verdict will be ‘Wilful Murder!’ ”
“O dear! O dear!” exclaimed Mrs. Forster, jumping out of her bed with fright, and wringing her hands: “What can I do?—what can I do?”
“At present it is a secret, Mrs. Forster, but it cannot be so long. Miss Dragwell, who feels for you very much, begged me not to say a word about it. She will call and consult with you, if you would like to see her. Sad thing indeed, Mrs. Forster, to be placed in such a situation by a foolish husband.”
“You may well say that, Mr. Ramsden,” replied the lady, with asperity; “he is the greatest fool that ever God made! Every one knows what a sweet temper I was before I married; but flesh and blood cannot bear what I am subjected to.”
“Would you like to see Miss Dragwell?”
“Yes, very much; I always thought her a very nice girl;—a little wild—a little forward indeed, and apt to be impertinent; but still, rather a nice girl.”
“Well, then, I will tell her to call, and the sooner the better, for when it is known, the whole town will be in an uproar. I should not be surprised if they attacked the house—the people will be so indignant.”
“I don’t wonder at it,” replied Mrs. Forster; “nothing can excuse such provocation as I receive from my husband, stupid wretch!”
“Good morning, Mrs. Forster; do you think then that you could bear moving?”
“O yes! O yes! But where am I to go?”
“That I really cannot form an idea—you had better consult with Miss Dragwell.—Depend upon it, Mrs. Forster, that I will be most happy to render you all my assistance in this unfortunate dilemma.”
“You’re very good,” snarled Mrs. Forster: and Ramsden quitted the room.
I have one or two acquaintances, to whom, if I wish a report to be circulated, I immediately impart the substance as a most profound secret; and I find that by these means it obtains a much more extensive circulation than if I sent it to the newspapers.
Ramsden was aware of Betsy’s cackling propensities, and long before he quitted Mrs. Forster, it was generally believed throughout the good town of Overton that Mr. Spinney, although he had not been killed outright, as reported in the first instance, had subsequently died of the injuries received from this modern Xantippe.
Mrs. Forster had half an hour to reflect upon her supposed awkward situation; and to drive away thought, had sent for Nicholas, whom she loaded with the bitterest invectives, when Miss Dragwell was announced.
“See, sir,” continued Mrs. Forster, “the condition to which you have reduced a fond and faithful wife—one that has so studied your interests; one—”
“Yes, indeed,” added Miss Dragwell, who heard the attack as she ascended the stairs, and took up the cause of Mrs. Forster to obtain her confidence—“yes, indeed, Mr. Forster, see the consequences of your folly, your smoking, and your drinking.—Pray leave the room, sir; I wonder how Mrs. Forster can bear the sight of you!”
Nicholas stared, and was about to throw in a detached word or two, by way of vindication, when a furious “Begone!” from his wife occasioned a precipitate retreat.
“We have all been consulting about this sad business, my dear Mrs. Forster,” commenced Miss Dragwell; “and after much consideration have hit upon the only plan by which you may escape the penalty of the law. Yes, my dear ma’am,” continued Miss Dragwell, in the most bland and affectionate voice, “it is unwise to conceal the truth from you; the depositions of my father and Mr. Hilton, when they are called upon, will be such that ‘Wilful Murder!’ must be returned, and you—(the young lady faltered, and put up her handkerchief)—you must inevitably be hanged!”
“Hanged!” screamed Mrs. Forster.
“Yes, hanged—‘hanged by the neck until you are dead! and the Lord have mercy upon your soul!’ that will be your sentence,” replied the young lady, sobbing;—“such an awful, such a disgraceful death for a woman too!”
“O Lord, O Lord!” cried Mrs. Forster, who was now really frightened. “What will become of me?”
“You will go to another and a better world, as my papa says in his sermons; I believe that the pain is not very great—but the disgrace—”
Mrs. Forster burst into tears. “Save me! save me, Miss Dragwell!—Oh! Oh! that stupid Nicholas, Oh! Oh!”
“My dear Mrs. Forster, we have all agreed at the parsonage that there is but one method.”
“Name it, my dear Miss Dragwell, name it!” cried Mrs. Forster, imploringly.
“You must pretend to be mad, and then there will be a verdict of insanity; but you must carry it through everything, or it will be thought you are shamming. Mr. Ramsden is acquainted with Dr. B—, who has charge of the asylum at D—. It is only nine miles off: he will take you there, and when the coroner’s inquest is over you can return. It will be supposed then to have been only temporary derangement. Do you like the proposal?”
“Why, I have been mad for a long time,” replied Mrs. Forster; “the conduct of my husband and my son has been too much for my nerves; but I don’t like the idea of actually going to a madhouse.—Could not—”
“O dear, marm!” cried Betsy, running into the room, “there’s a whole posse of people about the house; they want to take you to the town jail, for murdering Mr. Spinney. What shall I say to them? I’m feared they’ll break in.”
“Go and tell them that Mrs. Forster is too ill to be taken out of bed, and that she is out of her senses—d’ye hear, Betsy, tell them all she is stark staring mad!”
“Yes, I will, marm,” replied Betsy, wiping her eyes as she left the room.
Miss Dragwell walked to the window. Although the report spread by Betsy had collected a crowd opposite the house, still there was no attempt at violence.
“I’m afraid that it’s too late,” said the young lady, turning from the window. “What a crowd! and how angry they seem to be! you must be hanged now!”
“O no! I’ll be mad—I’ll be anything, my dear Miss Dragwell.”
“Well, then, we must be quick—don’t put your gown on—petticoats are better—I’ll dress you up.” Miss Dragwell rummaged the drawers, and collecting a variety of feathers and coloured ribbons, pinned them over the bandages which encircled Mrs. Forster’s head; then pulling out a long-tailed black coat of her husband’s, which had been condemned, forced her arms through it, and buttoned it in front. “That will do for the present,” cried Miss Dragwell; “now here’s the cat, take it in your arms, go to the window and nurse it like a baby. I’ll throw it open—you come forward and make them a curtsy; that will spread the report through the town that you are mad, and the rest will then be easy.”
“Oh! I can’t—I can’t go to the window, I can’t indeed.”
“I’ll open the window and speak to the people,” said Miss Dragwell; and she threw up the sash, informing the gaping multitude that Mrs. Forster was quite out of her senses, but perfectly
