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Updated: August 7, 2024
Yes, it was kinder to let him die. It was curious, though, as he stood there hacking his chest, how at each stab he deliberately twisted the knife. I suppose the pain distracted his mind from what he was remembering. I should have forewarned Borsdale of this possible outcome at the very first, I suppose. But, then, which one of us is always wise?" So this adventure came to nothing.
And yet let us go on. I know that Herrick never willingly so much as spoke with a woman." "Not in so far as we know, I said." And Borsdale paused. "Then, too, he wrote such dainty, merry poems about the fairies. Yes, it was all of fifty years ago that Dr. Herrick first appeared in print with his Description of the King and Queen of the Fairies. The thought seems always to have haunted him."
"Ah, well, insanity is only one of the many forms of being abnormal. Yes, I think it proves that all abnormal people ought to be restrained. Perhaps it proves that they are very potently restrained," said Philip Borsdale, perversely. Perversely, Sir Thomas always steadfastly protested, because he said that to believe in Herrick's sanity was not conducive to your own.
Oh, no, all this is just a madman's dream, dear lad, and we must not dare to consider it seriously, lest we become no more sane than he." "But you will aid me?" Borsdale said. "Yes, I will aid you, Philip, for in Herrick's case I take it that the mischief is consummated already; and we, I think, risk nothing worse than death.
He knew for the first time, despite many previous mischancy happenings, what real terror was. The room was thick with blinding smoke by this, so that Borsdale could see nothing save his co-partner in this adventure. Both men were shaken by what had occurred before.
It makes it doubly odd that Dr. Herrick should have chosen always to 'Write of groves, and twilights, and to sing The court of Mab, and of the Fairy King, And write of Hell." Sir Thomas touched his arm, protestingly. "Ah, but you have forgotten what follows, Philip 'I sing, and ever shall, Of Heaven, and hope to have it after all." "Well! I cry Amen," said Borsdale.
But you will need another knife a little later a knife that will be clean." "I had forgotten." Borsdale withdrew, and presently returned with a bone-handled knife. And then he made a light. "Are you quite ready, sir?" Sir Thomas Browne, that aging amateur of the curious, could not resist a laugh.
I prefer to iterate the verdict of all logical people, and formally to register my opinion that Robert Herrick was indisputably a lunatic." Borsdale did not seem perturbed. "I think the record of his experiments is true, in any event. You will concede that their results were startling?
Sir Thomas reflectively scraped the edge of the glass with his finger-nail. "You would be none the happier for knowing, Philip. Yes, that is a blood-stain here. I see. And Herrick, so far as we know, had never in his life loved any woman. He is the only poet in history who never demonstrably loved any woman. I think you had better read me his manuscript, Philip." This Philip Borsdale did.
And Borsdale looked up from a letter he had been reading. It was from a woman who has no concern with this tale, and its contents were of no importance to any one save Borsdale. "Now, do you know," said Philip Borsdale, "I am beginning to think you the most sensible man of my acquaintance! Oh, yes, beyond doubt it is an endurable sun-nurtured world just as it stands.
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