# The Story Behind the Verdict/Epilogue
### EPILOGUE

The affair of La Vallière and the pearls was the last occasion upon which Keightley Wilbur was known to take any interest in what went on in coroners' courts. At this time tragedy came into his own life—tragedy so strange, incredible and absorbing, that for a time at least it left no room nor space for other consideration.
He fell ill. An acute attack of pleurisy supervened on many late nights and imprudences, and quite suddenly, with no warning, the young criminologist found himself in the throes of almost unbearable pain. The illness deepened, pneumonia sapped what little strength the pleurisy had left; he could hardly move in bed. But his mind was still alert, and he insisted upon being told the ingredients of each medicine, the object of each palliative. There came a day when Dr. Ince felt it his duty to admit there was danger in his condition. A vessel gave way in the lung and a pneumo-thorax developed. Keightley, speaking with difficulty and in high temperature, demanded the truth and rejected it when presented to him. Irregularly, with pauses and difficult short breath, he said:
"Absurd! It's impossible. To snuff me out—me! The powers know better than that. The chorus can be dismissed, but not the leading comedian. I play a part for which there is no understudy."
"Don't agitate yourself." A morphia injection had not long been administered. "Lie still—lie perfectly still, my dear fellow. You know I am doing all that is possible."
"I am the idol of my mother's heart; the expression is jejune, perhaps. That's the temperature. Delete it, but the fact remains. I have critics, but no enemies. You're a fool, Ince, a fool." The cough shook him.
"You asked me to tell you the truth."
"But I don't believe it, mind you! 'I wonder what I was begun for since I am so quickly done for.' I've so much more to say—to write. Danger! To be in danger! It sounds so strange. Death! At least one would be out of pain."
He spoke less audibly now, slurring his words.
"You are not in pain now?" Dr. Ince asked anxiously.
"Under the morphia I am conscious of pain. And I breathe shallowly." The brightness of his eyes was dulled, although not the brightness of his intellect "Don't give me more than you can help. I want to think."
"It would be better if you left off thinking, made your mind a blank."
"I know, but there is something at the back of this—this illness and suffering: something is eluding me that I want to get hold of. Help me if you can' What have I done?" His flushed face rose slightly from the pillow, he spoke feverishly.
"You really ought not to talk. I am going away now. I'll look in again this afternoon."
"Don't bring any more consultants. They take liberties with me and my new silk jackets. They give me cold. The morphia is working now, Ince. I am getting more comfortable, breathing easier. A good drug. Is it in the papers—about my illness, I mean? What do they say?"
"All the papers have it: there have been so many inquiries we've been obliged to put up a bulletin."
"Sinking?"
Ince laughed. "Oh no, we haven't come to that yet. I hope we never shall. I wish I could persuade you to have a nurse."
"Kito is better than forty nurses. I forget the quotation—‘He slumbers not nor sleeps.’"
The painful cough interrupted again, broke hoarsely through the morphia film. Kito glided in, lifted his master into a more comfortable position, held him until the paroxysm was over. It was true that no one could have a more competent or devoted nurse. Mrs. Wilbur, too, spent her days and nights between here and the dressing-room.
Ince, when he left the house—full of misgiving, for the temperature was high and many symptoms alarming—thought how true it was that Keightley Wilbur played a part for which there was no understudy. He was only twenty-seven years of age. As a literary man he had given more than promise. As a criminologist he had made his mark. And although in some cases he had tracked down a criminal, he had never pursued the quest, nor hounded nor expedited such a one to his or her doom. Ince knew many a secret kindness; surreptitious benefactions almost royal. All the doctor's heart was with his patient—his dying patient, for so he feared for him. Mrs. Wilbur's courage and calm, too, had invoked his admiration. It was easy to see that her heart was breaking; every pain of his was an agony of hers.
Yet she smiled often when in the sick room, was ever ready to exchange or provoke quip or crank, cap epigram with paradox; she followed her son's mind all the time.
"The mater has no idea how ill I am," Keightley said, many days ago now. "Don't tell her. Lie to her, lie stoutly." But she knew: none better.
Although in the sick room her voice was even and light, and her tear-filled eyes were surface dry, they were deep sunken, and there were lines about her mouth, lines of mother pangs.
And it was not only his mother. Notwithstanding his egotism and whimsicalities Keightley Wilbur had many friends, people who had penetrated the shallow surface and found beneath a warm heart, a quick understanding, an almost unparalleled generosity.
That day, that worst bad day, Ince was hardly two hours away from the house. In the afternoon pulse and temperature were worse, breathing and pain no better. On this visit Keightley asked for more morphia, and forgot to inquire what the public were saying about his illness.
"Tell the mater I am better. Send her out, make her play bridge. I know all about it now; it is all my own fault. That damned cliché is true. Vengeance is mine!"
He said it twice, feverishly. Later on, before the doctor left, he asked for pencil and paper.
"I might reason it out, put it a different way."
"Is there any one you would like to see?" Ince asked gently.
"Do you mean a priest? No. A typist, perhaps." The dry, burnt lips were working, and the words creaked slowly through. "Why should I want to see anybody? It's my own affair … an old story now: I'd forgotten it. Vengeance is mine. Leave the paper there: I might feel inclined to write. Curse this pain! I wish you'd go, Ince. I feel rotten."
Ince agreed he would be better alone. Once outside the room he thought of every physician of eminence or renown who had not already been called in consultation. But Mrs. Wilbur would have none of them.
"They pull him about and fatigue him. I will not have him disturbed again. You are doing all that is possible, I am sure. I have complete confidence in you."
"All that I know." The words were almost a groan—an admission. She looked at him quietly.
"You find him so much worse to-night?"
"The temperature is 105."
"He will not be taken from me. I have faith. There are only us two." And still her voice held and her courage.
When Dr. Ince left him, and the room was in darkness, Keightley Wilbur slept or dreamt, dreamt or slept. He had had three injections of morphia, and the effect was cumulative. For the first time he dreamed that he was dying. In his disorganised sleep he wept for himself; painful tears oozed through hot lids. It was dreadful he should have to die, strange and dreadful when he realised the tears were his own—that he was crying because it was so sad and pitiful he should die; with so much unsaid, leaving such a large, vacant space. …
He lost consciousness, and found himself adrift in dark waters, black and cold and deep, drifting here and there. In the distance—the dim distance—he saw Gates, Gates against which the waters swished with a sibilant, strange sound. Sometimes he thought the sibilant, strange sounds were his own breathing! Then all at once he knew that the gates were the Gates of Silence, and that beyond them lay a house, a House of many Mansions. The words pleased him; he thought they were his own. A House of many Mansions, his Father's house. …
He smiled in his sleep because the words pleased him. Again he was on the waters, drifting. He was very tired, with the tiredness which is pain, when every breath is an exhausted sob. Now all that he knew of hope, or that was left to him of desire, was concentrated on the grey Gates and the Mansions beyond. He wanted to drift through and to lie down—to lie down in that House. But always when he was near he drifted back, more tired than any words can relate.
At midnight he opened his eyes and there beside him sat his mother, watching. The fire was low and red in the room and there was no other light.
"Better, dear?" she asked him. "You've had a good sleep." She put the cup of lemonade to his lips, and he drank thirstily.
"Have I been asleep?" he asked vaguely. And in a minute or two: "Did you have a nice game?"
"Very." She had not seen a card since he was ill, but this was not the moment to tell him so. Dr. Ince had told her, when he woke, it was possible he would wake with his mind wandering.
"Have you been here long?"
"Not very long."
"I am very ill."
"I know, dear: I know."
"More ill than you know. I told them not to tell you."
"My poor boy!" She put her soft hand upon his forehead.
"I am thirsty all the time."
"That is only the morphia: it has nothing to do with the illness. Don't worry about that. There is plenty of lemonade, and it has been well iced." Again she held the cup to his lips.
"You know why it is, why it all is?" His face twitched, and he caught her hand with the cup.
"Try to rest again. I'll sit here. You need not speak; just open your mouth when you want a drink."
"If I hadn't killed Pierre Lamotte. …"
Dr. Ince was right: his mind was wandering.
"You did not kill Pierre Lamotte, darling; he fell off the houseboat. You have nothing to reproach yourself with: you have been ever the best of loving sons. …" Her voice broke. She stopped speaking and took his burning hand, cooled it by laying her cheek upon it.
"He did not fall off: I threw him off," he persisted. His eyes were glittering, fever-bright, and the hoarse words came jerkily. "It was the unwritten law. Are there any unwritten laws, I wonder? We are alone in the room, aren't we? I always wanted you to know, but I could never tell you. I did not mean to kill him. I was smoking opium; he gave me more and more. When I woke, Ellaline was screaming. I found him in her room and threw him out. I thought no more of him than if he'd been a dog. He was a dog to have done such a thing. Mother! can't you help me? Can't you comfort me? I don't want to die … just for that."
Something like a sob broke from him and startled her. Was it true? Could it be true, then—this dreadful story he was telling? But she pulled her- self together. What mattered if it were true or false? What she had to do was to soothe him, give him rest.
"I have shocked you, you had not thought it possible, me!"
"It does not seem to me to be very important. Can't you put it out of your mind?"
"Help me to think of something else. I can't rest or sleep. And I am so dreadfully tired." He began to go over the story again, insisted upon telling it. Then, when she said it was of no consequence, of no manner of consequence, it seemed as if he slept: the baffling drug held and released him.
"It was manslaughter, mind, not murder," he muttered in his sleep. This sleep lasted longer than any of the others: he seemed to grow more restful, as if his mind had been partly relieved.
And she? She stilled her beating heart; called upon her courage. He was so dear—so dear to her. She could only look: a touch might have disturbed him. Her lips ached to kiss him, her hands to touch him, but she sat quite still and upright Keightley! He was the heart of her innermost heart. What did it matter if he had committed this crime of which he accused himself?
When he woke again she was quite ready for him. He woke with the same question on his lips:
"What do you think of me now?"
She gave him the drink: then answered lightly:
"Surely you are not letting a little thing like that worry you? I'm surprised you should dwell upon it."
"Why did you bring me up religiously, teach me phrases that come back?"
She smiled into his eyes.
"I didn't, dear. You got them from nurses and governesses and at school." Her coolness calmed and soothed him. It could not be true that he was dying, that he deserved to die.
"I was his jury, judge, and his executioner."
"One man in his time plays many parts."
"How lightly you take it I never thought of it, either, when I was well. Is my brain going? Why should I suffer like this, be in pain all the time, unless because of Lamotte?"
She put all her strength into the answer—her mother anguish and her unshed tears. "Your brain is not going; it is confused by morphia. You caught a chill, neglected it, pneumonia and pleurisy came on. One thing has nothingpj to do with the other—Pierre Lamotte and your illness."
"You comfort me."
"Thank God—thank God!" she said beneath her sobbing breath.
"I can't die—I can't!" It was the weakness of his illness and not he who spoke—weakness, too, that made his eyes fill. He turned toward her. "You couldn't do without me, could you, mammy?"
"No." She had her arms about him now, snuggling him against her as if he had been a baby. "No, I can't do without you."
"I am so tired."
"Rest in my arms."
"Ince said I was in danger. Hold me tight. Don't let me drift away again. Tell me about Pierre."
He was hardly himself, but sufficiently conscious to understand what was said to him. As they lay together she tried to pour her vitality into him, to give him the strength he needed. To hear her speak so quietly and calmly one could not have believed how her heart beat, and how fear tore and tortured her.
"You are not in danger, darling; you are very ill, but not in danger. Dr. Ince said it to persuade you to have a nurse; he does not think Kito and I are enough for you."
"Lamotte? You know what I did?"
"Yes. You won't think of it when you are stronger. You are going to get quite well. I could not live without you; you know that, heart of my heart, of my innermost heart." It was her only outburst. She went on quietly: her words must reach his inner ear, convince him. "Pierre Lamotte has nothing to do with your illness. You were right in what you did to him—quite right."
"Go on."
"Under the ægis of your roof, the protection of your hospitality, he insulted your guest, outraged your honour."
"You're not reading it, are you? I'm keeping my eyes shut."
"No. I'm holding you in my arms and talking to you. You have always told me not to quote, that quotations mean inability to express oneself."
"I have done it myself since I have been ill."
"I can't express myself well to-night. You are so ill, and it hurts me. …"
"Poor mother! But I am better: I am feeling better."
Almost it would seem to be true. His head burned less where it lay against her breast, and no longer was every word a cough.
"‘An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth'—that is the quotation I had in my mind. In righteous indignation you flung him out."
"Unrighteously?" He finished her sentence drowsily. She went on talking, arguing, persuading, in that slow, soft voice of hers. Sometimes he smiled or contradicted; sometimes she thought he slept. She was holding the nightmare back for him, buoying him up with love. The slow night wore on.
"I am very ill." This was said again in one of the sleep intervals. She was still holding him, but answered quietly:
"Not so bad as you think."
She was faint with anxiety, with the fatigue of holding her arm under his head. So stiff when he released her that she found difficulty at first in moving, in getting the feeding-cup; but she did not falter.
"Turn up the light for a minute. Stand where I can see you. You won't look calm if I am worse. Why, you are smiling, happy! You look younger than ever! Turn it off again quickly. It's all right. I'm not going to die at all. I am going to sleep." He turned on his side. "Good night, darling. You're quite right: I only drowned a dog. I'll get my dreams right now."
He was asleep before she got back to the bedside: the effect of the morphia had almost worn off, and it was genuine sleep this time—the turning-point of his illness. The crisis had passed.
Convalescence was slow, tedious, the weakness hard to fight. It was many weeks before he could bear his mother out of his sight. He was always pressing her to rest, to go out, to play, and always he was preventing her carrying out his instructions. She loved his exactions and his inconsistencies, was only happy when she was exhausting herself in his service. He wanted to write long before he was able. A very flood-tide of inspiration set in: and she must hear each idea that struck him, praise it as being better than the last. Pierre Lamotte's name was not again mentioned between them. But one day when Keightley was on the sofa and Dr. Ince had just left, he said:
"That cliché, now, that damned cliché is right again. Vengeance is mine. Ince has just told me! He is going to have a rough time, too. We can't escape."
"Who? What?" She was not quickly aware of his meaning.
"Ince. One way or another we've all got to pay, I suppose, all of us unconvicted criminals. Ince is going to marry an actress."
THE END