Raped on the Railway

A NYMPHOMANIAC

Brandon watched the cab which conveyed Mr. Sinclair to her residence, until it had turned a corner and was out of sight. He had purposely drawn back when he heard her give her address to the cabman, for though he loved the little woman and bitterly repented his conduct towards her, he had resolved that he would not endeavour to make her acquaintance, unless accident or fortune should favour him in that respect.

When the cab had disappeared round the corner, Brandon picked up his portmanteau — for, being an experienced tourist he never overburdened himself with luggage — and started off at a swinging pace towards one of the suburbs.

At the end of an hour's walk, he stopped in front of a small villa, pushed open the gate, and entered the garden. In another moment, the front door was thrown open, and Maud came running down and threw herself into his arms.

He kissed her lovingly, for his conscience rather smote him when he remembered that he had been unfaithful to her a good many times during his absence, and had wound up with a criminal offence which might have led to his being locked up for some years.

She linked her arm through his, and they walked up the garden together. He turned and took a good look at her, and could not but be struck with the change in her appearance. She was untidily — almost shabbily — dressed, which had never been the case even in their worst days of poverty, but it was in her face that he discerned the greatest change. Her eyes were sunken, and glittered with a strange brilliancy, and her face was preternaturally pale, with a red patch over each cheek-bone.

“You are not looking at all well, little woman,” he said gravely. “Do you fell ill?”

She gave a strange little laugh, and cast down her eyes.

“Oh, I'm all right, I think,” she answered; “but it has been very dull without you, and I missed you a good deal — especially at night;” she added, leaning against his side amorously, “but you will find I shall be all right to morrow morning if you are the same as you used to be, and have not left your heart with some pretty Swiss girl.”

There was something in her tone more than her words, that vexed him.

“But you are looking very well, dear boy,” she went on, “and that is enough for me. And now come along and have some dinner — I've got something you like.”

She ran lightly into the house to see about his dinner, and he stood thoughtful.

It seem to him that there was an erotic meaning in all her words, and, however amorous a man may be, be seldom likes to find that in his wife, though he may in his mistress.

“I hope she has kept straight during my absence,” he muttered to himself; “I was a fool to leave her by herself for so long, knowing what a hot nature she has.

Maud was very happy all day, and showed her husband many little attentions, and when they went to bed she proved that she had not forgotten her old habits: long before morning Brandon had to plead the fatigue of his journey as an excuse for not giving her as much as she wanted.

Before he had been at home many days, Brandon found there was a great change in his wife, and that she had become as she had been in the old days before his adventure with the French nobleman, except that she did not as then, care for dress, for she was now untidy and careless of her appearance. The only time when she seemed to care for him was when they were in bed together, and then if he did not feel inclined to give her what she wanted, she would turn sulky and bad tempered.

At last the conviction was fully brought home to his mind that his wife was becoming, if she had not already become, a confirmed nymphomane, caring for nothing but the carnal act. He was well aware that when once this disease attacks a woman, her moral degradation is only a question of time, for no man, however virile he may be, will be capable of supplying her sexual needs.

Nymphomaniacs, or in plain Anglo-Saxon: women love-mad, have existed in all ages, but do not appear to have engaged in a special manner the attention of the physicians of antiquity.

Hippocrates, Galen, Celsus, Areteus, Oribasius, and Paul of AEgina, who practised in Greece or in Italy, hardly make any mention of the existence of these passion-racked females; we must come down to Soranus, a Greek physician who practised and taught medicine in Rome towards the Third century, and had the highest reputation, and after him to Aetius, to find the earliest descriptions of the malady of the love-lost.

Attributed by Bonnet to the animal spirits inflamed by sensual love reacting upon the brain, upon the uterus, and upon the entire genital apparatus, this affection is now well known, and the description made of it with the greatest care and most scrupulous exactness proves that science has put an end to all of the more or less ingenious but erroneous theories of the ancient authors.

Contrary to what is observed in erotomania, the evil takes its rise in the organs of generation and it is only much later that the irritation acts upon the brain.

Although nymphomania, says Dr. Paul Moreau, is more frequently observed in subjects affected with mental alienation, it may nevertheless sometimes show itself among women who have partly retained their intelligence and the conscience of their actions.

Such cases, unfortunately, are not very rare, and there is nothing more sad, more heart-rending than to see woman a prey to the most hideous of maladies, carried away irresistibly, contrary to her will, fall lower in rank than a brute, and assist powerless at her own degradation.

In the course of a week or two he fancied also that he noticed a change in her figure, and this suspicion was soon confirmed — there could be no doubt about it, she was pregnant.

“Why Maud, I do believe you are in the family way,” he said to her one day.

She started, and looked confused, and when she had recovered herself, replied:

“Yes, I fancy you must have made a baby just before you went away. I noticed that I was in for one just after you left.

“Oh, well,” he said, good-humouredly. “I should like to have a child, and it is quite time we begun. In fact, I wonder why one or more have not come before.”

Maud blushed scarlet and left the room quickly. Her manner struck Brandon as very peculiar, and a horrible suspicion which he was afraid to believe crossed his mind, but he resolved not to entertain it. Men are honester than women, an American-novelist says, and his own conscience told him that if he knew his wife had been unfaithful to him, and the child now in her womb was not his, that he could hardly reproach her, for his own infidelities had been manifold. Yet man has been educated for centuries to regard his own want of chastity as a mere trifle, or indeed almost a necessity of his sexual nature, but for a woman to fail to preserve her chastity he regards as a most serious offence. It is true that this mental attitude of his has been probably caused by the women, for no one is so severe on the shortcomings of an erring sister as your virtuous woman.

Some months went by, and though there were no quarrels between Maud and her husband, there was that constraint and reserve which is worse. For a good quarrel will often clear the moral atmosphere, and as the Latin poet said, lead to the renewal of love, but a constant coolness is a damper on the affections. Brandon often thought of the little woman he had met in the train, and even made some slight efforts to discover her whereabouts, but they were unsuccessful, and Maud was so suspicious and jealous that he was obliged to be circumspect.

The months went on, until one night, Maud, whose belly was now very big, begged him to go and fetch the doctor. He dressed at once, and hurried off to the surgery, and in a few minutes had returned with the medical man. Leaving him to attend to Maud, Brandon hurried away to fetch the monthly nurse. It was a bitterly cold November morning, with the snow falling slightly, and the nurse lived in a distant part of the city. Three o'clock had struck before he had reached the nurse's lodging- it is curious that these affairs usually occur during “the small hours beyond the twelve” — and then of course there was the usual delay whilst the nurse dressed and prepared that mysterious parcel without which no follower of Mrs. Gamp who has a particle of self-respect would think of moving a step.

Whilst he was waiting, Brandon could not help thinking of the years that had elapsed since he married Maud. He remembered the great love he bore her, and how that love, though once crushed to earth, had sprung up again, only to dwindle and slowly die out again. He confessed to himself that perhaps he had been to blame, for this latter part at least, and promised that when she recovered he would be a more affectionate husband, and by love and care, wean her from that moral depravity which was ruining her body and soul.

He was nervous and anxious during all the long ride home, and hardly heard the platitudes which the nurse uttered.

When he arrived home, the nurse at once hurried off to the bedroom where Maud was, and Brandon entered the dining room and sank into an easy chair. He mixed himself a stiff glass of whiskey and water — although as a rule he drank but little — and he tried to smoke to calm his nerves, but the occasional shrieks and moans which came from the bedroom, and which in the stillness of the night could be heard distinctly, sank into his soul, and he threw away the cigar, and swallowed the whiskey at a gulp without tasting it. There are few things which so upset a man's mind as the birth of his first child, but by the time he has a large family, his ear becomes “more Irish and less nice”-besides there is not so much groaning and shrieking on the subsequent occasions.

He must have sat there a couple of hours, which seemed to him like a couple of centuries, when the door opened gently and the doctor appeared looking very grave.

“Is it all right?” asked Brandon in a hoarse whisper.

Being a medical man as well as a Scotsman there were two valid reasons why the doctor should not give a direct reply.

“It has been a most difficult and dangerous labour,” he said — “perhaps the worst that I have ever met in all my practice.

“But it has ended satisfactorily, I hope,” said Brandon in a choking voice.

“Mrs. Brandon's habits of life,” replied the doctor cautiously, “were not I should imagine conducive to an easy labour. It is a great pity she ever became pregnant.”

“You are torturing me, doctor,” cried Brandon, “tell me the worst, and I will try to bear it like a man.

“The child is dead,” said the doctor-gravely, “stillborn.”

“And the mother?”

“We must do the best we can for her,” said the doctor still more serious, “but I cannot conceal from you that she is in a very critical condition, and I cannot pronounce definitely yet whether she will recover. We must hope for the best.”

“Can I see her?” murmured poor Brandon.

“Yes — she wishes to see you, and I think it will be better that you should go to her — it may do her good.”

With one bound Brandon was out of the door and half-way up the stairs. Then he stopped and tip-toed gently to the bed-room door, opened it, entered, and took a seat by the side of the bed.

A faint smile played over Maud's face. She looked extremely beautiful as she lay there, for all her old beauty had returned, and the wonderful masses of golden brown hair made her pale face seem wondrous fair.

“I am glad you have come,” she whispered. “I wanted to see the baby and they won't show it to me.”

Brandon glanced at the doctor, who had followed upstairs more slowly and was now standing by the side of the bed. The doctor made a sign of assent.

“The poor little thing is dead, her husband replied.

A look of pain came into her face, and she was silent for a minute. Then she looked at the doctor, and he, with professional quickness, caught her meaning. He made a sign to the nurse and they both withdrew to the other end of the room.

“I am glad of it,” she whispered, “and I shall soon see it for I feel I am about to follow it.”

“Don't say that, Maud; you will soon be better,” replied her husband.

“I am glad it is dead,” she repeated, “for I have been a bad wife, Bob, and the child was not yours. I'm too weak to tell you all, now; but say you forgive me and I shall die happy.”

“I do forgive you, darling,” said Brandon; “I have been more to blame than you.”

He bent and kissed her fair face and she gently pressed his hand, and closed her eyes. The pressure gradually relaxed, and the doctor, who had been watching her closely, came to the bedside, took her hand and felt her pulse.

Soon he laid her hand down gently, walked round the bed, and touched Brandon on the shoulder.

“You had better come away, Mr. Brandon,” he said gently, “we can neither of us do any more good.

Robert Brandon was a widower.