The Fate of Felix Brand

by Florence Finch Kelly

But scarcely had she supported Mrs. Marne to her bed when a shriek in Delia’s voice, followed by the cry of “Doctor! Miss Harry! Come quick!” sent her on flying feet down the stairs again. Isabella, whom she had thought unconscious, had risen and tottered to the kitchen. There the maid, rushing on from the empty dining-room, had found her beside the sink with a bottle of carbolic acid upraised, ready to pour down her throat. Delia had struck it from her hand barely in time to save her from all but a chance burn upon her cheek.

“She must have had some sudden and very serious shock,” said the physician later, as he and Henrietta stood beside the bed where Isabella lay, at last sleeping quietly but moaning in her slumber. “Her second attempt to kill herself shows how profound it must have been. But she will come through all right now, I think, though her recovery will perhaps be slow. What she will need more than anything else will be to talk, and as soon as it is prudent you must persuade her to confide in you and tell you the whole story of whatever it was that led her to take this violent measure. Her nature is one that needs sympathy and support, now far more than ever, and the sooner she can be led to pour out all her trouble the sooner she will be able to get her grip on life again. But of course you’ll keep all the knowledge of it that you can away from your mother. You’ll have to use your own discretion about that. She’s had a pretty severe shock, too, and, though she was getting on so well, it’s likely to set her back a good deal.”

For days Isabella lay in her bed, like a broken, withered flower, weeping much and asking between her sobs why they had not let her die. But at last her sister’s love and tender, persistent effort broke through the wrappings of grief and shame that had kept her bound in silence and in Henrietta’s arms she sobbed out the pitiful tale that had come to so tragic an ending.

“Oh, Harry,” she said, “I can’t understand why this awful thing should have happened when I meant no harm at all. I can’t see yet that there was anything wrong in my going out with Mr. Brand now and then. It wasn’t many times, you know, and always he had some business errand and just stopped for me to give me a little pleasure and to have some company himself. I suppose he liked to have me go with him because I was always jolly and kept him in good spirits. For I did notice, Harry, that when he came he always seemed rather blue and anxious, and then, after we had been out for a while and I had laughed and chattered a lot, he would be more cheerful and by the time we would get back he would seem quite himself again.

“Since I have been lying here and thinking and thinking, Harry, dear,” she stopped and hid her face and a shiver of shame passed over her body. Henrietta’s arms tightened about her and she whispered soothing, loving words. “I’ve been thinking, dear,” Isabella went on brokenly, “that perhaps that was why he always stopped somewhere and ordered a bottle of champagne. Because it did put me in such gay spirits and, I suppose, made me more lively and just that much better company. And that, I guess, was what he wanted. I never drank but little, never more than a glass or two, and I couldn’t see any harm in it, though you did think I oughtn’t. Sometimes I held back and asked him if he thought I’d better, and he always laughed at me and urged me on and made it seem silly in me to have scruples.

“But that last day—” again she stopped and broke into a passion of sobbing that took all of Henrietta’s loving sympathy and tenderness to soothe. “You asked me not to go again,” she went on after a while in trembling tones, “and when he came mother, too, thought I’d better not. Oh, Harry, how I wish I had heeded you and refused to go! I could have made some excuse, and then—Oh, Harry, Harry, I don’t want to live any longer!”

“There, there, darling!” soothed her sister. “Try to control yourself and tell me all that happened. I’m sure it couldn’t have been anything so very bad. Tell me all about it, dear, and then you’ll feel better.”

“Mr. Brand seemed so different from what he used to be,” she presently went on, “and I began to understand what you told us about the change in him. I was just a little afraid after we started, he seemed to be in such an ugly temper and, oh, Harry, what a bad man he looks now! I begged him to bring me home again after a little while, but he wouldn’t and said his business was too important to be put aside for my whims.

“I was a little frightened and a good deal anxious and so of course I wasn’t as gay as usual, and that seemed to make him angry. Then he said we’d stop and have some wine and I thought perhaps it would be best to humor him and then maybe I could persuade him to bring me home. I meant not to drink more than a glass, but he made me—perhaps he thought it would make me more lively. Anyway, he was so rough in his manner and looks and there was such an angry gleam in his eyes that I was too frightened not to do what he told me to. And by the time we got home I was—oh, Harry, I can’t say it—and Warren met me as I came in and saw—and he said—an awful thing—and rushed away—and it’s all over, Harry—I can never see him again—it’s all over.”