Chapter VII: The Catastrophe

James Beresford was not brave. He was very kind and tender and good; but he had not courage to meet the darker emergencies of life. He felt as he rushed downstairs from his wife’s presence that he had but postponed the evil day, and that many another dreadful argument on this subject, which was not within the range of arguing, lay before him. What could he say to her? He felt the abstract justice of her plea. A hopeless, miserable, lingering, loathsome disease, which wore out even love itself, and made death a longed-for relief instead of a calamity. What could he say when she appealed to him to release her from that anguish of waiting, and hasten the deliverance which only could come in one way? He could not say that it would be wicked or a sin; all that he could say was, that he had not the courage to do it--had not the strength to put her away from him. Was it true, he asked himself, that he would rather watch out her lingering agonies than deprive himself of the sight of her, or consent to part with her a day sooner than he must? Was it himself he was thinking of alone, not her? Could he see her anguish and not dare to set her free? He knew that, in the case of another man, he would have counselled the harder self-sacrifice. But he, how could he do it? He rushed out of the house, through the afternoon sunshine, away to the first space he could find near, and struck across the open park, where there was no one to disturb him, avoiding all the pleasant walks and paths where people were. The open space and the silence subdued his excitement; and yet what could really bring him peace? He had no peace to look for--nothing but a renewed and ever-new painful struggle with her and with himself. Yes, even with himself. If she suffered greatly, he asked, with a shudder, how could he stand by and look on, knowing that he could deliver her? And would not she renew her prayers and cries to him for deliverance? God help him! It was not as if he had made an end of that mad prayer once and for ever by refusing it. It would come back--he knew it would come back--hour by hour and day by day.

Oh, how people talk (he thought) of such mysteries when the trouble is not theirs! He himself had argued the question often, in her hearing, even with her support. He had made it as clear as day to himself and to others. He had asked what but cowardice--miserable cowardice--would keep a man from fulfilling this last dread, yet tender service? Only love would dare it--but love supreme, what will that not do, to save, to succour, to help, to deliver? Love was not love which would shrink and think of self. So he had often said with indignant, impassioned expansion of the heart--and she had listened and echoed what he said. All this returned to him as he rushed across the dewy grass, wet with spring rains, and untrodden by any other foot, with London vague in mists and muffled noises all round. Brave words--brave words! he remembered them, and his heart grew sick with self-pity. How did he know it was coming to _him_? How could he think that this case which was so plain, so clear, should one day be his own? God and all good spirits have pity upon him! He would have bidden you to do it, praised you with tears of sympathy for that tremendous proof of love; but himself? He shrank, shrank, contracted within himself; retreated, crouching and slinking, from the house. What a poor cur he was, not worthy the name of man! but he could not do it; it was beyond the measure of his powers.

When he turned to go home the afternoon light was waning. Small heart had he to go home. If he could have escaped anywhere he would have been tempted to do so; and yet he was on the rack till he returned to her. Oh, that Heaven would give her that sweet patience, that angelical calm in suffering, which some women have! Was it only religious women who had that calm? He asked himself this question with a piteous helplessness; for neither he nor she had been religious in the ordinary sense of the word. They had been _good_ so far as they knew how--enjoying themselves, yet without unkindness, nay, with true friendliness, charity, brotherly-heartedness to their neighbours; but as for God, they had known little and thought less of that supreme vague Existence whom they accepted as a belief, without knowing Him as a person, or desiring to know. And now, perhaps, had their theory of life been different they might have been better prepared for this emergency. Was it so? He could not tell. Perhaps philosophy was enough with some strong natures, perhaps it was temperament. Who can tell how human creatures are moved; who touches the spring, and what the spring is, which makes one rebellious and another submissive, sweet as an angel? He had loved the movement, the variety, the indocility, the very caprice, of his wife, in all of which she was so much herself. Submission, resignedness, were not in that changeful, vivacious, wilful nature; but, oh, if only now the meekness of the more passive woman could somehow get transfused into her veins, the heavenly patience, the self courage that can meet anguish with a smile! There was Cherry, his faded old maiden sister--had it been she, it was in her to have drawn her cloak over the gnawing vulture, and borne her tortures without a sign of flinching. But even the very idea of this comparison hurt him while it flashed through his mind. It was a slight to Annie to think that any one could bear this horrible fate more nobly than she. Poor Annie! by this time had she exhausted the first shock? Had she forgiven him? Was she asking for him? He turned, bewildered by all his dreary thoughts, and calmed a little by fatigue and silence, to go home once more.

It was getting dusk. As he passed the populous places of the park the hum of voices and pleasant sounds came over him dreamily like a waft of warmer air. He passed through that murmur of life and pleasure, and hurried along to the more silent stony streets among which his Square lay. As he approached he overtook Maxwell walking in the same direction, who looked at him with some suspicion. The two men accosted each other at the same moment.

‘I wanted to see you. Come with me,’ said Beresford; and----’ What is the matter? Why did you send for me?’ the doctor cried.

Then Maxwell explained that a hurried message had come for him more than an hour before, while he was out, and that he was on his way to the Square now.

‘Has there been any--change?’ he said. After this they sped along hurriedly with little conversation. There seemed something strange already about the house when they came in sight of it. The blinds were down in all the upper windows, but; at the library appeared Cara’s little white face looking eagerly out. She was looking out, but she did not see them, and an organ-man stood in front of the house grinding out the notes of the Trovatore’s song ‘Ah, che la morte,’ upon his terrible instrument. Cara’s eyes and attention seemed absorbed in this. James Beresford opened the door with his latch-key unobserved by any one, and went upstairs direct, followed by the doctor, to his wife’s room.

How still it was! How dark! She was fond of light, and always had one of those tall moon lamps, which were her favourites; there was no lamp in the room, however, now, but only some twinkling candles, and through the side window a glimmer of chill blue sky. Nurse rose as her master opened the door. She gave a low cry at the sight of him. ‘Oh, don’t come here, sir, don’t come here!’ she cried.

‘Is she angry, still angry?’ said poor Beresford, his countenance falling.

‘Oh, go away, sir; it was the doctor we wanted!’ said the woman.

Meantime Maxwell had pushed forward to the bedside, He gave a cry of dismay and horror, surprise taking from him all self-control. ‘When did this happen?’ he said.

James Beresford pressed forward too, pushing aside the woman who tried to prevent him; and there he saw--what? Not his wife: a pale, lovely image, still as she never was in her life, far away, passive, solemn, neither caring for him nor any one; beyond all pain or fear of pain. ‘My God!’ he said. He did not seem even to wonder. Suddenly it became quite clear to him that for years he had known exactly how this would be.

Maxwell put the husband, who stood stupefied, out of his way; he called the weeping nurse, who, now that there was nothing to conceal, gave free outlet to her sorrow. ‘Oh, don’t ask me, sir, I can’t tell you!’ she said among her sobs. ‘Miss Carry rung the bell and I came. And from that to this never a word from her, no more than moans and hard breathing. I sent for you, sir, and then for the nearest as I could get. He came, but there was nothing as could be done. If she took it herself or if it was give her, how can I tell? Miss Carry, poor child, she don’t know what’s happened; she’s watching in the library for her papa. The medicine-box was on the table, sir, as you see. Oh, I don’t hold with them medicine-boxes; they puts things into folk’s heads! The other doctor said as it was laudanum; but if she took it, or if it was give her----’

Mr. Maxwell stopped the woman by a touch on the arm. Poor Beresford stood still there, supporting himself by the bed, gazing upon that which was no more his wife. His countenance was like that of one who had himself died; his mouth was open, the under lip dropped; the eyes strained and tearless. He heard, yet he did not hear what they were saying. Later it came back to his mind; at present he knew nothing of it. ‘God help him!’ said the doctor, turning away to the other end of the room. And there he heard the rest of the story. They left the two together who had been all in all to each other. Had he given her the quietus, he who loved her most, or had she taken it? This was what neither of them could tell. They stood whispering together while the husband, propping himself by the bed, looked at her. At _her_? It was not her. He stood and looked and wondered, with a dull aching in him. No more--he could not go to her, call her by her name. A dreary, horrible sense that this still figure was some one else, a something new and unknown to him, another woman who was not his wife, came into his soul. He was frozen by the sudden shock; his blood turned into ice, his heart to stone. Annie! oh, heaven, no; not _that_; not the marble woman lying in her place! He was himself stone, but she was sculptured marble, a figure to put on a monument. Two hours of time--light, frivolous, flying hours--could not change flesh and blood into _that_; could not put life so far, and make it so impossible. He did not feel that he was bereaved, or a mourner, or that he had lost what he most loved; he felt only a stone, looking at stone, with a dull ache in him, and a dull consternation, nothing more. When Maxwell came and took him by the arm he obeyed stupidly, and went with his friend, not moving with any will of his own, but only because the other moved him; making no ‘scene’ or terrible demonstrations of misery. Maxwell led him downstairs holding him by the arm, as if he had been made of wood, and took him to the library, and thrust him into a chair, still in the same passive state. It was quite dark there, and Cara, roused from her partial trance of watching at the window, stumbled down from her chair at the sight of them, with a cry of alarm, yet relief, for the lamps outside had beguiled the child, and kept her from perceiving how dark it had grown till she turned round. No one had thought of bringing in the lamp, of lighting the candles, or any of the common offices of life in that house where Death had so suddenly set up his seat. The doctor rang the bell and ordered lights and wine. He began to fear for James: his own mind was agitated with doubts, and a mingled severity and sympathy. He felt that whatever had happened he must find it out; but, whatever had happened, how could he do less than feel the sentiment of a brother for his friend? He did not take much notice of the child, but stooped and kissed her, being the friend of the house, and bade her go to her nurse in a softened tender tone. But he scarcely remarked that Cara did not go. Poor child, who had lost her mother! but his pity for her was of a secondary kind. It was the man whom he had to think of--who had done it, perhaps--who, perhaps, was his wife’s innocent murderer--yet whom, nevertheless, this good man felt his heart yearn and melt over. When the frightened servant came in, with red eyes, bringing the wine, Maxwell poured out some for the chief sufferer, who sat motionless where he had placed him, saying nothing. It was necessary to rouse him one way or other from this stupefaction of pain.

‘Beresford,’ he said curtly, ‘listen to me; we must understand each other. It is you who have done this? Be frank with me--be open. It is either you or she herself. I have never met with such a case before; but I am not the man to be hard upon you. Beresford! James! think, my dear fellow, think; we were boys together; you can’t suppose I’ll he hard on you.’

‘She asked me--she begged of me,’ said Beresford, slowly. ‘Maxwell, you are clever, you can do wonders.’

‘I can’t bring those back that have gone--_there_,’ said the doctor, a sudden spasm coming in his throat. ‘Don’t speak of the impossible. Clever--God knows! miserable bunglers, that is what we are, knowing nothing. James! I won’t blame you; I would have done it myself in your place. Speak out; you need not have any reserves from me.’

‘It isn’t that. Maxwell, look here; they’ve spirited my wife away, and put _that_ in her place.’

‘God! he’s going mad,’ said the doctor, feeling his own head buzz and swim.

‘No,’ was the answer, with a sigh. ‘No, I almost wish I could. I tell you it is not her. You saw it as well as I. That my wife? Maxwell----’

‘It is all that remains of her,’ said the doctor, sternly. ‘Mind what I say; I must know; no more of this raving. Did you do it? Of course she asked you, poor soul!’ (Here the doctor’s voice wavered as if a gust of wind had blown it about.) ‘She never could endure the thought of pain; she asked you, it was natural: and you gave her--opium?’

‘Nothing. I dared not,’ he said, with a shiver. ‘I had not the courage. I let her plead; but I had not the courage. What? put her away from me, willingly? how could I do it? Yes; if she had been in a paroxysm; if I had seen her in agony; but she was calm, not suffering, and she asked me to do it in cold blood?’

‘What then?’ The doctor spoke sternly, keeping the tone of authority to which in his stupefied state poor Beresford appeared to respond. Cara from a corner looked on with wide-open eyes, listening to everything.

‘Nothing more,’ he said, still sighing heavily. ‘It was more than I could bear. I rushed away. I went out to calm myself--to try and think; and I met you, Maxwell; and now----’

He lifted his hands with a shuddering gesture. ‘That is all--that is all! and this desolate place is my--home; and _that_ is--Annie! No, no! Maxwell, some of your doctors--your cruel doctors--have taken her away to try their experiments. Oh, say it is so, and I’ll thank you on my knees!’

‘Be quiet, Beresford! Try and be a man. Don’t you see what I have got to do? If it was not you it was herself. I don’t blame her, poor soul, poor soul! the thought of all she had to go through made her mad. Be silent, man, I tell you! We must not have her branded with the name of suicide, James,’ cried the doctor, fairly sobbing. ‘Poor girl, poor girl! it is not much wonder if she was afraid; but we must not let them say ill of her now she is gone. I remember her before you married her, a lovely creature; and there she is, lying--but they must not speak ill of her. I’ll say it was---- Yes. if it’s a lie I can’t help that--my conscience will bear it--there must not be talk, and an inquest. Yes, that’s what I’ll say.’

‘An inquest!’ said the wretched husband, waking up from his stupor with a great cry.

‘I’ll take it upon myself,’ said Maxwell, going to the writing-table. Then he saw Cara leaning out of her chair towards them with great strained wide-open eyes.

‘Cara! have you heard all we were saying?’

‘I don’t understand, I don’t understand!’ said the child with sudden sobs. ‘What have you done to my mamma?’

The door of the library opened softly, and they all started as if at the approach of a new calamity.

‘If you please, sir,’ said John, addressing Maxwell with natural recognition of the only source of authority, ‘I came to see if you wouldn’t have some dinner--and master----’

With a moan, Beresford hid his face in his hands. Dinner must be, whosoever lives or dies--if the world were breaking up--if hope and love had failed for ever. John stood for a moment against the more powerful light of the gas in the hall, for his answer, and then, not getting any, he had the grace to steal quietly away.

But this wonderful intrusion of the outer ordinary life disturbed the melancholy assembly. It roused Beresford to a sense of what had befallen him. He got up and began to pace up and down the long room, and Cara’s sobs broke the silence, and Maxwell at the table, with a spasm in his throat, compiled the certificate of the death. In what medical form he put it I cannot tell; but he strained his conscience and said something which would pass, which nobody could contradict; was not that enough? ‘I hope I may never do anything more wicked,’ he said, muttering to himself. The nurse came to call the child, which was the first thing that had seemed natural to Cara in the whole miserable day’s proceedings. She did not resist the command to go to bed, as they had all resisted the invitation to dine. She got up quickly when nurse called her, glad of something she was used to.

‘It’s the only place as we’re all fit for,’ said nurse, with a sigh of weariness; ‘your poor papa, Miss Carry, as well as the rest.’ Then she turned to the gentlemen with a touch of natural oratory. ‘What is the use of talking,’ she said; ‘I’m one as has loved her since first she drew breath. She was my child, she was; and look you here, I’m glad--her old nurse is glad. I’ll not cry nor make no moan for her,’ said nurse, the tears running down her cheeks. ‘I’d have give her that dose myself if the darling had asked me; I would, and never have trembled. I’d have done it and stood up bold and told you I done it, and I don’t blame her. She’s seen what it was, and so have I.’

‘Nurse, you are a good woman,’ said the doctor, coming hastily forward and grasping her hand. ‘Nurse, hold your tongue, and don’t say a word. Don’t let those idiots talk downstairs. I’m ready to give them the reason of it whoever asks. I did not know it would come on so quickly when I left to-day; but I know what it is that has carried her off. It was to be expected, if we hadn’t all been a parcel of fools.’

Nurse looked him anxiously in the face. ‘Then it wasn’t--it wasn’t?---- Ah!’ she added, drawing a long breath, ‘I think I understand.’

‘Now, hold your tongue,’ he cried, curtly, ‘and stop the others. You are a sensible woman. My poor little Cara, good-night.’

‘Don’t speak to him,’ nurse whispered, drawing the child away. ‘Leave your poor papa alone, darling. God help him, he can’t say nothing to you to-night. Here’s Sarah coming to put you to bed, and glad I’d be to be there too: it’s the only place as we’re fit for now.’

Sarah, who was waiting outside, had red eyes overflowing with tears. She hugged the little girl and kissed her, bursting out into fits of subdued crying. But Cara’s own sobs were stilled and over. Her head ached with bewildering pain; her mind was full of confused bewildering thoughts.