|Let me write down, as calmly as I can, exactly what has taken place.
Yesterday, after that little scene, I carried my swooning-wife up to
her room, placed her on the bed, and sent her maid to attend to her.
Then I walked off to my den, to have my dark hour alone; for I was
thoroughly miserable. So far, I felt, I had been beaten with my own
weapons. Ellen was going to pose as a Christian martyr, and I had
committed the indiscretion of showing the full extent of my jealousy.
It would have been far better, on the whole, if, instead of storming and
grumbling, I had quietly kicked the clergyman out of my house; but then,
I could hardly deal in that way with a man who had simply, on the face
of it, performed an act of common civility. The time for kicking had
gone past; I had stupidly let it slip. If, when I caught him in the
act of trying to embrace my Ellen, and of addressing her softly by
her Christian name, I had calmly and decisively thrashed him, he could
hardly have accused me of impoliteness; nor would he have been able,
without exposing his own fatuity, to noise the affair about.
Now, I was not only angry with my wife for her indiscretion, I was in a
rage with myself for having behaved with so much brutality. The picture
of her pale, suffering face followed me to my den, and haunted me
reproachfully. She had really met with an accident, and was in sharp
physical pain; and I, who at another time would have cut off my right
hand to prevent her little finger from aching, had chosen the time
of her suffering to come upon her like a woman-eating tiger. Just the
husband’s luck again--always at a disadvantage; for precisely to the
degree in which she felt herself treated unkindly and ungently by me,
would rise her sympathy for the man who had been so zealous and so
tender. Damn him, again!
The night passed wretchedly enough.
I sat up working till nearly daybreak. When I went upstairs, and entered
my dressing-room, I felt guilty and ashamed, yet angry still. But
she was asleep--I could hear her soft breathing from the adjoining
bedchamber. Lamp in hand, I crept in. Yes, there she lay, soundly
slumbering, her eyes red with weeping, her dark hair falling wildly
around her pallid face, her neck and throat bare, her arms outside the
coverlid, which rose and fell with her breathing. As I bent over her,
my shadow crossed her soul in sleep, and she moaned and stirred. Poor
child! I longed to kiss her, but I was ashamed.
I think we men, the strongest and coldest of us even, are weak as water,
where a woman is concerned. I used to fancy once that, if a wife of mine
failed in faith, or fell away from me in sin, I could strike her dead
without pity; or if I suffered her to live, pass an eternity with no
thought but loathing and detestation. But as I bent over that sad bed,
I seemed to understand how it was that husbands, in the fulness of time,
had pardoned even _that_, the foulest and deadliest of infidelities;
how, with a love stronger than sin, and a hope stronger than death,
they had welcomed back the penitent, in forgiveness, sorrow, and
despair--even as a father would take back an erring child, part of the
very blood and life within his veins. Weakness, I know; but weak as
water, in virtue of its very strength, is Love.
It was horrible, horrible, this falling away from each other. I wished,
just then, that I had had religion; perhaps then we might have been
happier together. Women love a sort of matrimonial Village Blacksmith,
who asks no questions, works hard all the week, and goes three times to
church, in an irreproachably white shirt, on Sunday. They cannot bear
revolt in any shape. They were the last to cling to the old gods, and
they will be last to cling to the dead Christ. Does the law which works
for righteousness, somehow or other, justify them? Was my dear wife’s
alienation a curse upon me for dealing in occult scientific mysteries,
like an old necromancer, and forgetting, if I ever learned, the sweet
religion of the heart? Somehow, last night, I felt as if it were so.
There she lay, white as snow. I knew she had prayed to God before
sleeping; and I--I could not pray. I was an outcast, an unbeliever;
“atheist! atheist!” said the preacher.
I crept away to my own solitary bed, feeling more sad and lonely than I
had ever done in all my life.
Till midday to-day, she kept her room; but after lunch, she managed to
get downstairs. I had returned to my den, and we did not meet; nor was I
in the mood for meeting, for the gentle impulses of overnight had passed
away, and the morning had found me gloomy, quarrelsome, and atrabilious.
She did not send for me, though I secretly hoped that she might do so. I
learned from Baptisto that she was stretched upon the drawing-room sofa,
which was drawn close to the window, and was reading some religious
book.
Restless and wretched, I took my hat and walked out into the snow. The
great fir trees, loaded with the leaden whiteness, were ranged like
grim sentinels on each side of the dreary avenue, and beyond these the
leafless woods stretched white and cold. The sun had gone in, and the
air was full of a heavy lowering sadness--a sort of darkness visible.
It was cheerless weather; and as I thought of my domestic misery, and of
the clouded world, with all its sins and sorrows, I was more miserable
than ever.
Nevertheless, I walked on rapidly, till I came out among the frozen
fields of the open country. How desolate looked the snowy meadows, with
broad patches of green, thaw-like mildew, and the fallow fields, with
snow thick in the furrows and wretched low-lying hedges on every side!
Here and there a few miserable small birds were fluttering, starved
robins for the most part; and a kestrel was hunting the furrow, hovering
in a slow, dejected way, as if field-mice were scarce, and his whole
occupation, like the weather, cruelly forlorn.
Before four o’clock it was quite dark.
Through the windy darkness I made my way back to the Manor. By that time
I had thought it all over. Conquered by the utter desolation within and
without me, I had said to myself, “Life like this is worse than death. I
will try one way more; I will go to her, I will take her to my heart, I
will beg her to love and trust me, and to accept my tender forgiveness.
Perhaps I have been too hard, too taciturn and sullen. She has mistaken
my sorrow for coldness, my pride for cruelty and pertinacity. There
shall be an end to this. She shall understand the full tenderness of my
love, once and for ever.” With these thoughts struggling wildly within
me, I hastened home.
Then, as the devil would have it, I saw Baptisto, waiting on the
threshold of my den. The moment I appeared he crept up to me, and
clutched my arm.
“Senor, senor! where have you been? I have been waiting for you.”
“What is it, man?” I asked, startled by his manner.
“Come and see!”
He led me towards the house. I walked a few steps, then paused
nervously.
“What has happened?” I asked.
“Nothing, senor; but the clergyman is here again, with my lady.”
That was enough. It turned my tenderness into anger, my lethargy into
passion. Shaking off the fellow’s touch, I hastened to the house. As
I went I saw lights in the drawing-room; and, instead of entering the
house door, I ascended the flight of iron steps which leads to the
terrace. Then, with the cunning of jealousy, cold enough to subdue the
fever of rage, I crept along the terrace till I reached the folding
doors of the drawing-room. The doors were closed, the curtains and
blinds were drawn, but there was one small space through which I could
see into the room.
I looked in.
For a moment my eyes, clouded by the darkness, were dazzled by the light
of the room within; but despite the loud crying of the wind around me, I
heard a murmur of voices. Then I distinguished the form of my wife on
a sofa drawn up before the fire, and, bending over her, the form of the
minister. Her back was turned to me, but I saw _his_ face, noticed the
burning eyes fixed eagerly on hers.
What were they saying--doing? I strained my eyes, my ears. At last I
caught a sound. “Go now!” she was saying; “go now, I beseech you!”
Even as she spoke, he flung himself wildly on his knees, placing his
arms around her.
“Oh, you are mad, mad!” she cried.
“Not mad, but desperate,” he answered. “I have thought it all over; I
have struggled and struggled, but it is in vain. Ellen, have pity! There
is no peace or happiness for me, in this world or the next, without your
love. My darling! my angel!”
“Silence, for God’s sake! Oh, if you should be heard----”
“I do not care who hears me. I am beyond fear. As for that man, your
husband, he is busy, no doubt, with his blasphemous books, his sinful
investigations. Oh, my darling, that you should be linked to such a man!
A man without religion--a man without God! It was that which first made
me pity you, and pity is akin to love. You owe him no duty. He is a
heretic--an atheist, as you know.”
As he clung to her and embraced her, she struggled nervously. Carried
beyond himself, he covered her hands-with kisses, and would have kissed
her lips, but she drew back.
“Go, go!” she moaned. “Hark! I hear footsteps. If you do not go now, I
will never speak to you again.”
He rose to his feet, hot, flushed, and trembling like a leaf.
“I will go, since you wish it,” he said. “Good night, my darling!”
He stooped over, and--kissed her? Yes, I was sure he kissed her, though
I think she shrunk away, with her face nervously turned to the door,
dreading a surprise. Then I saw his shadow cross the room, and vanish
through the door, which was closed behind him.
I was about to force open the French windows and enter, when a curious
impulse possessed me to delay a little, and see what she would do when
left alone. So I watched her. She sat trembling on her seat; then,
reaching to the table, took a flask of eau-de-cologne, poured some upon
her handkerchief, and bathed her face. Then, with momentary glances at
the door, she smoothed down her straggling hair, and adjusted the bosom
of her dress. Finally, she contrived, though not without pain, to rise
to her feet, and, leaning on the marble mantelpiece, to look at her face
in the mirror. I could see her face reflected, all flushed and warm,
and her eyes gleaming with unusual brightness. After again smoothing her
hair, she got back to the sofa, posed herself prettily, and, not without
another glance at the door, took up a book and pretended to read.
By this time I was diabolically cool; so cool that I could have killed
her just then in cold blood. Entering into the spirit of her hypocrisy,
I refrained from entering by the terrace, but, passing round to the
hall door, entered there. A few minutes afterwards, I entered the
drawing-room, with as unconcerned an air as I could possibly command.
There she sat, quite calm and self-possessed, her robe arranged decently
over her feet, her face pale, her hair smoothed down Madonna-like over
her temples, her eyes fixed upon a book.
As I entered, she looked up with a sweet smile, just as if there had
never been any quarrel between us.
“Well, dear? You see, I have got down.”
I nodded, and sank into a chair.
“You don’t ask me if my ankle is better? Well, it is nearly all right.
But, George, I hope you are not angry with me still for what occurred
yesterday. Do forgive me, dear!”
“Oh, I’m not angry,” I replied; “only----”
“Only we both lost our tempers; I with my stupid sprained ankle, you
with your stupid books. I was so sorry you let Mr. Santley see you were
annoyed. He must have thought it so odd.”
How light and free of heart she seemed! how bright and languishing her
eyes were! She could laugh, too, and she was not much given to laughter,
I looked at her with amazement, so little did I, or do I, understand
women. There seemed to be an ugliness, a guiltiness, about her tender
coquetry that evening, coming so close upon what I had seen.
“By the way,” she continued, after a few minutes’ pause, “I hope you
will not scold me again, but I think I ought to tell you--that Mr.
Santley has just called. There, now you are angry; but I thought it
right to tell you.”
“Thank you,” I said drily. “I was aware that he had called. What brought
him, pray?”
“He wished to ascertain if I had recovered from the effects of my fall,”
she replied, with a little more nervousness than before.
“Oh, a mere visit of politeness!
“Yes,” she answered, faltering.
I rose quietly, and stood on the hearthrug, looking down upon her.
“Would it surprise you to hear,” I asked grimly, “that I know exactly
what took place between you?”
Her face flushed scarlet, the book fell from her hands.
“Oh, George! what do you mean?” she murmured somewhat irrelevantly.
“Precisely what I say. He made hot love to you--embraced you--kissed
you, madam. He informed you that your husband was a heretic, and that
to make him a cuckold would be a certain way of getting an express pass
right through to paradise. Very polite indeed, you will agree!”
She saw that I knew everything, and wrung her hands in protestation and
despair.
“George, if you know so much--and some one has been playing the spy--you
know that it was all against my will; you know that I tried to silence
him, to thrust him from me, but, being ill and helpless, sick, and in
pain----”
Here her self-pity, coming sharp upon her consternation, quite conquered
her, and she fell into hysterical tears.
“O God! God!” she sobbed.
What kaleidoscopes are women! From light to shade, from brightness to
dimness, and back again to brightness; from one colour to another, from
the tints of the thunder-cloud to the hues of the rainbow, how suddenly
they can flit and change! Ellen, who had just before been so gay and
smiling, seemed now liked a broken woman. I watched her gloomily, almost
despairingly. I knew that ten minutes afterwards, she might change
again, scattering away her tears as the sunshine scatters the drops of
dew.
_Midnight._--I have just left my wife’s bedside. Ellen has promised me,
if I spare the man and avoid any scandal, that she will never speak to
him again, or even enter his church. Can I trust her? I believe _not._
However, we shall see.
_Christmas Eve_.--My mind is now made up. To-day I intercepted a letter
from Santley to Ellen, left as usual at the lodge gate. It ran as
follows:--
“To-morrow is Christmas Day, and I have not a moment to spare. I
will call, however, next day, on the business about which we spoke
_yesterday_. Pray for me till then, as I pray for you.--C. S.”
The italics are the satyr’s own.
This letter, then, has decided me. My scheme of revenge is now perfectly
complete, and I shall no longer hesitate to carry it out. To make all
certain, I shall send a verbal message by Baptisto to-morrow to the
effect that Mrs. Haldane “will be glad to see Mr. Santley as arranged,
the day after Christmas Day.” In the mean time I shall make my
preparations. All the servants but two have been given a holiday for
that day--I have taken care of that; and as they purpose going into
the neighbouring town, they will not return till very late. The two
remaining are the kitchen-maid, who is an idiot and notices nothing;
and Baptisto, who is for once to combine two functions--that of cook (he
cooks like an angel) and waiter at table. Ellen is quite satisfied with
this arrangement. She knows nothing of Santley’s letter.
We see little or nothing of each other, and a shadow as of death hangs
over the entire house.
_Christmas Day_.--I astonished Ellen very much this morning, by
expressing my intention of accompanying her to church; but, instead of
rejoicing, as she would have done a little time ago, she seemed rather
frightened and startled. We drove over to the old church at Hamleigh,
seven miles off, and heard a drowsy sermon by the drowsiest of
octogenarians--the right sort of preacher, in my opinion, for a creed
so worn out, mildewy, and old-fashioned. Ellen did not seem to share
my appreciation of the old fellow’s antiquated twaddle. She sat like a
marble woman. We drove home without a word.
A pretty Christmas! But, never mind, I am going to have my revenge.
Everything lends itself to my purpose. To begin with, Foxglove Manor
is miles away from any other habitation; and no one ever comes near the
“uncanny” place, except on special business. All the servants, but the
idiot of a kitchen-maid, leave early for their holiday. For a day at
least I can do as I please; and my intentions are simply murderous.
In the course of twelve hours a human creature may be disposed of, and
buried out of sight, if necessary, in these grounds. Baptisto knows my
terrible purpose, and approves it, with his usual bloodthirstiness, to
the full.
“To-morrow, and to-morrow, and tomorrow!”
Come, then, my satyr, my wolf in sheep’s clothing, and I shall be ready
for you--=
```"And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
````The way to dusty Death!”