Daisy: the autobiography of a catSwan, Miranda Eliot
General
Daisy: the autobiography of a cat
Swan, Miranda Eliot
Cats -- Fiction
As she was well and cheerful, he did not feel any hesitation at leaving
her, though he expected to be away all day. He was surprised, on his
return, that his wife was not watching for him as usual. He ran up to
their room and, finding the door locked, called to his wife to open the
door. Receiving no answer, he was alarmed and, going through his
dressing-room, entered the room. The odor of chloroform caused his heart
to stand still with fear. His wife lay on the lounge insensible.
He threw open the windows and used every means in his power to restore
her, and she at last revived. With a look of horror she recoiled from
him, releasing herself from his arms in frantic haste. He thought she
had lost her reason, and when she again became unconscious he took her
in his arms and carried her into her room, where he laid her on the
couch, and she soon revived. Very tenderly he soothed her, asking her
why she had used a dangerous thing like chloroform so recklessly. He
remembered that she had, before her marriage, used it for neuralgia, but
since he had the care of her he had never allowed it.
She looked with a dazed expression. She trembled all over if he touched
her, and made no answer to his words of tenderness. He telegraphed for
one of the best physicians and a nurse. And then, with the aid of her
maid, who was very much attached to her mistress, he made her as
comfortable as possible.
The maid could give no explanation of the cause of her sickness. Her
mistress had received several letters, and had been shut up in her room
writing for some hours. She had taken her some toast and tea, though she
did not care to take it. She thought she had taken a chill, for she was
shivering and looked very white. She said she would sleep, and did not
wish to be disturbed. So the maid left her, and had heard nothing of her
since, till called by him on his return.
Though conscious when the doctor and nurse came, she closed her eyes and
never spoke a word. After an examination the doctor said, "She has
evidently received some shock that has unbalanced her mind." He advised
her husband to keep away from her, as the moment he came near her she
trembled and shrunk away from him.
It was torture to her husband, but his knowledge taught him that the
doctor was right--that the nearest and dearest are always turned from by
the diseased mind. Though he never left the dressing room, he kept out
of her sight.
Two days from the time she was taken sick she died, and her little son
followed her a few hours after. She never spoke to them, though they
believed her to be conscious. Their agony and grief did not move her at
all, and in the last few hours convulsions prevented any attempt to make
her speak.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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