THE TRAGEDY IN HOOK COURT.
[Illustration]
Conway Dalrymple had hurried out of the room in Mrs. Broughton's
house in which he had been painting Jael and Sisera, thinking that
it would be better to meet an angry and perhaps tipsy husband on
the stairs, than it would be either to wait for him till he should
make his way into his wife's room, or to hide away from him with
the view of escaping altogether from so disagreeable an encounter.
He had no fear of the man. He did not think that there would be any
violence,--nor, as regarded himself, did he much care if there was
to be violence. But he felt that he was bound, as far as it might
be possible, to screen the poor woman from the ill effects of her
husband's temper and condition. He was, therefore, prepared to stop
Broughton on the stairs, and to use some force in arresting him on
his way, should he find the man to be really intoxicated. But he
had not descended above a stair or two before he was aware that
the man below him, whose step had been heard in the hall, was
not intoxicated, and that he was not Dobbs Broughton. It was Mr.
Musselboro.
"It is you, is it?" said Conway. "I thought it was Broughton." Then
he looked into the man's face and saw that he was ashy pale. All that
appearance of low-bred jauntiness which used to belong to him seemed
to have been washed out of him. His hair had forgotten to curl,
his gloves had been thrown aside, and even his trinkets were out
of sight. "What has happened?" said Conway. "What is the matter?
Something is wrong." Then it occurred to him that Musselboro had been
sent to the house to tell the wife of the husband's ruin.
"The servant told me that I should find you upstairs," said
Musselboro.
"Yes; I have been painting here. For some time past I have been doing
a picture of Miss Van Siever. Mrs. Van Siever has been here to-day."
Conway thought that this information would produce some strong effect
on Clara's proposed husband; but he did not seem to regard the matter
of the picture nor the mention of Miss Van Siever's name.
"She knows nothing of it?" said he. "She doesn't know yet?"
"Know what?" asked Conway. "She knows that her husband has lost
money."
"Dobbs has--destroyed himself."
"What!"
"Blew his brains out this morning just inside the entrance at Hook
Court. The horror of drink was on him, and he stood just in the
pathway and shot himself. Bangles was standing at the top of their
vaults and saw him do it. I don't think Bangles will ever be a man
again. O Lord! I shall never get over it myself. The body was there
when I went in." Then Musselboro sank back against the wall of the
staircase, and stared at Dalrymple as though he still saw before him
the terrible sight of which he had just spoken.
Dalrymple seated himself on the stairs and strove to bring his mind
to bear on the tale which he had just heard. What was he to do, and
how was that poor woman upstairs to be informed? "You came here
intending to tell her," he said, in a whisper. He feared every moment
that Mrs. Broughton would appear on the stairs, and learn from a word
or two what had happened without any hint to prepare her for the
catastrophe.
"I thought you would be here. I knew you were doing the picture. He
knew it. He'd had a letter to say so,--one of those anonymous ones."
"But that didn't influence him?"
"I don't think it was that," said Musselboro. "He meant to have had
it out with her; but it wasn't that as brought this about. Perhaps
you didn't know that he was clean ruined?"
"She had told me."
"Then she knew it?"
"Oh, yes; she knew that. Mrs. Van Siever had told her. Poor creature!
How are we to break this to her?"
"You and she are very thick," said Musselboro. "I suppose you'll do
it best." By this time they were in the drawing-room, and the door
was closed. Dalrymple had put his hand on the other man's arm, and
had led him downstairs, out of reach of hearing from the room above.
"You'll tell her,--won't you?" said Musselboro. Then Dalrymple tried
to think what loving female friend there was who could break the news
to the unfortunate woman. He knew of the Van Sievers, and he knew
of the Demolines, and he almost knew that there was no other woman
within reach whom he was entitled to regard as closely connected with
Mrs. Broughton. He was well aware that the anonymous letter of which
Musselboro had just spoken had come from Miss Demolines, and he could
not go there for sympathy and assistance. Nor could he apply to Mrs.
Van Siever after what had passed this morning. To Clara Van Siever
he would have applied, but that it was impossible he should reach
Clara except through her mother. "I suppose I had better go to her,"
he said, after a while. And then he went, leaving Musselboro in the
drawing-room. "I'm so bad with it," said Musselboro, "that I really
don't know how I shall ever go up that court again."
Conway Dalrymple made his way up the stairs with very slow steps,
and as he did so he could not but think seriously of the nature of
his friendship with this woman, and could not but condemn himself
heartily for the folly and iniquity of his own conduct. Scores of
times he had professed his love to her with half-expressed words,
intended to mean nothing, as he said to himself when he tried to
excuse himself, but enough to turn her head, even if they did not
reach her heart. Now, this woman was a widow, and it came to be his
duty to tell her that she was so. What if she should claim from
him now the love which he had so often proffered to her! It was
not that he feared that she would claim anything from him at this
moment,--neither now, nor to-morrow, nor the next day,--but the agony
of the present meeting would produce others in which there would be
some tenderness mixed with the agony; and so from one meeting to
another the thing would progress. Dalrymple knew well enough how such
things might progress. But in this danger before him, it was not of
himself that he was thinking, but of her. How could he assist her at
such a time without doing her more injury than benefit? And, if he
did not assist her, who would do so? He knew her to be heartless; but
even heartless people have hearts which can be touched and almost
broken by certain sorrows. Her heart would not be broken by her
husband's death, but it would become very sore if she were utterly
neglected. He was now at the door, with his hand on the lock, and was
wondering why she should remain so long within without making herself
heard. Then he opened it, and found her seated in a lounging-chair,
with her back to the door, and he could see that she had a volume of
a novel in her hand. He understood it all. She was pretending to be
indifferent to her husband's return. He walked up to her, thinking
that she would recognize his step; but she made no sign of turning
towards him. He saw the motion of her hair over the back of the chair
as she affected to make herself luxuriously comfortable. She was
striving to let her husband see that she cared nothing for him, or
for his condition, or for his jealousy, if he were jealous,--or even
for his ruin. "Mrs. Broughton," he said, when he was close to her.
Then she jumped up quickly, and turned round, facing him. "Where is
Dobbs?" she said. "Where is Broughton?"
"He is not here."
"He is in the house, for I heard him. Why have you come back?"
Dalrymple's eye fell on the tattered canvas, and he thought of the
doings of the past month. He thought of the picture of three Graces,
which was hanging in the room below, and he thoroughly wished that he
had never been introduced to the Broughton establishment. How was he
to get through his present difficulty? "No," said he, "Broughton did
not come. It was Mr. Musselboro whose steps you heard below."
"What is he here for? What is he doing here? Where is Dobbs? Conway,
there is something the matter. He has gone off!"
"Yes;--he has gone off."
"The coward!"
"No; he was not a coward;--not in that way."
The use of the past tense, unintentional as it had been, told the
story to the woman at once. "He is dead," she said. Then he took both
her hands in his and looked into her face without speaking a word.
And she gazed at him with fixed eyes, and rigid mouth, while the
quick coming breath just moved the curl of her nostrils. It occurred
to him at the moment that he had never before seen her so wholly
unaffected, and had never before observed that she was so totally
deficient in all the elements of real beauty. She was the first to
speak again. "Conway," she said, "tell it me all. Why do you not
speak to me?"
"There is nothing further to tell," said he.
Then she dropped his hands and walked away from him to the
window,--and stood there looking out upon the stuccoed turret of
a huge house that stood opposite. As she did so she was employing
herself in counting the windows. Her mind was paralysed by the blow,
and she knew not how to make any exertion with it for any purpose.
Everything was changed with her,--and was changed in such a way
that she could make no guess as to her future mode of life. She was
suddenly a widow, a pauper, and utterly desolate,--while the only
person in the whole world that she really liked was standing close to
her. But in the midst of it all she counted the windows of the house
opposite. Had it been possible for her she would have put her mind
altogether to sleep.
He let her stand for a few minutes and then joined her at the window.
"My friend," he said, "what shall I do for you?"
"Do?" she said. "What do you mean by--doing?"
"Come and sit down and let me talk to you," he replied. Then he led
her to the sofa, and as she seated herself I doubt whether she had
not almost forgotten that her husband was dead.
"What a pity it was to cut it up," she said, pointing to the rags of
Jael and Sisera.
"Never mind the picture now. Dreadful as it is, you must allow
yourself to think of him for a few minutes."
"Think of what! O God! yes. Conway, you must tell me what to do. Was
everything gone? It isn't about myself. I don't mind about myself. I
wish it was me instead of him. I do. I do."
"No wishing is of any avail."
"But, Conway, how did it happen? Do you think it is true? That man
would say anything to gain his object. Is he here now?"
"I believe he is here still."
"I won't see him. Remember that. Nothing on earth shall make me see
him."
"It may be necessary, but I do not think it will be;--at any rate not
yet."
"I will never see him. I believe that he has murdered my husband. I
do. I feel sure of it. Now I think of it I am quite sure of it. And
he will murder you too;--about that girl. He will. I tell you I know
the man." Dalrymple simply shook his head, smiling sadly. "Very well!
you will see. But, Conway, how do you know that it is true? Do you
believe it yourself?"
"I do believe it."
"And how did it happen?"
"He could not bear the ruin that he had brought upon himself and
you."
"Then;--then--" She went no further in her speech; but Dalrymple
assented by a slight motion of his head, and she had been informed
sufficiently that her husband had perished by his own hand. "What am
I to do?" she said. "Oh, Conway;--you must tell me. Was there ever so
miserable a woman! Was it--poison?"
He got up and walked quickly across the room and back again to the
place where she was sitting. "Never mind about that now. You shall
know all that in time. Do not ask any questions about that. If I were
you I think I would go to bed. You will be better there than up, and
this shock will make you sleep."
"No," she said. "I will not go to bed. How should I know that that
man would not come to me and kill me? I believe he murdered Dobbs;--I
do. You are not going to leave me, Conway?"
"I think I had better, for a while. There are things which should be
done. Shall I send one of the women to you?"
"There is not one of them that cares for me in the least. Oh, Conway,
do not go; not yet. I will not be left alone in the house with him.
You will be very cruel if you go and leave me now,--when you have so
often said that you,--that you,--that you were my friend." And now,
at last, she began to weep.
"I think it will be best," he said, "that I should go to Mrs. Van
Siever. If I can manage it I will get Clara to come to you."
"I do not want her," said Mrs. Broughton. "She is a heartless cold
creature, and I do not want to have her near me. My poor husband was
ruined among them;--yes, ruined among them. It has all been done that
she may marry that horrid man and live here in this house. I have
known ever so long that he has not been safe among them."
"You need fear nothing from Clara," said Dalrymple, with some touch
of anger in his voice.
"Of course you will say so. I can understand that very well. And it
is natural that you should wish to be with her. Pray go."
Then he sat beside her, and took her hand, and endeavoured to speak
to her so seriously, that she herself might become serious, and if
it might be possible, in some degree contemplative. He told her how
necessary it was that she should have some woman near her in her
trouble, and explained to her that as far as he knew her female
friends, there would be no one who would be so considerate with her
as Clara Van Siever. She at one time mentioned the name of Miss
Demolines; but Dalrymple altogether opposed the notion of sending for
that lady,--expressing his opinion that the amiable Madalina had done
all in her power to create quarrels both between Mrs. Broughton and
her husband and between Dobbs Broughton and Mrs. Van Siever. And he
spoke his opinion very fully about Miss Demolines. "And yet you liked
her once," said Mrs. Broughton. "I never liked her," said Dalrymple
with energy. "But all that matters nothing now. Of course you can
send for her if you please; but I do not think her trustworthy, and
I will not willingly come in contact with her." Then Mrs. Broughton
gave him to understand that of course she must give way, but that in
giving way she felt herself to be submitting to that ill-usage which
is the ordinary lot of women, and to which she, among women, had been
specially subjected. She did not exactly say as much, fearing that if
she did he would leave her altogether; but that was the gist of her
plaints and wails, and final acquiescence.
"And you are going?" she said, catching hold of his arm.
"I will employ myself altogether and only about your affairs, till I
see you again."
"But I want you to stay."
"It would be madness. Look here;--lie down till Clara comes or till I
return. Do not go beyond this room and your own. If she cannot come
this evening I will return. Good-by now. I will see the servants as I
go out, and tell them what ought to be told."
"Oh, Conway," she said, clutching hold of him again, "I know that you
despise me."
"I do not despise you, and I will be as good a friend to you as I
can. God bless you." Then he went, and as he descended the stairs he
could not refrain from telling himself that he did in truth despise
her.
His first object was to find Musselboro, and to dismiss that
gentleman from the house. For though he himself did not attribute
to Mrs. Van Siever's favourite any of those terrible crimes and
potentialities for crime, with which Mrs. Dobbs Broughton had
invested him, still he thought it reasonable that the poor woman
upstairs should not be subjected to the necessity of either seeing
him or hearing him. But Musselboro had gone, and Dalrymple could not
learn from the head woman-servant whom he saw, whether before going
he had told to any one in the house the tale of the catastrophe which
had happened in the City. Servants are wonderful actors, looking
often as though they knew nothing when they know everything,--as
though they understood nothing, when they understand all. Dalrymple
made known all that was necessary, and the discreet upper servant
listened to the tale with a proper amount of awe and horror and
commiseration. "Shot hisself in the City;--laws! You'll excuse me,
sir, but we all know'd as master was coming to no good." But she
promised to do her best with her mistress,--and kept her promise. It
is seldom that servants are not good in such straits as that.
From Mrs. Broughton's house Dalrymple went directly to Mrs. Van
Siever's, and learned that Musselboro had been there about half an
hour before, and had then gone off in a cab with Mrs. Van Siever. It
was now nearly four o'clock in the afternoon, and no one in the house
knew when Mrs. Van Siever would be back. Miss Van Siever was out,
and had been out when Mr. Musselboro had called, but was expected
in every minute. Conway therefore said that he would call again, and
on returning found Clara alone. She had not then heard a word of
the fate of Dobbs Broughton. Of course she would go at once to Mrs.
Broughton, and if necessary stay with her during the night. She wrote
a line at once to her mother, saying where she was, and went across
to Mrs. Broughton leaning on Dalrymple's arm. "Be good to her," said
Conway, as he left her at the door. "I will," said Clara. "I will be
as kind as my nature will allow me." "And remember," said Conway,
whispering into her ear as he pressed her hand at leaving her, "that
you are all the world to me." It was perhaps not a proper time for an
expression of love, but Clara Van Siever forgave the impropriety.