When Dr. F—— was gone I went in search of Geraldine. I met a servant and asked for Mrs. Thorburn; she answered that her mistress had just come in from the garden and had gone upstairs. I mounted to the bedroom, and found the door locked. I rapped and called to her to admit me. The key was turned, the door opened, and Geraldine stood before me, with the skirt of her dress off, her arms bared to the elbows, and her hair wild. "Come in," she said; and when I was in she locked the door again.

I noticed that her hands and arms were covered with soil; there were fragments of dry leaves in her hair, and on the carpet, from the door to the toilet-table, were marks of her muddy boots. There was a keen look of triumph on her white face; and sharp curves at the extremity of her lips made the expression of her mouth malevolent.

I pretended to take no notice of her appearance. She went to the washstand, brimmed the basin and began to wash.

"My friend is gone," said I; "you will have me now all to yourself."

She looked over her shoulder and nodded.

"I rather fancy he guessed you did not like him," I continued; "for he expressed no surprise at your absence, nor did he desire to bid you good-bye."

"There was a little devil in each of his eyes," she replied; "mocking imps, that made mouths at me and frightened me."

"That is strange. It appeared to me that he had a kind eye."

She splashed the water violently over her arms, and sponged her face, repeating this many times. I waited until her ablutions were ended, and asked, "Where have you been, Geraldine?"

"In the garden, digging, until my arms are tired; and now my head aches."

"But what is there to dig, dear? The beds are in order."

"I wanted exercise, and so I took a spade and dug. I was in a mood for digging. It pleased me to drive the sharp spade into the soft earth and fling it up all quivering. I was in a passion; and I dug a grave for my passion."

"Have you been resting under the trees? There are fragments of leaves in your hair?"

"I don't know how they came there. Perhaps I dashed the leaves about with my spade. Will you brush my hair out?"

She seated herself before the toilet-glass. How pallid and deadly was the reflection of her face! I loosened her yellow tresses; they flowed over my arm like silk. From time to time I caught sight of her black and glittering eyes watching me; but their lashes veiled them each time I met their gaze.

"I wish I could put a little colour into your marble cheeks, Geraldine. It makes me very sad to see you so pale."

"I would not make my boy sad for much," she answered.

"You were well when I left you; there must be some reason for this change."

"No reason, no reason," she answered, sighing.

"If there is any cause for your illness or for this change, if your heart is oppressed with any trouble or misgiving, if you are not perfectly happy in your mind—why will you not take me into your confidence? Is it not my privilege to share your sorrows? If you are sad and will not tell me the cause of your sadness, must I not fear that you do not think I love you well enough to deserve your confidence?"

"Do I distrust your love? I do not. I am happy in your love."

"If you know how well I love you you must be happy; for no one was ever loved more truly than you."

"Do not talk so, Arthur. Let me feel your love, not hear it."

"Is there anything in the past that grieves you to remember, Geraldine?"

"Hush!" she raised her hand solemnly. "I have buried the past. It will grieve me no more."

"But its ghost may walk," I said, hoping to make myself more intelligible by adopting her tone. "Tell me how I may find it, that I may bid it depart and leave you in peace."

"Should it come, it will not go for you," she said, shaking her head. "Ghosts are deaf, and heed no prayers. They are spirits and have no fears. The air is full of them sometimes. I hear their voices, and when the room is dark I see their shapes. They are more white than that face," pointing to her reflection; "and they have steady un-winking eyes and long shadowy hands. Do you never see them? They often stand at the foot of the bed and watch us."

"These are foolish fancies, Geraldine. See, I have brushed your hair well. Will you do it up?"

She took the tresses in her hands mechanically and bound them in the fashion she wore them.

"You do not play the piano as you used, Geraldine. I have heard that ghosts hate music as much as they hate sunshine or anything else that is cheerful. When you have got on your dress, come down-stairs and play me something, and you shall hear me sing. I had a voice once."

"I do not care to play," she answered wearily.

"You have tired yourself with digging. Lie down a little and I will fetch a book and read you to sleep."

"I could not lie down. How strong the light is! Draw the curtains."

I did as she bade me, and took a chair at the window.

"Do not watch me so, Arthur," she said peevishly. "You have learned that trick from your friend. Your eyes seem as sharp as his."

I averted my face, leaning my cheek on my hand.

"When you dig the earth how the horrible worms crawl out! I cut one into four pieces yesterday, and not one piece was dead when I left. When I die, do not bury me in the ground, but throw me as I am in the sea. The ground is dark and rotting, but the sea is fresh. I can shut my eyes so, and feel myself there. There," pointing in the air, "is a huge black shadow floating over me like a cloud. Great eyes, each with a hundred circles, stare at me through the green water. There goes a great outline, brilliant as a rainbow, white, yellow, black, blue——oh! how horrible it is to die!" she suddenly screamed, clasping her hands and staring at me wildly.

I passed my arm round her neck, kissed her cold cheek, and tried to soothe her. She turned in her chair, burying her face in my breast and trembling from hand to foot. She disengaged herself presently, walked with uncertain steps to the bed, and put on her skirt.

"Is there nothing you can do, my poor wife, to clear your mind of these distressing fancies?" I asked. "If you would try to fix your mind upon something, however unimportant, it might create an interest and give you food for thought."

"Are not other people haunted like I am?"

"Many, I dare say. We all should be, if we did not resolve not to be. Why, were I to encourage superstitious feelings, I could make myself the most unhappy wretch in the world in less than a week. Will was given us expressly that we might control our humours, and passions, and weaknesses. You have the will; you only want the resolution to exercise it."

"What can my will do for me? If I were to grind my teeth and clench my hands, and declare I would not think, could I stop thinking? Oh! it is enough to drive me mad!"

She began to talk to herself and moved about the room, prowling rather than walking; looking uneasily above, then staring at herself in the glass, shaking her head and catching at the fingers of her left hand. Suddenly she stopped, and called out. "Why will you look at me, Arthur? You are growing unkind. You used not to look at me before like that." And she began to sob.

"It is my love that makes me look at you; but I will not look if it gives you pain;" and I turned to the window, and stared out with as heavy a heart as ever a man had.

She fell to singing to herself a little melodious air with Italian words, of which I caught only the first line;

and breaking suddenly off, she stole up to me, threw her arms around my neck, and whispered:

"Will you be glad when I am dead?"

"I should wish to die too."

"I wish," she continued, in a half-chanting dreamy voice, "we could pass into heaven as we are, without dying. I would take your hand, and we would float to the stars, up through the still air, and on and on, until we came to the City of God. There we should be met by the Angel of Peace, who would lead us to the thrones of the Blessed Virgin and her dear Son, and in their holy presence——look!" she cried, pointing over my shoulder to the garden, "there is a white form rising—do you see it? I can see the trees through its body—how steadily it soars! yet it has no wings. I follow it. Look, Arthur."

Hitherto I had not been looking at her as she had desired. Now I turned. Her eyes were wide open, with a fixed stare on the sky; her lips were parted, and she breathed with deep respirations. Presently, she bowed her head, made a gesture with her hand, and crossing herself, muttered, "It is gone."

"Come," said I, taking her hand, "let us go downstairs."

That night, whilst I was pacing the balcony, pondering my position, and less lamenting it than deploring my powerlessness to save my wife from the calamity whose shadow was now on her, it entered my head to search her boxes or trunks for any papers or letters that might throw some light on her past.

Under any other circumstances, I should have dismissed such a resolution from my mind. A wife may have secrets, and her husband should respect them. But Dr. F—— had intimated his fear that her madness was being fed by some sorrow. To have discovered, that I might remove, her sorrow, I would have been guilty of any mean act. I did not love myself so well as I loved her.

I pretty well knew I had not been born with the detective faculty, and apprehended that my search would be defeated by clumsiness. Still I resolved to attempt it. My wife had several trunks ranged in my dressing-room, and one of those large boxes draped with chintz, called ottomans.

It was midnight before I retired to rest. I had other things to think of besides this search. The titles of my books, as they looked down from the shelves, had preached a solemn homily on the vanity of human wishes: and my own experience capped the moral by presenting me with a picture of the life I was leading, done in colours as sombre as fancy and reality could supply. When I got upstairs I found Geraldine asleep. I bent over her, and studied her features. The complexion was so white that the outline of her cheek was hardly perceptible upon the pillow. Her beauty had a pinched, worn air. All its calm and freshness were gone; her brow was knitted, her lip curled in a sneer; she lay quite still, breathing deeply. The general expression of her face was wretchedness. It was pitiful to witness such a look on lineaments so beautiful.

I took the candle with me into the dressing-room, and tried the lids of the boxes. They were open. That of the ottoman only was locked. I sought for her keys in the pockets of some dresses hanging in the wardrobe and found them in a green silk skirt. I turned the ottoman inside out, but found nothing. I applied myself to the trunks, but they were as barren of information as the ottoman. I closed the lid of the last trunk and was about passing from the room, when I heard the sound of a door opened. I listened, then pushed the dressing-room door, and looked out. The bed was empty, the door of the chamber open. I caught a light sound of feet, and stealing to the landing, perceived Geraldine descending the stairs.

I followed her. She gained the hall; I drew near. A lamp that was kept burning all night diffused a sufficient light. I looked at her face, and by the expression saw that she walked in her sleep.

I did not dare arouse her. I had read of the danger of awakening persons from such trances, and Dr. F—— had particularly cautioned me against doing so with my wife. I could do no more than follow her; and this I resolved to do to preserve her from harm. She walked steadily to the door leading to the back grounds, unbolted it, and passed out. The night air blew chill, for autumn was advanced and the approach of winter could be tasted in the night winds. The moon lay over the trees, slowly brightening, but shedding little light as yet. But the grounds and shadows were defined. She seemed sensible of the chill; for she crossed her hands upon her bosom and huddled her shoulders. She was habited only in her nightgown and her feet were naked. The dew was heavy; the gravelled walks sharp; yet I dared not wake her.

She passed down the lawn, got on to a side walk, and marched with slow but steady step towards the orchard. Soon she entered it. The shadows were deep, but the moonlight fell through the openings and faintly illuminated the obscurity. The grass stood knee deep. My feet crunched the dead leaves and snapped the rotten twigs. It was a portion of the grounds left untouched by the gardeners at my own request. The contrast between the trimmed gardens and the wild luxuriant orchard pleased me.

Sometimes the shadows and the intervening trunks of the trees made it difficult for me to follow her. I wondered whither she was leading me. How utterly still was the place! Her naked feet made no noise as she advanced. Her form flitted and floated before me in the gloom like a spectre. She wound her way in and out among the trees with precision, while I blundered forward, sometimes stumbling with my shoulder against a black trunk, sometimes kicking and nearly falling over long iron-hard roots.

Before long she gained the extremity of the orchard. The hedge that intersected her former house from the grounds rose thick and black. She stood motionless awhile, then knelt and began to scrape the earth with her hands, throwing the dried leaves furiously about her. Presently she desisted, rose, and went through a pantomime, the significance of which the gloom forbade me to interpret; but it appeared to me as though she struggled with some invisible object. She breathed heavily and chokingly, and sometimes faint cries escaped her. Then down she dropped on her knees again, and fell to sweeping back the leaves in the same violent way she had before scattered them. This done, she left the place, passing me so close that I had to shrink lest she should touch me.

She went towards the house fleetly. I had to walk quickly to keep up with her. At times she almost ran. As I feared she would shut the door upon me if I were behind, and so prevent me from entering, for the other doors and the windows were bolted and closed, I ran by her and stood in the passage until she entered. It happened as I expected. She closed the door at once and bolted it precisely as she had found it. I followed her upstairs, saw her get into bed and lie as motionless as when I had first bent over her.

I seated myself and watched her. I found nothing strange in her actions in the orchard. The mere fact of walking in her sleep was sufficient to render consistent any extraordinary behaviour. But I dreaded the consequence of her exposure to the night air. I could not doubt the wonderful providence that watched over the actions of the somnambulist; but supernatural as might be the regulation of her conduct, I knew that her flesh would still be susceptible of ill, and that there could be no provision made against the dangers of sickness and disease.

There was to be no sleep for me that night. I felt so wide awake that I saw it would be useless getting to bed. I was agitated and superstitious. The house was so still that I could hear the ticking of the clock in the hall. The wind swept past the windows at intervals and faintly rattled the casements.

How calmly she slept! I could not reconcile her profound slumber with the misery in her face. Was there a sorrow there, or was it her madness that made her face so plaintive? If a sorrow, why should it be undiscoverable? I had searched her boxes; what else remained to be searched? I went to the wardrobe, noiselessly pulled out the drawers and examined them. In the top drawer was her jewel case. It was open. I raised the tray; there was nothing there beyond a few articles of jewelry. I inspected the middle drawer. Here was her desk; a large old-fashioned rosewood box, at which I had once or twice found her writing in the dressing-room. It was locked. I took the keys, fitted the right one, and opened the desk. There were papers here, at all events; bundles of letters, some of them yellow and faded, connected by bits of elastic.

Eager as I was to know the truth for her sake, I found my curiosity strongly repelled by my sense of delicacy and honour. Before I could force myself to open the bundle I held, I had to subdue my aversion to the task by recalling the benefit she would derive by my knowing her past. That the rustling of the papers should not disturb her, I retreated with the desk to the dressing-room, leaving the door ajar, that I might hear if she moved. I then trimmed the light and addressed myself to my necessary but odious task.

The letters were numerous. I read them all. Some of them were addressed to her by her grandmother. Some were written in a foreign hand and signed Luigi. They told me only a portion of her story—that she had married against her grandmother's will and that her husband had been an Italian. The first batch of her grandmother's letters comprised those which had been addressed to her at school. They spoke of her holidays; how glad the writer would be to have her granddaughter with her again. These were full of wise if rather trite counsels. The next batch were those addressed to her at London. These were full of reproaches and threats. There were only five of these letters, and some of them were smudged as with tears. Luigi's letters were addressed to her at school, to Miss Geraldine Dormer, Gore House Academy. They were full of violent protestations of endless love. Some of them began, Carissima mia; others, Bella figlia mia. One of them contained this passage: "The south is yellow with sunlight, but more splendid is the yellow of your hair. The dark skies of my native land tremble with gems; but more beautiful is the gloom of your eye, which gleams with the light of your soul!" They were mostly written in this strain, diversified here and there with practical questions to which answers were humbly supplicated.

I learnt nothing from them. I returned them to the desk and went to look at Geraldine. She lay perfectly still. I resumed my seat and fell into thought. I wondered whether it was the loss of her husband that had made her crazy. Her marriage with him had been a love match; that was plain from the grandmother's reproaches. Passion, I thought, might easily work disastrous changes in such a nature as hers. But she had told me her husband had ill-treated her; and her secluded life, her consistent language on this subject, confirmed the truth of her assurance. In my reverie I stretched forth my hand to toy with a ring that hung from the desk. Accidentally jerking it, a drawer started out. I bent forward, and I saw that this drawer contained a flat long MS. volume, together with a couple of rings, a Catholic medal, and a silver crucifix.

I extracted the manuscript and opened it. On the first page was inscribed the word "Diary." The opening entry was dated 185-.