The doctor nodded. “I don't want you exerting yourself,” he warned. “The mend in that clavicle seems sound, but it's too newly healed to stand testing, and you're a bit hypertensive. You're needed here, young man. That church Sir John is building is the talk of the village. You've got a fine congregation awaiting you and we need you all-of-a-piece."
* * * *
Though the doctor warned against it, Elliot went up to see Mary for himself and have Amy's account of the situation. The girl drifted in and out of mad fits of hysterical laughter and terrified shrieks that were heard echoing through the house despite her closed chamber door. During the night she had knocked over an oil lamp nearly setting the bedclothes afire. Amy had barely dealt with that when Mary rent a tear in her comforter, and she'd plucked out half the down before the stronger draught the doctor ordered could be prepared, which resulted in the housekeeper having to bind the girl's wrists to the bed frame with linen strips for her own safety.
The constable and his men reached Cragmoor just before noon with Colin, but it was just as the boy had predicted—the vicious flaw had covered the rapist's tracks. Not even Colin's, or Elliot's footprints remained, and the constable was confounded.
Inquiries in the village in regard to vagrants, strangers, or the illusive Gypsies proved fruitless, and though the constable promised to alert Scotland Yard and continue the local search on his own, both Colin and the vicar knew the man would never be found. Mary wasn't coherent enough to be questioned, and without a description they had no lead to follow.
Unwilling to settle for that, Colin continued the search on his own. For the next two days he combed the countryside from dawn to dusk, obsessed with finding the man, until, at the end of the second day he limped Gideon home so spent and lame that Harris had to shoot him. When the boy attempted to saddle Odin, a young sorrel stallion new to the stable, the following morning, Harris barred his way horsewhip in hand. Brandishing the whip, the stabler displayed his skill in its use by leaving a smarting red welt on the boy's buttocks. That, coupled with the vicar's persuasion that he was needed in the house with his father's arrival imminent, settled the dispute, and Colin reluctantly abandoned his hopeless quest.
It was nearly noon when George Howard paid his call, and they all hurried to Mary's chamber when her bloodcurdling screams echoing through the house reached their ears downstairs. Sir John arrived shortly after, and the same screams brought him running up the staircase like a man half his age. He burst into Mary's chamber just as Dr. Howard was attempting to dose the girl with a sleeping draught, which she spat at him each time he presented the cup to her lips.
The intrusion turned the doctor's head, and he pursed taut lips. “Blast!” he murmured under his breath. One look at the magistrate's stricken face set him in motion, and he nodded to Amy, who pinched the girl's nostrils closed while he poured the tincture into her open mouth. Mary swallowed, coughed, squirmed for a moment, and then quieted, her glazed eyes looking through the gathering as though they weren't there.
Tears welled in the vicar's eyes as he watched her trembling helplessly beneath the quilts, her bruised, swollen lips leaking some of the tincture, which Amy quickly wiped away with a towel.
Observing the scene, Colin stood spine-rigid at the foot of the bed. His face had turned as pale as his father's, and he'd clenched the hands at his sides into white-knuckled fists.
After a moment the girl's rapid breathing began to seek a calmer level. Her puffy eyelids slowly drooped closed. As he breathed a sigh of relief, the doctor's posture deflated along with his lungs, and he handed the cup to Amy.
Horror struck, the old man staggered closer. His mouth worked, but nothing came out of it as he stared down at his daughter sleeping peacefully now, though her body twitched and trembled with each halting breath.
"I had hoped to spare you this, Sir John,” said the doctor, “but it is just as well that you've seen it for yourself. It will make what I'm about to say easier for you to understand."
Sir John recovered his voice: “What has happened here? What ails her?"
Elliot went to his side and laid a hand on his arm. “Come away, sir,” he pleaded. “Come to the study, we'll talk there. We mustn't disturb her sleep.” He turned to Colin. “Go quickly,” he charged, “pour a brandy for your father. We'll be down directly."
Colin sprang toward the door while the vicar led the magistrate away, supporting him as they started down the corridor toward the staircase.
The boy was waiting with a half full brandy snifter when the others reached the study. The old man took the glass, but he didn't drink from it.
"One of you had better give account of this at once,” he threatened, his eyes oscillating among them.
Nobody spoke.
They were watching his blanched face drain whiter still. His lips had turned blue. They'd begun to twitch, and the words leaking through them had become slurred.
"Well,” he thundered, “what's the meaning of this?"
Colin came forward taking his arm. “Sit down, Father...please,” he murmured.
The magistrate slapped his hand away. “Do not touch me,” he warned. “I shall have whatever it is on my feet, if you please."
"Miss Mary was attacked at the stones, Sir John,” Elliot spoke up.
"Attacked? Attacked by what?” the magistrate demanded.
"She was . . . raped, sir,” he said.
"R-r-r . . .?” the old man stammered. “N-nothing . . . human ever did such as that up there. ‘Twas some kind of animal. She's been savaged by a-a wild beast, not ra-ra . . . raped . . . E-Elliot!"
The vicar shook his head. “The constable is trying to find the man,” he said, “but he's left no trace. There was a storm. It wiped away any tracks he might have made. Please, sir, you had best sit down. You're so dreadfully pale, Sir John."
The old man turned to the doctor. “Howard?” he pleaded.
"Her body will recover,” he replied, “you need have no fear of that. She's very strong of body and will. What concerns me now is the state of her mind, sir. In these situations the impact of such as this is often greater upon the mind than it is upon the body. In most cases, as the body recovers the mind does, also. The length of time depends upon the individual."
"You say . . . in most cases,” said Sir John.
The doctor nodded. “In some situations the madness is permanent, but that is not to say I believe such is the case with your daughter. I was, however, hoping I'd see an improvement by the time you arrived. You saw for yourself just now what we're dealing with. The longer it takes for her mind to stabilize, the greater the chance that it will not. There's been no change in nearly a week. I haven't given up hope—and neither should you, but if her condition doesn't show improvement soon, you're going to have to consider having her to asylum, where she can receive proper care in the hands of professionals trained in dealing with disorders of the mind. This household is too short-staffed to manage such as that on a long-term basis. Mrs. Croft, the maids, and the vicar here are tending her ‘round the clock. Despite their efforts it simply isn't enough, sir. If the girl's best interests are to be served, she may need to be committed."
"Asylum?” the magistrate thundered. Spittle formed on his lips and his jaw began to sag. “You know what goes on in those places. Over my dead body, sir!"
"She nearly set the house afire the morning after the attack,” the doctor informed him. “It takes three people to dose her—despite the restraints, and even at that more is spilled than swallowed, as you just saw. I am at a loss—"
"Aha! There it is, bigod!” the magistrate interrupted. “You aren't competent to treat her, so you want to shut your miserable failure up in the madhouse. Well, Howard, I shall send to London for a doctor who is competent. You, sir, are dismissed."
"Sir John,” cried the vicar, “Dr. Howard has done everything that can be done."
"Everything but healed her,” the old man retorted.
"That's hardly fair, sir,” said Elliot. “The
man is out here twice a day for hours on end at the expense of his other patients. He's stayed the night three times in order to spare the servants. How can you think to question his competence?"
The doctor raised his hand. “No, he's right,” he said. “I told you at the outset that the mind is not my field of expertise. If he wants to bring in someone else, then let him. That's his prerogative, but it shan't change matters; they'll tell him the same. If anyone else had been in charge here that girl would have been packed off to asylum from the start."
"Do you mean to say that you agree with him, Elliot?” the magistrate roared, clearly stalled on that. “You think she's best off flung into the madhouse?"
The vicar glowered. “No, sir, I do not,” he said, “no more than you do. My point is that dismissing Dr. Howard for suggesting it is a terrible injustice to the man who's saved your daughter's life here."
The old man sputtered, and the vicar went on quickly, “She was hemorrhaging severely. She'd been torn to pieces—bitten, sir, and bruised beyond imagining. You have Dr. Howard here to thank that she still lives. I ought to know. I carried her here from those accursed stones after Colin and I found her. She was scarcely breathing. She's gotten her strength back, thanks to him and, while she has that strength, there's hope for the rest. I've watched this man here work his miracle with no thought of food, or sleep, or anything but your daughter's welfare. His singlemindedness in her regard has spared her the honor of becoming the first resident in St. Michael's churchyard. I would put my own life in his hands, sir. There is no one who could have given her better care."
"B-bitten?” the old man stammered. His blue-tinged lips trembled apart. He began to sway. His hands were shaking, and the brandy snifter slipped from his fingers and crashed to the floor. But that was all he said. He stiffened, grimaced, and collapsed at their feet so quickly that none of them had time to prevent it.
"Father!” Colin cried, kneeling beside him.
"Up from there, young Chapin,” the doctor charged. “Help me take him to his chamber."
"My God, what is it?” said the vicar.
"I don't know yet,” Howard grunted. “Wait here. I'll join you once I've examined him."
Elliot tried to pray. Over and over he sifted through Scripture and verse in his mind for inspiration, but the prayers wouldn't come. The one thought gripping him that prevented them—he had spoken the words that brought the old man down.
Sitting slumped forward in the leather wing chair beside the hearth, he stared at the broken snifter at his feet and the abstract brandy stain on the carpet. Colin had rejoined him, and begun pacing anxiously, his clenched fists jammed in his pockets.
"I can't believe that pompous windbag turned me out of Father's chamber,” the boy growled. “Who in hell does he think he is?"
"He has enough on his hands without us underfoot,” Elliot said wearily.
"Do you think he's going to die, Elliot? If he's put me out of that room and Father dies . . ."
"I don't know. For the love of mercy, Colin, don't borrow trouble—it's lent us enough already. If he does die, I've caused it. What could I have been thinking of?"
"It's not your fault,” Colin said awkwardly.
Elliot looked him in the eyes. “You haven't said that with much conviction,"
Colin lowered his head and shook it.
"If you have something to say, Colin—say it. There is something, I've seen it since we found her in that godforsaken place."
The boy hesitated. “It's nothing that I haven't said before,” he murmured. “It's just . . . I can't help thinking that if you had only made your feelings plain to Mary—been bold enough to act upon them, we wouldn't be having any of this here now."
The vicar vaulted out of his chair. “So we're ‘round to that again,” he said. “Don't you dare to lay the blame for what has happened to your sister upon me."
"Elliot, if she knew . . ."
"She did know. Oh, I never told her, but she knew, and she mocked me for it. What would you have had me do—force myself upon her? Perhaps she mocked her attacker, too. You have a tendency, young man, to think with your...member. That is not how a gentleman thinks. A gentleman does not go staving ‘round like a ram in rut."
Colin stopped in his tracks. “Just what is that supposed to mean?"
Elliot had said more than he'd intended. Wearily he sank back down in the chair again. “It means that putting carnal lust before propriety causes such as what is upstairs in that chamber, Colin. I will not be burdened with the guilt for what has happened to your sister. You couldn't begin to know what I am suffering as it is. We will not discuss this again."
After a moment, he boy mellowed. “Christ, I'm sorry, Elliot,” he moaned.
"Sorry is the most useless word in the English language, Colin. If everyone were to realize that, this would be a perfect world. Let's not quarrel. Friends need to pool their strength for support in times such as this, not drain their resources with bickering. It's like that snifter there—all smashed and the brandy spilt. We all saw it trembling in your father's hand. Stewing over why one of us didn't take it from him before it fell isn't going to put it back as it was. What's done is done. We can do nothing now but pick up the pieces and go on. I need your help to do that, Colin. I need to draw from your strength. I'm not strong enough to do it on my own."
"You're a good deal stronger than you know, Elliot."
The vicar shook his head. “Let me pray,” he said. “God alone knows what news Howard's going to bring us next. Right now I need to collect all my wits to deal with that."
* * * *
It was over an hour before the doctor joined them. When he entered the room the look in his eyes froze Colin where he stood, and turned the vicar's face to ash.
"What is it?” Elliot murmured.
"He's had a stroke,” said Howard, “a fairly mild one, thanks be to God. His right side is affected and his speech is slurred. Could have been a good deal worse."
"But he will recover?” the vicar pleaded.
"I've had Mrs. Croft make an herbal draught to keep his pressure down and thin the blood,” he said, clearly avoiding the question, “and a tincture of wild woodbine root to induce sleep. The next few days will tell the tale. He's got to have complete rest—no excitement."
"Shouldn't he go to hospital?” said Colin.
The doctor wagged his head. “I don't want to chance moving him as he is,” he said. “We've come off lucky if he holds his ground. I'm going to finish my rounds, then I'll come back and stay the night to see how the medicine takes hold. We should have a clearer look at things in the morning."
"May I see him, sir?” Colin begged.
The doctor frowned. “He's sleeping,” he said. “I don't want you up there mucking things up."
"I won't disturb him, sir—I swear it. I just want to see that he's breathing for myself. He won't even know I'm there."
Elliot's eyes pleaded with the doctor, who tugged at his side-whiskers and leaked a defeated grunt. “Ummmm—two minutes,” he conceded, “no longer."
Before Howard could continue, Colin had fled, and he turned to the vicar. “Elliot,” he said, “if I may presume to call you Elliot?"
"Of course."
The doctor offered a crisp nod. “Since I'm going to be up your nose here now more than not, it seems more practical for us to be on a first name basis I should think. I want to thank you for what you said here before. It was good of you to defend me. I shan't forget the kindness."
"I said nothing but the truth, and if I hadn't spoken out when I did—"
"Hold on now, you did not cause that stroke,” the doctor interrupted. “I saw it coming when he burst into the girl's chamber. His color was bad, he was tongue tied—purging from the lips. Why, he couldn't even get down those stairs out there without your arm around him."
"But still . . ."
"Put it out of your mind. That stroke was in progress before he ever set foot in here. He's not a young man,
Elliot, and he has no faith. He is what he is—a magistrate, and a damned good one, but because of that he sees things differently than we do. To him a thing is black or white. There are no shades of gray between to soften the blows life deals us with shreds of hope. He's brought misery down upon himself I promise you."
"Did he make peace with you?"
"He asked me to help him, if that's what you call making peace. I don't. Sir John Chapin is, above all, a practical man. He knew damned well that if he waited for one of his fancy, overpaid London physicians to trek all the way out here, he'd be under the sod. I've known the man for nearly twenty years. He's read easily enough. He'll put the blame for what's happened to that poor girl anywhere but where it belongs—upon himself. That's the thing he couldn't face until today, and that's what's brought him down."
"Did he say anything else?"
"Only that you are to remain in charge. He was emphatic about that. He holds you in very high regard you know."
"In charge?” the vicar blurted. “Bloody sham."
"It's amazing what a rap upon death's door will do for a man's perspective,” the doctor mused. “He knows that reckless young whelp of a son of his is nowhere near capable of dealing with all this in a wise and prudent manner, but he won't admit that he's the one responsible for that—and don't think he doesn't know it."
"Dr. Howard—"
"George,” he corrected.
"George . . . do you think there's any way to reconcile them? That would bring the boy around. I've tried everything I know, and I'll keep at it ‘til there's no breath left in my body, but what Colin needs is his father. In that old man's newfound perspective, did you see any sign that could be read as hope for that?"
The doctor hung his head. “Faith is what you need when all else fails, Elliot. Without it there's no hope. Like I said, the man has no faith."
Elliot clouded. The doctor wasn't saying anything he didn't know already, and he lost his posture in defeat.
"Then we're going to lose him,” he murmured, “we're going to lose them both."
"That isn't your responsibility, Elliot. They were both lost here some odd sixteen years ago."
Rape of the Soul Page 13