addressing me.
His words greatly surprised me. I forced myself to make some laughing
rejoinder; then I turned the handle of the door and entered the room in
which Philippa had taken refuge.
Oh, how my heart throbbed! What would she say to me? What could I,
fresh from that dreadful scene, say to her? Would she excuse or
palliate, would she simply confess or boldly justify her crime? Would
she plead her wrongs in extenuation? Would she assert that in a moment
of ungovernable rage she had done the deed? No matter what she said;
she was still Philippa, and even at the cost of my own life and honor I
would save her.
Yet as I advanced into the room a shudder ran through me. Fresh to my
mind came the remembrance of that white face, that still form, lying as
I had left it, with the pure white snow falling thickly around it.
Philippa was sitting in front of the fire. Her hat was removed; her
dark hair dishevelled and gleaming wet with the snow which had melted
in it. She must have heard me enter and close the door, but she took
no notice. As I approached her she turned her shoulder upon me in a
pettish way, and as one who by the action means to signify displeasure.
I came to her side and stood over her, waiting for her to look up and
speak first. She must speak first! What can I say, after all that has
happened to-night?
But she kept a stony silence--kept her eyes still turned from mine. At
last I called her by her name, and bending down, looked into her face.
Its expression was one of sullen anger, and, moreover, anger which
seemed to deepen as she heard my voice. She made a kind of contemptuous
gesture, as if waving me aside.
“Philippa,” I said, as sternly as I could, “speak to me!”
I laid my hand upon her arm. She shook it off fiercely, and then
started to her feet.
“You ask me to speak to you,” she said; “you, who have treated me like
this! Oh, it is shameful! shameful! shameful! I come through storm and
snow--come to you, who were to welcome me as a brother! Where are you?
Away, your wretched servant tells me. Why are you away? I trusted you!
Oh, you are a pretty brother! If you had cared for me or respected me,
you would have been here to greet me. No! you are all in a league--all
in a league to ruin me! Now I am here, what will you do? Poison me,
of course! kill me, and make away with me, even as that other doctor
killed and made away with my poor child! He did! I say he did! I saw
him do it! ‘A child of shame,’ he said; so he killed it! All, all,
all,--even you--you, whom I trusted--leagued against me!”
She was trembling with excitement. Her words ran one into the other.
It was as much as I could do to follow them; yet the above is but a
brief condensation of what she said. With unchecked volubility she
continued to heap reproaches and accusations, many of which were of
the most extravagant and frivolous nature, on my head. At last she was
silent, and reseated herself in her former attitude; and the sullen,
discontented, ill-used look again settled on her face.
And yet, although I, who loved her above all the world, was the object
of her fierce reproaches, no words I had as yet listened to came more
sweetly to my ear than these. A great joy swept through me; a tide
of relief bore me to comparative happiness. Whatever dreadful deed
the poor girl had that night accomplished, she was morally innocent.
Philippa was not accountable for her actions!
As a doctor, I read the truth at once. The rapid flow of words, the
changing moods, the vehement excitement, the sullen air, the groundless
suspicions--one and all carried conviction, and told me what was wrong.
Mrs. Wilson’s words of yesterday, which warned me that Philippa’s
health should be inquired into, added absolute certainty.
My professional brethren who may happen to read this will understand
me when I say that, although it is long since I have practised as a
doctor, I am sorely tempted, as I reach this stage of my story, to give
in detail the particulars which induced me to arrive at such a belief.
No physician, no surgeon, lives who does not feel it his duty as well
as his pleasure to give an accurate account of any out-of-the-common
case which has come under his notice. But I am not writing these pages
for the benefit of science; and having no wish to make my tale assume
the authority of a hospital report, shall restrain myself, and on
technical points be as brief as possible.
In short, then, Philippa had fallen a victim to that mania which
not uncommonly shows itself after the birth of a child--that dread,
mysterious disease which may, at the moment when everything seems
going well, turn a house of joy into a house of mourning; a disease
the source of which I have no hesitation in saying has not yet been
properly traced and investigated. So far as I know, there is no
monograph on the subject, or certainly there was none at that time.
Still, it is admitted by all the authorities that this species of
insanity is not unfrequently produced by a severe mental shock,
especially when that shock is accompanied by an overwhelming sense of
shame. Statistics show us that unmarried women who are mothers, and
feel the degradation of such a position acutely, are peculiarly liable
to be attacked by the mysterious malady. Esquirol was, I believe,
the first to notice this fact, and the correctness of his view has
subsequently been confirmed by many others.
Such being the case, it is small wonder that Philippa, waking
yesterday morning to receive the intelligence that her marriage with
Sir Mervyn Ferrand had been a farce, should have been thrown into a
state extremely susceptible to the attack of the disease. Her careless
exposure of herself to the wintry air, when last night she sought me
and claimed my aid, most probably hastened the attack of the foe. Mrs.
Wilson had noticed her strange manner. I myself have remarked upon her
rapid changes from calmness to excitability. It was clear to me that
even when she visited me last night the mischief had begun to develop
itself. I blamed my blindness bitterly. I ought to have seen what was
wrong. Considering her agitated state, I ought to have been warned, and
have taken precautions; but I had attributed those fitful changes, the
meaning of which was now only too plain to me, to the natural agitation
experienced by a passionate yet pure-minded woman, who found herself
betrayed and brought to shame. Oh, had I but guessed the real cause,
or rather the way in which her grief had affected her, all the dark
work of that night might have been left undone!
Although in many ways it added to the difficulties and dangers which
surrounded us, the discovery of the truth was an unspeakable relief to
me. No right-minded man could now call the poor girl guilty of crime.
The man’s blood was indeed on her hands; yet she had shed it, not
knowing what she did. Her frenzy must then have been at its height.
The idea of his coming that night must in some way have occurred to
her. The desire to see him must have driven her to go and meet him.
Her wrongs--perhaps the dread she now felt of him may have induced her
to arm herself; perhaps she carried the weapon for self-protection.
Any way, she was mad when she started; she was mad when she drew the
trigger; she was mad when she broke from my grasp; she was mad now as
she sat by my fire, eying me with morose, suspicious glances. She was
mad--and innocent!
Her manner toward me troubled me but little. It is a well-known
peculiarity of the disease that the patient turns with hatred from
those who were the nearest and dearest to her. Fits of sullen, stubborn
silence, alternating with fierce outbursts of vituperation, are the
most common characteristics of the mania. Hideous, startling as it is
to see the change wrought in the sufferer, the malady is by no means of
such an alarming nature as it seems. In fact the majority of cases are
treated with perfect success.
But all this is professional talk. Again I say that the discovery of
Philippa’s state of mind was an immense relief to me. My conscience
was cleared of a weight which was pressing upon it. I felt braced up
to use every effort, and thoroughly justified in following whatever
course I thought best. Moreover, a new relationship was now established
between Philippa and myself. For a while every feeling save one must be
banished. We were now doctor and patient.
After much persuasion, I induced her to let me feel her pulse. As I
expected, I found it up nearly to 120. This did not alarm me much, as
in the course of my practice I had seen several of these cases. The
preliminary treatment was simple as A B C; at all cost sleep must be
obtained.
Fortunately, I had a well-stocked medicine-chest. In a few minutes I
had prepared the strongest dose of opium which I dared to administer.
In such a case as the present I knew that no driblets would avail; so I
measured out no less than sixty drops of laudanum. Sleep the girl must
have. That poor seething, boiling brain must by artificial means be
forced to rest for hours. After that rest I should be able to say what
chance there was of saving life and reason.
But preparing a dose of medicine, and making a patient like this take
it, are two different things. I tried every art, every persuasion.
I implored and commanded. I threatened and insisted. Philippa was
obdurate. Poor soul! she knew I meant to poison her. On my part, I knew
that unless she swallowed that narcotic to-night, her case was all but
hopeless.
I rested for a while; then I sent for lukewarm water. After some
resistance she suffered me to bathe her throbbing temples. The
refreshing coolness which followed the operation was so grateful to her
that she let me repeat the action again and again. A softer and more
contented look settled on her beautiful face.
I seized the moment. Once more I pressed the potion upon her. This time
successfully. My heart trembled with joy as I saw her swallow the drug.
Now she might be saved!
I still continued the comforting laving of her temples, and waited
until the drug took its due effect. By and by that moment came. The
large dark eyes closed, the weary head sank heavily on my shoulder, and
I knew that Philippa had entered upon a term of merciful oblivion.
I waited until her sleep was sound as the sleep of death; then I
summoned my man. I had already told him that my sister was very
ill. Between us we bore her to her room and laid her on the bed. I
loosened her dress, cut the wet boots from her cold feet; did all I
could to promote warmth and such comfort as was possible under the
circumstances. Then I left her, sleeping that heavy sleep which I
prayed might last unbroken for hours, and hours, and hours.