A WHITE TOMB.
From the moment when the true state of Philippa’s mind flashed upon
me, to the moment when I left her sleeping that heavy sleep, I had
little time to think of anything else than the best means of saving
her life, and, if possible, her reason. True, throughout the whole of
my operations to effect this end, a dim sort of horror pervaded me--a
recollection of the ghastly object which lay on the roadside, some
three miles from us; but it was not until I turned from my patient’s
door that the terrible situation in which she was placed presented
itself to me in all its dread entirety. Half broken-hearted, I threw
myself wearily into my chair, and covered my face with my hands.
What was to be done? What was to be done? To-morrow morning the body
would be found. I felt certain that when inquiry was made suspicion
would at once point toward Philippa. Mrs. Wilson knew of her starting
from home in the evening, alone and on foot. She knew, moreover, that
Sir Mervyn Ferrand was her husband; that he had ill-used her. She would
most certainly know to whom Philippa had fled. It did not follow that
because I was ignorant as to who were my neighbors they knew nothing
about me. At any rate, William, my man, would know the truth. So far as
I could see, to-morrow or, by the latest, the next day Philippa would
be arrested for the crime. Most probably, I should also be included in
the arrest. For that I seemed to care nothing; except that it might
hinder me from helping my poor girl.
Any hope of removing Philippa--there, put it in plain words--any hope
of flight, for days, even weeks, was vain. Let everything go as well
as can be in such cases, the girl must be kept in seclusion and quiet
for at least a fortnight or three weeks. I groaned as I thought of
what would happen if Philippa was arrested and carried before the
magistrates, accused of the awful crime. From that moment until the day
of her death she would be insane.
Yet, what help was there for it? The moment the deed is known--the
moment Mrs. Wilson learns that Sir Mervyn Ferrand has been found shot
through the heart, she will let it be known that Lady Ferrand is at
hand; and Lady Ferrand, who has been passing under the name of Mrs.
Farmer, will be sought and found. And then--and then?
Even if she did not die at once--even if she recovered--oh, the shame
of the trial! No jury could or would convict her: but for Philippa,
my queen, to stand in the dock, to plead for her life; to know that,
whether convicted or acquitted, the deed was done by her; to know that
all England is talking of her wrongs and her vengeance--horrible!
horrible! It shall never be. Rather will I give her a draught of opium
heavy enough to close her eyes forever. There will be plenty more of
the drug left for me!
Fool that I was! Why did I do things by halves? Why, for her sake,
did I not hide the dead man where none would find him? Why did I not
rifle his pockets, so that suspicion should have pointed to a vulgar
murderer; some one who had killed him for mere plunder? Why did I
not, at least, destroy any letters or papers which were about him?
Identification might then have been rendered difficult, and perhaps
been delayed for weeks. In that time I might have saved her.
Why do I not do this now? I started to my feet; then sank back into my
chair. No; not even for Philippa’s sake could I go again to that spot.
If I did so, I should return as mad as she is now.
Not being able to bring myself to adopt the gruesome alternative, I
could do nothing save wait events--nothing, at least, to avert the
consequences of her delirious act.
But for her something must be done. How could she, in her frenzied
state, be left here--her only companions two men? Nurses must be at
once procured. I summoned William, and told him he must go to London by
the first train in the morning.
William would have received my instructions to go to the Antipodes
with imperturbability. He merely expressed a doubt as to whether any
one would be able to get to London to-morrow on account of the snow. I
walked to the window and looked out.
The night was still one mad whirl of snow-flakes. The window-panes
were half covered by such as managed to find a resting-place there.
As I watched what I could see of the wild white dance, I found myself
thinking that by now that dead man on the road must be covered an
inch--must have lost shape and outline. I shivered as I turned away.
“They are sure to keep the line to town open,” I said. “If you can get
to Roding, you can get to London.”
“Oh, I can get to Roding right enough!” said William.
Then I told him what he was to do. He was to take a letter to one of
the Nursing Institutions, and bring back two nurses with him. No matter
what the weather was when they reached Roding, they were to come to
my house at once, even if they had to hire twenty horses to drag them
there. He was also to get me a few drugs which I might want.
William said no more. He nodded, to show that he understood me; and I
knew that if it were possible to do my bidding it would be done.
Of his own accord he then brought me food. I ate, for I knew that I
should want all my strength to support the anxieties of the next day or
two.
I stayed up the whole night. Oh, that awful night! shall I ever forget
it? The solitude--the raging snow-storm outside--the poor creature to
whose side I crept noiselessly every half an hour. She lay there with
a face like marble, calm and beautiful. The long, dark lashes swept
her pale cheek. The only movement was the regular rise and fall of the
bosom. Oh, happy oblivion! Oh, dreaded wakening! As I looked at her,
in spite of the love I bore her, I believe that, had I thought such a
prayer would be answered, I should for her sake have prayed that those
lashes might never again be lifted.
Morning at last broke on my dreary vigil. Philippa still slept. I
returned to the sitting-room and drew back the curtains from the
window. Yes; it was morning--such a morning as leaden, wintry skies can
give. It was still snowing as heavily as, if not more heavily than, it
had snowed last night. For twelve hours the flakes had fallen without
intermission.
There was little wind now; it had dropped, I knew, about an hour ago.
The world, so far as I could see, was clad in white: but the snow lay
unevenly. The wind had blown it into drifts. On my garden path its
depth might be counted by inches; against my garden wall by feet.
William now made his appearance. He prepared some breakfast for
himself, and then, having done justice to it, started for Roding. It
occurred to me that he might be the first to find the object which lay
on the roadside.
Except that so doing might delay him and cause him to miss his train,
this mattered little. I was now calmly awaiting the inevitable. Some
one must make the discovery. However, as I wanted the nurses, I said to
him:
“Remember this is life and death. Nothing must stop you.” He touched
his hat in a reassuring manner, and tramped off through the snow.
I returned to my patient’s bedside and sat watching her, and waiting
for her to awake. She had now slept for nearly eleven hours, and I knew
that return to life might take place at any moment. I longed for, and
yet I dreaded, her awakening. When the effects of the opiate were gone,
how should I find her? Alas! I knew that the chances were a thousand
to one that her brain would still be full of strange delusions; that
she would turn from me, as she turned last night, with loathing and
anger. But my greatest fear was that she would, upon coming to herself,
or rather to her poor insane self, be conscious of the act she had
accomplished. It was the fear of this which made me wish that the opium
would hold her in its drowsy grasp for hours longer.
This wish was granted. Hour after hour I sat by her motionless form.
Now and again I glanced from the beautiful, senseless face, and looking
out of the window saw the snow still falling. Would my messenger ever
be able to reach town; if he did so, would he be able to return? I was
bound to have a woman’s aid. The presence of the roughest daughter of
the plough would be welcome to me when Philippa awoke. And it was now
time she did so.
Although I felt her pulse almost every other minute, and could find no
reason for alarm, I am bound to say that her long sleep, protracted
far beyond any I had in my experience seen produced by the exhibition
of narcotics, rendered me very uneasy. I shall, I am sure, scarcely be
credited when I say that Philippa’s unconsciousness lasted for sixteen
hours--from half-past nine at night to half-past one on the following
afternoon. I began then to think the duration abnormal, and determined
to take some steps toward arousing her.
But I was spared the responsibility. She stirred on the couch. Her
head turned languidly on the pillow. Her dark eyes opened, closed, and
opened again. She looked at me in a dazed manner, not at first seeming
to know me, or to understand why I was near her, or where she was. A
prey to the wildest anxiety, I leaned over her, and waited until she
spoke.
Little by little her bewilderment seemed to leave her. Her eyes rested
with curious inquiry upon mine. “Basil,” she said, faintly, but in a
tone of surprise, “you here! Where am I?”
“Under my roof--your brother’s roof,” I said.
“Ah! I remember,” she said, with a deep sigh. Then she closed her eyes,
and once more seemed to sleep.
What did she remember? It seemed to me too great a mercy to expect
that those hours of oblivion had effected a cure, but my hope was that
she did not remember what had happened when she met Sir Mervyn Ferrand
on the road. I was almost trembling with excitement. I was longing to
really know in what state her mind was. Besides, I thought she had
slept as long as was good for her. I took her hands and called her by
name.
Once more she opened her eyes. They expressed no fear of me, no dislike
to me. They conveyed no reproach. They were calm, sad, weary, but gave
no evidence of any mental disorder.
“Have I been ill long, Basil?” she asked.
“Not very long. You are going to get better soon.”
“I came to your house, did I not?”
“Yes; and here I mean to keep you. Do you feel weak?”
“Very weak. Basil, I have dreamed such horrible things.”
“You have been feverish and delirious. People like that always fancy
strange things.”
She was indeed as weak as a child; but for the time, at least, she was
perfectly sane. I could have cried for joy as I heard her faint but
collected words. I ventured to hope that I had before me one of those
very rare cases--such as I had seen described, but had not as yet met
with--where the patient awakes from the long, artificially produced
sleep perfectly free from all maniacal symptoms. If this were so with
Philippa, if the return of reason were to be permanent, I knew that a
few weeks’ careful nursing and judicious treatment might quite restore
her to health. Even as this comforting thought came to me, I remembered
the peril in which she stood. To-morrow--ay, even to-day--the thing
which I dreaded might happen, and sweep away all the good the narcotic
had done her.
She was now fully awake, and perfectly quiet. I gave her some
refreshment; then seeing she was lying in peaceful silence, I thought
it better to leave her. As I quitted her room I drew down the blind,
fearing that the whirling snow might bring recollections which it was
my one wish to keep from invading her mind.
The long dreary day wore away. The light faded, and another night
began. Philippa still lay calm, silent, and almost apathetic. I did
nothing to rouse her. I went to her side as seldom as possible. I
feared that her seeing me might recall the events of the last night,
and that recollections so awakened might destroy all the good which
I felt sure had been accomplished by the long hours of oblivion and
quiet. Could I have deputed the task to another, I would not have even
shown myself to my patient. Most anxiously, as evening came, I awaited
the appearance of my faithful William and the nurses.
Would they be able to reach us in such weather? It was still snowing
fiercely. For more than twenty-four hours the mad white revel had
continued without intermission. Indeed, that storm which burst upon
the world as I turned from Philippa’s house on the preceding night is
now historical; it was the beginning of the heaviest and the longest
fall which the record of fifty years can show. For two nights and a
day the snow came down in what may almost be called drifting masses.
During that dismal day I saw from the window the heaps against the wall
grow deeper and deeper, and even in my preoccupied state of mind found
myself marvelling at the sustained fury of the storm.
At eleven o’clock at night I sadly gave up all hope of the much-needed
assistance arriving. After all, it seemed that William had found it
impossible to light against the weather; so I made my preparations
for another night of solitary watchfulness. I was all but worn out
with fatigue; yet I dared not sleep. If the mania returned, what might
happen, were I not at hand to restrain Philippa’s actions? My hope
that the madness had really left my patient, not, if she were properly
treated, to return, was a growing one, but not yet strong enough to
allow me to leave her for any length of time.
My delight then may be imagined when, looking for the hundredth
time up the road, I saw close at hand two flashing lights, and knew
that William, the faithful, had done my bidding. In a few minutes
two respectable women from one of the best of the London Nursing
Institutions were within my walls.
The train had, of course, been late, very late. At one or two places on
the line it had almost given up the battle, and settled down quietly
until dug out; but steam and iron had conquered, and at last it did
get to Roding. There William, knowing my dire necessity, offered
such a magnificent bribe that he soon found an enterprising carriage
proprietor who was willing to make the attempt to force two horses and
a carriage over the six miles of road between Roding and my house. The
attempt was successful, although the rate of progression was slow; and
William triumphantly ushered his charges into my presence.
After giving them time for rest and refreshment, I explained the nature
of the case, set out the treatment I wished to be adopted, and then led
them to Philippa. I left the poor girl in their charge for the night,
then went to take the sleep of which I stood so much in need.
But before going to bed I saw William. I dreaded to hear him say what
gruesome sight he had seen that morning; yet I was bound to learn if
the deed had yet been made public.
“Did you manage to get to Roding all right this morning?” I asked with
assumed carelessness.
“I managed all right, sir,” said William, cheerfully.
“Snow deep on the road?”
“Not so deep as I fancied ’twould be. All drifted and blown up to one
side, like. I never seen such a thing. Drift must have been feet deep
this morning. What must it be now, I wonder? Something like the arctic
regions, I should think, sir!”
For the first time for hours and hours, a ray of hope flashed across
me. William had walked that lonely road this morning, and noticed
nothing except the drifted snow! I remembered how I had placed the dead
man in the little hollow at the bottom of the bank. Could it be that
the kindly, merciful snow, which I have already described as beginning
to form in a winding-sheet, had hidden and buried him? That a pure
white, shapeless heap, which told no tales, concealed for a while the
dark deed from the world? Oh that Philippa were well enough to leave
this place to-morrow! We might fly and leave no trace behind us. She
might never know what she had done in her madness. The fearful secret
would be mine alone. A burden it would be, but one which I might easily
find strength enough to bear. Bear it! I could bear it, and be happy;
for something told me that, could I but save her from the peril which
menaced her, Philippa and I would part no more in this world until
death, the only conqueror of such love as mine, swept us asunder.
Once more I looked out into the night. Still the snow-flakes whirled
down. Oh, brave, kind snow! Fall, fall, fall! Pile the masses on the
dead wretch. Hide him deep in your bosom. Fall for weeks, for months,
forever! Save my love and me!