“How is Sarah?” she asked, and it was the question I was dreading. I had decided in advance to avoid telling her the truth that not only had she been found guilty, but that she had admitted the deed as well.
“She is well,” I said. “As well as can be expected.”
“And when is the trial?”
I breathed a sigh of relief at that; she had lost her sense of time and had forgotten what day it was; it made my task a good deal easier.
“Soon,” I said. “I am sure that it will go well. Concentrate on your own troubles; that is the best help you can give her, because she must be free of distractions if she is to keep her wits about her.”
She was content with that, at least, and I felt for the first time in my life that sometimes it is better to lie than to tell the truth. Like all people, I suppose, I had had it beaten into me from an early age that respect for the truth was the most basic attribute of the gentleman; but it is not correct. Sometimes it is our duty to lie, whatever the consequences for ourselves. My falsehood contented her; truth would have made her last hours the purest anguish. I am proud that I spared her.
As no one else was around, I had to do everything myself; I simply hoped as I worked that Lower would come soon, so we could perform the task ahead of us. He was already late, and I was concerned. Grim and miserable work it is, cleaning and wiping and feeding, knowing that it is all for show, to give comfort while the inevitable beckons. The daughter’s spirit, a stronger force in all ways, was dragging the mother down with her. Her face was livid, she had pains in her joints, as well as acute gripes in the guts; she trembled, and flushed hot and cold rapidly.
When I had finished, a shivering fit came over her, and she curled up in the bed, her teeth chattering, even though I had built a fire and it was, for the first time, almost warm in the room.
What was I to do? I tried to leave to search for Lower and remind him of his obligations, but this produced the first real movement in her since I had arrived. She grabbed my wrist in a surprisingly strong grip, and refused to let go.
“Please don’t go,” she whispered through the shivers, “I’m frightened. I don’t want to die alone.”
I didn’t have the heart to leave, although I had no enthusiasm for staying, and my presence would make not one jot of difference without Lower there. However good my experiment, whatever hope it held for the future, he and the daughter had ruined it, and she was now going to bear the responsibility for one more life.
And so I stayed, fighting back the thought, growing now into certainty, that Lower was going to fail me when his aid was most needed. I built up the fire once more, burning more wood in a night than the Blundys had used in the previous six months, and sat wrapped in my cloak on the floor, as she slowly drifted in and out of a delirium.
And what madness she talked when she was sensible, about her husband and her daughter. Reminiscence, blasphemy, piety and lies were all mixed together so I could scarcely tell one from the other. I tried not to listen, and did my best to avoid condemning her words, for I knew that at times like these the devils which attend all of us in our lives see their chance, and speak with our mouths, uttering words we would never own to were we in full control of ourselves. This is why we give the last rites, to cleanse the soul of those demons so that it leaves the body pure, and this is why the Protestant religion is so cruel, that it denies man that final kindness.
And I still could not understand mother or daughter, as such sweetness and perversity I had never met in combination before or since. Nor could I understand it still when, exhausted by her ravings, first the old woman, and then myself, fell asleep in the hot, airless room. I dreamed of my friend, and occasionally in the night a sound or noise disturbed me, and I awoke thinking that he had come. But each time I realized it was only an owl, or some animal, or the cracking of a log as it burst in the fire.
Itwas still dark when I awoke; I guessed about six, certainly not later. The fire had all but gone out, and the room was chilly once more. I rekindled it as best I could and the exercise helped loosen my joints, which were stiff from sleep. Only then did I examine my patient. She seemed little changed, perhaps even slightly better, but I knew she was in no state to withstand any new strain.
Even though my trust for him had diminished, I wished Lower was there to help and advise. But even I could no longer disguise the fact that he had failed me—I was on my own, and had little time to act. I don’t know how long I stood there in indecision, hoping that my one alternative would not prove necessary. I hesitated too long; my mind cannot have been working properly, because I stared blankly at my patient until I was brought back by a distant murmur of sound coming from the outside. I shook myself into action when I realized what it was. The sound of voices, massed voices, growing in volume.
Even before I flung open the door to make certain, I knew the sound came from the castle. The crowd was assembling, and I saw the first thin fingers of dawn in the sky. There was not long, and I had no choices left, nor could I delay a second longer.
I prepared my instruments before I woke Mrs. Blundy up, laying out the quills and the ribbons and the long silver tube, so that I could manipulate them with one hand. I stripped off my coat, and rolled up my sleeve, and positioned the stool in the best position.
Then I woke her. “Now, madam,” I said, “we must proceed. Can you hear me?”
She stared at the ceiling, then nodded. “I hear you, doctor, and I am in your hands. Is your friend come? I cannot see him.”
“We must proceed without him. It will make no difference. You must have blood, and soon; it matters not where it comes from. Now, give me your arm.”
It was very much more difficult than the first time; her emaciated state made it fiendishly hard to find a suitable vessel, and I wasted time probing, then withdrawing the quill some half dozen times before I was satisfied. She bore it patiently, as though hardly aware of what was going on, and impervious to the sharp pain I inflicted on her in my haste. Then I prepared myself, cutting into my flesh and jabbing the quill in as quickly as possible while her blood dribbled down her arm.
When the flow of blood from my arm was free and easy, I moved into a better position, then picked up the silver tube and inserted it into the end. The blood swiftly ran through and spurted out in a hot red jet, splashing over the bedclothes as I maneuvered the tube to bring it into line with the quill in her arm.
Then it was done, the conjunction was made and when I saw there were no obstructions I started counting. Ten minutes, I thought, as I managed a smile at the old woman. “Nearly done,” I said. “You’ll be fine now.”
She did not smile back, so I counted, feeling the blood pulsing out of me and myself growing dizzy as I struggled to keep still. In the background the noise from the castle was slowly growing in intensity as the seconds passed. After I had counted near ten minutes, an enormous roar erupted, then died away to complete silence as I pulled the quills out of our arms and bound up the wounds to staunch the flow of blood. It was difficult; in my case I had incised into a large vessel, and I lost more blood before I could close the wound with a bandage. Still the blood soaked through and created a wide stain before I was sure I succeeded.
Then I was finished and all I could do was over. I took a deep breath to steady my spinning head while I packed the instruments away in the bag, hoping only that I was in time. Then the noise from the castle began again, and I turned round to look at my patient. There was a bluish tinge on her lips, I saw, and as the drums rolled in the distance, I picked up her hand and saw that the fingers had discolored as well. The drums picked up in intensity as she began to shake, and cry out in the most excruciating pain and gulp desperately for breath. Then, as the roar of the crowd mounted and became almost deafening, she arched her back and cried out in a strong, clear voice, clear of all sound of agony—“Sarah! My God! Have mercy upon me.”