When Dr. F—— was gone I went in search of Geraldine. I met a servant and asked for Mrs. Thorburn; she answered that her mistress had just come in from the garden and had gone upstairs. I mounted to the bedroom, and found the door locked. I rapped and called to her to admit me. The key was turned, the door opened, and Geraldine stood before me, with the skirt of her dress off, her arms bared to the elbows, and her hair wild. "Come in," she said; and when I was in she locked the door again.
I noticed that her hands and arms were covered with soil; there were fragments of dry leaves in her hair, and on the carpet, from the door to the toilet-table, were marks of her muddy boots. There was a keen look of triumph on her white face; and sharp curves at the extremity of her lips made the expression of her mouth malevolent.
I pretended to take no notice of her appearance. She went to the washstand, brimmed the basin and began to wash.
"My friend is gone," said I; "you will have me now all to yourself."
She looked over her shoulder and nodded.
"I rather fancy he guessed you did not like him," I continued; "for he expressed no surprise at your absence, nor did he desire to bid you good-bye."
"There was a little devil in each of his eyes," she replied; "mocking imps, thatmade mouths at me and frightened me."
"That is strange. It appeared to me that he had a kind eye."
She splashed the water violently over her arms, and sponged her face, repeating this many times. I waited until her ablutions were ended, and asked, "Where have you been, Geraldine?"
"In the garden, digging, until my arms are tired; and now my head aches."
"But what is there to dig, dear? The beds are in order."
"I wanted exercise, and so I took a spade and dug. I was in a mood for digging. It pleased me to drive the sharp spade into the soft earth and fling it up all quivering. I was in a passion; and I dug a grave for my passion."
"Have you been resting under the trees? There are fragments of leaves in your hair?"
"I don't know how they came there.Perhaps I dashed the leaves about with my spade. Will you brush my hair out?"
She seated herself before the toilet-glass. How pallid and deadly was the reflection of her face! I loosened her yellow tresses; they flowed over my arm like silk. From time to time I caught sight of her black and glittering eyes watching me; but their lashes veiled them each time I met their gaze.
"I wish I could put a little colour into your marble cheeks, Geraldine. It makes me very sad to see you so pale."
"I would not make my boy sad for much," she answered.
"You were well when I left you; there must be some reason for this change."
"No reason, no reason," she answered, sighing.
"If there is any cause for your illness or for this change, if your heart is oppressed with any trouble or misgiving, if you arenot perfectly happy in your mind—why will you not take me into your confidence? Is it not my privilege to share your sorrows? If you are sad and will not tell me the cause of your sadness, must I not fear that you do not think I love you well enough to deserve your confidence?"
"Do I distrust your love? I do not. I am happy in your love."
"If you know how well I love you you must be happy; for no one was ever loved more truly than you."
"Do not talk so, Arthur. Let me feel your love, not hear it."
"Is there anything in the past that grieves you to remember, Geraldine?"
"Hush!" she raised her hand solemnly. "I have buried the past. It will grieve me no more."
"But its ghost may walk," I said, hoping to make myself more intelligible by adoptingher tone. "Tell me how I may find it, that I may bid it depart and leave you in peace."
"Should it come, it will not go for you," she said, shaking her head. "Ghosts are deaf, and heed no prayers. They are spirits and have no fears. The air is full of them sometimes. I hear their voices, and when the room is dark I see their shapes. They are more white than that face," pointing to her reflection; "and they have steady un-winking eyes and long shadowy hands. Do you never see them? They often stand at the foot of the bed and watch us."
"These are foolish fancies, Geraldine. See, I have brushed your hair well. Will you do it up?"
She took the tresses in her hands mechanically and bound them in the fashion she wore them.
"You do not play the piano as you used,Geraldine. I have heard that ghosts hate music as much as they hate sunshine or anything else that is cheerful. When you have got on your dress, come down-stairs and play me something, and you shall hear me sing. I had a voice once."
"I do not care to play," she answered wearily.
"You have tired yourself with digging. Lie down a little and I will fetch a book and read you to sleep."
"I could not lie down. How strong the light is! Draw the curtains."
I did as she bade me, and took a chair at the window.
"Do not watch me so, Arthur," she said peevishly. "You have learned that trick from your friend. Your eyes seem as sharp as his."
I averted my face, leaning my cheek on my hand.
"When you dig the earth how the horrible worms crawl out! I cut one into four pieces yesterday, and not one piece was dead when I left. When I die, do not bury me in the ground, but throw me as I am in the sea. The ground is dark and rotting, but the sea is fresh. I can shut my eyes so, and feel myself there. There," pointing in the air, "is a huge black shadow floating over me like a cloud. Great eyes, each with a hundred circles, stare at me through the green water. There goes a great outline, brilliant as a rainbow, white, yellow, black, blue——oh! how horrible it is to die!" she suddenly screamed, clasping her hands and staring at me wildly.
I passed my arm round her neck, kissed her cold cheek, and tried to soothe her. She turned in her chair, burying her face in my breast and trembling from hand to foot. She disengaged herself presently,walked with uncertain steps to the bed, and put on her skirt.
"Is there nothing you can do, my poor wife, to clear your mind of these distressing fancies?" I asked. "If you would try to fix your mind upon something, however unimportant, it might create an interest and give you food for thought."
"Are not other people haunted like I am?"
"Many, I dare say. We all should be, if we did not resolve not to be. Why, were I to encourage superstitious feelings, I could make myself the most unhappy wretch in the world in less than a week. Will was given us expressly that we might control our humours, and passions, and weaknesses. You have the will; you only want the resolution to exercise it."
"What can my will do for me? If I were to grind my teeth and clench my hands, anddeclare Iwouldnot think, could I stop thinking? Oh! it is enough to drive me mad!"
She began to talk to herself and moved about the room, prowling rather than walking; looking uneasily above, then staring at herself in the glass, shaking her head and catching at the fingers of her left hand. Suddenly she stopped, and called out. "Why will you look at me, Arthur? You are growing unkind. You used not to look at me before like that." And she began to sob.
"It is my love that makes me look at you; but I will not look if it gives you pain;" and I turned to the window, and stared out with as heavy a heart as ever a man had.
She fell to singing to herself a little melodious air with Italian words, of which I caught only the first line;
"Ben veggio che'l mio fin consenti e vuoi,"
"Ben veggio che'l mio fin consenti e vuoi,"
and breaking suddenly off, she stole up to me, threw her arms around my neck, and whispered:
"Will you be glad when I am dead?"
"I should wish to die too."
"I wish," she continued, in a half-chanting dreamy voice, "we could pass into heaven as we are, without dying. I would take your hand, and we would float to the stars, up through the still air, and on and on, until we came to the City of God. There we should be met by the Angel of Peace, who would lead us to the thrones of the Blessed Virgin and her dear Son, and in their holy presence——look!" she cried, pointing over my shoulder to the garden, "there is a white form rising—do you see it? I can see the trees through its body—how steadily it soars! yet it has no wings. I follow it. Look, Arthur."
Hitherto I had not been looking at her as she had desired. Now I turned. Her eyes were wide open, with a fixed stare on the sky; her lips were parted, and she breathed with deep respirations. Presently, she bowed her head, made a gesture with her hand, and crossing herself, muttered, "It is gone."
"Come," said I, taking her hand, "let us go downstairs."
That night, whilst I was pacing the balcony, pondering my position, and less lamenting it than deploring my powerlessness to save my wife from the calamity whose shadow was now on her, it entered my head to search her boxes or trunks for any papers or letters that might throw some light on her past.
Under any other circumstances, I should have dismissed such a resolution from my mind. A wife may have secrets, and herhusband should respect them. But Dr. F—— had intimated his fear that her madness was being fed by some sorrow. To have discovered, that I might remove, her sorrow, I would have been guilty of any mean act. I did not love myself so well as I loved her.
I pretty well knew I had not been born with the detective faculty, and apprehended that my search would be defeated by clumsiness. Still I resolved to attempt it. My wife had several trunks ranged in my dressing-room, and one of those large boxes draped with chintz, called ottomans.
It was midnight before I retired to rest. I had other things to think of besides this search. The titles of my books, as they looked down from the shelves, had preached a solemn homily on the vanity of human wishes: and my own experience capped the moral by presenting me with a picture ofthe life I was leading, done in colours as sombre as fancy and reality could supply. When I got upstairs I found Geraldine asleep. I bent over her, and studied her features. The complexion was so white that the outline of her cheek was hardly perceptible upon the pillow. Her beauty had a pinched, worn air. All its calm and freshness were gone; her brow was knitted, her lip curled in a sneer; she lay quite still, breathing deeply. The general expression of her face was wretchedness. It was pitiful to witness such a look on lineaments so beautiful.
I took the candle with me into the dressing-room, and tried the lids of the boxes. They were open. That of the ottoman only was locked. I sought for her keys in the pockets of some dresses hanging in the wardrobe and found them in a green silk skirt. I turned the ottoman inside out, but foundnothing. I applied myself to the trunks, but they were as barren of information as the ottoman. I closed the lid of the last trunk and was about passing from the room, when I heard the sound of a door opened. I listened, then pushed the dressing-room door, and looked out. The bed was empty, the door of the chamber open. I caught a light sound of feet, and stealing to the landing, perceived Geraldine descending the stairs.
I followed her. She gained the hall; I drew near. A lamp that was kept burning all night diffused a sufficient light. I looked at her face, and by the expression saw that she walked in her sleep.
I did not dare arouse her. I had read of the danger of awakening persons from such trances, and Dr. F—— had particularly cautioned me against doing so with my wife. I could do no more than follow her; and thisI resolved to do to preserve her from harm. She walked steadily to the door leading to the back grounds, unbolted it, and passed out. The night air blew chill, for autumn was advanced and the approach of winter could be tasted in the night winds. The moon lay over the trees, slowly brightening, but shedding little light as yet. But the grounds and shadows were defined. She seemed sensible of the chill; for she crossed her hands upon her bosom and huddled her shoulders. She was habited only in her nightgown and her feet were naked. The dew was heavy; the gravelled walks sharp; yet I dared not wake her.
She passed down the lawn, got on to a side walk, and marched with slow but steady step towards the orchard. Soon she entered it. The shadows were deep, but the moonlight fell through the openings and faintly illuminated the obscurity. The grass stoodknee deep. My feet crunched the dead leaves and snapped the rotten twigs. It was a portion of the grounds left untouched by the gardeners at my own request. The contrast between the trimmed gardens and the wild luxuriant orchard pleased me.
Sometimes the shadows and the intervening trunks of the trees made it difficult for me to follow her. I wondered whither she was leading me. How utterly still was the place! Her naked feet made no noise as she advanced. Her form flitted and floated before me in the gloom like a spectre. She wound her way in and out among the trees with precision, while I blundered forward, sometimes stumbling with my shoulder against a black trunk, sometimes kicking and nearly falling over long iron-hard roots.
Before long she gained the extremity of the orchard. The hedge that intersected herformer house from the grounds rose thick and black. She stood motionless awhile, then knelt and began to scrape the earth with her hands, throwing the dried leaves furiously about her. Presently she desisted, rose, and went through a pantomime, the significance of which the gloom forbade me to interpret; but it appeared to me as though she struggled with some invisible object. She breathed heavily and chokingly, and sometimes faint cries escaped her. Then down she dropped on her knees again, and fell to sweeping back the leaves in the same violent way she had before scattered them. This done, she left the place, passing me so close that I had to shrink lest she should touch me.
She went towards the house fleetly. I had to walk quickly to keep up with her. At times she almost ran. As I feared she would shut the door upon me if I were behind, andso prevent me from entering, for the other doors and the windows were bolted and closed, I ran by her and stood in the passage until she entered. It happened as I expected. She closed the door at once and bolted it precisely as she had found it. I followed her upstairs, saw her get into bed and lie as motionless as when I had first bent over her.
I seated myself and watched her. I found nothing strange in her actions in the orchard. The mere fact of walking in her sleep was sufficient to render consistent any extraordinary behaviour. But I dreaded the consequence of her exposure to the night air. I could not doubt the wonderful providence that watched over the actions of the somnambulist; but supernatural as might be the regulation of her conduct, I knew that her flesh would still be susceptible of ill, and that there could be no provision madeagainst the dangers of sickness and disease.
There was to be no sleep for me that night. I felt so wide awake that I saw it would be useless getting to bed. I was agitated and superstitious. The house was so still that I could hear the ticking of the clock in the hall. The wind swept past the windows at intervals and faintly rattled the casements.
How calmly she slept! I could not reconcile her profound slumber with the misery in her face. Was there a sorrow there, or was it her madness that made her face so plaintive? If a sorrow, why should it be undiscoverable? I had searched her boxes; what else remained to be searched? I went to the wardrobe, noiselessly pulled out the drawers and examined them. In the top drawer was her jewel case. It was open. I raised the tray; there was nothing there beyond a few articles of jewelry. I inspectedthe middle drawer. Here was her desk; a large old-fashioned rosewood box, at which I had once or twice found her writing in the dressing-room. It was locked. I took the keys, fitted the right one, and opened the desk. There were papers here, at all events; bundles of letters, some of them yellow and faded, connected by bits of elastic.
Eager as I was to know the truthfor her sake, I found my curiosity strongly repelled by my sense of delicacy and honour. Before I could force myself to open the bundle I held, I had to subdue my aversion to the task by recalling the benefit she would derive by my knowing her past. That the rustling of the papers should not disturb her, I retreated with the desk to the dressing-room, leaving the door ajar, that I might hear if she moved. I then trimmed the light and addressed myself to my necessary but odious task.
The letters were numerous. I read them all. Some of them were addressed to her by her grandmother. Some were written in a foreign hand and signed Luigi. They told me only a portion of her story—that she had married against her grandmother's will and that her husband had been an Italian. The first batch of her grandmother's letters comprised those which had been addressed to her at school. They spoke of her holidays; how glad the writer would be to have her granddaughter with her again. These were full of wise if rather trite counsels. The next batch were those addressed to her at London. These were full of reproaches and threats. There were only five of these letters, and some of them were smudged as with tears. Luigi's letters were addressed to her at school, to Miss Geraldine Dormer, Gore House Academy. They were full of violent protestations of endless love. Some of thembegan,Carissima mia; others,Bella figlia mia. One of them contained this passage: "The south is yellow with sunlight, but more splendid is the yellow of your hair. The dark skies of my native land tremble with gems; but more beautiful is the gloom of your eye, which gleams with the light of your soul!" They were mostly written in this strain, diversified here and there with practical questions to which answers were humbly supplicated.
I learnt nothing from them. I returned them to the desk and went to look at Geraldine. She lay perfectly still. I resumed my seat and fell into thought. I wondered whether it was the loss of her husband that had made her crazy. Her marriage with him had been a love match; that was plain from the grandmother's reproaches. Passion, I thought, might easily work disastrous changes in such a nature as hers. But she had toldme her husband had ill-treated her; and her secluded life, her consistent language on this subject, confirmed the truth of her assurance. In my reverie I stretched forth my hand to toy with a ring that hung from the desk. Accidentally jerking it, a drawer started out. I bent forward, and I saw that this drawer contained a flat long MS. volume, together with a couple of rings, a Catholic medal, and a silver crucifix.
I extracted the manuscript and opened it. On the first page was inscribed the word "Diary." The opening entry was dated 185-.
The Diary opened thus:
"Here am I in London. I don't know whether to be frightened or glad. Luigi is very kind, but he did not tell me he would bring me to such miserable lodgings as this. Would it not have been better had we never met? I should have known that a teacher cannot be rich. Yet Idothink him handsome, and he makes love so meltingly that I would rather live in a garret than not have married him. No letter from grandmamma. She is very unkind. Mamma would not have treated me so had she been alive. Butwhat is an orphan to expect but unkindness?"
A few days later: "To-day I heard from Miss Cowley" (this was the schoolmistress, as I knew from reference in the grandmother's letters). "She says I have acted wickedly and have forfeited all happiness in this world by marrying a beggarly Italian teacher. How my eyes flashed when I read 'beggarly Italian teacher!' The cold-hearted thing would have cried with fear had she seen me. Luigi is out all day and he comes in tired, and to-night I thought he received my kiss coldly. But it must be my fancy. Oh, what a fancy I have! I think I shall go mad some of these days."
The chronicle continued much in this strain through many entries. It recorded from time to time a letter from her grandmother inclosing five pounds, but repeating her assurance that she would have nothingmore to do with her. Then the tone of the diarist grew more querulous; though her love for her husband deepened, so it seemed, in proportion as his fell off.
"How can I help being jealous?" she wrote in one entry; "he is all day long away from me teaching other girls, any one of whom he may admire far above me and secretly love. When I told him this he seemed to shrink away from my look; and indeed it was passionate enough; and he cried out, half in Italian and half in English, 'God of mine! you will go mad if you do not keep that devil of a spirit of yours down!' I threw myself on his neck, and asked him never, never to cease to love me. His beautiful eye melted, and he fondled me with his exquisite grace. So I go to bed happy."
If her husband earned money she seemed to benefit little from it; for some of herrecords ran, that she had to sit in the dark till he came home, for there was no candle in the house, she had no money to buy one, and the stingy landlady did not offer to lend her a lamp. "To-day I dined on bread-and-cheese and some of the potatoes left from yesterday, fried. If grandmamma knew this she would send me some money. But I'll not write to her about it. No, she shall think I am flourishing; and if I were dying with hunger I would just wish her to think I had plenty to eat."
Up to a certain entry she continued writing of her husband in warm terms. She avowed her belief that she must be somewhat crazy to find him so fascinating. "Sometimes I think him more so than at other times," she wrote; but added, "if I am to regain my reason at the sacrifice of my love I would rather be mad." There was a good deal of pungent writing in these entries. I couldfind nothing to illustrate the slightest mental derangement. But her language was curiously characteristic, and the exhibition of a nature made up of warm and sudden passions, impulsive and generous, but vengeful and arbitrary too, was absolutely complete.
Before long her entries grew somewhat incoherent. She is racked with jealousy. She is certain that her husband has ceased to love her. "I have been married now six months," she says; "how dare I humour such misgivings? But what is it that tells me of Luigi's indifference? Not my bodily eyes, for his behaviour is not altered. The spirit sees farther than the reason. If I loved him with mymindI should not have these presentiments; but I love him with mysoul. It is my soul that is jealous; and the soul is endowed with the vision of immortality and can make the future present.
"To-day is my birthday. I am twenty-twoyears old. It has rained steadily since the morning. I watched the muddy water in the gutter boiling round the grating near the lamp-post until I fell asleep. A cheerful birthday! There was a little piece of boiled beef for dinner, hard as my shoe, and the potatoes were not cooked. Yet when Luigi comes home, he never asks me if I am hungry. Does he care? He would if he knew. But how should he know? I I am always pale, so that he sees nothing unusual in my white face. I sometimes think he is afraid of me. He said last night, 'Your eyes flash like a madwoman's.' I answered, 'It is with love!'"
There were no records of any hours of pleasure. Sometimes she chronicled a short walk. The place of her abode was not named; but I judged from some references to the locality that they must have lodged in the neighbourhood of Leicester Square. Thelandlady was a German, and the diarist complained of the atmosphere of the house having been made all day long nauseating and tepid with the smell of cooking.
"I asked Luigi before he left for Hammersmith to take me away from this dirty house. But he shrugged his shoulders and said he was too poor to move. I told him that the bad smell of the cooking made me sick, and that the landlady entertained foreigners, who came tramping in at all hours of the day, jabbering and singing like savages, and poisoning the place with the rank fumes of tobacco. 'You should write to your grandmother to send you some money,' said he, 'and then we will seek better apartments.' I told him I would not write to grandmamma again after her last letter, no, not if I were dying. 'Then I am too poor to help you,' he said, stroking his moustache and humming a tune, with an air of such cruel indifference that my eyes filledwith tears, though my breast heaved with a passion I could not keep down. 'We have been married a little more than six months,' I said, 'and you are already tired of me.' 'And you of me,' said he. 'It is false!' I cried, in a rage; 'but I suppose you want an excuse for your increasing indifference, and would tell a lie rather than not have one.' 'You did not bring me any money,' he replied, 'and yet you are always grumbling at our poverty. Don't I work like a slave for what I get? 'Tis a pity you are not more educated, for you might go out as a governess, and together we could earn a competence.' 'I did not marry to become a governess,' I said, 'and if you love me as you once professed, you could not name such a scheme.' He made a gesture of impatience, and uttered something in Italian. 'What do you say?' I exclaimed. He gave a shrug and left the room. And this is what my dream of lovehas come to! O how could I moralise if I were not the text! Patience? Yes, I could be patient if I had something solid to hold. But can I be patient holding sand, and watching the grains slipping through my fingers? Oh! my weariness of heart! and my head aches so I can hardly see this paper."
Here there was a leaf torn out. The next entry was dated exactly a year after. The records now became rhapsodical. Strange dreams were chronicled, and conversations which she had held in her sleep.
The first entry spoke of her delight with Elmore cottage. What followed was full of brief references to the past, especially to the events of the year she had omitted to record. Yet brief as they were I could gather the story.
Her husband had deserted her, possibly on the very date of the last entry I havetranscribed. By her allusions to her feelings, the shock of his leaving her must have driven her almost mad. "I would thrust him deep, deep into thehellhe has lighted in my heart against him; but he comes before me in the night when I am numbed by sleep and am powerless to thrust him off. O what a hate his face drives into me!"
"To-day I came across mamma's emerald ring. It reminded me of that day of hunger when I had to pledge it. I paid the odious German her rent, and went across to the little cook-shop at the corner and bought some cold meat. Do I not remember how delicious it tasted! How did I live through those days? I do not know. I sometimes look at my body and wonder how it could have held together under the pressure of so much utter, utter misery. It is bitter to have trusted nobly and to be betrayed remorselessly. It is bitter to feel hunger andpoverty and the cruelties of the cold and selfish world. But when these bitternesses are combined, must not the heart be made of steel not to crack and burst?"
How long she remained in this state of destitution I could not gather. But in one entry she recorded her amazement on receiving a letter from her grandmother's solicitor, saying that the old lady had died suddenly, intestate, and that, as the next of kin, she inherited the property. In the same memorandum she referred to the number of names she went over before she hit on one to assume. It was her evident fear that her husband would claim her, should he hear of her whereabouts, now that she had come into property. Under the pseudonym of Mrs. Fraser, and hidden in the obscurity of Cliffegate, she believed herself perfectly secure against detection. This at least is my inference, from one ortwo passages in the diary; it is probably correct. Some entries before that which I am about to transcribe, the following notice, cut from a newspaper, was gummed:
"March 12, at Courtland Street, London, Luigi Forli, aged 35, of gastric fever."
And beneath it she had written:
"Sent me by Mr. Fells in the letter that enclosed my quarter's money."
Up to a certain point, from this sentence her diary was singularly rhapsodical. Then a more connected narrative began:
"Why did he send me that bouquet? 'Mr. Thorburn's compliments!' He does not know what sort of a woman he sends his compliments to. How I hate compliments! That vile Italian could compliment. Oh!per Bacco!his speech was flowery and sugary as a wedding-cake. What came of it? My eyes, my hair, my mouth, my skin, soon surfeited him—though heransacked heaven and earth for comparisons. If I chose a male friend he should be blunt and sharp—with a hard tongue that could utter words as ringing in their tones as sovereigns. Such a one would not send me flowers.
"Mr. Thorburn called to-day. He must have courage, for he knows my aversion to society. If I walk in my sleep let him thank me; he dared not have come without this excuse. I felt my blood tingling in my forehead and fingers when I looked in and saw that thegentleman, as he had announced himself, was a stranger. But the timerotsso with me—oh! that excellent word just hits the decay of the hours! they drip, drip away, like sodden wood—I could not be displeased at his intrusion. There is life in a new face, and I am beginning to think Lucy too ugly to keep; now that is because she is the only person I see, and her facecomes looking in on me through my ugly thoughts and takes their deformity. But he is nice-looking. He is thoroughly English. Oh what a charm there is in a true English face! It is so manly, so genial, so sterling and courageous!—the very opposite to those yellow Italian visages with their red-black eyes and lollipop smirks. I am not sure that I couldn't like this man. He invites confidence, somehow. And there is a big and ponderous ghost called Solitude, that drives me towards him. His eye meets mine fearlessly. He thinks me beautiful. If he were to see me in a passion, with my hair loose and my eyes on fire, would he shrink like my valiant little southerner?
"I rated Mr. Thorburn to-day for watching me. I must like him, to have spoken so smartly. If I could not help meeting a man whom I disliked, I would serve him as my husband served me, and would betrayhim with such sweetness as would make him think me a witch. I have the power. I think I must be mad at times. Such high thoughts take me that my body will not hold my spirit, and some day I shall see it glide from me and vanish, with just such a laugh as I give when I know I shall not be heard, and when my mood is intoxicating. Let me own here, all to myself, that Mr. Thorburn pleases me. He reminds me of the picture of papa in grandmamma's locket. He must be greatly taken with me to presume as he does. He is too much of a gentleman to force himself upon me as he does if his courtesy did not fall before my beauty. If he should fall in love with me—let him. Am I a celestial intelligence, that I can control a man's heart, and bid it not love, if I choose it should not love? His dream gives him a claim. If I was asleep at the time then must that vision have beenmy soul which slipped from my body and shone upon him from a cloud. It was possible, and I would have told him this, but his smile can be ironical; and his nature is not yet right for the reception of my beliefs. Why did he kiss the rose I flung away? I can tell; but I will not write it down.
"He was more tender than he was yesterday. His love deepens, and gilds his smile and fires his eye. When I touched his arm it trembled. He makes me no more compliments. He relishes my bluntness, but would he relish it if he knew the sorrow whence it sprang? Sorrow is a rich soil; flowers grow in it sometimes; but more often grow roots that prick, weeds that sting, blossoms whose perfume is poison. Shall I encourage him? If I do, I will not have the heart to say him nay, for he has brought a new light to my heart and a new hope tomy life, and my gratitude should make me generous.
"My husband came to me last night. He stood at the foot of the bed. His face was as pale as the dim moon that shone over his shoulder through the window. I thought he had come from the grave, his eyes were so hollow and his hands and cheeks so dry. I clapped my hands and cried, 'Now I thank thee, Oh God! for he is dead, and his shadow has passed from the world.' I awoke. I could not believe it a dream, and crept to the door to see if he stood outside, and went to the window to see if his shadow was on the flowers. All was bare and bleak and white in the eye of that cruel moon, who looks into my brain and chills it with her frosty glare. Then to bed again I went, and fell a dreaming of Mr. Thorburn. How palpable are my dreams!"
The following entry was dated some days later:
"He is making me love him. He has an influence over me, and I find myself listening to his words and cherishing them. He makes me calm. Shall I forego the blessed peace he transfuses through my being? I could love him: but memory will not let me go to him, and like a wrinkled hag casts her long lean arms about me and holds me from him. My heart is empty—there is room for love. My spirit hungers; shall I not satisfy her cravings? I weary of this solitude. The air about me is peopled with spiritual beings; I toss my arms, but they will not leave me. They make my loneliness horrible. One in the night told me I should be their queen if I would go with them. But where would they take me? I prayed to the Blessed Virgin for help; but they would not go. Why should they haunt me? I do not invoke them. But if I fix my eyes on any part of the room a shape comes out, and Ihave to dash my hand to my head and leap like a child to frighten it off."
From this point there was a blank. When she resumed her diary she was at Elmore Court:
"How happy I am! The days go by me like a song. I am loved tenderly and truly; andmylove grows deeper and deeper, like an onward-running river. But the pain in my head increases, and now and then some of my old horrors return. I stood watching Arthur for an hour last night. He did not stir. His face was calm and happy, and my eyes took their fill of its peace. He does not know I keep this record, and he shall not know. O God! if he knew the past, would not his love fall from him like a garment? But my memory grows weak; and it is well I preserve these jottings, for I could not taste all the sweetness of the present if I had not the past at hand to contrast it with.
"This afternoon I saw a hand that held a knife in the air. I trembled and cowered. It slowly faded and I went on raking. When I met Mrs. Williams I told her what I had seen. The way she looked at me pained me. I saw she did not believe me, though she pretended she did. I do not wish her to think me a liar. I made her promise not to tell Arthur. I would not have him think me untruthful for all the treasures the sea holds."
The character of many entries which followed was akin to this. Some of them contained passages which would appear absurd and incredible in print. Then came this record:
"The room swims and I feel sick—so sick that I wish to die. Arthur went to London this morning, and I cried more bitterly than he will ever know. He cannot guess what agony our separation causesme. It must be a cruel necessity that takes him away. After he was gone, the sunshine drew me into the garden, and I went beyond into the fields, for my flowers give me no pleasure when he is absent. Before long a man came towards me, and I saw it was Luigi Forli. I thought he was a vision, and I tried to waive him away; but he drew near, and laid his hand on my arm, and turned me into stone. The blood surged up from my heart and made my ears echo with thunder. He talked, but I did not hear him. Then he warmed, and cried out that though I was his wife, he would not take me from Arthur. I said, 'You are dead.' He answered, 'No. I announced my death to get a living.' And he said I must give him money; he would keep my secret and go away. He named a large sum. He told me he knew I could not give it to him all at once. I might pay it in portions.He would remain at Cliffegate until it was paid. What was it to him how I should get this money? I had married a rich man, and must get the money under any pretext I could invent. If I failed he would call on Arthur. I turned and looked at him, and he sprang a yard away from me."
A line of writing that followed this was illegible; it broke off suddenly. The pen seemed to have fallen from her hand, for there was a smudge across the sheet. A single entry followed:
"He told me I was mad. I said, 'God be praised, for it gives me courage.' I bade him have no fear. He watched me with glittering eyes; his face was hard with avarice and pale with misgiving. I put my hand in my pocket and said, 'When you receive this you should give me peace.' He shrugged his shoulders, and said: 'I am poor; and since you are my wife and havemoney it is fair you should help me to live.' I pointed to the moon, and whilst he raised his eyes I stabbed him in the back. He gave a leap in the air, and I jumped away, for I thought he meant to spring on me. But he suddenly fell on his breast with a cry. The dew fell like blood. I turned him over and saw he was dead. I took him by the arm and pulled him under the hedge."
This ended the diary.
I went to the bed-side to watch her. Her arms lay upon the coverlet; her lips were apart, and she breathed heavily. Her cheeks were flushed, and lightly pressing my hand to her forehead I found that it burned. I marked now that she slumbered no longer peacefully. At intervals her form twitched, her fingers worked convulsively, and once her breathing was so oppressive that she started, still slumbering, from her pillow, fighting for breath.
I could see that she was very ill—very feverish; and if these twitchings continuedmust soon awake. As I expected, she suddenly opened her eyes and sat upright. She looked wildly around the room, and then stared at me, but without recognition.
"Give me some water," she said.
I filled a tumbler and she drank it eagerly, sank back, and dropped into a restless sleep again. But in a few minutes she once more started up and asked for water, adding:
"Give me air. The bed-clothes suffocate me. I am burning."
The fever, indeed, was on her now, and I knew that she must have taken it from her exposure in the grounds. I hastily left the room, ran upstairs, and knocked at Mrs. Williams' door. She answered at once. I told her that my wife was taken dangerously ill, and desired her to come to her at once. I then hastened back and found that Geraldine had risen from her bed, had thrown thewindow wide open, and stood leaning half out of it.
I took her by the arm, and whilst I entreated her to return to bed endeavoured gently to lead her away. She resisted me. Fearful of the consequence of her exposure to the air, I exerted more strength. She struggled violently, and would not stir. At times she turned her head and stared at me with angry eyes, radiant with delirium, but totally void of recognition. Mrs. Williams had now joined me. She at once perceived the danger my wife stood in; also that she was delirious.
"She must be got to bed, Sir, and kept there," she whispered. "I will help you to carry her."
I indeed needed her help. Frail and delicate as poor Geraldine was, the fever made her powerful as a strong man. She cried and moaned piteously amid her struggles, andwhen we had laid her down it took our united strength to keep her from breaking from us and rushing again to the window.
She grew exhausted at last and lay still, muttering wildly and clutching at the bed-clothes.
"We must send for a doctor, Mrs. Williams," I said. "Is there one in Cliffegate?"
"There is only Mr. Jenkinson the apothecary, Sir," she replied. "But I could rouse up Hewett" (the lad who attended to the phaeton), "and it wouldn't take him long to fetch Dr. Sandwin from Cornpool."
"Do so; and tell him to drive over as fast as he can."
Geraldine lay back with her eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling. Her lips muttered continuously, but the exhaustion consequent upon her violent struggles seemed to have left her too weak to articulate.
I left her side and paced the room in a mood I must not attempt to define. What was I to think of her diary? That it was an insane chronicle from beginning to end? or that it was true? If insane, how much was she to be pitied! For all that she had recorded as having witnessed, endured and done, must have been more definite and torturing than ever the reality could have proved. If true ... I dared not think it true. Yet though we may barricade reason with illusion, truth will somehow force an entry. A terror that what she had written was the truth, that her final record embodied no imaginary tragedy, weighed upon me like lead. I tried to shake it from my mind.
Mrs. Williams returned. Her presence was grateful. It forced me, so to speak, to break from my hateful thoughts and to abandon for the time being speculation for reality.
The two hours that followed passed slowly. Mrs. Williams and I spoke across the bed in whispers. Sometimes Geraldine would start up and call for water; sometimes would make violent efforts to leave the bed—efforts which it took all my strength to resist. As the time went on she grew worse. She talked incessantly, a mad wild talk, fragmentary as the mutterings of a dream—at intervals raising her voice to a shriek then lowering it to a breathless whisper. What visions passed before those vacant eyes of hers God only knows! But terrible they must have been; terrible the scenes they enacted; for she plunged wildly, as seeking to disperse them, then wailed entreaties to them to vanish, whilst her body shook with strong tremors and the hand which I held grew wet as though dipped in water.
The morning paled upon the window-blinds and made the candle-flame sickly.The birds twittered and distant cocks sang to one another their early defiance. Presently I heard the sound of wheels; Mrs. Williams left the room, and returned some minutes after, ushering in Dr. Sandwin.
He was a short spare man, suave but resolute. He found her calm, for she had worn herself out with her ravings and convulsions. He drew to the bedside, held her wrist, felt her forehead.
"She is in a bad way, Sir," he said. "The fever rages. I will write a prescription, and perhaps you will allow one of your servants to run with it to the chemist at Cliffegate."
Pen and ink were produced and the servant despatched. He looked at Geraldine curiously for some time and then came round to me.
"There is an expression on the lady's face, Sir, which must be habitual"——
"Her reason is impaired," I replied.
He bowed his head.
"The fever that is on her, Sir, arises, I should say, from a severe chill. I judge that her constitution cannot be strong, and she should have been restrained from exposing herself to the cold."
"She has a habit of walking in her sleep. Last night she left her bed, and traversed the whole length of the grounds on her bare feet and habited only in her nightgown. I feared this result, yet I did not dare awaken her, having been cautioned against doing so. I could only hope that the same Providence that guided her steps would preserve her from any ill effects."
He drew to the bed and examined her face carefully. She lay so still that she looked like a corpse. Her eyes were half closed, and the whites showing through the lids gave her the ghastly aspect of death.
"You look care-worn and anxious, Sir," he said, turning to me; "your vigil has been a long and trying one. Can I induce you to lie down for a little time? Even an hour's sleep would benefit you, and enable you better to meet the demands which your wife's illness may yet make on you."
"What is your opinion of her case?" I asked anxiously.
"I can form no opinion as yet. I shall be better able to do so when she awakens from this stupor. Meanwhile Mrs. Williams" (he evidently knew her) "and I can keep watch."
"I really would try to get a little rest, Sir," said Mrs. Williams. "You look to need it very badly. It is well to keep up your strength, Sir; and I will promise to call you if it should be necessary."
There was wisdom in their advice; I did indeed require sleep. It was not so muchmy body as my mind that was exhausted. I said I would lie down in the adjoining room, and begged them to arouse me should the slightest alteration appear in her symptoms.
I was chilly. The mornings were cold now, and want of sleep had robbed me of my natural warmth. I rolled myself in a rug, laid myself on the bed, and in a few minutes fell fast asleep.
I was awakened from a deep slumber by some one pulling my arm. The sunshine poured through the blindless windows and filled the room with light. My eyes, heavy with sleep, were dazzled by the glare; afterwards I saw Mrs. Williams. I jumped up at once.
The look of white horror on her face gave me such a shock that I could hardly speak. I heard a whispering going on outside the door. My belief was thatGeraldine was dead, and I pressed my hand to my heart while I asked Mrs. Williams to tell me what had happened.
"Oh, Sir," she began, "it is too awful! I—I"——she stopped.
"In the name of God tell me—what is it?" I cried, leaping from the bed.
"The——the——I cannot speak it, Sir; the gardener is below——will you go to him?"
"The gardener! Tell me of my wife; is she dead?"
"No, Sir. But she is raving wildly. She has told the whole story—how she killed him"——she shook with horror.
Something told me what I had to expect. I calmed myself by a supernatural effort.
"Where is the gardener?"
"He is in the hall, Sir."
I left the room. I passed the two servants who stood whispering with pale faces nearthe door, and ran downstairs. Both gardeners stood in the hall; and both were white as ghosts.
"Now," said I, "what have you to tell me?"
"Oh zur!" said the man called Farley, "I went into t'orchard this morning to git soom apples for cook, and—and I zeed zigns anigh th' hedge of soom 'un having been there i' th' night. The leaves they was all tossed, and—and the ground fresh dug. Zo I went for my spade, thinkin' summut amiss, an' begun to dig to zee what they moight ha' bin oop to. And zur, in diggin' I strook summat zoft, and clearin' away th' mould, coomed across a hand—a man's hand, zur!"
"A man's hand?"
"Oh, zur! I wur too frighted to dig vurther, but throws down my spade, and coom runnin' to th' house to tell yer, zur, of what I'd zeen."
"Come with me, both of you," I said.
"Oh, zur!" they began.
"If it be a dead man, of what should you be afraid?" I cried fiercely. "Come."
I led the way out, and they followed me. I did not want them to conduct me to the spot; I knew where it was—I knew where she had led me last night. I entered the orchard, the two men behind me. In a few minutes I had reached the place.
The soil was broken. Around it the dry leaves and grass lay in heaps, as though scattered by a high wind. Amid the newly-dug mould I saw the fingers of a human hand.
"Take that spade and dig," I said.
One of the men took it up reluctantly and began to clear away the mould. Bit by bit, as he dug the moist earth out of the grave, first the arm, and then the body of a man completely dressed, appeared. Thegardener stooped, took the arm by the sleeve, and raised the body.
In spite of the soil that obscured the face, I knew it.The dead man was Martelli!
I gazed upon this awful spectacle with fascinated eyes; then my senses forsook me and I fell to the earth.
For three weeks I lay as one that is dead. The raging fever that consumed me brought me to the brink of the grave; I was snatched from the jaws of death by a miracle.
When I awoke from my delirium I was at Elmore Court. The first object my eyes opened on was Mrs. Williams. With consciousness returned memory. I inquired for my wife. The entrance of the doctor saved her from replying. He forbade me to speak, on pain of a relapse. Nature, utterly weakened by illness, succumbed to sleep. My slumber was protracted through twenty-fourhours; and when I awoke I was convalescent.
It was then I learnt that my wife was dead. Her death had occurred three days after I was taken ill.
Towards the end the delirium had left her. Reason had regained its power, as though the soul, animated by the approach of death and the promise of liberty, had shaken off the foul hand of madness. She had asked for me; they told her I was ill. She would not believe them; she declared that I had left her. They assured her that I was in the next room; but she remained incredulous. A nurse had been summoned to watch her, while Mrs. Williams tended me. On the night of her death, the nurse having fallen asleep, she crept from her bed, stole to my room, and was found by Mrs. Williams on her knees by my side, with her arm round my neck, her cheek against mine, dead.
It was remarked, that after consciousness and reason had returned, she did not speak of the crime she had committed, nor did her conversation indicate the memory of it. Whence it was concluded that she died not knowing what, in her madness, she had done.
When my health was restored, my evidence was taken with respect to Martelli's death. The inquiry was purely formal. During my illness the police had vigilantly investigated the affair, and from Geraldine's diary and letters, coupled with the testimony of Mrs. Williams and the inquiries they had prosecuted into Martelli's career, had established the necessary evidence. From those inquiries I gathered the following particulars.
Martelli's real name was Forli. He had been a teacher of Italian at Gore House Academy, where he had met Geraldine,whom he eventually induced to elope with him. Her account in her diary of the life she had led with him was in every respect accurate. But you will remember she had omitted the events of a year, and that year was now accounted for. Forli had left her, to live with some abandoned woman, who, after a few months' intimacy, avenged Geraldine by plundering him of his savings and leaving him. It was supposed that he had heard of his wife having inherited her grandmother's property; but his hatred of her, which he never scrupled to confess, coupled with his conviction that had he followed her she would not have hesitated to commence proceedings for divorce, which would have professionally ruined him, effectually served to keep him from her.
I could comprehend his hate, knowing his character, and guessing Geraldine's power of exciting hate in those she hated. When shehad found his love decay, when her nature had turned sour under the corrupting sense of his violated vows and her betrayed confidence, I could guess the kind of light his presence would fire her eyes with, the kind of language with which she would lash him into madness.
When he applied again for work he found that his conduct had excited a prejudice, and that the schools in which he had always found a welcome reception closed their doors against him. He resolved to change his name, not knowing how far this prejudice might extend; and the better to commence his life afresh announced his death in the newspapers. He found employment; but his means were narrow, his occupation very limited, when my advertisement met his eye. When he was once with me, it may be supposed he was not very eager to go. He had recognised his wife on meeting her in thefields, but had kept his secret well. When he found that I was resolved to marry her he must have resolved upon that scheme, of threatening her with exposure unless she purchased his silence, which cost him his life.
I suspect he had hardly resolution enough to prosecute his plan at first. He had hung about Cliffegate, so it was ascertained, after he had left Elmore Court, living upon the money I had paid him.
Some years have elapsed since those days. I still occupy the house in London which I took after getting rid of Elmore Court, and Mrs. Williams continues to be my housekeeper. My old dream of senatorial or literary honour has never recurred. Like Imlac, I am now contented to be driven along the stream of life without directing my course to any particular port.
The dead belong to the past, and I willnot ravish from the grave in which she lies that great sorrow of mine which lies buried with her. No record of my grief shall plead for her; no memorial of my despair shall be set down to moderate your judgment of her. She is dead. Her beauty, her love, her madness, are nothing now but a memory and a pang.
THE END.
LONDON:Printed by A. Schulze, 13, Poland Street.