THE DEMON WIFE.
When Dacres was overpowered by his assailants no mercy was shown him.
His hands were bound tight behind him, and kicks and blows were
liberally bestowed during the operation. Finally, he was pushed and
dragged into the house, and up stairs to the room already mentioned.
There he was still further secured by a tight rope around his ankles,
after which he was left to his own meditations.
Gloomy and bitter and fierce, indeed, were those meditations. His body
was covered with bruises, and though no bones were broken, yet his
pain was great. In addition to this the cords around his wrists and
ankles were very tight, and his veins seemed swollen to bursting. It
was difficult to get an easy position, and he could only lie on his
side or on his face. These bodily pains only intensified the
fierceness of his thoughts and made them turn more vindictively than
ever upon the subject of his wife.
She was the cause of all this, he thought. She had sacrificed every
thing to her love for her accursed paramour. For this she had betrayed
him, and her friends, and the innocent girl who was her companion. All
the malignant feelings which had filled his soul through the day now
swelled within him, till he was well-nigh mad. Most intolerable of all
was his position now--the baffled enemy. He had come as the avenger,
he had come as the destroyer; but he had been entrapped before he had
struck his blow, and here he was now lying, defeated, degraded, and
humiliated! No doubt he would be kept to afford sport to his
enemy--perhaps even his wife might come to gloat over his sufferings,
and feast her soul with the sight of his ruin. Over such thoughts as
these he brooded, until at last he had wrought himself into something
like frenzy, and with the pain that he felt, and the weariness that
followed the fatigues of that day, these thoughts might finally have
brought on madness, had they gone on without any thing to disturb
them.
But all these thoughts and ravings were destined to come to a full and
sudden stop, and to be changed to others of a far different character.
This change took place when Girasole, after visiting the ladies, came,
with Mrs. Willoughby, to his room. As Dacres lay on the floor he heard
the voice of the Italian, and the faint, mournful, pleading tones of a
woman's voice, and, finally, he saw the flash of a light, and knew
that the Italian was coming to his room, and perhaps this woman also.
He held his breath in suspense. What did it mean? The tone of Girasole
was not the tone of love. The light drew nearer, and the footsteps
too--one a heavy footfall, the tread of a man; the other lighter, the
step of a woman. He waited almost breathless.
At last she appeared. There she was before him, and with the Italian;
but oh, how changed from that demon woman of his fancies, who was to
appear before him with his enemy and gloat over his sufferings! Was
there a trace of a fiend in that beautiful and gentle face? Was there
thought of joy or exultation over him in that noble and mournful lady,
whose melancholy grace and tearful eyes now riveted his gaze? Where
was the foul traitor who had done to death her husband and her friend?
Where was the miscreant who had sacrificed all to a guilty passion?
Not there; not with that face; not with those tears: to think that was
impossible--it was unholy. He might rave when he did not see her, but
now that his eyes beheld her those mad fancies were all dissipated.
There was only one thing there--a woman full of loveliness and grace,
in the very bloom of her life, overwhelmed with suffering which this
Italian was inflicting on her. Why? Could he indulge the unholy
thought that the Italian had cast her off, and supplied her place with
the younger beauty? Away with such a thought! It was not jealousy of
that younger lady that Dacres perceived; it was the cry of a loving,
yearning heart that clung to that other one, from whom the Italian had
violently severed her. There was no mistake as to the source of this
sorrow. Nothing was left to the imagination. Her own words told all.
Then the light was taken away, and the lady crouched upon the floor.
Dacres could no longer see her amidst that gloom; but he could hear
her; and every sob, and every sigh, and every moan went straight to
his heart and thrilled through every fibre of his being. He lay there
listening, and quivering thus as he listened with a very intensity of
sympathy that shut out from his mind every other thought except that
of the mourning, stricken one before him.
Thus a long time passed, and the lady wept still, and other sounds
arose, and there were footsteps in the house, and whisperings, and
people passing to and fro; but to all these Dacres was deaf, and they
caused no more impression on his senses than if they were not. His
ears and his sense of hearing existed only for these sobs and these
sighs.
At last a pistol-shot roused him. The lady sprang up and called in
despair. A cry came back, and the lady was about to venture to the
other room, when she was driven back by the stern voice of Girasole.
Then she stood for a moment, after which she knelt, and Dacres heard
her voice in prayer. The prayer was not audible, but now and then
words struck upon his ears which gave the key to her other words, and
he knew that it was no prayer of remorse for guilt, but a cry for help
in sore affliction.
Had any thing more been needed to destroy the last vestige of Dacres's
former suspicions it was furnished by the words which he now heard.
"Oh, Heaven!" he thought; "can this woman be what I have thought her?
But if not, what a villain am I! Yet now I must rather believe myself
to be a villain than her!"
In the midst of this prayer Girasole's voice sounded, and then
Minnie's tones came clearly audible. The lady rose and listened, and a
great sigh of relief escaped her. Then Girasole descended the stairs,
and the lady again sank upon her knees.
Thus far there seemed a spell upon Dacres; but this last incident and
the clear child-voice of Minnie seemed to break it. He could no longer
keep silence. His emotion was as intense as ever, but the bonds which
had bound his lips seemed now to be loosened.
"Oh, Arethusa!" he moaned.
At the sound of his voice Mrs. Willoughby started, and rose to her
feet. So great had been her anxiety and agitation that for some time
she had not thought of another being in the room, and there had been
no sound from him to suggest his existence. But now his voice startled
her. She gave no answer, however.
"Arethusa!" repeated Dacres, gently and longingly and tenderly.
"Poor fellow!" thought Mrs. Willoughby; "he's dreaming."
"Arethusa! oh, Arethusa!" said Dacres once more. "Do not keep away.
Come to me. I am calm now."
"Poor fellow!" thought Mrs. Willoughby. "He doesn't seem to be asleep.
He's talking to me. I really think he is."
"Arethusa," said Dacres again, "will you answer me one question?"
Mrs. Willoughby hesitated for a moment, but now perceived that Dacres
was really speaking to her. "He's in delirium," she thought. "Poor
fellow, I must humor him, I suppose. But what a funny name to give
me!"
So, after a little preparatory cough, Mrs. Willoughby said, in a low
voice,
"What question?"
Dacres was silent for a few moments. He was overcome by his emotions.
He wished to ask her one question--the question of all questions in
his mind. Already her acts had answered it sufficiently; but he longed
to have the answer in her own words. Yet he hesitated to ask it. It
was dishonor to her to ask it. And thus, between longing and
hesitation, he delayed so long that Mrs. Willoughby imagined that he
had fallen back into his dreams or into his delirium, and would say no
more.
But at last Dacres staked every thing on the issue, and asked it:
"Arethusa! oh, Arethusa! do you--do you love--the--the Italian?"
"The Italian!" said Mrs. Willoughby--"love the Italian! me!" and then
in a moment she thought that this was his delirium, and she must humor
it. "Poor fellow!" she sighed again; "how he fought them! and no doubt
he has had fearful blows on his head."
"Do you? do you? Oh, answer, I implore you!" cried Dacres.
"No!" said Mrs. Willoughby, solemnly. "I hate him as I never hated man
before." She spoke her mind this time, although she thought the other
was delirious.
A sigh of relief and of happiness came from Dacres, so deep that it
was almost a groan.
"And oh," he continued, "tell me this--have you ever loved him at
all?"
"I always disliked him excessively," said Mrs. Willoughby, in the same
low and solemn tone. "I saw something bad--altogether bad--in his
face."
"Oh, may Heaven forever bless you for that word!" exclaimed Dacres,
with such a depth of fervor that Mrs. Willoughby was surprised. She
now believed that he was intermingling dreams with realities, and
tried to lead him to sense by reminding him of the truth.
"It was Minnie, you know, that he was fond of."
"What! Minnie Fay?"
"Yes; oh yes. I never saw any thing of him."
"Oh, Heavens!" cried Dacres; "oh, Heavens, what a fool, beast,
villain, and scoundrel I have been! Oh, how I have misjudged _you_!
And can _you_ forgive me? Oh, can you? But no--you can not."
At this appeal Mrs. Willoughby was startled, and did not know what to
say or to do. How much of this was delirium and how much real she
could not tell. One thing seemed evident to her, and that was that,
whether delirious or not, he took her for another person. But she was
so full of pity for him, and so very tender-hearted, that her only idea
was to "humor" him.
"Oh," he cried again, "can this all be true, and have all my
suspicions been as mad as these last? And _you_--how _you_ have
changed! How beautiful you are! What tenderness there is in your
glance--what a pure and gentle and touching grace there is in your
expression! I swear to you, by Heaven! I have stood gazing at you in
places where you have not seen me, and thought I saw heaven in your
face, and worshiped you in my inmost soul. This is the reason why I
have followed you. From the time I saw you when you came into the room
at Naples till this night I could not get rid of your image. I fought
against the feeling, but I can not overcome it. Never, never were you
half so dear as you are now!"
Now, of course, that was all very well, considered as the language of
an estranged husband seeking for reconciliation with an estranged
wife; but when one regards it simply as the language of a passionate
lover directed to a young and exceedingly pretty widow, one will
perceive that it was _not_ all very well, and that under ordinary
circumstances it might create a sensation.
Upon Mrs. Willoughby the sensation was simply tremendous. She had
begun by "humoring" the delirious man; but now she found his delirium
taking a course which was excessively embarrassing. The worst of it
was, there was truth enough in his language to increase the
embarrassment. She remembered at once how the mournful face of this
man had appeared before her in different places. Her thoughts
instantly reverted to that evening on the balcony when his pale face
appeared behind the fountain. There was truth in his words; and her
heart beat with extraordinary agitation at the thought. Yet at the
same time there was some mistake about it all; and he was clearly
delirious.
"Oh, Heavens!" he cried. "Can you ever forgive me? Is there a
possibility of it? Oh, can you forgive me? Can you--can you?"
He was clearly delirious now. Her heart was full of pity for him. He
was suffering too. He was bound fast. Could she not release him? It
was terrible for this man to lie there bound thus. And perhaps he had
fallen into the hands of these ruffians while trying to save _her_ and
her sister. She must free him.
"Would you like to be loosed?" she asked, coming nearer. "Shall I cut
your bonds?"
She spoke in a low whisper.
"Oh, tell me first, I implore you! Can you forgive me?"
He spoke in such a piteous tone that her heart was touched.
"Forgive you?" she said, in a voice full of sympathy and pity. "There
is nothing for _me_ to forgive."
"Now may Heaven forever bless you for that sweet and gentle word!"
said Dacres, who altogether misinterpreted her words, and the emphasis
she placed on them; and in his voice there was such peace, and such a
gentle, exultant happiness, that Mrs. Willoughby again felt touched.
"Poor fellow!" she thought; "how he _must_ have suffered!"
"Where are you fastened?" she whispered, as she bent over him. Dacres
felt her breath upon his cheek; the hem of her garment touched his
sleeve, and a thrill passed through him. He felt as though he would
like to be forever thus, with _her_ bending over him.
"My hands are fastened behind me," said he.
"I have a knife," said Mrs. Willoughby. She did not stop to think of
danger. It was chiefly pity that incited her to this. She could not
bear to see him lying thus in pain, which he had perhaps, as she
supposed, encountered for her. She was impulsive, and though she
thought of his assistance toward the escape of Minnie and herself, yet
pity and compassion were her chief inspiring motives.
Mrs. Willoughby had told Girasole that she had no knife; but this was
not quite true, for she now produced one, and cut the cords that bound
his wrists. Again a thrill flashed through him at the touch of her
little fingers; she then cut the cords that bound his ankles.
Dacres sat up. His ankles and wrists were badly swollen, but he was no
longer conscious of pain. There was rapture in his soul, and of that
alone was he conscious.
"Be careful!" she whispered, warningly; "guards are all around, and
listeners. Be careful! If you can think of a way of escape, do so."
Dacres rubbed his hand over his forehead.
"Am I dreaming?" said he; "or is it all true? A while ago I was
suffering from some hideous vision; yet now you say you forgive me!"
Mrs. Willoughby saw in this a sign of returning delirium. "But the
poor fellow must be humored, I suppose," she thought.
"Oh, there is nothing for _me_ to forgive," said she.
"But if there were any thing, would you?"
"Yes."
"Freely?" he cried, with a strong emphasis.
"Yes, freely."
"Oh, could you answer me one more question? Oh, could you?"
"No, no; not now--not now, I entreat you," said Mrs. Willoughby, in
nervous dread. She was afraid that his delirium would bring him upon
delicate ground, and she tried to hold him back.
"But I must ask you," said Dacres, trembling fearfully--"I must--now
or never. Tell me my doom; I have suffered so much. Oh, Heavens!
Answer me. Can you? Can you feel toward me as you once did?"
"He's utterly mad," thought Mrs. Willoughby; "but he'll get worse if I
don't soothe him. Poor fellow! I ought to answer him."
"Yes," she said, in a low voice.
"Oh, my darling!" murmured Dacres, in rapture inexpressible; "my
darling!" he repeated; and grasping Mrs. Willoughby's hand, he pressed
it to his lips. "And you will love me again--you will love me?"
Mrs. Willoughby paused. The man was mad, but the ground was so
dangerous! Yes, she must humor him. She felt his hot kisses on her
hand.
"You _will_--you _will_ love me, will you not?" he repeated. "Oh,
answer me! Answer me, or I shall die!"
"Yes," whispered Mrs. Willoughby, faintly.
As she said this a cold chill passed through her. But it was too late.
Dacres's arms were around her. He had drawn her to him, and pressed
her against his breast, and she felt hot tears upon her head.
"Oh, Arethusa!" cried Dacres.
"Well," said Mrs. Willoughby, as soon as she could extricate herself,
"there's a mistake, you know."
"A mistake, darling?"
"Oh dear, what _shall_ I do?" thought Mrs. Willoughby; "he's beginning
again. I must stop this, and bring him to his senses. How terrible it
is to humor a delirious man!"
"Oh, Arethusa!" sighed Dacres once more.
Mrs. Willoughby arose.
"I'm not Arethusa at all," said she; "that isn't my name. If you _can_
shake off your delirium, I wish you would. I really do."
"What!" cried Dacres, in amazement.
"I'm not Arethusa at all; that isn't my name."
"Not your name?"
"No; my name's Kitty."
"Kitty!" cried Dacres, starting to his feet.
At that instant the report of a gun burst upon their ears, followed by
another and another; then there were wild calls and loud shouts. Other
guns were heard.
Yet amidst all this wild alarm there was nothing which had so
tremendous an effect upon Dacres as this last remark of Mrs.
Willoughby's.
[Illustration: "THE PRIEST FLUNG HIMSELF FORWARD."]