“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 cassette’ 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.