WAITING FOR HIS DOOM.
Life for Dora Wyllard was more than ever melancholy after Hilda's
disappearance. The girl's companionship had been her only ray of
sunshine during this time of sorrow and anxiety. In her sympathy with
Hilda's joys and hopes she had been able to withdraw herself now and
then from the contemplation of her own misery. Now this distraction was
gone, and she was alone with her grief.
Julian Wyllard had shown much greater anger at Hilda's conduct than his
wife had anticipated. He had taken the lovers under his protection, he
had been curiously eager for their marriage, had talked of it, and had
hurried it on with an almost feverish impatience. And now he would not
hear of any excuse for Hilda's conduct.
"She has acted like a madwoman," he said. "When everything had been
arranged to secure her future happiness with Bothwell, her devoted
slave, she allows herself to be driven away by the audacity of a
brazen-faced coquette. I have no patience with her. But if Bothwell has
any brains, he ought to be able to find her in a week, and bring her to
her senses."
"Perhaps Bothwell may not care about running after her," speculated
Dora.
"O, a man who is over head and ears in love will endure any outrage. He
is a slavish creature, and the more he is trampled upon the better he
loves his tyrant. It remains to be seen which of the two women Bothwell
would rather marry--Hilda, with her rustic simplicity, or the widow,
with her slightly damaged reputation and very handsome income."
"He does not waver for a moment between them."
"Ah, that is all you know; but if he does not give chase to Hilda, you
may be sure it is because in his heart of hearts he hankers after the
widow."
Bothwell had gone back to Trevena, intending to pay the builders for
the work they had done, and suspend the carrying out of the contract
indefinitely.
He would have to give them some compensation, no doubt, for delay; but
they were good, honest, rustic fellows, and he was not afraid of being
severely mulcted.
Julian Wyllard spoke of Bothwell and his love affairs with the
irritability of a chronic sufferer, and Dora listened and sympathised,
and soothed the sufferer as best she might. Her burden was very heavy
in these days. To see her beloved suffer and to be unable to lessen
his pain, that was indeed bitter. And in his case the palliating
drugs which deadened his agony seemed almost a worse evil than the
pain itself. The constant use of morphia and chloral was working its
pernicious effect, and there were times, when the sufferer's mind
wandered. There were dreams which seemed more agonising than wakeful
hours of pain. Dora sat beside her husband's couch and watched him
as he slept under the influence of morphia. She listened to his dull
mutterings, in French for the most part. He rarely spoke any other
language in that troubled state of the brain between dreaming and
delirium. It was evident to her that his mind, in these intervals of
wandering, habitually harked back to the days of his residence in
Paris, ten years ago. And his hallucinations at this time seemed always
of a ghastly character. The scenes he looked upon were steeped in
blood, doubtless a reminiscence of those hideous days of the Commune,
when Paris was given over to fire and carnage. She shuddered as she saw
the look of horror in his widely-opened yet sightless eyes--sightless
for reality, but seeing strange visions--shapes of dread. She shuddered
at the wild cry which broke from those white lips, the infinite pain in
the lines of the forehead, damp with the cold dews of anguish.
In his waking hours, when free from the influence of chloral, the
sufferer's brain was as clear as ever; but the irritation of his nerves
was intense. A sound, the slightest, agitated him. A footstep in the
corridor, a ring at the hall-door, startled him as if it had been a
thunder-clap. His senses seemed always on the alert. There was no
middle state between that intense activity of brain and the coma or
semi-delirium which resulted from opiates.
Sir William Spencer had been down to Penmorval twice since the
invalid's return, but his opinion had not been hopeful on either
occasion. On the second time of his coming he had seen a marked
change for the worse. The malady had made terrible progress in a
short interval. And now, on this dull gray autumn afternoon, within
twenty-four hours of Heathcote's visit to the Rue du Bac, the famous
physician came to Penmorval for the third time, and again could only
bear witness to the progress of evil.
Wyllard insisted upon being alone with his physician.
"Sir William, I want you to tell me the truth about my case: the
unsophisticated truth. There will be no end gained by your withholding
it; for I have read up the history of this disease of mine, and I know
pretty well what I have to expect. A gradual extinction, disfigurement
and distortion of every limb and every feature, beginning with this
withered, claw-shaped hand, and creeping on and on, till I lie like an
idiot, sightless, speechless, tasteless, with lolling tongue dribbling
upon my pillow. And throughout this dissolution of the body I may
yet, if specially privileged, retain the faculties of my mind. I may
be to the last conscious of all that I have been and all that I am.
There is the redeeming feature. I shall perish molecule by molecule,
feeling my own death, able to appreciate every change, every stage
in the inevitable progress of corruption. That lingering process of
annihilation which other men suffer unconsciously underground I shall
suffer consciously above ground. That is the history of my case, I take
it, Sir William."
"There have been such cases."
"Yes, and mine is one of them."
"I do not say that. The fatal cases are certainly in the majority; but
there have been cures. Whatever medicine can do--"
"Will be done for me. Yes, I know that. But the utmost you have been
able to do so far has been to deaden pain, and that at the cost of some
of the most diabolical dreams that ever man dreamed."
"Let us hope for the best, Mr. Wyllard," replied the great physician,
with that grave and kindly tone which had brought comfort to so many
doomed sufferers, the indescribable comfort which a sympathetic nature
can always impart. "As your adviser, it is my duty to tell you that it
would be well your house were set in order."
"All has been done. I made my will after my marriage. It gives all
to my wife. She will deal with my fortune as the incarnate spirit of
justice and benevolence. I have supreme confidence in her wisdom and in
her goodness."
"That is well. Then there is no more to be said."
Ten minutes later the physician was being driven back to the station,
and Julian Wyllard was alone.
"'And Swift expires a driveller and a show,'" he repeated, in a tone of
suppressed agony. "Yes, that is the horror. To become a spectacle--a
loathsome object from which even love would shrink away with averted
eyes. That is the sting. Facial anæsthesia--every muscle paralysed,
every feature distorted. O, for the doomsman to make a shorter end
of it all! The face has been spared so far--speech has hardly begun
to falter. But it is coming--it is coming. I found myself forgetting
common words this morning when I was talking to Dora. I caught myself
babbling like a child that is just beginning to speak."
He took up a hand-mirror which he had asked his wife to leave near him,
and contemplated himself thoughtfully for some moments.
"No, there is no change yet in the face, except a livid hue, like a
corpse alive. The features are still in their right places, the mouth
not yet drawn to one side; the eyelids still firm. But each stage of
decay will follow in its course. And to know all the time that there is
an easier way out of it, if one could but take it, just at the right
moment, without being too much of a craven."
He glanced at the table by his sofa, a capacious table, holding his
books, his reading-lamp, and his dressing-case with its elaborate
appliances.
"If I did not want to know the issue of Heathcote's inquiries! If--O,
for some blow from the sledgehammer of Destiny, that would put an end
to all irresolution, take my fate out of my own hands! A blow that
would annihilate me, and yet spare her--if that could be."
A loud ringing at the hall-door sounded like an answer to an
invocation. Julian Wyllard lifted his head a little way from the
silken-covered pillows, and turned his haggard eyes towards the door
leading into the corridor.
After an interval of some moments there came the sounds of footsteps,
the door was opened, and the servant announced,
"Mr. Heathcote."
Heathcote stood near the threshold, hat in hand, deadly pale, grave to
solemnity, mute as death itself.
"You have come back, Heathcote?" asked the invalid, with an off-hand
air. "Then I conclude you have accomplished your mission, or reconciled
yourself to failure."
"I have succeeded in my mission beyond my hopes," answered Heathcote.
"But my success is as terrible to myself as it must needs be to
others."
"Indeed! Does that mean that you have solved the mystery of the French
girl's death?"
"It means as much, and more than that. It means, Julian Wyllard, that I
have solved the mystery of _your life_--that double life which showed
to the world the character of a hard-headed financier, passionless,
mechanical, while the real nature of the man, passionate, jealous,
vindictive, the lover and the slave of a beautiful woman, was known
to but a few chosen friends. It means that slowly, patiently, link by
link, detail after detail, I have put together the history of your
life in Paris--the secret door by which the financier left his lonely
office at nightfall, to drink the cup of pleasure with his mistress--or
his wife--and his boon companions. By the inevitable sequence of small
facts, by the agreement of dates, by a pencil sketch of the murderer's
face, made from memory, yet vivid as flesh and blood, I have been
able to identify you, Julian Wyllard, with the man who called himself
Georges, who was known to a few privileged Bohemians as the lover of
Marie Prévol, and who disappeared from Paris immediately after the
murder, so completely as to baffle the police. The murderer vanished
utterly, before the crime was twelve hours old; yet he was known to
have visited the grave of his victim up to March '74--the exact period
at which you, Julian Wyllard, left Paris for ever. It means that in
you, the man who came between me and the happiness of my life, who
stole my betrothed--in you, the successful speculator, the honoured of
all men, I have found the murderer of Léonie Lemarque and of her aunt
Marie Prévol, and of her aunt's admirer, Maxime de Maucroix. A man
must have a mind and heart of iron who could carry the consciousness
of three such murders with a calm front; who could clasp his innocent
wife to his breast, accept her caresses, her devotion, her revering
love--knowing himself the relentless devil that he is! Julian Wyllard,
thou art the man!"
"I am!" answered the white lips resolutely, while the haggard eyes
flashed defiance. "I am that man. I have obeyed my destiny, which was
to love with a desperate love, and hate with a desperate hate. I have
gratified my love and my hatred. I have lived, Heathcote; lived as men
of your stamp know not how to live; lived with every drop of blood in
my veins, with every beat of my heart: and now I am content to rot in a
dishonoured grave, the abhorred of pettier sinners!"
"Julian!"
A wail--a cry of agony from a despairing woman--sounded in the
utterance of that name.