“But it is of Edward Bolen that I must tell you at present. He was a repulsive looking Irishman. It is needless that I should describe him. Suffice it that at first I was unsuspicious enough to accept him for what he ostensibly was—Bernard Peixada’s coachman—but that ere a great while I discovered, that he was something else, besides. I discovered that he and Bernard Peixada had secrets together.
“At night, after the household had gone to bed, he and Bernard Peixada would meet in the parlor, and hold long conversations in low tones. What they talked about, I did not know. But this I did know—it was not about the horses. I concluded that they were mutually interested in some bad business—that they were hatching some villainous plots together—but, I confess, I did not much care what the business was, or what the plots were. Only, the fact that they were upon this footing of confidence with each other, struck me, and abode in my memory.
“One afternoon, about a fortnight before the thirtieth of July, Bernard Peixada had taken me to drive in Central Park. As I was getting out of the carriage, upon our return, I tripped somehow, and fell, and sprained my ankle. This sent me to my room. Dr. Gunther, Bernard Peixada’s physician, attended me. He said I should not be able to walk, probably for a month.
“More than a week later, toward sunset, I was lying there on my bed. Bernard Peixada had been absent from the house all day. Now I heard his footfall below in the corridor—then on the stairs—then in the hall outside my door. I took for granted that he was coming to speak with me. I recoiled from the idea of speaking with him just then. So I closed my eyes, and pretended to be asleep.
“He came in. He approached my bedside, kept my eyes shut tight. ’Judith,’ he said, did not answer—feigned not to hear. ’Judith,’ repeated. Again I did not answer. He placed his hand upon my forehead. I tried not to shudder. I guess she’s sound asleep,’ he said; ’that’s good.’ He moved off.
“His words, ’that’s good,’ Mr. Hetzel, frightened me. Why was it ’good’ that I should be asleep? Did he intend to do me a mischief while I slept? I opened my eyes the least bit. I saw him standing sidewise to me, a yard or so away. He drew a number of papers from the inside pocket of his coat. He ran them over. He laid one of them aside, and replaced the others in his pocket. Then he went to the safe—he kept a small safe in our bed-chamber—and opening the door—the door remained unlocked all day; his habit being to lock it at night and unlock it in the morning—he thrust the paper I have mentioned into one of the pigeonholes, pushed the door to, and left the room. I had seen him do all this through half closed eyes. Doubtless this was why it was ’good’ for me to be asleep—so that he could do what he had done, unobserved.
“I suppose I was entirely reprehensible—that my conduct admitted of no excuse. However that may be, the fact is that an impulse prompted me to get up from my bed, and to possess myself of the paper that he had put into the safe. I did not stop to question or to combat that impulse. No sooner thought, than I jumped up—and cried out loud! I had forgotten my sprained ankle! For an instant I stood still, faint with pain, terrified lest he might have heard my scream—lest he might return, find me on my feet, divine my intention, and punish me as he knew so well how to do. But while I stood there, undetermined whether to turn back or to pursue my original idea, the terror passed away. I limped across the floor, pulled the safe door open, put in my hand, grasped the paper, drew it out, swung the door back, regained my bed.
“There I had to lie still for a little, and recover my breath. I had miscalculated my strength. The effort had exhausted me. My ankle was aching cruelly—the pains shot far up into my body. But by and by I felt better. I unfolded the paper, smoothed it out, glanced at it.. This was all I had earned by my exertions:—’R. 174.—L. 36s.—R. 222.—L. 30.’ This was all that was written upon the paper. And what this meant, how could I tell? I made up my mind, after much puzzling, that it must be a secret writing—a cipher of one sort or another. I was not sorry that I had purloined it, though I was disappointed at its contents. I felt sure that Bernard Peixada could scarcely mean to employ it for good ends. So it was just as well that I should have taken it from him. I was on the point of destroying it, when I decided not to. ’No, I had best not destroy it,’ I thought. ’It possibly may be of value. I will hide it where he can not find it.’ I hid it beneath the mattress on which I lay.
“How absurd and unreasonable my whole proceeding had been, had it not? Much ado about nothing! With no adequate motive, and at the cost of much suffering to myself, I had committed an unnecessary theft; and the fruit of it was that incomprehensible row of figures. The whim of a sick woman. And yet, though I recognized this aspect of the case with perfect clearness, I could not find it in me to repent what I had done.
“That night Bernard Peixada and Edward Bolen talked together till past midnight, in the parlor.
“I don’t know whether you believe in premonitions, in presentiments, Mr. Hetzel. I scarcely know whether I do, myself. But from the moment I woke up, on the morning of July 30th, I was possessed by a strange, vague, yet irresistible foreboding that something was going to happen—something extraordinary, something of importance. At first this was simply a not altogether unpleasant feeling of expectancy. As the day wore on, however, it intensified. It became a fear, then a dread, then a breathless terror. I could ascribe it to no rational cause. I struggled with it—endeavored to shake it off. No use. It clutched at my heart—tightly—more tightly. I sought to reassure myself, by having recourse to a little materialism. I said, ’It is because you are not as well as usual to-day. It is the reaction of body upon mind.’ Despite the utmost I could say, the feeling grew and grew upon me, till it was well-nigh insupportable. Yet I could not force it to take a definite shape. Was it that something had happened, or was going to happen, to my mother? to Mr. Nathan? to me? I could not tell—all I knew was that my heart ached, that at every slightest sound it would start into my mouth—then palpitate so madly that I could scarcely catch my breath.
“I had not seen Bernard Peixada at all that day. Whether he was in the house, or absent from it, I had not inquired. But just before dinner-time—at about six o’clock—he entered my room. My heart stood still. Now, I felt, what I had been dreading since early morning, was on the point of accomplishment. I tried to nerve myself for the worst. Probably he would announce some bad news aboutmymother.—But I was mistaken. He said only this: ’After dinner, Judith, you will call the servants to your room, and give them leave of absence for the night. They need not return till to-morrow morning. Do you understand?’
“I understood and yet I did not understand. I understood the bald fact—that the servants were to have leave of absence for the night—but the significance of the fact I did not understand. I knew very well that Bernard Peixada had a motive for granting them this indulgence, that it was not due to a pure and simple impulse of good-nature on his part: but what the motive was, I could not divine. I confess, the fear that had been upon me was augmented. So long as our two honest, kindly Irish girls were in the house, I enjoyed a certain sense of security. How defenseless should I be, with them away! A thousand wild alarms beset my imagination. Perhaps the presentiment that had oppressed me all day, meant that Bernard Peixada was meditating doing me a bodily injury. Perhaps this was why he wished the servants to be absent. Unreasonable? As you please.
“‘Is this privilege,’ I asked, ’to be extended to the coachman, also?’
“‘Who told you to concern yourself about the coachman? I will look after him,’ was Bernard Peixada’s reply.
“I concluded that the case stood thus:—I was to be left alone with Bernard Peixada and Edward Bolen. The pair of them had something to j accomplish in respect to me—which—well, in the fullness of time I should learn the nature of their j designs. I remembered the paper that I had stolen. Had Bernard Peixada discovered that it was missing, and concealed the discovery from me? Was he now bent upon recovering the paper? and upon chastising me, as, from his point of view, I deserved to be chastised? Again, in the fullness of time I should learn. I strove to possess my soul in patience.
“Bernard Peixada left me. One of our servants brought me my dinner. I told her that she might go out for the night, and asked her to send the other girl to my room. To this latter, also, I delivered the message that Bernard Peixada had charged me with.—When they tried me for murder, Mr. Hetzel, they produced both of these girls as witnesses against me, hoping to show, by their testimony, that I had prearranged to be alone in the house with Bernard Peixada and Edward Bolen, so that I could take their lives at my ease, with no one by to interfere, or to survive and tell the story!
“The long July twilight faded out of the sky. Night fell. I was alone in the house—isolated from the street—beyond hope of rescue—at the mercy of Bernard Peixada and his coachman, Edward Bolen. I lay still in bed, waiting for their onslaught.
“And I waited and waited; and they made no onslaught. I heard the clock strike eight, then nine, then ten, then eleven. No sign from the enemy. Gradually the notion grew upon me—I could not avoid it—that I had been absurdly deluding myself—that my alarms had been groundless. Gradually I became persuaded that my premonition had been the nonsensical fancy of a sick woman. Gradually my anxiety subsided, and I fell asleep.
“How long I slept I do not know. Suddenly I awoke. In fewer seconds than are required for writing it, I leaped from profound slumber to wide wakefulness. My heart was beating violently; my breath was coming in quick, short gasps; my forehead was wet with perspiration.
“I sat up in bed, and looked around. My night-lamp was burning on the table. There was no second person in my room. The hands of the clock marked twenty-five minutes before one.
“I listened. Stillness so deep that I could hear my heart beat.
“What could it be, then, that had awakened me so abruptly?
“I continued to listen. Hark! Did I not hear—yes, certainly, I heard—the sound of voices—of men’s voices—in the room below. Bernard Peix-ada and Edward Bolen were holding one of their midnight sessions. That was all. .
“That was all: an every-night occurrence. And yet, for what reason I can not tell, on this particular night that familiar occurrence portended much to me. Ordinarily, I should have lain abed, and left them to talk till their tongues were tired. On this particular night—why, I did not stop to ask myself—swayed by an impulse which I did not stop to analyze—I got straightway out of bed, crept to the open window, and standing there in the chilling atmosphere, played the eavesdropper to the best of my powers. Was it woman’s curiosity? In that event, woman’s curiosity serves a good end now and then.
“The room in which they were established, was, as I have said, directly beneath my own. Their window was directly beneath my window. Their window, like mine, was open. I heard each syllable that they spoke as distinctly as I could have heard, if they had been only a yard away. Each syllable stenographed itself upon my memory. I believe that I can repeat their conversation word for word.
“Bernard Peixada was saying this: ’You know the number. Here is a plan. The house is a narrow one—only twelve feet wide. There is no vestibule. The street door opens directly into a small reception-room. In the center of this reception-room stands a table. You want to look out for that table, and not knock against it in the dark.’
“‘No fear of that,’ replied Edward Bolen.
“‘Now look said Bernard Peixada; ’here is the door that leads out of the reception-room. It is a sliding door, always kept open. Over it hangs a curtain, which you want to lift up from the bottom: don’t shove it aside: the rings would rattle on the rod. Beyond this door there is a short passage-way see here. And right here, where my pencil points, the stairs commence. You go up one flight, and reach the parlors. There are three parlors in a line. From the middle parlor a second staircase mounts to the sleeping rooms. Now, be sure to remember this: the third step—I mark it with a cross the third stepcreaks. Understand? It creaks. So, in climbing this second flight of stairs, you want to skip the third step.’
“‘Sure,’ was Edward Bolen’s rejoinder.
“‘Well and good. Now you have finished with the second flight of stairs. At the head you find yourself in a short, narrow hall. Three doors open from this hall. The front door opens into the spare bed-room, now unoccupied. The middle door opens into the bath-room. The last door opens into the room you want to get at. Which of these doors are you to pass through?’
“‘The bath-room door.’
“‘Precisely. That is the door which your key fits—not the door that leads straight into his room. Well, now observe. Here is the bath-room. You unlock the door from the hall into the bath-room, and—what next?’
“‘I lock it again, behind me.’
“‘Very well. And then?’
“‘Then I open the door from the bath-room into the room I’m after. That’ll be unlocked.’
“‘Excellent! That will be unlocked. He never locks it. So, finally you are in the room you have been making for. Now, study this room carefully. You see, the bed stands here; the bureau, here; a sofa, here; the safe, here. There are several chairs. You want to look sharp for them.”
“‘I’ll be sure to do that.’
“‘All right. But the first thing will be to look after him. He’ll probably wake up the instant you open the door from the bath-room. He’s like a weasel, for light sleeping. You can’t breathe, but he’ll wake up. He’ll wake up, and most likely call out, “Who’s there? Is any one there?” or something of that sort. Don’t you answer. Don’t you use any threats. You can’t scare him. Give him time, and he’ll make an outcry. Give him a chance, and he’ll fight. So, you don’t want to give him either time or chance. The first thing you do, you march straight up to the bed, and catch him by the throat; hold him down on the pillow, and clap the sponge over his face. Press the sponge hard. One breath will finish his voice. Another breath will finishhim. Then you’ll have things all your own way.—Well, do you know what next?’
“‘Next, I’m to fasten the sponge tight where it belongs, and pour on more of the stuff.’
“‘Just so. And next?’
“‘I’m to light the gas.’
“‘Right again. And next?’
“‘Well, I suppose the job comes next—hey?’
“‘Exactly. You have learned your lesson better than I’d have given you credit for doing. The job comes next. Now you’ve got the gas lit, and him quiet, it’ll be plain sailing. The safe stands here. It’s a small affair, three, by three, by two and a half. I’ll give you the combination by and by. I’ve got it up stairs. But first, look here. Here’s a plan of the inside of the safe. Here’s an inside closet, closed by an iron door. No matter about that. Here s a row of pigeon-holes, just above it seven of them—see? Now, the fifth pigeon-hole from the right-hand side—the third from the left—the one marked here with red ink—that’s the one that you’re interested in. All you’ll have to do will be to stick in your hand and take out every thing that pigeonhole contains—every thing, understand? Don’t you stop to examine them. Just lay hold of every thing and come away. What I want will be in that pigeon-hole; and if you take every thing you can’t miss it. Then, as I say, all you’ll have left to do will be to get out of the house and make tracks for home.’
“‘And how about him? Shall I loosen the sponge?’
“‘No, no. Don’t stop to do that. He’ll come around all right in time; or, if he shouldn’t, why, small loss!’
“‘Well, I reckon I understand the job pretty thoroughly now. I suppose I’d better be starting.’
“‘Yes. Now wait here a moment. I’ll go upstairs and get you the combination.’
“As rapidly as, with my sprained ankle, I could, I returned to my bed. I had scarcely touched my head to the pillow, when Bernard Peixada crossed the threshold. I lay still, feigning sleep. You may imagine the pitch of excitement to which the conversation I had intercepted had worked me up. But as yet I had not had time to think it over and determine how to act. Crime, theft, perhaps murder even, was brewing. I had been forewarned. What could I do to prevent it? Unless I should do something, I should be almost an accomplice—almost as bad as the conspirators themselves.
“Bernard Peixada went at once to the safe, and swung open the heavy door. I lay with my back toward him, and was unable, therefore, to watch his movements. But I could hear his hands busy with rustling papers. And then, all at once, I heard his voice, loud and hoarse, sounding like the infuriated shriek of a madman, ’I have been robbed—robbed!’
“Like a lightning flash, it broke upon me. I knew what the paper I had stolen was. I knew what the mysterious figures it bore meant. I had stolen the combination that Bernard Peixada had come in quest of! Without that combination their scheme of midnight crime could not be carried through! It was indispensable to their success. And I had stolen it! I thanked God for the impulse that had prompted me to do so. Then I lay still and waited. My heart was throbbing so violently, I was actually afraid that Bernard Peixada might hear it. I lay still and waited and prayed as I had never prayed before. I prayed for strength to win in the battle which, I knew, would now j shortly have to be fought.
“Bernard Peixada cried out, ’I have been robbed—robbed!’ Then for a few seconds he was silent. Then he ran to the entrance of the room and shouted, ’Bolen, Bolen, come here.’ And when Edward Bolen had obeyed, Bernard Peixada led him to the safe and said—ah, how his harsh voice shook!—said, ’Look! I have been robbed. The combination is gone. I put it in there with my own hands. It is there no longer. It has been stolen. Who stole it? If you did, by God, I’ll have you hanged!’
“I had slowly and noiselessly turned over in bed. Now, through half closed eyes, I could watch the two men. Bernard Peixada’s body was trembling from head to foot, as if palsy-stricken. His small, black eyes were starting from their sockets. His yellow fangs shone hideously behind his parted lips. His talons writhed, writhed, writhed. Edward Bolen stood next his master, as stolid as an ox. Edward Bolen appeared to be thinking. In a little while Edward Bolen shrugged his massive shoulders, lifted his arm, pointed to my bed, and spoke one word, ’Her.’
“Bernard Peixada started. ’What—my wife?’ he gasped.
“‘Ask her,’ suggested Edward Bolen.
“Bernard Peixada seemed to hesitate. Finally, approaching my bedside, ’Judith,’ he called through chattering teeth..
“I did not answer—but it was not that I meant still to pretend sleep. It was that my courage had deserted me. I had no voice. I clenched my fists and made my utmost effort to command myself.
“‘Judith,’ Bernard Peixada called a second time.
“‘Yes,’ I gathered strength to respond.
“‘Judith,’ Bernard Peixada went on, still all a-tremble, ’have you—have you taken any papers out of my safe?’
“What use could lying serve at this crisis? There was sufficient evil in action now, without my adding answered, ’Yes—I have taken the paper you are looking for.’
“Bernard Peixada had manifestly not expected such an answer. It took him aback. He stood, silent and motionless, glaring at me in astonishment. His mouth gaped open, and the lamplight played with his teeth.
“Edward Bolen muttered, ’Eh! what did I tell you?’
“But Bernard Peixada stood motionless and silent only for a breathing-space. Suddenly flames leaped to his eyes, color to his cheek. I shall not an ineffectual lie to it. I drew a long breath, and transcribe the volley of epithets that I had now to sustain from his foul mouth. His frame was rigid with wrath. His voice mounted from shrill to shriller. He spent himself in a tirade of words. Then he sank into a chair, unable to keep his feet from sheer exhaustion. The veins across his forehead stood out like great, bloated leeches. His long, black finger-nails kept tearing the air.
“Edward Bolen waited.
“So did I.
“But eventually Bernard Peixada recovered his forces. Springing to his feet, looking hard at me, and pronouncing each word with an evident attempt to control his fury, he said, ’We have no time to waste upon you just now, madam. Bolen, here, has business to transact which he must needs be about. Afterward I shall endeavor to have an understanding with you. At present we will dispose of the matter of prime importance. You don’t deny that you have stolen a certain paper from my safe. I wish you at once, without an instant’s delay or hesitation, to tell us what you have done with that paper. Where have you put it?’
“I tried to be as calm as he was. ’I will not tell you,’ I replied.
“A smile that was ominous contracted his lips.
“‘Oh, yes, you will,’ he said, mockingly, ’and the sooner you do so, the better—for you.’
“‘I have said, I will not,’ I repeated.
“The same ominous, sarcastic smile: but suddenly it faded out, and was replaced by an expression of alarm. ’You—you have not destroyed it?’ he asked, abruptly.
“It seemed to me that he had suggested a means for terminating the situation. This time, without a qualm, I lied. ’Yes, I have destroyed it.’
“‘Good God!’ he cried, and stood still, aghast.
“Edward Bolen stepped forward. He tugged at Bernard Peixada’s elbow. He pointed toward me. ’Don’t you see, she’s lying?’ he demanded roughly. Bernard Peixada started. The baleful light of his black eyes pierced to the very marrow of my consciousness. He searched me through and through. ’Ah!’ he cried, with a great sigh of relief, ’to be sure, she’s lying.’ His yellow teeth gnawed at his under lip: a symptom of busy thinking. Finally he said, ’You have not destroyed it. I advise you to tell us where it is. I advise you to lose no time. Where is it?’
“‘I will not tell you,’ I answered.
“‘I give you one more chance,’ he said; ’where is it?’
“‘I’ll will not tell you.’
“‘Very well. Then we shall be constrained—’ He broke off, and whispered a few sentences into Edward Bolen’s ear.
“Edward Bolen nodded, and left the room. Bernard Peixada glared at me. I lay still, wondering what the next act was to be, fortifying myself to endure and survive the worst.
“Bernard Peixada said, ’You are going to cause yourself needless pain. You may as well speak now as afterward. You’ll be as docile as a lamb, in a minute or two.’
“I held my tongue. Presently Edward Bolen returned. He handed something to Bernard Peix-ada. Bernard Peixada turned to me. ’Which one of your ankles,’ he inquired, ’is it that you are having trouble with?’
“I did not speak.
“Bernard Peixada shrugged his shoulders. ’Oh, very well,’ he sneered; ’it won’t take long to find out.’ With that, he seized hold of the bed-clothes that covered me, and with a single motion of his arm tossed them upon the floor.
“I started up—attempted to spring from off the bed. He placed his hands upon my shoulders, and pushed me back, prostrate. I struggled with him. He summoned Edward Bolen to re-enforce him. Edward Bolen was a strong man. Edward Bolen had no difficulty in holding me down, flat upon the mattress. I watched Bernard Peixada.
“Bernard Peixada took the thing that I had seen Edward Bolen give him—it was a piece of thick twine, perhaps twelve inches in length, and attached at each end to a transverse wooden handle—he took it, and wound it about my ankle—the ankle that was sprained. Then, by means of the two wooden handles, he began to twist it around and around—and at every revolution, the twine cut deeper and deeper into my flesh—and at last they pain became more horrible than I could bear—oh, such pain, such fearful pain!—and I cried out for quarter.
“‘I will tell you any thing you wish to know,’ I said.
“‘As I anticipated,’ was Bernard Peixada’s comment. ’Well, where shall we find the paper that you stole?’
“‘Loosen that cord, and I will tell you—I will give it to you,’ I said.
“‘No,’ he returned. ’Give it to me, or tell me where it is, and then I will loosen the cord.’
“‘It is not here—it—it is down-stairs,’ I replied, inspired by a sudden hope. If I could only get down-stairs, I thought, I might contrive to reach the door that let out of the house. Then, lame though I was, and weak and sick, I might, by a supreme effort, elude my persecutors—attain the street—summon help—and thus, not only escape myself, but defeat the criminal enterprise that they were bent upon. It was a crazy notion. At another moment I should have scouted it. But at that moment it struck me as wholly rational—as, at any rate, well worth venturing. I did not give myself time to consider it very carefully. It made haste from my mind to my lips. ’The paper,’ I said, ’is down-stairs.’
“‘Down-stairs?’ queried Bernard Peixada, tightening the cord a little; ’where down-stairs?’
“‘In—in the parlor—in the book-case—shut up in a book,’ I answered.
“‘In what book?’
“‘I can not tell you. But I could put my hand upon it, if I were there. After I took it from the safe—you were absent from the house—I—oh, for mercy’s sake, don’t, don’t tighten that—I crawled down-stairs—ah, that is better; loosen it a little——I crawled down to the parlor—and—and shut it up in a book. I don’t remember what book. But I could find it for you if I were there.’ In the last quarter hour, Mr. Hetzel, I, who had recoiled from lying at the outset, had become somewhat of an adept at that art, as you perceive.
“Bernard Peixada exchanged a glance with Edward Bolen; then said to me, ’All right. Come down-stairs with us.’
“He removed the instrument of torture. A wave of pain more sickening than any I had yet endured, swept through my body, as the ligature was relaxed, and the blood flowed throbbing back into my disabled foot. I got up and hobbled as best I could across the floor, out through the hall, down the stairs. Edward Bolen preceded me. Bernard Peixada followed.
“At the bottom of the stairs I had to halt and lean against the bannister for support. I was weak and faint.
“‘Go light the gas in the parlor, Bolen,’ said Bernard Peixada.
“Bolen went off. Now, I thought, my opportunity had come. The hall-door, the door that opened upon the grounds, was in a straight line, not more than twenty feet distant from me. I looked at Bernard Peixada. He was standing a yard or so to my right, in manifest unconcern. I drew one deep breath, mustered my utmost courage, prayed to God for strength, made a dash forward, reached the door, despite my lameness, and had my hand upon the knob, before Bernard Peixada appeared to realize what had occurred. But then—when he did realize—then in two bounds he attained my side. The next thing I knew, he had grasped my arm with one hand, and had twined the fingers of the other hand around my throat. I could feel the sharp nails cutting into my flesh.
“‘Ah!’ he cried—a loud, piercing cry, half of surprise, half of triumph. ’Ah!’ And then he swore a brutal oath.
“At his touch, Mr. Hetzel, I ceased to be a woman; I became a wild beast. It was like a wild beast, that I now fought. Insensible to pain, aware only of a fury that was no longer controllable in my breast, I fought there with Bernard Peixada in battle royal. Needless to detail our maneuvers. I fought with him to such good purpose that ere a great while he had to plead for quarter, as I had had to plead up-stairs a few moments ago. Quarter I gave him. I flung him away from me. He tottered and fell upon the floor.
“Now I looked around. This was how things stood: Bernard Peixada lay—half lay, half sat—upon the floor, preparing to get up. Edward Bolen, his dull countenance a picture of amazement and stupefaction, was advancing toward us from the lower end of the hall. And—and—on a chair—directly in front of me—not two feet away—together with a hat, a pair of overshoes, a bunch of keys, a lantern—I descried my deliverance—a pistol!
“Quick as thought, I sprang forward. Next moment the pistol was mine. Again I looked around. The situation was still much the same. Clasping the butt of the pistol firmly in my hand, and gathering what assurance I could from the feeling of it, I set out once more to open the door and gain the outside of the house.
“I thought I was victress now—indisputably victress. But it transpired that I had my claims yet to assert. I slid back the bolts of the door, unhindered, it is true; but before I had managed to turn the knob and pull the door open, Edward Bolen and Bernard Peixada sprang upon me.
“There was a struggle. How long it lasted, I do not know. I heard the pistol go off—a sharp, crashing, deafening report—once, twice: who pulled the trigger, I scarcely knew. Who was wounded, I did not know. All was confusion and pain and noise, blood and fire and smoke, horror and sickness and bewilderment. I saw nothing—knew nothing—understood nothing. I was beside myself. It was a delirium. I was helpless—irresponsible.
“In the end, somehow, I got that door open. Through it all, that idea had clung in my mind—to get the door open, somehow, at any cost. Well, I got it open. I felt the fresh air upon my cheek, the perfume of the garden in my nostrils. The breeze swept in, and cut a path through the smoke, and made the gas jets flicker. Then I saw—I saw that I was free. I saw that my persecutors were no longer to be feared. I saw Edward Bolen and Bernard Peixada lying prone and bleeding upon the marble pavement at my feet.
“I have explained to you, Mr. Hetzel, the circumstances of Bernard Peixada’s death. It is not necessary for me to dwell upon its consequences. At least, I need merely outline them. I need merely tell you that in due order I was taken prisoner, tried for Bernard Peixada’s murder, and acquitted.
“I was taken prisoner that very night. Next morning they brought me here—to the same prison that I am again confined in now. Here I was visited by Mr. Nathan. I had sent for him, addressing him in care of the sexton of our synagogue; and he came.
“I told him what I have told you. He said I must have a lawyer—that he would engage a lawyer for me. He engaged two lawyers—Mr. Short and Mr. Sondheim. I repeated my story to them. They listened. When I had done, they laughed. I asked them why they laughed. They replied that, though my story was unquestionably true, no jury would believe it. They said the lawyer for the prosecution would mix me upon cross-examination, and turn my defense to ridicule. They said I should have to plead lunacy. I need not detain you with a rehearsal of the dispute I had with Messrs. Short and Sondheim. Eventually—in deference chiefly to the urging of Mr. Nathan—I consented to let them take their own course. So I was led to court, and tried, and acquitted. It would be useless for me to go over my trial again now in this letter. I shall say enough when I say that it was conducted in the same room that I had to plead in this morning—that the room was crowded—that I had to sit there all day long, for two mortal days, and listen to the lawyers, and the witnesses, and the judge, and support the gaze of a multitude of people. If it had not been for Mr. Nathan, I don’t know how I should have lived through the ordeal. But he sat by me from beginning to end, and held my hand, and inspired me with strength and hope. My mother, meantime, I had not seen. Mr. Nathan said she was away from the city, visiting with friends, whom he named; and added that it would be kinder not to let her know what was going on. After my release, Mr. Nathan confessed that, thinking I had already enough to bear, he had deceived me. My mother had been sick; while my trial was in progress, she had died. Well, at last the trial was over, and the jury had declared me not guilty, and the prison people let me go. Mr. Nathan and I went together to an apartment he had rented in Sixty-third Street. Thither came Messrs. Short and Sondheim, and made me sign numberless papers—the nature of which I did not inquire into—and after a while I understood that I had inherited a great deal of money from Bernard Peixada—more than a hundred thousand dollars. This money I asked Mr. Nathan to dispose of, so that it might do some good. He invested it, and made arrangements to have the income divided between a hospital, an orphan asylum, a home for working women, an industrial school, and a society for the protection of children who are treated cruelly by their parents. (I have just now received a paper with a red seal on it, from which I learn that Bernard Peixada left a will, and that the money I have spoken of will have to be paid over to his brother.)
“That winter—the winter of 1879-80—Mr. Nathan and I spent alone together. For the first time since the day on which my father had told me I must marry Bernard Peixada, for the first time, I began to have a feeling of peace, and repose, and security. Mr. Nathan was so good to me—oh, such a good, kind, tender friend, Mr. Hetzel—that I became almost happy. It was almost a happiness just to spend my time near to Mr. Nathan—he was so gentle, so strong; he made me feel so safe, so far away from the storm and the darkness of the past. Was I not tormented by remorse? Did I not repent having taken two human lives? Not for one instant. I held myself wholly irresponsible. If Bernard Peixada and Edward Bolen had died by my hand, it was their own fault, their own doing. No, I did not suffer the faintest pang of remorse. Only, now and then I would remember—now and then the night of July 30th would re enact itself in my memory—and then I would shudder and grow sick at heart; but that was not remorse. It was disgust and horror. Of course I do not mean that I was happy in a positive sense, this winter. Real happiness I never knew until I met Arthur. But I was less unhappy than I had been for a long, long while.
“But in the early spring Mr. Nathan died. The last person I had left to care for, the last person who cared for me, the man who had stood as a rock of strength for me to lean upon, to whom I had perhaps been too much of a burden, but whom I had loved as a woman in my relation to him must needs have loved him—this man died. I was absolutely alone in the world. That was a dreary, desolate spring.
“Soon after his death, I received a paper something like this paper with the red seal that I have received to-day. I found that he had made a will and left me all his money. My doctor said I needed a change. I went to Europe. I traveled alone in Europe for some months, trying to forget myself in sight-seeing—in constant motion. At last I settled down in Vienna, and devoted myself to studying music. I staid about a year in Vienna. Then a spirit of restlessness seized upon me. I left Vienna and went to London.
“In London I met Mrs. Hart. We became friends at once. She was about to make a short trip on the Continent, before returning to America. She asked me to accompany her. I said I would go to the Continent with her, but that I could not return to America. She wanted to know why. I answered by telling her a little something of my recent history. I said, ’In America I am Judith Peixada—the notorious woman who killed her husband. Here I am unknown. So I will remain here.’ She asked, ’How old are you?’ I said, ’Twenty-three, nearing twenty-four.’ She said, ’You are a child. You have a long life before you. You are wasting it, moping about in this aimless way here in Europe. Come home with me. Nobody shall recognize you for Judith Peixada. I will give you a new name. You shall be Ruth Lehmyl. Ruth Lehmyl was the name of my daughter who is dead. You may guess how dearly I love you, when I ask you to take my daughter’s name. Come home and live with me, Ruth, and make me happy.’—As you know, I was prevailed upon. After a month or two spent at Aix-les-Bains, we came back to America. We dwelt for a while in an apartment on Fifty-ninth Street. Last April we moved into Beekman Place.
“This brings me to the second point. Why, with that dark stain upon my past—why, being Judith Peixada, for all my change of name—why did I consent to become Arthur Ripley’s wife? Oh, Mr. Hetzel, it was because I loved him. I was a woman, and I loved him, and I was weak. He said that he loved me, that it would break his heart if I should refuse him; and I could not help it. I tried hard. I tried to act against my heart. I told him that my life had not been what he might wish it to be. I begged him to go away. But he said that he cared nothing for the past, and he urged me and pleaded with me, and I—I loved him so the temptation was so strong—it was as if he had opened the gates of heaven and invited me to enter—I caught a glimpse of the great joy—of the great sorrow, too, of the sorrow that would follow to him and to me if I sent him away—and my strength was insufficient—and we were married.
“I am very tired, Mr. Hetzel. I have been writing for so long a time that my fingers are cramped, and my back aches from bending over, and my body has become chilled through by sitting still in this damp place, and my head is thick and heavy. Yet I have some things still left to say. You must pardon me if I am stupid and roundabout in coming to the point. And if I do not succeed in making what I have on my mind very clear to you, you must excuse me on the ground that I am quite worn out.
“As I have said, I was frank with Arthur Ripley. I warned him that my past life had been darkened by sin. I said, ’If you knew about it, you would not care to marry me.’ He retorted, The past is dead. You and I have just been born.’ It did indeed seem so to me—as though I had just been born. I allowed myself to be persuaded. We were married. But then, Mr. Hetzel, as soon as I had yielded, I said to Arthur, ’It is not right that I, your betrothed, should keep a secret from you. I will tell you the whole story.’ I said this to him on more than one occasion before we were married. And I repeated it again and again afterward. But every time that I broached the subject, he put it aside. He answered, ’No. Keep your secret as a reminder of my unwavering confidence and perfect love.’ I supposed that he was sincere. I marveled at his generosity, and loved him all the better, because of it. Yet what was the truth? The truth was that in his inmost heart? he could not help wishing to know what his wife’s secret was. But he played the hypocrite. He forbade me to tell it to him—forbade me to unseal my lips—and so got the credit for great magnanimity. Then, behind my back, he associated with Benjamin Peixada, and learned from his lips—not my secret—no, but the false, distorted version of it, which Bernard Peixada’s brother would delight to give. What Benjamin Peixada told him, he believed; and it was worse than he had bargained for. When he understood that his wife had committedmurder, that his wife had stood, a common criminal, at the bar of the court of General Sessions, lo! all the love that he had boasted, died an instant death. And then—this is what is most infamous—then he contrived a cruel method of letting me know that he knew. Instead of coming to me, and telling me in a straightforward way, he put that advertisement into the paper. That, I do think, was infamous. And all the time, he was pretending that he loved me, and I was believing him, and treating him as a wife treats her husband. I read that advertisement, and was completely deceived by it. I went to Benjamin Peixada’s place. ’What do you wish with me?’ I asked. He answered, ’Wait a little while, and the gentleman who wrote that advertisement will come and explain to you. Wait a little while, and I promise you a considerable surprise.’ I waited. The gentleman came. The gentleman was Arthur. Not content with having decoyed me to that place in that way, he—he called me by that name—he called me Mrs. Peixada! The surprise was considerable, I confess. And yet, you and Mrs. Hart wonder that I am indignant.
“Oh, of course, I understand that Arthur had no share in causing my arrest. I understand that all he intended was to confront me there in Benjamin Peixada’s office, and inform me that he knew who I was, and denounce me, and repudiate me. But Benjamin Peixada had a little plan of his own to carry through. When Arthur saw what it was—when he saw that Benjamin Peixada had set a trap for me, and that I was to be taken away to prison—then he was shocked and pained, and felt sorry for what he had helped to do. You don’t need to explain that to me. That is not why I feel the deep resentment toward him which, I admit, I do feel. The bare fact that he pried into my secrets behind my back, and went on pretending to love me at the same time, shows me that he never truly loved me. You speak of my seeing him. It would be useless for me to see him. He could not undo what he has done. All the explanations and excuses that he could make, would not alter the fact that he went to work without my knowledge, and found out what I had again and again volunteered to tell him. If he suffers from supposing that I think he had a share in causing my imprisonment, you may tell him that I think no such thing. Tell him that I understand perfectly every thing that he could say. Tell him that a meeting between us would only be productive of fresh pain for each.
“Mr. Hetzel, if you were a woman, and if you had ever gone through the agony of a public trial for murder in a crowded court-room, and if all at once you beheld before you the prospect of going through that agony for a second time, I am sure you would grasp eagerly at any means within your reach by which to escape it. That is the case with me. I am a woman. I have been tried for murder once—publicly tried, in a crowded court-room. I would rather spend all the rest of my life in prison, than be tried again. That is why I pleaded guilty this morning. If there were any future to look forward to—if Arthur had acted differently—if things were not as they are—then, perhaps—but it is useless to say perhaps. I have nothing to live for—nothing worth purchasing at the price of another trial.
“Does any thing remain for me to say? I do not think of any thing. I hope I have made what I had to say clear enough. I beg that you will forgive me, if I have trespassed beyond the limits of friendship, in writing at such length.
“Yours sincerely,
“Ruth Ripley.
“Mr. Julian Hetzel, 43 Beekman Place.”