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.