ROMER drew near to Mr. Flint.
“I did all I could,” he said.
“Things look pretty desperate now, don’t they?” Mr. Flint
returned.
Hetzel tugged at his beard.
Mrs. Hart started up. “Oh, for mercy’s sake, Mr. Romer, you are not
going to let them take her back to—to that place, are you?”
“I don’t see how I can help it. Bail is out of the question, after
what has happened, you know.”
“But can’t I see her and speak to her just a moment, first?”
“Oh, certainly; you can do that.”
Romer stepped aside and spoke to an officer.
“Unfortunately,” he said, returning, “they have already carried
her off. But you can drive right down behind her.—Hello! What’s the
matter with Ripley?”
They looked around toward Arthur. A glance showed them that he had
fainted.
“When did this happen?” asked Romer.
No one could tell. No one had paid the slightest attention to Arthur,
since the prisoner had first appeared in court.
“Well, we must get him out of here right away,” said Romer.
Mr. Flint and Hetzel lent a hand apiece; and his three friends carried
the unhappy man out of the room, of course thereby creating a new
sensation among the spectators. They bore him along the corridor,
and into Mr. Romer’s office, where they laid him upon a sofa. Romer
touched a bell.
“I’ll have to send some one to take my place in court,” he
explained.
To the subordinate who appeared, “Ask Mr. Birdsall to step here,” he
said.
Mr. Birdsall came, received Romer’s orders, departed.
“There, now,” said Romer, “I’ve got that off my hands. Now,
let’s bring him around. Luckily, I have a flask of brandy in my
desk.”
He rubbed some brandy upon Arthur’s temples, and poured a drop or two
between his lips.
“You fan him, will you?” he asked of Hetzel.
Mrs. Hart proffered her fan. Hetzel took it, and fanned Arthur’s face
vigorously.
Mrs. Hart looked on for a moment in silence. At length she said,
“Well, I can’t wait here. I am going to the prison.”
“Oh, to be sure; I had forgotten,” said Romer. “I’ll send a man
to obtain admittance for you.”
“May I also bear you company?” inquired Mr. Flint.
Mrs. Hart replied, “That is very kind of you. I should like very much
to have you.”
Romer rang his bell for a second time. A negro answered it.
“Robert,” said Romer, “go with this lady and gentleman to the
Tombs, and tell the warden that they are special friends of mine, and
that I shall thank him to show them every courtesy in his power.”
Then he returned to the sofa, on which Arthur still lay inanimate.
“No progress?” he demanded of Hetzel.
“None. Can you send for a physician? Is there one near by?”
A third stroke of the bell. Hetzel’s acquaintance, Jim, entered.
“Run right over to Chambers Street Hospital, and tell them we want a
doctor up here at once,” was Romer’s behest.
“Our friend’s in a pretty bad way,” he continued to Hetzel.
“And, by Jove, his wife must be a maniac.”
“I don’t wonder at him,” said Hetzel. “I feel rather used
up myself, after that strain in court. But her conduct is certainly
incomprehensible.”
“The idea of pleading guilty, when I had things fixed up so neatly!
She must be stark, raving mad. Insanity, by the way, was her defense at
the former trial. I guess it was a bona fide one.”
“No doubt of it. But I suppose it’s too late to make that claim
now—isn’t it?—now that the judge has ordered her plea of guilty to
be recorded. Yet—yet it isn’t possible that she will really have to
go to prison.”
“We might have a commission appointed.”
“What is that?”
“Why, a commission to inquire into, and report upon, her sanity.”
“We might? We will. That’s exactly what we’ll do. But how? What
are the necessary steps to take?”
“Why, when she’s brought up for sentence, next week, and asked what
she has to say, and so forth, you have an attorney on hand, and let him
declare his conviction, based upon affidavits, that she’s a lunatic,
and then move that sentence be suspended pending the investigation of
her sanity by a commission to be appointed by the court—understand?
Our side won’t oppose, and the judge will grant the motion as a matter
of course.”
“Ah, yes; I see.—Mercy upon me, I never knew a fainting fit to last
so long as this; did you?”
“Well, I’m not much posted on fainting-fits in general, but it’
does seem as though this was an uncommonly lengthy one, to be sure.”
Arthur’s face betrayed no sign of vitality except for the gentle
flutter of his nostrils as his breath came and went.
“Poor fellow,” mused Romer, “what an infernal pickle he’s gone
and got himself into! It’s the strangest coincidence I ever heard of.
There he was, pegging away at that case month after month, and never
suspecting that the lady in question was his wife! And she—she never
told him. Queer, ain t it? As far as we were concerned, we never should
have lifted a finger, only I was anxious to do Ripley a good turn.
He’s a nice fellow, is Ripley, and I always liked him and his father
before him. That’s why we took this business up—just for the sake of
giving him a lift, you know. As for his client, old Peixada, we’d
have seen him hanged before we’d have troubled ourselves about his
affairs—except, as I say, for Ripley’s sake. And now, this is what
comes of it. Well, Ripley never was cut out for a lawyer anyhow. He had
too many notions, and didn’t take things practically enough. Why, when
the question of advertising first came up, he was as squeamish about it,
and made as much fuss, as if he’d known all the time who she was.”
“Here’s the doctor, sir,” cried Jim, entering at this point.
Jim was followed by a young gentleman in uniform, who, without waiting
to hear the history of the case, at once approached the sofa, and began
to exercise his craft. He undid Arthur’s cravat, unbuttoned his shirt
collar, placed one hand upon his forehead, and with the other hand felt
his pulse.
“Open all the windows, please,” he said in a quiet, business-like
tone.
He laid his ear upon the patient’s breast, and listened.
“When did this begin?” he asked at length.
“I should say about half an hour ago,” Romer answered, looking at
his watch.
“Is—is there any occasion for anxiety?” Hetzel inquired.
The doctor shrugged his shoulders. “Can’t tell yet,” was his
reply.
He drew a leather wallet from his pocket, and unclasping it, disclosed
an array of tiny glass phials. One of these he extracted, and holding it
up to the light, called for a glass of water. Romer brought the water.
The doctor poured a few drops of medicine from his phial into the
tumbler. The water thereupon clouded and became opaque. Dipping his
finger into it, the doctor proceeded to moisten Arthur’s lips.
“Each of you gentlemen please take one of his hands,” said the
doctor, “and chafe it till it gets warm.”
Romer and Hetzel obeyed.
“Want him taken to the hospital?” the doctor inquired presently.
“Oh, no,” said Hetzel. “As soon as he is able, we want to take him
home.”
“Where does he live?”
“In Beekman Place—Fiftieth Street and the East River.”
“Hum,” muttered the doctor, dubiously; “that’s quite a
distance.”
“To be sure. But after he comes to, and gets rested, he won’t mind
it.”
“Perhaps not.”
“Why, do you mean that that he’s going to be seriously sick?”
“Unless I’m mistaken, he’s going to lie abed for the next six
weeks.”
“What?”
“Sh-h-h! Not so loud. Yes, I’m afraid he’s in for a long illness.
As for taking him to Beekman Place, if you’re bound to do it, we must
have an ambulance.”
“I think if he’s got to be sick, he’d better be sick at home. What
is it necessary to do, to procure an ambulance?”
“I’ll send for one.—Can you let me have a messenger?” he asked
of Romer.
Romer summoned Jim.
The doctor wrote a few lines on a prescription blank, and instructed
Jim to deliver it to the house-surgeon at the hospital. Returning to
Arthur’s side, “He’s beginning to come around,” he said; “and
now, I think, you gentlemen had better leave the room. He mustn’t
open his mouth for some time; and if his friends are near him when he
recovers consciousness, he might want to talk. So, please leave me alone
with him.”
“But you won’t fail to call us if—if—” Hetzel hesitated.
“Oh, you needn’t be afraid. There’s no immediate danger.”
“You’ll find us in the next room,” said Romer, and led Hetzel out.
Whom should they run against in the passageway but Mrs. Hart and Mr.
Flint?
“What! Back so soon?” Romer exclaimed.
“She refused to see me,” said Mrs. Hart.
Romer pushed open a door. “Sit down in here,” he said.
“Where is Arthur?” asked Mr. Flint. “How is he getting on?”
Romer explained Arthur’s situation.
“Worse and worse,” cried Mr. Flint.
“But how was it that she refused to see you?” Hetzel questioned,
addressing Mrs. Hart.
“She sent me this,” Mrs. Hart replied, holding out a sheet of paper.
Hetzel took it and read:—
“My dear one:—It will seem most ungracious and ungrateful of me to
send word that I can not see you just now, and yet that is what I am
compelled to do. My only excuse is that I am writing something which
demands the utmost concentration and self-possession that I can command;
and if I should set eyes upon the face I love so well, I should lose all
control of myself. It is very hard to be obliged to say this to you;
but what I am writing is of great importance—to me, at least—and the
sight of you would agitate me so much that I could not finish it. Oh,
my dear, kind friend, will you forgive me? If you could come to see me
to-morrow, it would be a great comfort. Then my writing will be done
with. I love you with all my heart, and thank you for all your goodness
to me.
“Ruth.”
“Don’t blame her too severely, Mrs. Hart,” said Hetzel. “She is
probably half-distracted, and scarcely knows what she is doing.”
“Oh, I don’t blame her,” replied Mrs. Hart; “only—only—it
was a little hard to be denied.”
“Have you any idea what it is that she is writing?”
“Not the remotest.”
“Perhaps it is an explanation of her conduct today in court.”
“Perhaps,”
Mr. Flint said, “Well, Mr. Romer, the bright plans that we were making
last night have been knocked in the head, haven’t they? But I won’t
believe that there isn’t some way out of our troubles, in spite of
all. It isn’t seriously possible that she’ll be sentenced to prison,
is it?”
“As I was suggesting to Mr. Hetzel, a while ago, her friends might
claim that she’s insane.”
“Well, insane she must be, in point of fact. A lady like Mrs.
Ripley—to plead guilty of murder—why, of course, she’s insane.
It’s absurd on its face.”
“You don’t any of you happen to be posted on the circumstances of
the case, do you?” Romer asked. “I mean her side of the story. I’m
familiar with the other side myself.”
“I know absolutely nothing about it,” said Mr. Flint.
“All I know,” said Hetzel, “is what Arthur has let drop in
conversation, from time to time, during the last few months. But
then, you know, he was looking at it from the point of view of the
prosecution. I should imagine that if any one would understand the true
inwardness of the matter, it would be Mrs. Hart.”
Mrs. Hart said, “I know that she is as innocent as the babe at its
mother’s breast. When she and I first met each other, in England, two
years ago, and became friends, she told me all about it; but it was a
long and complicated story, and I can’t remember it clearly enough to
repeat it. You see, I always regarded it as a dark bygone that had best
be forgotten. I believe that as far as the mere bodily act went, she
did fire off the pistol that killed her husband and that other man. But
there were some circumstances that cleared her of all responsibility,
though I can’t recall exactly what they were. But it wasn’t that she
was insane. She never was insane. I think she said her lawyers defended
her on that plea when she was tried; but she insisted that she was not
insane, and explained it in some other way.”
“Oh, that don’t signify,” said Romer. “When defendants really
are insane, they invariably fancy that they’re not, and get highly
indignant at their counsel for maintaining that they are. At any rate,
lunacy is what you must fight for now. As I told Mr. Hetzel, you want to
retain a lawyer, and have him move for a commission when the case comes
up next week. You’ll have your motion granted on application, because
we shan’t oppose.”
“And in the event of the commission declaring her to be insane?”
queried Mr. Flint.
“Why, then, her plea will be rendered null and void.”
“And in case they say that she’s of sound mind?”
“There’ll be the devil to pay. Sentence will have to be passed.”
“And she will—will actually—?”
“I wouldn’t worry about that. The chances are that they will report
as you wish. And if they shouldn’t—if worse came to worst—why,
there’s the governor, who has power to pardon.”
“The ambulance has arrived,” said the doctor, coming into the
room. “Some one had better run on ahead, and get a bed ready for the
patient. Please, also, prepare plenty of chopped ice, and have some
towels handy, and a bottle of hot water for his feet. By the way, you
didn’t give me the number of the house. How’s that? No. 46? Thanks.
We’ll drive slowly, so as not to shake him up; and consequently
you’ll have time enough to get there first, and make every thing
ready.”
“Well,” said Hetzel, rising, “good-by, Mr. Romer, and I trust that
you know how grateful we are to you.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” said Romer. “Don’t mention it.
Good-by.”
In the street Mr. Flint said, “I’ll invite myself to go home with
you. I want to see how badly off the poor boy is.”
In Beekman Place they made the ’arrangements, that the doctor
had indicated for Arthur’s reception, and then sat down in the
drawing-room to await his coming. By and by the ambulance rolled up to
the door.
They hurried out upon the stoop. A good many of the neighbors had come
to their windows, and there was a small army of inquisitive children
bivouacked upon the curbstone. Mrs. Berle ran across from her house, and
talked excitedly to Mrs. Hart. Of course, all Beekman Place had read in
the newspapers of Judith Peixada’s arrest.
The doctor, assisted by the driver, lifted the sick man out. He lay at
full length upon a canvas stretcher. His face had assumed a cadaverous,
greenish tinge. His big blue eyes, wide open, were fixed upon the empty
air above them. To all appearances, he was still unconscious.
They carried him up the stoop; through the hall, and into the room
above-stairs to which Mrs. Hart conducted them. There they laid him on
the bed.
“Now,” said the doctor, “first of all, send for your own
physician. I must see him and confer with him, before I go away.”
Mrs. Hart left the room, to obey the doctor’s injunction.
“You, Jake,” the doctor went on, addressing the driver, “needn’t
wait. Drive back to the hospital, and tell them that I’ll come as soon
as I can be spared.”
“Here, Jake, before you go,” said Mr. Flint, producing his purse.
“Oh, thanks. Can’t accept any thing, sir,” responded Jake, and
vanished.
“Now, gentlemen,” resumed the doctor, “just lend a hand, and help
undress him.”
Following the doctor’s directions, they got the patient out of his
clothes. He seemed to be a mere limp, inert mass of flesh, and displayed
no symptoms of realizing what was going on. His extremities were
ice-cold. His forehead was hot. His breath was labored.
“A very sick man, I’m afraid, isn’t he, doctor?” asked Mr.
Flint.
“I’m afraid so.”
The doctor covered him with the bed-clothes.
“What do you think is the matter with him?” Mr. Flint pursued.
“Oh, it hasn’t developed sufficiently yet to be classified. His
mind must have been undergoing a strain for some time, I guess; and now
he’s broken down beneath it.”
“He’s quite unconscious, apparently.”
“Yes, in a sort of lethargy. That’s what makes the case a puzzle.
Won’t you order a hot-water bottle, somebody?”
Hetzel left the room. In a moment he brought the bottle of hot water.
The doctor applied it to Arthur’s feet.
“And the chopped ice?” Hetzel inquired.
The doctor placed his hand upon Arthur’s brow.
“N—no; we won’t use the chopped ice yet a while,” he answered.
By and by a bell rang down-stairs. A little later Mrs. Hart came in.
“Our doctor—Dr. Letzup—is here,” she announced.
Dr. Letzup entered.
“I suppose you medical men would like to be left alone?” said Mr.
Flint.
“Yes, I guess so,” said the hospital-doctor.
Mrs. Hart led the way into the adjoining room. There our friends
maintained a melancholy silence. Mrs. Hart’s cats slept comfortably,
one upon the sofa, the other upon the rug before the mantelpiece. The
voices of the two physicians, in earnest conversation, were audible
through the closed door.
Presently Mr. Hart jumped up.
“What—what now?” Mr. Flint questioned.
“I heard one of them step into the hall. Perhaps they need
something.”
She hurried to the threshold. There she confronted the hospital-doctor.
He had his hand raised, as if on the point of rapping for admittance.
“Ah, I was looking for you,” he explained. “I am going now. I
don’t see that I can be of any further use.”
“How is Arthur?”
“About as he was. Dr. Letzup has taken charge of him. Well, good
day.”
“Oh, you shan’t leave us in this way,” protested Mrs. Hart. “You
must at least wait and let me offer you a glass of wine.”
“I’m much obliged,” said the doctor; “but they are expecting me
in Chambers Street.”
Mrs. Hart, flanked by Mr. Flint and Hetzel, accompanied him to the
vestibule. All three did their utmost to thank him adequately for the
pains he had taken in their behalf. Returning up-stairs, they were
joined by Dr. Letzup.
“Well, doctor?” began Mrs. Hart.
“Well, Mrs. Hart,” the doctor replied, “our friend in the next
room has been exciting himself lately, hasn’t he? What he wants now
is a trained nurse, soothing medicines, and perfect quiet. The first two
I’m going to send around, as soon as I leave the house. For the last,
he must depend upon you. That is equivalent to saying that he will
have it. Therefore, so far as I can see, you have every reason to be
hopeful.”
“What do you take his trouble to be, doctor?” asked Hetzel.
“Oh, I don’t know of any special name for it,” said the
doctor. “The poor fellow must have been careless of himself
recently—worrying, probably, about something—and then came a shock
of one kind or another—collapse of stock he’d been investing in,
or what not—and so he went under. We’ll fetch him up again, fast
enough. The main thing is to steer him clear of brain fever. I think
we can do it. If it turns out that we can’t—if the fever should
develop—then, we’ll go to work and pilot him safely through it. Now
I must be off. Some one had better stay with him till the nurse comes.
Keep him warm—hot water at his feet, you know, and bed-clothes tucked
in about his shoulders. When the nurse turns up, she’ll give him his
medicines. I’ll call again after dinner.”
Mr. Flint left a little later.
“I suppose I shan’t be of any assistance, but merely in the way,
by remaining here. So I’ll go home. But of course you’ll notify
me instantly if there should be a change for the worse,” was his
valedictory.
After dinner the doctor called, pursuant to his promise. Having visited
his patient, and held an interview with the nurse, he beckoned Hetzel to
one side.
“Don’t be frightened,” he said, “but I’m afraid it’s going
to be brain fever, after all. He’s a little delirious just now,
and his temperature is higher than I should like. The nurse will take
perfect care of him. You’d better go to bed early and sleep well, so
as to be fresh and able to relieve her in the morning. Good night.”
“Good night.”
“What did the doctor say to you?” inquired Mrs. Hart.
Hetzel told her.