NEMESIS.
Ralph Herkimer was late for breakfast. He had been out with his gun;
for Gerald, setting out to catch an early train for town, came
on him stepping from the shrubbery to gain the verandah and his own
dressing-room window--met him right in the face, to his own no small
surprise, and not, apparently, to the satisfaction of his parent.
"Ducks! Father? Ain't you three weeks ahead of time?"
"Sparrows! my son. We shall not have a black cherry left, for those
blasted English sparrows."
"And you took the rifle? That would have been putting a big blast with
a vengeance into one of their little persons. Head, claws, feathers,
would have been blown to the four winds. The rest would be nowhere."
"Humph," grunted Ralph in surly wise, entering his open window without
further parley.
"Old man must be out of sorts this morning," said the son, proceeding
on his way. "Never saw him so grumpy of a morning before. And to take
a rifle to the sparrows! He must have gone out half awake--taken it up
without noticing, and been ashamed at being seen--stolen back, no
doubt, before Solomon Sprout would arrive with his spade and barrow.
Solomon isn't an early bird by any means. I suppose no gardener is.
Has the whole day before him to potter about the place. Solomon would
have laughed at the rifle, and told us about blowing Sepoys away from
the cannon's mouth when he was soldiering in 'Indy.'"
Ralph was very late for breakfast. He had rung for his man, and sent
him for sherry and bitters, and then dismissed him, peremptorily
refusing to be shaved, or to be bothered in any way.
Nine o'clock. Mrs. Martha sat by her coffeepot, but her spouse did not
appear. She rang for Joseph, and inquired for his master, but he could
only say that he had rung for sherry and bitters, refused to be
shaved, and ordered him out of the room.
"He's out of sorts," soliloquized Mrs. Martha. "Smoked too many cigars
with Jordan last night, that's what's the matter! What fools the men
are! Making themselves sick with nasty tobacco, just for manners to
one another! I'm sure they don't really like it. I've known the time
when Ralph would sit the whole evening with me and Gerald--Gerald was
a baby then--and never a cigar. Just a few peaches before going to
bed, and a Boston cracker. Heigh-ho! I was young then, to be sure, and
better looking, but I don't suppose that signifies to Ralph. I am sure
I like _him_ as well, and think him as fine a man as ever I did; and
why would he not think the same of me? It's just that eternal
_business!_ The men are that dead set on it they think of nothing
else, and they make believe to like tobacco to be with one another,
and keep the women away, that they may talk business. The weary, weary
business! Whatever good has it done us? The richer we get, the harder
Ralph seems to work, and the less I see of him. But I'll keep him at
home to-day, anyhow. See if I don't."
With a cup of coffee and a piece of toast, she hastened to her
husband's room.
"Well, Ralph? Still up? I fancied you must have lain down again. Drink
your coffee. It will do you good. Dear me! How pale and limp you
look."
"Nonsense! I'm all right."
"Not you. You must not think of going to town to-day. We'll hang a
hammock on the shady side of the house and you can swing there. The
river view feels cool, and there always comes a breeze up from the
water. Joseph!"
"Bid him hang the hammock in the front of the house, Martha. It amuses
one to see who comes and goes. Yes; I shall stay at home with you
to-day. I don't feel up to much--yesterday's heat, I suppose. Bid him
hang the hammock up in front."
"There's no shade worth speaking of on that side till the afternoon.
You'll broil yourself with the glare off the flower beds. The west
verandah is the place at this hour, and there's the pleasant outlook
over the river."
"River be d----d. It makes me giddy to look at it this morning. My
head seems all aswim."
"Bilious--the brandy and cigars last night. You never _could_ stand
much of that, Ralph. It's not for you! Leave it to the dull fellows
who want brightening. You have too many nerves to agree with
stimulants in quantity."
"Don't preach, Martha, my good soul. My head is splitting. Open the
window wider, and close the blinds. Now leave me, please; I think I
could sleep. Send Joseph with the brandy and some soda-water and ice."
"A hair of the dog that bit you, eh? My poor old man. But I think you
would be better without it," and she laid her cool hand on his
forehead as he lay.
It was the touch that of all things soothed and softened him the most.
In the hurry of life and the scramble for its prizes he had long
outgrown the early transports of the honeymoon, real though they had
been at the time--as real as it was in his nature to experience. The
light of her eye had less power to kindle a response within him;
it shone more dimly, doubtless, than of old, and his receptive
organ--heart, call it?--had toughened with the years, and was too
occupied with greed to hold much else. Her bright and sensible talk,
grown familiar, had ceased to interest; but the touch of that cool,
soft, firm, and sympathetic hand upon his brow, had still the old
power to soothe and charm away pain and care. She was so true, and
strong, and faithful; and a healing virtue dwelt for him in her
touch--the one truly good and holy nature he had ever believed in. And
she believed so thoroughly in him--the only one, perhaps, who did, in
all the world--except their boy--and he had only learnt the faith from
_her_.
She believed in him, and she was good and true. His brow revelled in
the cool, soft, firm touch. He could have pressed it as a dog will rub
against his mistress's caressing palm, but that he was ashamed of the
one still lingering softness in his nature. Remembering the
chicaneries of his money-making career, how glad he was she did not
know them; and yet he felt a rogue in gaining this testimony of her
faith, more than in all the swervings from uprightness he had ever
been guilty of. And the morning's work. For the fraction of an instant
it had been less present with him in the luxury of that caress. What
would she think of that, if ever she came to know? He guessed the
horror she would feel, though, strictly speaking, he felt no horror in
himself. Would he ever come to feel any? he wondered. It was merely a
dull, stupid consciousness as yet that he was not as other men; that
they would none of him if they but knew; that he was separate from the
rest of his kind. And she? Her hand appeared to burn him at the
thought. He felt spattered and sticky with the dead man's blood, and
it was soiling her clean pure hand. If she knew it, she would renounce
him. Shrinkingly he turned his head beneath her touch, and the gentle
wife, pained at perceiving her caress grow irksome, stole silently
from the room.
"Alas! How they had been drifting apart through all the years!"
thought Martha. "The world had come between, a broadening wedge
pressing them ever more and more asunder. Ralph had never been unkind,
but how slowly, yet steadily, he had been growing not to care. He had
so many other things to think on." She, who sat at home with her
thoughts, and still cherished the old fancies of her girlhood, grew
hungry at the heart with the old hunger for a perfect love; and the
food had grown sparer and slighter while her mind and soul had been
waxing with the years--for a woman's heart need not wither with her
complexion--and now, when she sought sign of love, what got she? A
roll of bank bills--a handful of Dead Sea fruit--or costly trinkets
which had no value now that the eyes she would have pleased did not
care to look. Still, until now, he had submitted to her caress; she
had even pleased herself by fancying that he liked it, he had
submitted always so calmly. Now he had shrunk from her--turned away
his head. "Alas! she was growing old," she thought, "he had ceased to
care for her save as his housekeeper and Gerald's mother. How hard the
men were, and utterly selfish!" She wiped her eyes a little, and went
about her morning occupations. At least he should never know that she
had suffered this wound. He should never know that she had observed a
change. But never again should he have the opportunity to spurn. She
would give him his way.
Ralph spent his morning in a semi-invalid fashion strange to one of
his habits. "What was the matter with him?" he asked himself, "and
what was he afraid of?" To both queries he answered positively
"nothing." Yet the oppression on his spirits would not lift, and there
was a tremor or dismay at his heart which would not be calmed or
reassured. Why would not the man roll over and have done, and let
there be an end, as there was with the squirrel and the bear he
recollected?
Of moral sense Ralph may be said to have had as little as any one
living in the civilized state. He certainly had not enough to trouble
sleep or digestion, and might have been warranted impervious to
remorse. With little benevolence, and without imagination, he was
insensible to pain or misery beyond the circumference of his own
cherished hide, as had been shown by his pleasure in the torture and
ill-usage of his uncle's slaves. He had even prided himself on being
proof to such phantasies as limit other men in working out their will;
and if not brave, he had at least the judgment which reduces danger to
its true dimensions. He surveyed his position now, The probabilities
were in his favour. Who could have seen him? Who suspect him? It was
unlikely at that hour that any one had, seeing he had fired but once.
In his position nobody would suspect him, even if he had been seen and
were accused. He need only say he had seen a bird on the water, and,
having the gun in his hand, after frightening the sparrows from his
cherry trees hard by, he had let fly. Jordan could testify to his
spending the previous evening amicably with the deceased, and no one
could suggest a reason for the deed. Possibly, too, the body being in
mid-stream would be carried down. Once in the St. Laurence it was safe
to be carried over the Lachine Rapids, or rendered unrecognizable by
mere lapse of time. Danger, he told himself, there was none, and yet
the gloom upon his spirits would not lift. Not all the brandy and soda
he could swallow availed to cheer him.
There is a social atmosphere in which we live, a subtile sense of the
general sentiment of our fellows, which no obtuseness of the nerves,
no clearness of the understanding, can be wholly proof against. We
breathe it, and live in it, and are of it, exceptional endowment
counting for but little in opposition. The sanctity of human life, and
the solidarity of each member with the rest of the community as far as
mere existence goes, are sentiments so derived--foregone conclusions
which nobody disputes, and nobody finds it necessary to assert. They
go without saying, and are in the basis of our notions. And now, as a
murderer, Ralph felt himself in the position of a lurking wolf, liable
to be found out at any moment, and hooted from the company of men. He
was already of a different kind from his fellows--a man apart and
outside of human sympathy. If it were known, whom would he have to
depend on? Would not his closest intimates be ready to assist the
sheriff in bringing him to punishment? The loneliness weighed on him.
Brandy would not lighten it. The rush of that detestable river was in
his ears, and would not be expelled, nor the swift glassy sweeping of
the tide be obliterated from his view, use his eyes or close them as
he might.
"Let me take you for a drive, Martha," he called out at last. "A long
drive in the sun and wind, I think, will do me good."
That drive was not a happy experience for the unfortunate horse. Urged
to his utmost speed, over endless miles of dusty way, in the heat and
glare of an August afternoon, Ralph suffered him not to flag, though
his sides were wet with foam and his ears drooped with fatigue.
Heedless of all else, Ralph strove to escape or outstrip the dull
oppression that had fallen on his spirit, the dismay which, like a
shadow, stood by his shoulder and at his ear, whispering in the
rushing river's voice, and pointing him to the shimmer of waters
closing on the swimmer's head, turn his eyes whithersoever he might.
Martha sat pensively and silent by his side. In his miserable
pre-occupation he forgot her presence, and spoke to her not a word,
bent on urging the horse forward, in feverish merciless impatience.
"Ralph!" Martha cried at last in genuine alarm. She had known him in
feverish moods before, which violent motion and exertion had been able
to relieve, but she never before had seen him act and look as now. She
feared for his sanity, and kept silence while she could, trusting to
his out-wearing the fit; but in time it seemed to her that their lives
were in danger, they were liable to be thrown out at any moment, and
succour was miles away. "Ralph!" and she laid her hand on his sleeve.
"Where are you going? Where do you want to take us? You will break
down the horse and throw us out upon the road, if you do not mind.
Look at him!--he seems fit to drop."
Ralph started, and but for his wife the reins would have slipped from
his hand. He was like one awakened from a horrid dream, roused to what
is going on around him. He checked the horse, brought him to a walk,
and shortly stopped. The relief he experienced at the moment he was
disturbed was inexpressible, he could have laughed and babbled with
delight; but then, too quickly, he recollected. There was something to
conceal as well as to forget; he must guard his every word and
movement. By-and-by unheeded incidents might be re-called, and pieced
together into a web of circumstantial evidence from which it would be
impossible to escape. He must command himself.
"It's the heat, Martha, the heat. My head has been turning round all
day. Wonder if I can have had a slight sunstroke? It was well you
spoke; I must have been asleep--sleeping with my eyes open, and
driving like mad. Poor Catchfly! I've nearly killed him. What will
Gerald say to me for ruining his nag? Too bad! Really I did not know
what I was doing. You should have spoken an hour ago, Martha."
"How could I, Ralph? You have not spoken a word since we came out. I
did not know what might be the matter. It was only when Catchfly began
to look as if he must drop, and the road got stony, and I saw the
gravel pits by the wayside, that I began to fear for our necks and
spoke. Where are you going? Where are we?"
"I do not know where we are. As to where I am going, it can only be
_back again_, if we can find the way."
"We must 'light then, and give the poor beast an hour or two's rest,
at any rate. See how used up he is! It will be no wonder if he goes
lame; and see, he has lost a shoe!"
"We must get out of this sun-beaten road, at any rate, into the shade.
There is a grove by the road-side, a mile on the way back. See it? A
sugar-bush[1] it looks like from here. There must be a homestead not
far from it. We may hire a fresh horse there, perhaps, and let them
bring home Catchfly to-morrow."
In time the sugar-bush was reached, and by-and-by, the farmer's house.
The way seemed long, they traversed it so slowly, for Catchfly fell
lame as he began to cool; and they had to alight and lead him ere the
end.
In consideration of money paid, the farmer complied with their wishes.
Catchfly was liberated from the shafts, and another horse took his
place--a horse which had toiled all day in the turnip field, and at
his best was not remarkable for speed. They were condemned to sit up
helplessly behind, while this patient beast trudged wearily along the
road. The day waned into twilight, and Martha's patience died out with
the light.
"Say! Ralph, you can go home and have your dinner. I've had enough of
buggy-riding for one day. Let me out here, at Miss Stanley's gate,
she'll give me a cup of tea. After dinner you can send up Gerald to
bring me home."
"I don't feel hungry either," answered Ralph. "It will be dull without
you. I'll go in, too, and bring you home myself by-and-by."
The ladies were sitting in the dusk without candles. Penelope drowsed
over some knitting by the window, while Matilda and Muriel played old
duets from memory; the former seemingly without much interest or
attention, though she still kept on playing, notwithstanding Muriel's
frequent exclamations that she had gone astray. The window was
darkened for an instant, but the music still went on, hurrying just a
little, perhaps, to reach its close. It was only a lady who had come
and sat down by Penelope, speaking softly, as if unwilling to
interrupt. And then, through the other window there entered a man, the
dark outline of whose figure alone was seen against the dimly-lighted
garden, and the music ceased, for Matilda had risen.
"Mr. Considine--at last. And we have been looking for you since two
o'clock. The horses harnessed, lunch baskets packed, everything ready.
What an apology you have got to make us! I really do not think
Penelope can bring herself to forgive you, whatever you say."
Ralph gasped and started, stopped short, looked wildly behind him, and
catching hold of a chair to steady himself, dropped into it in a
momentary palsy of fright.
"Mr. Herkimer!" Matilda corrected herself, "What a ridiculous
mistake!" and she coloured, perhaps, but it was growing dark, and no
inquisitive eye was near. "You seem quite faint with the heat. Muriel,
get him some wine and water. And Martha! I did not observe you come
in. Mr. Herkimer seems quite poorly."
"He has been out of sorts all day. Biliousness and the heat combined.
No! You did not observe _me_. It was impossible to mistake _my_ shadow
for Considine's."
Ralph started and stamped his foot. That man's name again; and _he_
striving so strenuously to forget!
"Are you worse? Ralph," asked Martha, noticing his movement. "I
wonder, Matilda, you should mistake Ralph for Considine. They are both
men, that is all the resemblance I can see between them." And Martha
smiled.
"We expected Mr. Considine, that is all. We have been looking for him
since two o'clock. He has not come, and he has not sent. I never knew
him serve us so before. He is so very particular in general."
"I should think so. Depend upon it there is some good reason, or a
message has miscarried."
Ralph writhed. Why _would_ they speak of the man? It seemed as if they
could speak of no one else. And yet they did not know, and they must
not know. Nobody must know; and he must exert a vigorous control upon
himself. How was it that control should be needed at all? What
weakness was this that had fallen on him? He did not understand it.
About a man already dead--done with; non-existent; wiped like a cipher
from a slate--vanished and disappeared?