My husband started. He evidently expected to see her crazed still, and did not want to meet face to face, with reason restored, the woman he had brutalized; but as she lay there and looked at him, intellect shone in those dark oriental eyes,—not the quick, sharp, wandering stare of insanity. She recognised him, and feebly beckoned with her hands. I gently drew him to the bed-side. She made a motion as if to be raised, and I lifted her in my arms and laid her head on my breast. The blood had oozed out from the bandages, and her hair was clotted with it: her face was deadly pale, and the mists of death had already settled there; her eyes were growing languid and dim, and hands and feet very cold. My husband looked at her with that expression of self-consciousness of having inflicted wrong which alone can impress the human features, ere the heart is altogether hardened and depraved. As I have said, her memory flew back four years before, and she thought the quarrel and the deed had just occurred.
“Nevermind, dear Rinaldo, I forgive you. Don’t grieve, though I die from it. I know I am high tempered; I provoked you to do it; I did not mean to make you angry: don’t grieve. Here, Pasiphae, bandage my head; put me to bed: when I recover I will try and be a better woman—more deserving of your love.”
In agony I glanced at the physician; she had no idea of her real state; she knew not that death, in a few hours, would take her for his own. The good man eyed her with an air of interest, for this was a strange case.
He approached her, perceiving my wish; and, taking one of her hands in his, said quietly,
“My good lady, listen to me. You are not aware of your condition at present; you are only this moment regaining your mind; you have been insane for several years, till last night, escaping from the room, you fell down stairs, and that sudden concussion has been the means of restoring your mind. It is my duty to tell you that a very few hours will close your life; you cannot live longer than to-morrow.”
“Been insane,” repeated she, with a scornful, indignant air, “you are dreaming, man; it was only a moment ago Rinaldo and I were quarrelling, and, enraged, he struck me with a pistol. I am very sorry; but, oh! how strangely my head feels: oh! how painful! what ails me? why am I lying here surrounded by people? how dim everything looks. I cannot distinguish anything: why is this? Get lights: I must arise and dress. I must find Rinaldo: where is he?”
She pushed me violently away from her, and with the last effort of strength, sprung from her bed to her feet. Seeing my husband, she threw herself on his neck, and wildly sobbing, kissed him. It was an awful sight, to behold that woman, already in the embraces of death, hugging and clinging to what had once constituted her joy of existence. I felt no jealousy, for I ever possessed this peculiar trait; the moment an object of affection disappoints me, that moment affection and infatuation disappear. I felt a sentiment of bitter shame and regret that I had given myself to such a man;—that is what I experienced as I witnessed this strange scene.
He looked annoyed,—not grieved; and once or twice tried to lay her down on the bed, but her personal strength, to which was added additional power by the strong excitement under which she labored, frustrated his endeavor. Her disordered hair hung down her back; the bruised and bandaged head, covered with blood, presented a ghastly sight. Her thin hands, which clasped his neck, scratched and wounded; and the long night robe she wore dabbled with blood.
“No, no, no,” she cried; “I have you; I have you: now you shall not go till you promise to love me, and forgive me my anger.”
“Take her away, Pasiphae: rid me of the mad woman,” shouted my husband. “Why do you stand there, stupidly inactive, when you see me thus annoyed? Take her off my neck: put her in bed.”