Mad Love

by Julian Hawthorne

Spencer Curtis, as I remember him, was a hollow-cheeked, bright-eyed, excitable young fellow, with soft brown hair, a lock of which was continually falling down over his broad forehead. He could not talk long on any subject without becoming excited; and when he was excited he coughed, and his eager face flushed; he was supposed to have a tendency to consumption. In character he was viewy, enthusiastic, and unpractical, but subject to fits of profound depression, and his enthusiasm was easily discouraged. There was a slender vein of genius in the man, and he occasionally said strangely brilliant things, without seeming to be aware of it. He was given to philosophical speculations, and had written a very eccentric book, treating de omnibus rebus et quibusdam allis, which had been made fun of by most of the reviews, but which contained promise of powers that might have achieved something really new and valuable. But, somehow, we never regarded Curtis as a man who was likely to live long, and perhaps this led us to humor him more than we should otherwise have done. Still, he was a winning and lovable fellow; and some women were very much attracted by him. He himself, however, was extremely shy of female society; and since he had only about three thousand pounds in the world, besides what he could make by his pen, nobody ever dreamed of such a thing as hearing that he was going to be married.

Consequently, I was nothing less than amazed when he burst into my rooms one day, and, seizing me by both arms, looked for a moment in my face, and said,

"Kate Masters has promised to be my wife!"

"Kate Masters? What are you thinking of?" I exclaimed. "Not the heiress?"

Spencer's eyes darkened and his face flushed; he let go my arms.

"Is that all you have to say to me?" he asked, in an aggrieved tone.

"But you took my breath away; besides—"

"Do you suppose I care for her money?"

"My dear fellow, of course not! I only feared the news was too good to be true. I congratulate you with all my heart!"

"Her money is the only thing that troubles me," continued Spencer, dropping moodily into a chair. "I wish she had no more than I have—or nothing at all. Now that I know she cares for me, I am able to make a living for both of us, whatever you may think. And you are the oldest friend I have!"

"You have none that believes more in your ability and honor," I said, for I was sincerely sorry that I had hurt his feelings. "Come, shake hands, old boy, and let us hear all about it."

He finally consented to be appeased, and told me his story—not that there was really very much more to tell. He had been invited out to Colonel Masters' country seat, and of course Kate had been there. They had (as I already knew) met each other a good many times before, and she had once or twice spoken to me of her admiration for Spencer, while he, for his part, had seemed more at ease in her company than in that of most women. But I should as soon have thought of his marrying her as of her marrying the Shah of Persia. However, they were together at her uncle the Colonel's, and in the course of the week they became engaged. Wonders will never cease, especially when there is a woman in the case; and probably this did not seem to Spencer so very wonderful, though of course he regarded himself as the most blessed of mankind.

"It was in the little chalet that it happened," he said, drawing his breath after a sharp fit of coughing. (He had been tramping up and down the room, shoving the chairs about, and talking rapidly.) "You know the chalet?—in that clump of trees at the further end of the lawn, about a quarter of a mile from the house; I had been rambling about the grounds, and came in there quite by chance, supposing it to be empty. But she was there, sitting at the western window, with a book in her lap. She looked round, and when she saw it was I, an expression came into her eyes that—it made me feel the time had come! I had hardly realised how it was with me before; but then, everything explained itself! I began by remarking what a pretty little house it was, and how happy one might be to live in it; and so one thing led to another. At last—oh, she was so heavenly sweet! She said the world might laugh at us, but that I was worth a thousand worlds to her. We walked home with her arm resting on mine; and the new moon was just above the tops of the trees."

"What did the Colonel say to it?" I inquired.

"O, he behaved just as might have been expected," answered Spencer, throwing back the hair from his forehead. "At first he took me to task very severely, and talked about my having abused his confidence, and all that. But I would not allow him to hold that tone with me, and, after a while, we got to talking more reasonably. He said he was Kate's guardian as long as she was under age, and that he could not conscientiously let her marry me until she was beyond his control. Of course that won't be till a year from now. I said that I was prepared to wait, and that I desired all the property should be settled on her. Then he wanted me to promise not to see or correspond with her while the period of probation lasted; but neither Kate nor I would agree to that; and at last it was arranged that there was to be no letters, but that we were to meet once every month. In the end he and I parted very politely. I fancy, though, that he calculates on Kate's changing her mind. If so, he is making a great mistake. I trust in her constancy as I trust in Heaven!"

Now, although I would not for the world have had Spencer suspect it, I must admit that I was a good deal of the Colonel's way of thinking as regarded Miss Masters. I knew something of her. She was a fine, handsome, wholesome girl, with an aristocratic nose, and a complexion like a warm rose leaf; her white teeth sparkled when she laughed, and she had more hair growing on her head than she well knew what to do with. Her voice was pleasant, though rather loud; she rode dashingly to hounds, and was a champion lawn tennis player. But she was not, so far as I was aware, a student of any kind of literature, and the only philosophy that concerned her was how to get the most fun out of the passing moment. I could imagine her enjoying a bit of romance, and playing her part in it very well; but that she should make an imprudent match and stick to it did not seem so likely. Her father and mother, whose only child she was, had been dead some years, and she inherited the whole of that large property, her uncle being her guardian during her minority. It was in her power to make the most brilliant match of the season; and I knew it for a fact that Captain the Honorable Arthur Taverney had made her an offer not three months before. She must have refused him, for he went off to the Ashantee war in despair. But that was no reason why she should fall in love with a man like poor Spencer Curtis; and I had serious doubts whether she intended anything more than a vacation pastime.

My misgivings were not relieved by the discovery that the engagement was for the present to be kept a secret. Spencer had stipulated with the Colonel to be allowed to tell me, because I had known him when he was a boy, and was his most intimate friend; but the rest of the world was to remain uninformed until the day for the wedding was fixed. Miss Master herself did not seem to have objected to this arrangement; and as for Spencer, he declared that he preferred it. If all the world had been as ingenuous as Spencer, no harm would have been done, but, as it was, some miscarriage was at least conceivable. However, I held my peace, and hoped for the best; and when Spencer left me, he was in very good spirits.

For a couple of months all went well; but with the advent of winter Spencer's cough grew worse, and his physician told him he had better go to Madeira if he meant to live. After some hesitation he decided to go. He was to be allowed to write to Kate once a month, and to receive letters from her, since they would not meet until his return.

"It won't be for long, after all," he remarked to me, trying to put a brave face on the matter; "and this will be our last separation. If I have to go to Madeira next year, she will go with me."

He made me promise to keep him informed of Kate's doings while he was away; and so finally off he went, I bidding him farewell on the deck of the steamer with a heavy heart.

Poor Spencer! It was long before I discovered that the promise I had given him would be no agreeable matter to keep. Miss Masters was admirably constant to him for a time, and spoke to me of her devotion to him in terms that I was glad to hear; and I began to repent of the suspicions I had entertained of her. I wrote to Spencer that all was going on well, and that I felt disposed to fall in love with his Kate myself. But one day, while I was chatting with her at an after-dinner reception at Lady Loraley's, she gave a sudden start and an exclamation, and there, behind my shoulder, stood Captain the Honorable Arthur Taverney, pale and handsome, with his arm in a sling. He had just been invalided home from Africa, and was a great hero. He spoke to Miss Masters, who received him cordially; and there was nothing for me but to make my bow and move off. They were together the rest of the evening; but I was determined to have one word with her. So, just before I took my departure, I made my way up to her. She was standing shoulder to shoulder with Captain Taverney, listening to the last bars of a song from Madame Semaroff.

When it was over, she turned to exchange an admiring exclamation with the captain, and I took the opportunity to say,

"I have come to bid you good evening, Miss Masters."

"O, good evening," she said, not offering me her hand.

"I am sending a letter to-morrow to our friend in Madeira," I continued; "have you any message?"

She replied, coldly, "I think not, thank you;" but in a moment she added, her cheeks reddening, "Tell him not to be away too long."

I decided not to send my letter to Spencer the next day, but to wait for further developments. Kate was evidently wavering; she wished to be true, but distrusted herself; and, with a woman like her, such distrust is the prelude to surrender. Captain Taverney was very fascinating, and he was on the ground; I knew also that the Colonel would favor his suit. To tell the truth, I myself considered him a much better match than Spencer for the girl; but, things having gone so far as they had, that was neither here nor there. Meanwhile, the aspect of affairs became less and less encouraging; but there was still nothing tangible; these constant visits of Captain Taverney might be merely friendly, and mean nothing; moreover, since Kate's engagement to Spencer was kept secret, the Captain was not to blame. But Kate and the Colonel were to blame; and, after some deliberation, and with great reluctance, I resolved to speak openly with the former. This was about six weeks subsequent to our interview at Lady Lornley's. I was at the opera, and seeing Miss Masters in her box, I presented myself there at the end of the first act.

"I knew I should find you here to-night," I remarked, after she had asked me to sit down beside her.

"Why to-night, particularly?"

"Because it is La Favorita—Spencer's favorite opera. By this time next year he will be sitting here beside you. You expect him back in May, don't you?"

"I suppose so,'' she said, distraitly, leaning away from me and rippling her fan.

"It is a long time for him to have been exiled from you," continued I; "but I hope," I went on, looking at her, "that he will not have been away too long?"

At first I thought she was going to ignore my allusion—evidently she was not thankful to me for making it. But, presently, she seemed to take a resolution; she closed her fan and turned to me, breathing more quickly, and rather pale.

"I suppose Spencer authorised you to act as his representative during his absence—to see that I behaved myself, I mean, and did not forget him?"

"He had no misgivings of that sort, Miss Masters. He told me before he went away that he trusted you as he trusted Heaven. He asked me, as his friend, to keep him informed of your health and happiness ; and that I have done."

"If you have told him that I was happy, you have misled him. I have been very unhappy."

"You have not been without distractions—more than he has had, poor fellow."

"I do not need your sarcasm," she said, hotly. "I have been more sarcastic to myself than you would dare to be; but it is no use. I made a terrible mistake. I don't know how I came to make it. I always knew that Spencer was above me, intellectually and in other ways; but I thought I could grow up to him. I thought more highly of myself than I deserved. Since he has been away I have come back to my own level."

While she was thus confirming my worst fears, I leaned on my elbow on the edge of the box, looking out across the theatre. A young man was standing up in the stalls, directing his opera-glass towards us. I recognised Captain Taverney.

"A very attractive and fashionable level, unquestionably," I observed, with a slight indicative movement of the head.

She looked across and saw him, and the color swept into her face, whether it came from anger or from other passion, I could not tell.

"It is my own level, at all events," she said, with a dignity which commanded some respect; "and the only one in which I could give happiness or feel it."

"I doubt whether beauty has any level, whatever may be the case with its professor," I said getting up; "hence many sorrows and misunderstandings. Have you no regrets?"

"None—to speak of," she replied; and upon that ambiguous answer I bowed and took my departure, passing Captain Taverney in the lobby.

It only remained for me to perform one of the most welcome duties that ever fell to my lot—to write the news to Spencer Curtis. I sent him a long letter; I said everything that I could; but in the course of it the reluctant words had to be spoken; Kate Masters renounced her engagement. I did not think it necessary to mention the name of Captain Taverney. I also dispatched a curt note to Miss Kate, telling her what I had done. I received no reply to it; but the next thing I heard about her was that a marriage had been arranged between her and Captain Taverney. In due course the wedding invitations were distributed, and finally the wedding, at which I did not care to be present, took place. All this time I had heard nothing from Spencer, and his silence began seriously to disquiet me.

By the end of another month, however, two pieces of intelligence reached me. Captain Taverney had been unexpectedly ordered abroad with his regiment, and Spencer Curtis had come back to England raving mad.

Mrs. Taverney did not accompany her husband to India; the regiment was not expected to remain abroad long, and the work it had to do was not consistent with the presence of ladies. She took up her abode with her uncle in the interval. Whether or not she knew of the calamity which had happened to Spencer I cannot say; but I fancy the facts had been concealed, or at any rate, softened to her. She believed him to be ill, and nothing more. I saw the poor fellow once or twice, but he never recognised me. He had every comfort that his condition admitted and that money could procure (for, singularly enough, a relative of his had bequeathed him £18,000 just about the time that he lost his love and reason); but he was dangerously mad, and had more than once attempted to kill his attendant. I asked the physician whether there was any hope of his being cured, upon which that prudent gentleman smiled, and remarked that he had as bad cases as that come round.

The ensuing autumn I went on the continent for a change and recreation, for I missed Spencer more than I should have anticipated—more, perhaps, than if he had been dead. I renewed my acquaintance with Naples and Venice, and Constantinople and Madrid; at last, one spring day, I found myself in Paris. Sitting in a café on the Boulevard, I took up a copy of Galiganni, and read in it that Captain the Honorable Arthur Taverney had died of fever in Bombay. The paragraph added that he left a widow and infant daughter in England.

I returned to London in June. My heart was softened towards Mrs. Taverney, and I wished to renew my acquaintance with her, and to make that of the little child whom its father had never seen. I found her living alone in a small house in Hampstead. It was a lovely spot at that time of year; and London, with its busy season, might have been a hundred miles away for all that could be seen or heard of it. I found Mrs. Taverney looking very handsome in her widow's dress, and the baby was a healthy and energetic little creature, with its mother's eyes and hair. Our talk was friendly and quiet, and mostly kept clear of the things that lay nearest to the heart with both of us; but the two men whom we did not name waited behind our words, and spoke in our silence. Yet I was pained to believe that I detected something in her tone occasionally, indicating that she held poor Spencer to be in some way the origin of her griefs. "If he had never crossed my path, all would have gone well," seemed to be the gist of her feeling. Nothing more unreasonable and unjust could have been imagined; but there is no logic in a woman's suffering. I was confirmed by this in my previous conclusion—that she could never have heard of Spencer's insanity; indeed it was known to very few persons. I was half-minded to tell her of it, then; but on second thoughts it seemed to be best not to assume the responsibility of the revelation; it should come to her from some other source, if at all.

I met Colonel Masters several times in London, and he seemed inclined to renew the cordial relation which had subsisted between us previous to the recent events. At length he invited me to come down with him to his country seat for a couple of days; there were to be a few friends and plenty of quiet and fresh air, nothing elaborate. After some hesitation I agreed to go. A party of us went out by special train, and we found the house and grounds at their loveliest; but in the afternoon some heavy showers came on, compelling us to take shelter indoors. Here we amused ourselves as best we might; but it began to be rather dull, and we looked forward to the time when dinner should be ready. At length, just before the dressing-bell rang, I saw, from the window at which I happened to be standing, a carriage drive up to the door. A lady, dressed in black, got out of it; following her, a maid, with a baby in her arms. It was Mrs. Taverney. She had come in complete ignorance of there being any company in the house; and as she had not faced society since her loss, and there were no ladies among the Colonel's guests, the situation promised to be rather awkward.

She accommodated herself to it very gracefully. She greeted us all with courtesy and composure, and was prevailed upon to preside at the dinner table. After dinner she announced her intention of retiring to the little chalet in the park, where a bedroom had been fitted up. One and all of us were ready to give up our rooms to her, but she refused all offers. She had often before slept in the chalet, and preferred it to the house. Finding her resolute, the Colonel and I accompanied her over there, the maid bringing the child. The clouds had cleared away, and it was now bright moonlight.

The interior arrangement of the chalet was very simple. There were two rooms, each about fifteen feet square, opening into each other. The first of these was the bedroom, and had one large window on the right as you entered. The other room was used as a parlor; it had books, and a writing table, and a sofa in the bay window. Adjoining it was a small chamber, at that time used for lumber. The only entrance to the building was by the front door, which was of solid wood, and could be securely fastened. But the neighborhood was a very quiet one, and such a thing as a burglary had not been heard of for years. After having seen Mrs. Taverney safely into her little hermitage, therefore, we left her there without any apprehensions. The maid went back with us. We locked the door on the outside, it being arranged that the maid was to go over early in the morning to attend to washing and dressing the baby. Mrs. Taverney stood at the open window, and waved her hand in adieu to us as we set off on our homeward journey. Then she closed the window and fastened it.

"It seems rather a lonely place to leave her in," I remarked to the Colonel, as we strolled along over the damp turf, smoking our cigars.

"Bless you, her baby is all the company a mother wants," replied my gallant companion. "As for safety, she couldn't be safer if she was in our house in town. Not but what I wish the poor girl had some better protector than a baby, too!" The Colonel said this with a sigh, and no further words passed between us till our arrival at the house.

I went to my chamber that night about midnight. It was quite warm, and after partly undressing, I sat down at my open window to finish my smoke and enjoy the moon. While thus comfortably engaged, a sound reached my ears that made me start. It was very faint, but was it not a scream? I listened again for a long time, for my thoughts had immediately gone to the distant chalet, from the direction of which the sound had seemed to come. But it was not repeated, and at last I persuaded myself I must have been mistaken, and sought my bed.

Meanwhile, this was what occurred at the chalet.

After putting her baby to sleep, Mrs. Taverney threw off her dress and put on a loose negligee, and, for additional ease, she unfastened her hair and suffered it to fall down over her shoulders and below her waist. She was not sleepy, and purposed reading a while before going to bed. There were no books in the bedroom, so she went into the other room to get one. She did not take her candle with her, for the moonlight was so bright that no other light was needed. The book she selected was Charlotte Bronte's Jane Eyre. After taking it from the bookshelf, she paused a minute or two by the sofa in the bow window, gazing out across the silent landscape. Her thoughts went back to the time, two years ago, when she had sat there with Spencer Curtis at her feet, and he had told her his love. Her bosom heaved sighs, and a deeper look came into her eyes. Poor Spencer! After all, no one had spoken to her of love as he had spoken it. Where was he now? Was he thinking of her? Had he forgotten her? The place seemed full of him. There was the very spot where he had knelt.

A slight sound, which Mrs. Taverney supposed to come from the baby, interrupted her reverie at this point, and she hastened back to the bedside. No; the child slept peacefully, lying on its back, with its little white arms above its head. The mother bent over it lovingly, but feared to kiss it, lest it should awake. She sat down in a chair by the bedside, drew up the small table which held the candle, and was soon deep in the mysteries of Mr. Rochester's establishment. As she sat she faced the door of the inner room; it stood wide open, and by raising her eyes, she could see through to the bay-window. But she presently became so absorbed in her book, that she had eyes for nothing else.

She had been reading for perhaps half-an-hour, when an unmistakable noise from the inner room again put her on the alert. It was a slow pushing sound, and was followed by a faint creak—the door of the little lumber-closet was being opened. That door lay out of the range of her vision, unless she moved, and for the moment, bold-hearted woman though she was, she was powerless to move. The creaking ceased; but, as she listened intently, she fancied she could detect a long irregular breathing. Then a shadow fell across the moonlight that rested on the floor of the inner room.

Mrs. Taverney turned, and extinguished her candle by putting her fingers on the wick. It was the thought of her baby that made her do this. She hoped that, whatever' might happen to her, the baby might not be noticed. The candle being out, she silently arose, and drew the coverlet over the baby's face. Meanwhile, she kept her eyes directed towards the open doorway.

A face was now visible in the other room, its features strongly lighted and blackly shadowed by the moon. It was a man's face, wild and ghastly. A thin and ragged beard and tangled hair, emaciated cheeks and appalling eyes, glittering and restless. In hue and cadaverousness it resembled the face of a dead person; but it was alive, though with no ordinary life. The figure moved so silent that at first Mrs. Taverney thought that it was a spectre; and the idea was strengthened by the shadow of resemblance it bore to some one whom she had known well and had met in that very spot. The figure moved towards the bay-window, and knelt down there, grasping in its arm one of the cushions of the sofa. It pressed the cushion to its breast, and seemed to kiss it passionately. Then, all at once, it broke out into a hurried murmur of strange disjointed words—expressions of love, despair, and entreaty, and her own name incessantly repeated. A horrible oppression made Mrs. Taverney s heart shudder and pause. This was no horrible spectre, but a living man—a madman—and her discarded lover.

If it had not been for her baby she would have dropped fainting where she stood; but as it was, she dared not faint. The thing was unexpected and inconceivable as it was real and terrible. She was shut up, alone and beyond reach of help, with the mad lover whom her own inconstancy had driven to madness. To escape was hopeless; and to remain might be death—not to her only! Her least movement might reveal her presence to him; or at any moment he might turn and see her. Yet to stand there inactive was most intolerable of all. Something she must do, or the suspense would drive her also mad. If she could reach unobserved the door between the two rooms and manage to close it! She believed there was a key in the lock; at all events, it would be better than nothing. She did not wait for the idea to cool, but instantly stepped towards the door. Unfortunately, it opened away from her, towards the inner room. Yet she almost had her hand upon it, when the madman rose from his knees and faced her. Then, without wavering, she did a thing which showed a valiant heart. She walked quickly forwards into the room, and closed the door behind her. She had the madman to herself; but the baby—for the time at least—was safe.

She never knew how long she was closeted there with him, in that fearful companionship; nor did she ever tell what passed between them, save in disconnected hints. Whatever it was, the traces which it left upon her remained permanently. There is reason to suppose that the madman who had been Spencer Curtis did not show uncontrollable violence; but there is reason to believe that, with the hideous unconsciousness of insanity, he made her drink to the last dregs the bitterness of the wrong that she had done him. Perhaps there have been others besides Kate Taverney who had held in their memory the consciousness of an hour which no one else besides their Creator will ever know anything about. I am thought to be of a speculative turn of mind, but I do not care to speculate further in this matter.

But this night was not to pass without a further incident. At about twelve o'clock, according to my reckoning, Kate heard a sound which she had heard many times before with little emotion, but which now severed her heart like a sword. It was the crying of her baby in the next room. She was sitting on the sofa in the window at the time, and she had succeeded in soothing her companion so far, that he was crouching beside her, with his head in her lap. He heard it too, and immediately leaped to his feet with a mad man's suspicious alertness. She tried to restrain him, but horror made her powerless; he broke away from her, opened the door of the bedroom, and went in, she following with stiffened limbs. The child continued its cries; he went to the bed, turned back the coverlet, and caught the infant up in his arms. Then Kate fell down on her knees, and uttered that scream which reached my ears as I sat smoking at my chamber window.

The next morning, when the maid went at the appointed hour to awaken her mistress, she found her kneeling on the floor in front of a haggard-looking creature, who sat in a chair with the baby in his arms. It was sleeping quietly; he was crooning over it, and mumbling loving words to it in a hushing tone. As the amazed woman drew near, Mrs. Taverney turned upon her a face that seemed wrinkled and aged, and said huskily, "Do not disturb them. He thinks the baby is his. He has been very gentle to her. Let them be!" And then, in a moment, she dropped sideways insensible.

From that night Spencer partially recovered from his madness, insomuch that it was not found necessary to send him back to the asylum from which he escaped; but he always persisted in believing the baby to be his own. Mrs. Taverney made arrangements to take charge of him, and they have in a manner lived together ever since. She seems to feel that he belongs to her; and when I visited them the other day, her manner towards him struck me as being exquisitely tender. The little girl was smiling between them.

Warragul Guardian, Thursday 29 September 1881, supplement page 2. Originally published in The World.