“GLENINCH, October 19, 18--.
“MY HUSBAND--
“I have something very painful to tell you about one of your oldest
friends.
“You have never encouraged me to come to you with any confidences of
mine. If you had allowed me to be as familiar with you as some wives are
with their husbands, I should have spoken to you personally instead of
writing. As it is, I don’t know how you might receive what I have to say
to you if I said it by word of mouth. So I write.
“The man against whom I warn you is still a guest in this
house--Miserrimus Dexter. No falser or wickeder creature walks the
earth. Don’t throw my letter aside! I have waited to say this until I
could find proof that might satisfy you. I have got the proof.
“You may remember that I ventured to express some disapproval when you
first told me you had asked this man to visit us. If you had allowed me
time to explain myself, I might have been bold enough to give you a good
reason for the aversion I felt toward your friend. But you would not
wait. You hastily (and most unjustly) accused me of feeling prejudiced
against the miserable creature on account of his deformity. No other
feeling than compassion for deformed persons has ever entered my mind.
I have, indeed, almost a fellow-feeling for them; being that next worst
thing myself to a deformity--a plain woman. I objected to Mr. Dexter
as your guest because he had asked me to be his wife in past days,
and because I had reason to fear that he still regarded me (after my
marriage) with a guilty and a horrible love. Was it not my duty, as a
good wife, to object to his being your guest at Gleninch? And was it not
your duty, as a good husband, to encourage me to say more?
“Well, Mr. Dexter has been your guest for many weeks; and Mr. Dexter has
dared to speak to me again of his love. He has insulted me, and insulted
you, by declaring that _he_ adores me and that _you_ hate me. He has
promised me a life of unalloyed happiness, in a foreign country with my
lover; and he has prophesied for me a life of unendurable misery at home
with my husband.
“Why did I not make my complaint to you, and have this monster dismissed
from the house at once and forever?
“Are you sure you would have believed me if I had complained, and if
your bosom friend had denied all intention of insulting me? I heard you
once say (when you were not aware that I was within hearing) that the
vainest women were always the ugly women. You might have accused _me_ of
vanity. Who knows?
“But I have no desire to shelter myself under this excuse. I am a
jealous, unhappy creature; always doubtful of your affection for me;
always fearing that another woman has got my place in your heart.
Miserrimus Dexter has practiced on this weakness of mine. He has
declared he can prove to me (if I will permit him) that I am, in
your secret heart, an object of loathing to you; that you shrink from
touching me; that you curse the hour when you were foolish enough to
make me your wife. I have struggled as long as I could against the
temptation to let him produce his proofs. It was a terrible temptation
to a woman who was far from feeling sure of the sincerity of your
affection for her; and it has ended in getting the better of my
resistance. I wickedly concealed the disgust which the wretch inspired
in me; I wickedly gave him leave to explain himself; I wickedly
permitted this enemy of yours and of mine to take me into his
confidence. And why? Because I loved you, and you only; and because
Miserrimus Dexter’s proposal did, after all, echo a doubt of you that
had long been gnawing secretly at my heart.
“Forgive me, Eustace! This is my first sin against you. It shall be my
last.
“I will not spare myself; I will write a full confession of what I said
to him and of what he said to me. You may make me suffer for it when you
know what I have done; but you will at least be warned in time; you will
see your false friend in his true light.
“I said to him, ‘How can you prove to me that my husband hates me in
secret?’
“He answered, ‘I can prove it under his own handwriting; you shall see
it in his Diary.’
“I said, ‘His Diary has a lock; and the drawer in which he keeps it has
a lock. How can you get at the Diary and the drawer?’
“He answered, ‘I have my own way of getting at both of them, without the
slightest risk of being discovered by your husband. All you have to do
is to give me the opportunity of seeing you privately. I will engage, in
return, to bring the open Diary with me to your room.’
“I said, ‘How can I give you the opportunity? What do you mean?’
“He pointed to the key in the door of communication between my room and
the little study.
“He said, ‘With my infirmity, I may not be able to profit by the first
opportunity of visiting you here unobserved. I must be able to choose
my own time and my own way of getting to you secretly. Let me take this
key, leaving the door locked. When the key is missed, if _you_ say it
doesn’t matter--if _you_ point out that the door is locked, and tell the
servants not to trouble themselves about finding the key--there will be
no disturbance in the house; and I shall be in secure possession of a
means of communication with you which no one will suspect. Will you do
this?’
“I have done it.
“Yes! I have become the accomplice of this double-faced villain. I have
degraded myself and outraged you by making an appointment to pry into
your Diary. I know how base my conduct is. I can make no excuse. I can
only repeat that I love you, and that I am sorely afraid you don’t love
me. And Miserrimus Dexter offers to end my doubts by showing me the most
secret thoughts of your heart, in your own writing.
“He is to be with me, for this purpose (while you are out), some time
in the course of the next two hours I shall decline to be satisfied with
only once looking at your Diary; and I shall make an appointment with
him to bring it to me again at the same time to-morrow. Before then you
will receive these lines by the hand of my nurse. Go out as usual after
reading them; but return privately, and unlock the table-drawer in which
you keep your book. You will find it gone. Post yourself quietly in the
little study; and you will discover the Diary (when Miserrimus Dexter
leaves me) in the hands of your friend.” *
*****
* Note by Mr. Playmore:
The greatest difficulties of reconstruction occurred in this first
portion of the torn letter. In the fourth paragraph from the beginning
we have been obliged to supply lost words in no less than three places.
In the ninth, tenth, and seventeenth paragraphs the same proceeding was,
in a greater or less degree, found to be necessary. In all these cases
the utmost pains have been taken to supply the deficiency in exact
accordance with what appeared to be the meaning of the writer, as
indicated in the existing pieces of the manuscript.
*****
“October 20.
“I have read your Diary.
“At last I know what you really think of me. I have read what Miserrimus
Dexter promised I should read--the confession of your loathing for me,
in your own handwriting.
“You will not receive what I wrote to you yesterday at the time or in
the manner which I had proposed. Long as my letter is, I have still
(after reading your Diary) some more words to add. After I have closed
and sealed the envelope, and addressed it to you, I shall put it under
my pillow. It will be found there when I am laid out for the grave--and
then, Eustace (when it is too late for hope or help), my letter will be
given to you.
“Yes: I have had enough of my life. Yes: I mean to die.
“I have already sacrificed everything but my life to my love for you.
Now I know that my love is not returned, the last sacrifice left is
easy. My death will set you free to marry Mrs. Beauly.
“You don’t know what it cost me to control my hatred of her, and to beg
her to pay her visit here, without minding my illness. I could never
have done it if I had not been so fond of you, and so fearful of
irritating you against me by showing my jealousy. And how did you reward
me? Let your Diary answer: ‘I tenderly embraced her this very morning;
and I hope, poor soul, she did not discover the effort that it cost me.’
“Well, I have discovered it now. I know that you privately think your
life with me ‘a purgatory.’ I know that you have compassionately hidden
from me the ‘sense of shrinking that comes over you when you are obliged
to submit to my caresses.’ I am nothing but an obstacle--an ‘utterly
distasteful’ obstacle--between you and the woman whom you love so dearly
that you ‘adore the earth which she touches with her foot.’ Be it so! I
will stand in your way no longer. It is no sacrifice and no merit on
my part. Life is unendurable to me, now I know that the man whom I love
with all my heart and soul secretly shrinks from me whenever I touch
him.
“I have got the means of death close at hand.
“The arsenic that I twice asked you to buy for me is in my
dressing-case. I deceived you when I mentioned some commonplace domestic
reasons for wanting it. My true reason was to try if I could not improve
my ugly complexion--not from any vain feeling of mine: only to make
myself look better and more lovable in your eyes. I have taken some of
it for that purpose; but I have got plenty left to kill myself with.
The poison will have its use at last. It might have failed to improve my
complexion--it will not fail to relieve you of your ugly wife.
“Don’t let me be examined after death. Show this letter to the doctor
who attends me. It will tell him that I have committed suicide; it will
prevent any innocent persons from being suspected of poisoning me.
I want nobody to be blamed or punished. I shall remove the chemist’s
label, and carefully empty the bottle containing the poison, so that he
may not suffer on my account.
“I must wait here, and rest a little while--then take up my letter
again. It is far too long already. But these are my farewell words. I
may surely dwell a little on my last talk with you!
“October 21. Two o’clock in the morning.
“I sent you out of the room yesterday when you came in to ask how I had
passed the night. And I spoke of you shamefully, Eustace, after you
had gone, to the hired nurse who attends on me. Forgive me. I am almost
beside myself now. You know why.
“Half-past three.
“Oh, my husband, I have done the deed which will relieve you of the wife
whom you hate! I have taken the poison--all of it that was left in the
paper packet, which was the first that I found. If this is not enough to
kill me, I have more left in the bottle.
“Ten minutes past five.
“You have just gone, after giving me my composing draught. My courage
failed me at the sight of you. I thought to myself, ‘If he look at me
kindly, I will confess what I have done, and let him save my life.’ You
never looked at me at all. You only looked at the medicine. I let you go
without saying a word.
“Half-past five.
“I begin to feel the first effects of the poison. The nurse is asleep
at the foot of my bed. I won’t call for assistance; I won’t wake her. I
will die.
“Half-past nine.
“The agony was beyond my endurance--I awoke the nurse. I have seen the
doctor.
“Nobody suspects anything. Strange to say, the pain has left me; I have
evidently taken too little of the poison. I must open the bottle which
contains the larger quantity. Fortunately, you are not near me--my
resolution to die, or, rather, my loathing of life, remains as bitterly
unaltered as ever. To make sure of my courage, I have forbidden the
nurse to send for you. She has just gone downstairs by my orders. I am
free to get the poison out of my dressing-case.
“Ten minutes to ten.
“I had just time to hide the bottle (after the nurse had left me) when
you came into my room.
“I had another moment of weakness when I saw you. I determined to give
myself a last chance of life. That is to say, I determined to offer you
a last opportunity of treating me kindly. I asked you to get me a cup of
tea. If, in paying me this little attention, you only encouraged me by
one fond word or one fond look, I resolved not to take the second dose
of poison.
“You obeyed my wishes, but you were not kind. You gave me my tea,
Eustace, as if you were giving a drink to your dog. And then you
wondered in a languid way (thinking, I suppose, of Mrs. Beauly all the
time), at my dropping the cup in handing it back to you. I really could
not help it; my hand _would_ tremble. In my place, your hand might have
trembled too--with the arsenic under the bedclothes. You politely hoped,
before you went away? that the tea would do me good--and, oh God, you
could not even look at me when you said that! You looked at the broken
bits of the tea-cup.
“The instant you were out of the room I took the poison--a double dose
this time.
“I have a little request to make here, while I think of it.
“After removing the label from the bottle, and putting it back, clean,
in my dressing-case, it struck me that I had failed to take the same
precaution (in the early morning) with the empty paper-packet, bearing
on it the name of the other chemist. I threw it aside on the counterpane
of the bed, among some other loose papers. My ill-tempered nurse
complained of the litter, and crumpled them all up and put them away
somewhere. I hope the chemist will not suffer through my carelessness.
Pray bear it in mind to say that he is not to blame.
“Dexter--something reminds me of Miserrimus Dexter. He has put your
Diary back again in the drawer, and he presses me for an answer to his
proposals. Has this false wretch any conscience? If he has, even he will
suffer--when my death answers him.
“The nurse has been in my room again. I have sent her away. I have told
her I want to be alone.
“How is the time going? I cannot find my watch. Is the pain coming back
again and paralyzing me? I don’t feel it keenly yet.
“It may come back, though, at any moment. I have still to close my
letter and to address it to you. And, besides, I must save up my
strength to hide it under the pillow, so that nobody may find it until
after my death.
“Farewell, my dear. I wish I had been a prettier woman. A more loving
woman (toward you) I could not be. Even now I dread the sight of your
dear face. Even now, if I allowed myself the luxury of looking at you,
I don’t know that you might not charm me into confessing what I have
done--before it is too late to save me.
“But you are not here. Better as it is! better as it is!
“Once more, farewell! Be happier than you have been with me. I love you,
Eustace--I forgive you. When you have nothing else to think about, think
sometimes, as kindly as you can, of your poor, ugly
“SARA MACALLAN.” *
*****
* Note by Mr. Playmore:
The lost words and phrases supplied in this concluding portion of the
letter are so few in number that it is needless to mention them. The
fragments which were found accidentally stuck together by the gum, and
which represent the part of the letter first completely reconstructed,
begin at the phrase, “I spoke of you shamefully, Eustace;” and end with
the broken sentence, “If in paying me this little attention, you only
encouraged me by one fond word or one fond look, I resolved not to
take--” With the assistance thus afforded to us, the labor of putting
together the concluding half of the letter (dated “October 20”) was
trifling, compared with the almost insurmountable difficulties which we
encountered in dealing with the scattered wreck of the preceding pages.
*****