constantly, and if his wife has a headache or happens to be feeling dull, she can't respond as she should, to his caresses. I try to hide my distaste for such encounters, but I can't deceive him always. It's only natural that he should get restive in consequence and, though he professes to love me as much as ever, his appetite remains unsatisfied.'
Here Annie paused, before making what seemed to be a very painful admission. 'That he has bedded with other women while away at distant race-meetings, I have no doubt; and while much disliking the notion, how can I blame him? Now, I fear, he has fallen deep in love with my own maid—yes, Eliza Tharm—who's eighteen years old and, as you know, full of life. Eliza's an honest girl. Yesterday she came to me and complained that 'the Doctor, he's been acting very strange of late, Missus, pulling me about in the pantry and pretending to make love to me'. 'I hope you resisted him, Eliza,' I asked, 'like a good girl?' 'Oh, yes, Missus,' she answered ingenuously, 'else I wouldn't have told you. And I hope as I always shall resist him, because it's not right, is it?—not under the same roof as a wife who's always treated me kind!''
I suggested that Eliza should be dismissed at once, but Annie would not agree. 'Why make needless talk?' she said. 'I believe I can trust Eliza.'
'Did you charge Dr Palmer with the act?' I asked, feeling most indignant on my friend's behalf.
'I did, though not very directly,' she answered. 'He laughed and said he had just given the wench a good- humoured tweak and a slap or two, as she passed; but wouldn't ever do such a thing again, if I objected. He hadn't thought that the girl would take on so; it was only his way, he explained, of cheering her up and showing he wasn't as stiff as most medical men.'
'Did you believe him?' I inquired.
'Why, of course, my dear,' Annie replied, opening her eyes very wide. 'Will never deceives me.'
'But you have just told me that he's in love with the girl,' I insisted.
' Oh, I don't say the poor fellow doesn't deceive himself,' she answered with a sigh. 'The sooner I'm out of his way, the better!'
I reproached her for this shocking remark, and she begged that I would never mention the matter to anyone. And I haven't until today, when I no longer feel bound to silence.
But I told her: 'Annie, my dear, I hear in a roundabout way that he has insured your life for a considerable sum. What is the meaning of this?'
Annie smiled mysteriously, as she answered: 'It was I who suggested that he should take out a policy.'
Observing my look of wonder, she went on: 'You know that I greatly desire to leave this world. Perhaps I should add that with the desire goes a clear presentiment that I shall not live long; and therefore I told Will that he mustn't fail to insure himself against my sudden death. You see, I have an annuity, from my father, of two hundred pounds a year, which lasts only while I do, and it would be a great blow to Will were it cut off without warning. He listened most unwillingly, saying that mine was an unlucky notion, and that the premium would carve a deep hole in the value of the annuity. However, I won him to my view; and last January, Dr Knight and Dr Bamford, and Dr Monckton, all examined me and pronounced me a 'good life'. Now I am fully insured and need not worry on that score . . .'
Here I gave a slight cough and interrupted: 'But Annie, they tell me that you are over-insured—the premium paid would cover the risk of losing an annuity three or four times as valuable!'
Again she smiled mysteriously: 'I begged Will to set as great a value on my life as possible; and I'm glad he rates me so high. He's promised that if I die, he'll take Willie to your sister-in-law. She treasures him, and Willie's always happy as a lark at their house, far happier than at home, though he would never hurt my feelings by telling me so, he's such a dear, kind boy.'
'But Annie,' I continued, 'if three doctors testify to your being a good life, who are you to contradict them by an idle presentiment of death?'
She answered: 'I daresay they'd have testified the same for my poor mother when she was twenty-three years old, as I am now; yet she died of natural causes while in her early fifties. Besides, my annuity isn't the only inheritance that Father bequeathed me.'
I said no more, knowing that the Colonel and all his brothers, and his father before him, had suffered from suicidal melancholia. I guessed that what preyed on her mind was a new pregnancy, which she could not face with her former courage. The oftentimes disappointed hope for a healthy little sister, to be Willie's playmate and her darling, had worn quite thin by this time.
Next day, Annie was invited to accompany Dr Palmer's noble-hearted and sweetly charming sister Sarah on a visit to Liverpool. She appeared to be torn between desire for a holiday and fear lest her husband might press his siege of Miss Eliza. In the end she consented to go, but took the precaution of asking Mrs Bradshaw, their charwoman, to sleep in the house, on the ground that Dr Palmer would probably be away at the races, and Eliza feared to stay alone at night.
The sequel is now public knowledge. On Monday, September 18th, 1854, Annie went by train to Liverpool with Sarah, having bought tickets for a concert at St George's Hall, which she was anxious to hear. But she reposed too much trust in the weather; and on the following day attended the concert wearing a light summer dress. When the two friends emerged from the suffocatingly hot hall, they had to wait some time for a cab in a street swept by a bitter east wind. Annie caught a chill, but when they got back to the friends with whom they were lodging—none other than Mr Evans Senior, Dr Palmer's former employer— would not take Sarah's advice by retiring to bed. Instead, she stayed up and entertained the company by playing sentimental pieces on the pianoforte; she played very well, too. Whist and conversation then continued until a late hour. The next day, Wednesday, September 20th, her chill had worsened, yet after a parting luncheon of cold roast beef, pickles, and a glass of wine, Sarah and she took the train home. On her arrival at Rugeley, Annie was suffering from a violent looseness. She went to bed at once, without taking any food. The following morning, Dr Palmer fetched her a cup of sweet, milkless tea, which she vomited up.
Thereafter, Mrs Bradshaw prepared all her mistress's food: tea, toast, gruel, and once a little arrowroot, always first tasting it, but either Dr Palmer or Eliza Tharm brought it to the bedside. Dr Palmer diagnosed English cholera. Growing anxious when she was no better by Saturday, and still could not keep any food down, he sent for Dr Bamford. Since by now diarrhoea had given place to the opposite condition, Dr Bamford prescribed some pills containing calomel and colocynth, and an opening draught. On the Sunday, Sarah called, and Annie admitted that she felt very ill indeed. She added: 'You must not come here. Stay with your sick mother—she has you alone to rely on. Your brother George is worse than useless in the circumstances. I'm in safe hands.'
All this time I was away in London on a holiday, and had no inkling of what was afoot.
Dr Bamford called again on the Monday. Observing that only one of his pills had been taken, he engaged Annie in conversation. Yet she felt too reduced to answer his questions audibly and, besides, he is very deaf. Dr Bamford suggested that Dr Knight, Annie's former guardian, should be sent for from Stafford. Dr Palmer, now much distressed by her illness—especially since his mother was also seriously indisposed, and being nursed night and day by Sarah—at once summoned him by a telegraphic message. Dr Knight drove over, and saw Annie the same afternoon. He is even older and deafer than Dr Bamford, and had to rely on Dr Palmer for an account of her symptoms. Having listened carefully, he pronounced her to be dangerously sick, and gave orders that she must not take anything fluid or solid for three hours. Then he went out, called on Dr Bamford and a few friends, and finding his patient seemingly better when he called back, prescribed a small dose of diluted prussic acid to relieve the retching. In the evening he returned to Stafford.
According to Eliza Tharm (and I believe her), Dr Palmer was very attentive to Annie, constantly kissing her hands or brow, stroking her checks and appealing to her: 'Pray get well, darling! Make a strong endeavour, for my sake and little Willie's.' She smiled faintly up at him, and murmured: 'It's best this way.' He gave her effervescing mixtures, and she intimated that they were most refreshing and made her feel better. Meanwhile, Mrs Ann Rowley had taken Eliza's place as a day-nurse; but Eliza remained on night duty.
On the Thursday, Sarah came to visit Annie again, found her asleep and, not wishing to disturb her, stole away.
On the Friday, Ben Thirlby, called in as a last hope, prescribed brandy and arrowroot, but this was never given Annie; for she died about dinner time. It was September 29th; well I remember hearing the news at Rugeley railway station on my return that afternoon.
I immediately made it my business to question Eliza Tharm, Mrs Rowley, and Mrs Bradshaw. Mrs Bradshaw told me that she had tasted, as well as cooked, every item of food or drink that went up to the poor lady, except for
