Lionel was at his wit's end. "Then you cannot be cured?"
"No;" she looked at him steadily, an awful smile curving the corners of her mouth. "I thought you would fail me at the last."
"But how can I----?"
"You can't, so there's no more to be said." She sat down with a little sigh. "Dear me, how very hot this room is! Would you mind opening the window?"
Kaimes did not move. "Leah, go to bed, and let me send for one of those doctors you consulted."
"Useless! useless!" She waved him aside calmly. "They have spoken. I know the worst; I am prepared to face the worst. Are you? Hold your tongue," she added peremptorily, as he opened his mouth. "Listen!"
From beginning to end did she relate the whole fraud--the sham death, the stolen money, the betrayal, and the punishment of the kiss. Her voice was perfectly calm, her posture easy, and her self-control admirable. The listener grew white and red, became nervous and angry, quivered with disgust, recoiled with loathing, as she unfolded the brutal tale of her sin and treachery. Leah spared him no detail, however painful; she even made herself out to be worse than she really was--if that were possible. From the buying of Demetrius by that butterfly kiss in the picture-gallery, to the revenge of Demetrius in that stuffy cabin, when she struggled in the arms of one who had been what she now was, she related the whole without a blush, without a tremor, in a quiet, level voice, unmoved, and utterly shameless. The horror of her position seemed to remove her from the region of human emotions and morals. It was the unveiling of original evil.
Lionel did not interrupt, but closed his eyes with a sick feeling as she drew to the end.
"I first noticed that something was wrong when my hands burned as I washed them. I thought nothing of it at the time; but the feeling became so painful that I saw my doctor. He said--well, you can guess what he said. I consulted another, and another: the same diagnosis. I went abroad, but the doctors in Germany and France told me the same thing. I knew it was true. I felt in my heart it was true. Ugh!" She paused. "There is no cure--none, none." Then she finished, with a nervous titter, "Pleasant for me, isn't it?"
"Don't!" gasped the vicar, leaning his head on his hand, and much too qualmish to speak.
"Oh, you needn't look like that. I have to suffer, not you. I kept wondering how I got the beastly thing, and although I fancied it might be that kiss, I could not be quite sure. Katinka enlightened me--she was always a good-natured girl. After the death of that little reptile, she returned to England and watched me. Seeing that I went to doctors--she must have watched very closely--and then abroad, she wrote a letter--such a nasty, spiteful letter. But I always thought Katinka was a cat. Would you like to----?"
"No, no; I have heard enough."
"And you call yourself a man--pooh! You must hear. I learned from the letter that Demetrius contracted the--the--well, what he suffered from, amongst the natives of Kamchatka. He intended first to show me up; but when that horrid girl told him how she had hurt my mouth, he knew that by a kiss he could--ahr-r-r! He was a doctor, you see, and the skin being broken, it was easy for him, knowing what he did, to do what he wanted--the brute! That was why he kissed so hard, and----"
"Stop! stop!"
"It is beastly, isn't it? That's all, I think."
She was examining her finger-nails when next Lionel stole a glance at her. He scarcely knew what to say. Her treachery and the result of her treachery were both abominable. That a beautiful woman, gently born and bred, should sin so vilely seemed incredible. For beautiful she was, sitting there calmly under the uplifted sword of Azrael, the Angel of Death; and vile she confessed herself to be. Yet he could hardly accept either the physical degradation or the moral turpitude.
"You may be mistaken, after all," he stammered vaguely.
"Because I am not an object," she replied, with a shrug. "How like a child you are to require proof! I don't intend to become an object, I can tell you."
"But if there is no cure----"
"There is another way. Of course, it is disagreeable, but what is one to do in such straits?"
The vicar guessed her meaning, and violently threw off the weakness with which her story had infected his manhood. "I forbid you to heap crime upon crime," said he, firmly and insistently.
"I shall do what I like. Do not dictate to me, if you please."
"But God----"
"I don't believe in God."
"You do; you must. Does not this shameful punishment which has overtaken you in the hour of triumph declare the anger of a great and terrible God."
"No!" Her expression was mulish.
"Woman! woman! Kneel and ask for mercy."
"I won't ask for mercy when I'm being treated so badly. Never! never! Just when things were going so smoothly, too; the money coming in by the bushel, and Demetrius out of the way. I call it a shame; it's mean, spiteful, cruel. I intended to have such a jolly time, and now--now----" Her voice faltered and broke.
She swung with a groan to one side of the chair, hiding her face and breathing heavily. That deadly fear of the inevitable would grip her, do what she would.
"Leah"--Kaimes' voice shook a trifle--"God is very good to you."
Her eyes stared at him bleakly. "Very good?"
"We are put into this world, not for the pampering of the flesh, but that we may learn through trouble how to become more spiritual. Our souls are of God, and to God they must return, rising through much tribulation to His necessary perfection. Sorrows are sent for the flesh to bear; not as punishments, but as lessons to be learned. Of our vices, says St. Augustine, we can frame a ladder to ascend heavenward, if we but tread them beneath our feet. This you have never known."
"And I do not know it now."
"From your dreadful trouble will come the knowledge; in this way alone can humility come. God, out of loving pity for your unbending pride, which prevents the Holy Spirit from entering your heart, has beaten you to your knees. On your knees, then, ask for mercy, for light, for purification of your unclean soul. God's staff, which He gives to all in life's pilgrimage, has changed into a rod. He gave you all things, and you used His gifts to glorify the flesh. Now in His infinite love has He sent trouble----"
"I've brought that upon myself."
"For your amendment it was permitted that you should do so. Out of your pleasant vices have you made whips to lash yourself. The wages of sin is death; you have sinned, and the wages--oh, Leah, Leah, bitterly cruel as it may seem to you, I rejoice that the wages should be so paid."
"You are a Job's comforter, I must say," said the Duchess, sullenly.
"Because I can see how this tribulation of the flesh can save your soul alive. God might have struck you dead in your wickedness, and with justice, for your wilful sin. Instead of doing so, He has given you a lingering disease, that you should be brought to acknowledge His power and also have time to repent."
"There is nothing to repent of."
"Shame! shame! Even from a worldly point of view you have sinned grossly; how much blacker, then, are your deeds in God's sight! But they can be made white; the past can be wiped out by sincere sorrow."
Leah twisted her hands above her head with a cry of impotent rage. "How can I repent, when I do not even feel sorry?"
"You will not ask Christ to help you. Repentance is a gift, as is Faith. He will give both, and His undying Love, if you will but confess your sin."
"I have done so--to you."
"Who am powerless. Confess it to Christ; weep as did Mary at His wounded feet. Hard as is your heart, He will melt it; soiled as is your soul, He will cleanse it. Now--now, when human aid is vain, now is the appointed time. Repent and be saved!"
"If I try to, will He--will He cure met"
"That question I cannot, dare not answer. His mercy is infinite."
"You say that to me, knowing what I suffer."
"I say it to you who suffer. In no other way could the Spirit have brought you to the mercy-seat."
"He has not brought me now," she persisted obstinately.
Lionel fell on his knees and caught her restless hands.
"Oh, your poor, sinful soul, for which Christ died!" he cried passionately; "to whom can you go but to God? Doctors cannot cure you; He can, if it be His will. He may even make your flesh clean."
"Ah! And that question you declined to answer a minute or two back. Besides, you denied that miracles could take place."
"I did not. No one ever came in vain to our Blessed Lord, when He walked the earth some two thousand years ago. As was His power then, so is it now. He loved in those days, He loves now. Sitting on God's right hand, He is ready to succour the vilest. His arm is not shortened, His pity is not exhausted. In mercy He may even cure you of this dreadful disease, as He cured the afflicted man we read of. Only acknowledge that God is mightier than you are; only bow to the rod, only admit your sin, only cry for pardon."
"If He will cure me----" she began, wavering.
"That you must leave to His love and wisdom. Cure you He may; permit you to suffer, He may see fit. But save your soul, He can. That much I can swear to."
"I want this horrible thing cured," she cried passionately.
"To continue in your sins? To soil your soul anew?"
"No! no! If I repent----"
"Repentance includes submission. God may not see fit to cure you; it may be your punishment--and I think it is--to bear this woeful cross, which if rightly borne may lead you to the light of lights. The flesh! The flesh! You but think of the flesh, of the passing world, of the vanities of life, of the enjoyment of the senses. From these things God would lead you away to contemplate spiritual realities, and the appointed path has been made known. Bear your cross--oh, my dear, bear your cross, and endure to the end that you may be saved. Terrible as it may seem, this evil, whence good will arise, has removed you from temptation. If you live secluded----"
"Dying piecemeal," she cried, in a frenzy of anger, and wrenched away her hands. "No, no; I will not live. I will die--die. At least I can do that."
"As did Judas! Leah, if you cannot bear your punishment in the flesh, how will you endure it in the spirit? Live for Christ, and what matters the world?"
"Everything! everything! I know what I am; I do not know what I may be. Here--in this tangible world--we are safe--safe!"
"From God? Can you say that, when His hand has struck you down? I tell you, poor sinner, that thus does He show His mercy. As is your crime, so must be your punishment. But Christ can pardon your iniquities, and Christ will, if you only plead for mercy and for grace."
Leah rose, crimson with rage. "You'll drive me mad. I don't want your spiritual life, your next world of shadows and moonshine. Give me life--life--life!"
The cry of the flesh was so insistent, so futile, so blind in its desire, that Lionel shuddered. Still on his knees, he began a fervent prayer. The miserable woman walked rebelliously up and down the room, fighting against the conviction now slowly being driven home to her understanding, that He whom she had mocked and defied was indeed the Most High God. But she still fought against a submission she knew well would have to be made. Beg for mercy she would not: her heart could not feel, her intelligence could not grasp. But, somehow, she knew. A dreadful thing had reduced her to impotence, and the ego could not battle against the Something it had hitherto flouted, but now furiously admitted might exist.
There remained but one thing to do, but one dark way to take. Do it and take it she would. But Lionel more than suspected her intention. Lionel would thwart her, and she would be compelled to live--live on, an object of disgust and pity. "No! no!" was her inward cry, as the imploring voice of the vicar rose and fell, and died away in a last tremulous Amen. For the last time, therefore, did she set her wits to plot for the ego.
"Lionel," said she, hesitatingly, "will you send for Jim?"
The vicar's face lighted up. He saw in this request what she meant him to see, a sign of yielding. "You will let me tell him?"
Leah nodded. "There is a doctor in Vienna," she whispered, inventing recklessly with the cunning of one driven to bay; "he has found out a cure, I hear. If Jim will take me over----"
"I'll telegraph to Hengist Castle at once," cried Kaimes, making for the door impetuously.
"And come back to dinner," said she, following, "I can't pass the evening alone."
"I shall come."
"But you won't frighten me any more with this religious talk?"
Lionel pressed her hand sadly. "I have done what I could, Leah. Only the Holy Spirit can bring home conviction to your heart. Try and pray."
"Yes," assented the Duchess, submissively; "it is all that is left."
"Then the better part, which cannot be taken away, is left."
He went away quite deceived, since she had suggested the Viennese physician so calmly. He thought that she still hoped desperately, and for all he knew the hope might be fulfilled, seeing the present-day resources of science. Certainly he never dreamed how she had hoodwinked him, and so sped on his errand of mercy, leaving behind him a woman too broken to exult in the success of her final piece of trickery.
It was all over. Man could do nothing; God would do nothing. As Demetrius had been smitten for the crime she had induced him to commit, so was she being punished for the evil she had called into being. Lionel had talked nonsense, of course; but he left behind him a feeling in her mind that the God he worshipped did exist. How the belief had come into her heart, she could not say; but it was certainly there. Try as she might, with all the strength of her brilliant intellect, she knew that never again could she be an atheist. God existed to her comprehension at last. But the newly-conceived Deity was not the Father of love and light. Rather did He appear an omnipotent tyrant, who had driven her to bad courses by giving her tastes she was unable to satisfy, and who now punished her for acting as the nature He had given her dictated. She was like a mouse in the claws of a cat, and could no more escape than could the tormented little beast. Only to the height of acknowledging that Something much stronger than herself existed could she rise; and her submission was as that of Caliban to Prospero. Wrenched violently from the egotistic wrappings of her soul, she--the true self, the immortal spirit--stood naked and shamed, yet defiant. She submitted, because only submission was left. But all her flesh shouted furiously against its victor.
Then, again, as the tormented soul strove to overcome the lower material self, did she recall Lionel's words. God was love, he declared, and in love had God broken her shield of self, snapped her sword of desire. Certainly, now that this world could do nothing for her, she would be forced to seek the other. There she might learn how to rise from darkness into light. That the spiritual existed she was now reluctantly convinced; that a study of its meaning would bring her peace she could not be certain. Of course, it was early days yet. She had gained a great step by the admission that God reigned, even though He had proved it to her so cruelly. It might be that by endless striving she would learn something of His love before Death ended her intolerable sufferings. God ordered her to fly; was it worth while to trust to Him for wings?
The struggle of the soul wavering between hell and heaven might have ended in the victory of the latter, and Leah might have consented with bitter tears to bear the cross laid upon her shrinking shoulders. But while wearily pacing the room a chance glance showed her in the mirror that beauty of which she had been, and was, so proud. Leaning her arms on the mantelpiece, she examined every detail lovingly and long. Could she bear to see that gradually disappear? Could she accept life as a Thing and not as a Being? Those blue eyes would grow dull and animal; that glorious hair would drop off; that complexion of cream and roses would--would---- Ugh! ugh!
"No! no! no!" The rebellious cry of the flesh ascended to the stars. "It must never be--never."
All that she knew herself to be revolted against the slow wasting agony that would most surely come, to reduce that splendour of her beautiful body to the dust, dishonoured and shamed. To save herself from such infamy it but needed an overdose of chloral. Then in the pride of her loveliness she would pass away painlessly, without disfigurement, triumphant in a minor degree, at least. With all the indomitable strength of a will that had been only thwarted by Him who had created that will, did she resolve to snatch this one poor laurel-leaf from the Almighty Victor. Turning from the mirror, she felt that her mind was steeled, that Self was not entirely defeated. After all, her unconquerable will would win.
"To-night," she whispered to her shivering soul, "when I go to bed. An overdose of chloral, and then, when I awaken----" She stopped, with the chills of death at her heart. "Oh," was her despairing admission; "You are the stronger!"
It was the cry of the flesh making sullen submission. In vain did the soul piteously beg that its tabernacle might yet hold it a little while, for the purging of its sin. The flesh would not hear. Beaten, conquered, shamed, tormented, its petty triumph could yet be obtained in this hour of defeat. And the terrified soul, sobbing unheeded, waited for the rapidly approaching hour which would send it forth disembodied--whither?
"We regret to announce to our readers the unexpected demise of the Duchess of Pentland at Firmingham, Essex. According to the Rev. Lionel Kaimes, who dined with her Grace on the evening of her death, she was in the very best of health and spirits. The unfortunate lady retired at a comparatively early hour, and was found dead in the morning by her maid. A brief examination proved that death was due to an overdose of chloral, which her Grace was in the habit of taking when suffering from sleeplessness. The Duke of Pentland, who was expected at Firmingham, arrived shortly after the painful discovery, to be greeted by the disastrous intelligence.
"The loss of this highly popular lady will be greatly felt in high circles. Her beauty and wit were exceptional, and only to be surpassed by her truly kind heart. It may be well said that she lived to make others happy. To the unfortunate her purse was always open, and to the afflicted her soothing presence was a welcome relief. Again and again did she sacrifice herself in the cause of charity; and in many ways unknown to the public did she do good by stealth. Her graceful presence will be much missed at various great functions during the coming winter season; but it is the poor and needy who will most keenly feel the loss of one whose large heart was ever ready to aid them in trouble.
"Much commiseration is expressed for the Duke of Pentland, who was most tenderly attached to his beautiful consort. A brilliant star has disappeared from the social firmament; but what is more lamentable, a noble, religious, charitable lady has gone, leaving a place which can never be filled. The funeral, which will take place at Firmingham next Tuesday, will doubtless be largely attended by those who loved her and knew her worth. The world can ill spare such a one, who illustrated in her conduct and qualities the highest attributes of womanhood. She was a great lady, a true, tender woman, a sincere friend, and a model wife. What words could better befit her untimely grave than that eulogy on Dorcas set forth in the Acts: 'This woman was full of good works and almsdeeds which she did'?"