"Fred," she said at last, "I have known you ever since you were a little boy, and as I am in great trouble I have come to you, hoping that you will be able to help me."
"Dear Mrs. Derwent, you know there is nothing I would not do for you and yours," I replied.
"It is May that I want to speak to you about; she is really very ill, I fear."
"Indeed, I am sorry to hear it; what is the matter with her?"
"I don"t know. She has not been herself for some time."
"So I hear. Do you know of any reason for her ill health?"
"She has not been exactly ill," she explained, "only out of sorts.
Yes, I"m afraid I do know why she has changed so lately."
"Really," I exclaimed, much interested.
"Yes, it has all been so unfortunate," she continued. "You know how much admiration May received last winter; she had several excellent offers, any one of which I should have been perfectly willing to have her accept. Naturally, I am not anxious to have her marry, at least not yet; for when my child leaves me, what is there left for me in life? Still, one cannot think of that, and if she had chosen a possible person I should gladly have given my consent. But the only one she seemed to fancy was a most objectionable young man, an artist; _the_ Maurice Greywood, in fact, of whose supposed murder you no doubt read in this morning"s paper."
"Yes," I admitted.
"Well, I put my foot down on that. I told her she would break my heart if she persisted in marrying the fellow. It was really a shock to me to find that a daughter of mine had so little discrimination as even to like such a person; but she is young and romantic, and the creature is handsome, and clever in a Brummagem way. The man is a fakir, a _poseur_! I even suspect, Fred, that his admiration for May is not quite disinterested, and that he has a very keen eye to her supposed bank account."
"But May is such a lovely girl----"
"Oh, yes. I know all about that," interrupted Mrs. Derwent, "but in this case "_les beaux yeux de la ca.s.sette_" count for something, I am sure. He has absolutely no means of his own, and a profession which may keep him in gloves and cigarettes. I hear that he is supported by his mother and friends. Think of it! No, no, I could not bear her to marry that sort of man. But the child, for she is little more, took my refusal much to heart, fancied herself a martyr no doubt, and grew so pale and thin that I consulted the doctor here about her. He suggested nervous prostration, due to too much excitement, and wanted her to take a rest cure. I am sure, however, that that is all nonsense. May was simply fretting herself sick; she _wanted_ to be ill, I think, so as to punish me for my obduracy."
"But what, then, makes you so anxious about her now?" I inquired.
"Have any new symptoms developed?"
"Yes," and after glancing anxiously about to see whether she could be overheard, Mrs. Derwent continued in a lower voice. "You know that she started to go to Bar Harbor last Tuesday." I nodded.
"Well, she seemed really looking forward to her visit, and when she left home was very affectionate to me, and more like her old self than she had been for months. But through some carelessness she missed her connection in town, and instead of returning here as she ought to have done, spent two nights in our empty apartment--of all places!! What possessed her to do such a thing I cannot find out, and she is at present so extremely excitable that I do not dare to insist on an explanation. When she did return here on Thursday she told me at once about the murder and how she was made to look at the body and to give an account of herself. Of course, we were very much afraid that her name would get into the papers and all the facts of her escapade become known. Through some miracle, that at least has been spared me; but the shock of being brought into such close contact with a mysterious crime has proved too much for the child"s nerves, and she is in such an overwrought hysterical condition that I am seriously alarmed about her. I wanted to send again for Dr. Bertrand. He is not very brilliant, but I thought he might at least give her a soothing draught. She wept bitterly, however, at the bare idea--insisted that he only made her more nervous. I then suggested sending for our New York physician, but she became quite violent. Really I could hardly recognise May, she was so----so--impossible. Of course she is ill, and I now fear seriously so."
Mrs. Derwent paused to wipe her eyes.
"When you say that she is violent and impossible, what do you mean, exactly?"
"It is difficult to give you an idea of how she has been behaving, Fred, but here is an instance that may show how extraordinary her conduct has been: Her room is next to mine, and since her return from town she has shut herself up there quite early every evening.
I know she doesn"t sleep much, for I hear her moving about all night long. When I have gone to her door, however, and asked her what was the matter, she has answered me quite curtly, and refused to let me in. She has not been out of the house since she came back, but, strangely enough, I have caught her again and again peering through the blinds of those rooms that have a view of the road, just as if she were watching for somebody. As soon as she sees that she is observed, she frowns and moves away. Last night I slept very heavily, being completely worn out by all this anxiety, and was suddenly awakened by a piercing shriek. I rushed into May"s room and found her sitting up in bed talking volubly, while about her all the lights were blazing. "Take him away, take him away!" she kept repeating, and then she wailed: "Oh, he"s dead, he"s dead!" I saw at once that she was asleep and tried to rouse her, but it was some time before I succeeded in doing so. I told her she had been dreaming, but she showed no curiosity as to what she might have been saying, only evincing a strong desire to be left alone. As I was leaving the room, I noticed that the key-hole had been carefully stopped up. I suppose she did that so as to prevent my knowing that she kept her lights burning all night. But why make a secret of it? That is what I can"t understand! She has had a shock, and it has probably made her afraid of the dark, which she has never been before, and perhaps she looks upon it as a weakness to be ashamed of. Another unfortunate thing occurred this morning. May has lately been breakfasting in bed, but, as ill-luck would have it, to-day she got down-stairs before I did, and was already looking over the newspaper when I came into the room.
Suddenly she started up, her eyes wild with terror, and then with a low cry fell fainting to the floor.
"s.n.a.t.c.hing up the paper to see what could have caused her such agitation, I was horrified to read that the man who was found murdered in our apartment house was now supposed to be Maurice Greywood. Imagine my feelings! As soon as she had recovered sufficiently to be questioned, I begged her to confide in me--her mother. But she a.s.sured me that she had told me everything, and that the man who had been killed was a perfect stranger to her and not Mr. Greywood. She insists that the two do not even look very much alike, as the deceased is much larger, coa.r.s.er, and darker than the young artist. It was, of course, the greatest relief to know this. Had Greywood really been at the Rosemere on the evening she spent there, I should always have believed that they had met by appointment. "Yes, I should; I know I should," she repeated, as I shook my head in dissent.
"When I was ready to go to church, I was astonished to find May waiting for me in the hall. She was perfectly composed, but a crimson spot burned in either cheek and her eyes were unnaturally bright. I noticed, also, that she had taken great pains with her appearance, and had put on one of her prettiest dresses. I could not account in any way for the change in her behaviour. As we neared the village, she almost took my breath away by begging me to telegraph to Mr. Norman to ask him to come and stay with us!
"Telegraph him now!" I exclaimed. "Yes," she replied; "I would like to see him. If we telegraph immediately, he could get here by five o"clock." "But why this hurry?" I asked. She flushed angrily, and kept repeating: "I want to see him." "But, my child," I remonstrated, "I don"t even know where Mr. Norman is. He certainly is not in town at this time of the year." "Telegraph to his town address, anyhow, and if he isn"t there it doesn"t matter," she urged.--"But, May, what is the meaning of this change? The last time he came down here you wouldn"t even see him. Do you now mean to encourage him?" "No, no," she a.s.serted. "Then I shall certainly not send him such a crazy message," I said. "If you don"t, I will,"
she insisted. We were now opposite the post office. She stopped and I saw that she was trembling, and that her eyes were full of tears.
"My darling," I begged her, "tell me the meaning of all this?" "I wish to see Mr. Norman," is all she would say. Now, I suppose you will think me very weak, but I sent that telegram. Fred, tell me, do you think the child is going insane?" and the poor mother burst into tears.
"Dear, dear lady, I am sure you are unnecessarily alarmed. If I could see May, I could judge better."
"Yes, yes," she interrupted, eagerly, "that is what I wish. I thought if you came to the house as a visitor you could give me your professional opinion about May without her knowing anything about it. The difficulty is, how can you get to us with your poor leg?"
"Nothing easier," I a.s.sured her. "I can hobble about now on crutches, and with a little help can get in and out of a carriage; so I will drive over to you immediately after lunch."
"Won"t you come now and lunch with us?"
"No; at lunch we should all three have to be together, and I would rather see your daughter by herself."
"Very well, then," said Mrs. Derwent, and gathering up the folds of her soft silk gown she left me.
Early this afternoon I drove over to their place, and found both ladies sitting on the piazza. May greeted me very sweetly, but I at once noticed the peculiar tension of her manner, the feverish glitter of her eyes, the slight trembling of her lips, and did not wonder at her mother"s anxiety. After a little desultory conversation, Mrs. Derwent left us alone. I doubt if the girl was even aware of her departure, or of the long pause which I allowed to follow it.
"May, Dr. Fortescue, whom you have read about in connection with the Rosemere tragedy, is a great friend of mine." She stared at me with horror. I felt a perfect brute, but as I believed it was for her good I persisted: "I think he saw you when you were in town."
She staggered to her feet; I caught her to prevent her falling, and laid her gently on a divan. "Lie still," I commanded, looking her steadily in the eye. "Lie still, I tell you; you are in no condition to get up. Now, listen to me, May; I know you have had a shock, and your nerves are consequently thoroughly unstrung. Now, do you wish to be seriously ill, or do you not?" My quiet tones seemed to calm her. "Of course I don"t want to be ill," she murmured. "Then you must not go on as you have been doing lately.
Will you let your old playfellow doctor you a little? Will you promise to take some medicine I am going to send you? I must tell you that, unless you will do what I say, you will be delirious in a few hours." I thought that argument would fetch her.
"Yes, yes," she exclaimed. "What shall I do?" and she put her hand to her head and gazed about her helplessly.
"In the first place, you must go to bed immediately."
"I can"t do that; Mr. Norman will be here in a few hours."
"Well, I can"t help it. To bed you must go, and from what I hear of that young man he will be as anxious as anybody to have you do what is best for you."
"But--" she objected.--"There is no "but." Unless you at once do as I tell you, you will be down with brain fever."
"Very well, then," she meekly replied; "I will go to bed."
"That"s a good girl. You must get a long night"s rest, and if you are better in the morning I will let you see your friend. He"ll wait, you know; I don"t believe he will be in any hurry to leave, do you?" But she only frowned at my attempt at jocularity. I rang the bell and asked the butler to call Mrs. Derwent, to whom I gave full directions as to what I wanted done, and had the satisfaction of seeing May go up-stairs with her mother. I waited till the latter came down again, and then told her as gently as possible that her daughter was on the verge of brain fever, but that I hoped her excellent const.i.tution might still save her from a severe illness.
The next question was, what to do with Norman.
May"s positive belief that he was coming had proved contagious, and I found that we were both expecting him. I thought it would be best for me to meet him at the train, tell him of May"s sudden illness and offer to put him up at our place for the night. Mrs. Derwent, after some hesitation, agreed to this plan. Norman turned up, as I knew he would. He is very quiet, and does not appear surprised either at his sudden invitation or at May"s illness. He also seems to think it quite natural that he should stay in the neighbourhood till she is able to see him. He looks far from well himself, and is evidently worried to death about May. He has been out all the evening, and I suspect him of having been prowling around the Beloved"s house.
Now tell me--what do you think is the meaning of all this? Is the body Maurice Greywood"s, or is it not? If it is he--who killed him and why? If she--but I"ll not believe it unless I also believe her to have had a sudden attack of acute mania--and that, of course, is possible, especially when we consider what a highly nervous state she is still in.
But if the dead man was really a stranger to her, as she a.s.serts, why then does every mention of the murder cause her to become so excited? Why does she appear to be for ever watching for somebody?
Why did she cry out in her sleep: "Oh, he"s dead, he"s dead!"?
Again, the only reasonable explanation seems to be that her mind has become slightly unhinged. And if that is the case, what role does Norman play in this tragedy, and why did she insist on his being sent for? Above all, why does he consider it natural that she should have done so?
Now, knowing all this, can you advise me as to what I ought to do to help the poor girl?
I hear Norman coming in, so must end abruptly, although I have a lot more to say.
Affectionately yours, FRED.