CHAPTER VREMORSE
And well we know your tenderness of heartAnd gentle, deep, compassionate remorse.Shakespeare.
And well we know your tenderness of heartAnd gentle, deep, compassionate remorse.Shakespeare.
And well we know your tenderness of heartAnd gentle, deep, compassionate remorse.Shakespeare.
And well we know your tenderness of heart
And gentle, deep, compassionate remorse.
Shakespeare.
Filled with horror, that subdued all outward show of emotion, the old black woman lifted the light form of her mistress and bore it across the room to the lounge.
Overcome with grief and terror, the child followed her, shaking as with a hard ague fit.
’Phia laid the fast-stiffening body down on the couch and straightened the limbs, and drew the white dress down to the small, rigid feet.
Little Gloria stood by, clasping the woman’s skirts, and crying and sobbing as if her heart would burst.
When ’Phia had decently composed the small body, she went to the bell and rang it sharply, then she turned the key of the door and came back to her post.
She gazed for a moment on the poor, dead face, and then tenderly closed the eyes, keeping her fingers and thumb lightly pressed on the white lids.
Some one came running swiftly along the passage outside, tried the lock, and then rapped.
’Phia went and unlocked the door, holding it a few inches apart, to prevent the entrance of the new-comer.
There were but three servants in that reduced establishment—’Phia,her husband Laban, and her daughter Lamia.
It was the latter who had come to answer the bell.
“What does yer want, mammy?” inquired the girl, seeing that her mother barred her farther progress.
“You tell your daddy to run here right off. No nonsense, now; not to ’lay a minute, but to run here right off! Yer hear me, don’t yer?”
“Yes, mammy; but daddy done gone ’way in de boat to Sinnigger’s.”
“Whey?” sharply demanded the woman.
“To Sinnigger’s, mammy.”
“What he done gone dere for, when he wanted so bad here?”
“Marster done sent him dere arter de doctor. Marster come a-rabin’ out to de quarter, just now, like he gone rip stabin’ mad, an’ say how mist’ess wer’ took berry ill, an’ he hauled off daddy down to de landin’ to start him off to Sinnigger’s arter de doctor. Is mist’ess dat bad, sure ’nough?”
“Hum! Sent arter de doctor, eh? No use send arter de doctor now. Set a house afire, an’ den run for a gourd o’ water to put it out! Hum! Dat a blind!” muttered ’Phia.
“Is mist’ess so berry bad?” inquired the girl.
“So yer daddy’s gone to Sinnigger’s. Whey’s yer marster?”
“Marster done gone down to de boat landin’ to hurry daddy off, I telled you before, mammy. But, say, is mist’ess bad as all dat comes to?” inquired the girl for the third time.
“It ain’t none o’ your business! You go right straight down de kitchen and put on a kettle obwater to heat,” replied the woman, closing the door on her daughter.
“Sent for de doctor! Hum. Dat piece ob ’ception ain’t a gwine to do no good. Lord, Lord, did I ebber expect to lib to see dis awful day? Dough I hab offen an’ offen prophesied as how murder would be done in dis forsak, unlawful house, did I ebber expect as it would come to pass? He’s done it, an’ he’ll sure to be hung, an’ den what is to come ob de place? O-o-m-me,” groaned the woman, as she returned to her post of duty.
At these dreadful words, the voice of the child, that had sunk into low sobs, now arose in wails of anguish.
The next moment the door was thrown open and Marcellus de Crespigney hurried into the room, haggard, ghastly, with distended eyeballs and disheveled hair. After rapidly glancing around the room, his eyes fell upon the form lying on the lounge, and he hurried up to it, breathing hard, as he put the questions:
“How is she? How is she? Better?”
The appalled woman silently moved aside and the child crouched down upon the floor and made room for him.
He stooped anxiously over the rigid form, looked deeply into the marble face and uttered a cry which those that heard never forgot in all their after life.
Then dashing his hand violently against his forehead, he flung himself down by the couch, and dropped his head upon the cold breast of his wife, wailing forth:
“Dead! Dead! Dead! And I have killed her! I, a murderer, most accursed!”
He was totally unconscious of the sobbing childat his feet, or the frowning woman who stood with folded arms, like a black Nemesis, at his back. He had eyes for neither—for nothing but the lifeless form before him.
Gazing on her, pressing his lips to her cold brow, again and again, he broke into the most violent lamentations, the most awful self-accusations.
Then hiding his head in the folds of her raiment, he groaned aloud and seemed to swoon into silence.
Again, with an accession of frenzy, he started up and began striding to and fro, from end to end of the long room, uttering the most agonized self-reproaches, and calling down the most horrible maledictions upon his own head.
This terrible scene went on until at last the weeping child, her heart half broken with grief for her who was beyond suffering, and for him who still suffered, arose from her crouching position and dried her tears and tried to still her sobs, and went to the maddened man, as he raged up and down the floor, invoking imprecations on his own head.
She came behind him, pleading in her pitiful tones:
“Oh, uncle, do not curse yourself! Pray! The Lord is merciful!” And she put her little hand out to touch his.
Then he whirled around upon her like a furious wind, his eyes flashing lightnings of frenzy, his voice thundering:
“Avaunt! Begone! Let no innocent thing come near me!”
The child turned and fled and buried her face in the lap of Sophia, who was now seated by the dead body of her mistress.
“Let me take you to bed, little Glo’,” whispered the woman.
“No—no,” sobbed the aggrieved and terrified child. “No—no. I want to stay near him! I—I want to stay near him!”
Three dreadful hours passed in this way, with little change.
Sophia sat near the head of the lounge, keeping constant watch over the corpse.
Little Gloria crouched on the floor at her feet, with her head hidden in the old woman’s lap.
Marcellus de Crespigney raged up and down the floor, breathing maledictions upon himself, or he dropped down before the dead body of his wife, uttering awful groans or lapsing into more awful silence.
An hour after midnight there came a sound of footsteps, crunching through the frozen snow, and followed by an alarm on the iron knocker at the front door, which announced the arrival of Dr. Prout, the physician of St. Inigoes.
De Crespigney, almost exhausted by the long continued violence of his emotions, was now calm with the calmness of prostration and despair.
“Nothing serious the matter, I hope!” said the cordial voice of the doctor, as he entered the room, ushered by Laban, and met by Colonel de Crespigney, who advanced to receive him.
The physician of St. Inigoes was a short, stout, round-bodied little old man, with a bald head, a smooth face, cheery voice and manner. He was always dressed in speckless black from head to foot.
“Nothing serious, I hope? Only one of madame’s usual nervous attacks, eh?” he cheerfully demanded,as he shook hands with the master of the house.
“It is her last attack, sir. She is dead,” answered De Crespigney, in steady tones.
“Dead? Lord bless my soul, I am—I—dead, do you say?” exclaimed the doctor, in surprise and confusion.
“Yes, sir, she is gone. Come and see.”
“Lord bless my soul, I am very much shocked!” exclaimed the good little man, as he followed the bereaved husband to the lounge on which the body of the ill-fated wife lay.
Old ’Phia lifted the white handkerchief that covered the white face, and then withdrew to give way to her master and the doctor, leading the trembling child away with her.
“How did this happen?” solemnly inquired the doctor, as he gazed down on the waxen face, with the stream of scarlet blood curdled from the corner of the mouth down upon the chin and throat, where it lay in a thick cake.
“Through me. I killed her,” answered De Crespigney, in the same dread monotone in which all his answers to the doctor’s questions had been made.
Dr. Prout turned and gazed at him in amazement for a moment, and then said gravely and kindly:
“My dear friend, this shock has been too much for you. Compose yourself. This unhappy lady has had a fatal hemorrhage of the lungs, such as I feared for a long time past; such as I warned you might be the result of any unusual excitement.”
“Just so, you warned me, yet I killed her.”
The doctor looked at him in a great trouble, then replaced the handkerchief over the quiet face of thedead, and taking his arm led him to a distant sofa, placed him on it, took the seat beside him, and said:
“De Crespigney, you must not say such false things about yourself. Think what the effect upon other minds may be.”
“They are not false; they are true. Listen to me, Dr. Prout. You know you warned me that excitement might prove fatal to my unhappy wife.”
“Yes.”
“You know how prone she was to excitement. You knew her delicate health and her extreme nervous irritability?”
“I knew the weakness of her lungs and the violence of her temper. I knew all that, Colonel de Crespigney, before you ever saw her face.”
“Let that pass,” said Marcel, waving his hand impatiently. “You warned me against the danger of excitement for her. I was not man enough to heed your warning in her behalf. I have been frenzied to-night, Dr. Prout. But attend! This evening I irritated her, excited, taunted, maddened, murdered her!”
“Oh, my dear Colonel. Oh, tut, tut, tut!”
“But hear me! I must tell some one. Oh, this necessity of confession—this afternoon a dispute arose between us, indeed I know not how—I should have calmed, soothed, conciliated her, knowing how dangerous was excitement to that poor, fragile being! But I did not. When she accused me, I recriminated; when she reproached me, I retorted. ‘One word brought on another,’ as the people say. She grew frantic and knew not what she said, I do verily believe. Yet her words stung me to frenzy, and, forgetting my manhood, I—I——”
Here Marcel de Crespigney’s voice broke, and hecovered his brow with his hand and dropped his head upon his breast with a look of unutterable shame.
“You never could have raised your hand against your wife, De Crespigney?” exclaimed the doctor, in a harsh voice, and shrinking away from his companion.
Up went the fine head, and wide open with astonishment at such a question the splendid eyes, as Marcel replied:
“Who—I? I raise my hand against that poor little, fragile being? I raise my hand against any woman? I may be a devil, Dr. Prout, but I am not—a—what would you call a man who would strike a woman anyway? I am sure I don’t know.”
“Pardon me the base thought, De Crespigney. It was but a passing thought. Scarcely that indeed. But what do you mean, then, by your self-accusations, my poor friend?”
“I killed her all the same. If I did not strike with my hand, I struck with the poisoned arrow of the tongue. Is any serpent’s sting so venomous as the tongue? Her tongue had stung me to frenzy. She accused me, poor, wrong-headed child that she was, she accused me of marrying her for money, for this miserable, sterile promontory, with its ruinous house and worthless land. I retorted by telling her I married her for pity. “Yes!” cried Marcel, suddenly starting up, and striding to and fro with rising excitement, “yes, villain! caitiff! cur that I was, I told my wife—I told that delicate and sensitive creature that I had married her only for pity! And worse, far worse than that, I saw her pale face grow scarlet at my cruel, shameful words, then, white as death, as she sank upon a chair and placedher hand upon her chest. I did not care. The devil had possession of me.””
“‘You will kill me,’ she gasped.
“‘Die, then, and end it all!’ I answered, brutally, for I half suspected she was acting all this illness. But the next instant she fell heavily forward, with the blood welling from her throat.”
“Gracious Heaven!” murmured the doctor in a low tone.
“I remembered what you had warned me to do in case of such an emergency. I went and laid her down on the rugs quietly, and then ran out and dispatched a servant for you. In ten minutes I was back again at her side, but—she was gone.”
“I came the very moment that I was summoned, but the way was long,” said the doctor.
“You could have done no good, as it turned out, even if you had been in the house. The fault was mine. I killed her! I killed the poor little fragile woman, whose only fault was to love me too well, too jealously, too exactingly, too insanely!” exclaimed De Crespigney, heaping up words as men will do under any strong excitement. “Yes, I killed my delicate, sensitive wife! I killed her with cruel, shameful, unmanly words. Oh, accursedVILLAIN!” he cried, smiting his forehead with a violent blow, as he strode up and down the room.
Dr. Prout went up to him, took his arm and drew it within his own, and saying, with the authority of a keeper over a madman:
“Come, De Crespigney, you must go with me. I am going to take you off to bed and give you an opiate. You, Laban, there! Lead the way to your master’s chamber.”
Marcel, whose stormy fits of emotion had reducedhim to the weakness of infancy, submitted himself to be led from the room, preceded by his servant, Laban.
Then there was left in the apartment of death, with the corpse, the old watcher, Sophia, and the child, Gloria, who had sobbed herself to sleep with her head on the black woman’s lap.
A few minutes after the doctor had led De Crespigney away, however, Lamia softly entered the room and whispered:
“The hot water is ready, mammy.”
“Yes. Well, now take this child and carry her up to her room, and undress her without waking her, if possible, and put her to bed. But if she do wake, you stay with her till she goes to sleep again, an’ then you come down here an’ help me. You know what’s happened of by dis time, don’t you?”
“Oh, yes; mist’ess hab broken a blood-vessel, an’ ’deed——”
“Yes! Lord forgive me! I did fink by de way he ran on, as marster had done it hisself! I thanks my Lord it wasn’t him, and dere’ll be no crowner’s quest, nor hanging! Dere, gal, take de poor dear chile and carry her to bed. Well, poor mist’ess, I hopes de Lord will hab messy on her soul! Anyways, dere won’t be no more quarrellin’ an’ fightin’ an’ ’fendin’ an’ provin’ an’ ’spoundin’ an’ ’splainin’ in de house to drive a body ravin’, ’stracted mad. Marse ain’t ’clined to quarrel much hisself, an’ if he was, he couldn’t quarrel by hisself ’dout some one else to help him,” growled old ’Phia, as she lifted the child and laid her, still sleeping, in the arms of Lamia.
The girl took the exhausted child up to her room,undressed, and put her into bed without awakening her.
Once, indeed, the poor little creature half waked as she was finally laid on her pillow; but she only sobbed and swooned away to sleep.
Lamia stood by the bed watching her for a few minutes, and seeing that she was not likely to wake for hours to come, left the chamber and went down stairs to join her “mammy” in the room of death.
Together they washed and dressed the dead, and laid it out neatly on the long table to await the undertaker. Then ’Phia lighted a couple of wax candles and placed one at the head and one at the foot.
Lastly, the two set the room in perfect order, replenished the fire, and finally took up their positions, sitting one on the right, and the other on the left of the body, to watch until daylight.
Dr. Prout remained all night with his sorrowing friend, and then, after an early breakfast the next morning, departed to make, at the request of Colonel de Crespigney, the necessary arrangements for the funeral.
When Marcel de Crespigney re-entered the room of death he found it filled with an atmosphere of repose that calmed even his perturbed spirit. He went to the table and turned down the white linen cover, and saw the face of the dead soothed into a peaceful beauty such as it had never known in life. He gazed on it for some minutes, and then stooped and pressed his lips to the cold, quiet brow with more tenderness than he had ever kissed the living woman. Then he reverently covered the face again, and stole silently from the room.
Little Gloria slept the deep sleep of mental andphysical prostration. She did not wake until noon. Then she awoke to memory, and to an agony of grief that refused to be comforted.
“And not a lady about de house to look arter de poor chile! Not eben a white ’oman anywhere in reach. An’ me an’ Lamia dat oberloaded with work, along ob dis drea’ful business!” groaned ’Phia, as she trotted from chamber to parlor, and from parlor to kitchen on her multifarious duties.
Even in the midst of her lamentations she met relief. In the kitchen she found David Lindsay and his grandmother, just arrived, and waiting to see if they could be of any use.
David, on coming to work that morning, had met Dr. Prout and had anxiously inquired if any one was sick at the “house,” and in answer had received the news of Madame de Crespigney’s death.
Then remembering the limited resources of service in that small and isolated household, David, with the thoughtfulness of a boy who had long had a man’s responsibilities on his own young shoulders, re-entered his boat and rowed rapidly across to the little sandy isle, to tell his grandmother, and even to suggest her returning with him.
The gentle old dame saw even more clearly than her grandson had done, the need they had of her at Promontory Hall. So she lost no time in getting ready to go, and in less than half an hour from the moment when she received the news, she stood in Sophia’s kitchen, earnestly offering her services.
“If you’ll only look after de chile, which I b’lieve you is a great favorite ’long o’ her, dat is all as I shall ax ob you,” said ’Phia.
And so the sweet old dame “looked after” little Gloria, and comforted her, night and day, duringthe three days that preparations for the funeral went on.
Meanwhile, David Lindsay made himself useful in many ways at the Hall during the day, and at night returned to the little isle to take care of the house in the absence of its mistress.
Often Gloria tried to see and console her stricken uncle; but he always refused to have her, saying:
“Let all innocent beings keep aloof from me.”
Thus, in alternations between the frenzy of remorse and the stupor of despair, Marcel de Crespigney passed the interval between the death and burial of his “murdered wife,” as, in his morbid self-reproach, he called her.
“Words kill!” he answered to the expostulations of his friend, the doctor. “Words kill, and I killed her with cruel words! The last words I spoke to her—the last words her failing senses heard from me—were cruel, murderous words! They killed her! What though no law can drag me before an earthly tribunal to answer for her life? Before the awful judgment seat of the God in my own soul, I stand a self-convicted murderer!”
The good doctor shrugged his shoulders, reflecting that it was of no use to argue with a man whose morbid sensibility made him, for the time being, a monomaniac.
Marcel de Crespigney, who had so greatly distinguished himself for martial courage and ability during the Mexican war, was weaker than a child where his sympathies were involved.
This weakness had betrayed him into all the misery of his life. It had drawn him, in his early youth, into a marriage with a plain, sickly, faded woman, who loved him with that morbid, exclusive,absorbing passion that, disappointed, sometimes sends its victim to the madhouse or the grave.
He had married her—let the truth be here told—from the promptings of compassion alone. He had given her all that he had to give—sympathy, tenderness, service. But this was not love—not the love she craved and missed. Hence came humiliation, morbid brooding, and the monomania that turned all his kindly acts and motives into outrage and offence.
Had children blessed their union, and so divided her thoughts and affections, or had they—the husband and wife—though childless, lived in a city, where society must have claimed some of her attention, and taught her something of life, she might have been much healthier in mind and body, and their marriage might have been happier.
But in the drear solitude of Promontory Hall, with no children to fondle, no society but that of the studious, intellectual man whom she vainly and madly loved, there could have been but one of two results for her—madness or death. The most merciful of the two was hers.
But it was also impossible that De Crespigney’s mind, under all these circumstances, should have retained its healthy tone, or that his long patience should not have at last become exhausted, so that in one moment of unexampled exasperation he lost the self-control of years and told her the truth—the truth, not “in love,” but in wrath and scorn, that had slain her.
Now he would not seek to palliate his fault or justify himself. He would not remember the jealousy, the violence, the acrimony with which she had driven him to frenzy; he would only rememberher strong love for him and his secret indifference to her, and his deeply sympathetic, compassionate and conscientious spirit suffered pangs of remorse that would seem to others morbid, excessive and unjustifiable.
On the fifth day following the catastrophe, the remains of Eusebie de Crespigney were placed in an elegant rosewood casket and conveyed by boat to the little Gothic chapel on La Compte’s Landing, where they were met by a small number of old friends and neighbors, and where, after the religious services were over, they were consigned to the family vault under the chancel.
Immediately after the funeral, Marcel de Crespigney utterly broke down and fell ill of a brain fever.
Dr. Prout, taking authority on himself in the household anarchy, installed Mrs. Lindsay as nurse, and wrote to his family.