The Man Who Loved Her
Have you ever been in the tropics? If so, you must know how cruel the
sun can be to the unhappy Europeans grilling under its ardent rays. It
does not invigorate, nor tan the skin overmuch, nor make one think
life is a good thing; but it enervates the system, it relaxes the
muscles, it dulls the brain, until the body is nothing but a worn-out
shell, that moves, and rests, and lies down, and stands up in a
mechanical fashion, like an automaton. It was like this that Judith
felt after the terrible interview with Guinaud, and she went the round
of her daily duties in a dull, listless manner, that showed how
greatly her vital force had been exhausted by the ordeal she had
undergone. With constant attendance on the invalid, and anxious
thoughts about the position of affairs with regard to the Frenchman,
she was worn out mentally and physically.
At present it was difficult to come to any decision relative to
Florry's illness as the crisis had not yet come, and youth, health,
and love of life were all fighting desperately against the shadow of
death. The shock sustained by Florry on hearing of the untimely end of
her lover had quite unsettled her brain, and the balance was trembling
between health and sickness, between sanity and insanity, between life
and death. She needed constant watching, for at times, in the most
unexpected manner, she would spring from her bed and try to leave the
room, bound on some fantastic journey created by the excited state of
her brain. At other times she lay languid and exhausted, with dim,
unseeing eyes, raving madly about her lover and the unforeseen
calamity of his death. Afraid to trust this fragile life to the care
of a hired nurse, Judith herself sat by the bedside, and ministered to
the wants of the sick girl, holding the cool drink to the fevered
lips, bathing the feverish brow, and arranging with loving hand the
disordered bed-clothes.
It was bad enough in the day to sit in the twilight of the sick-room
listening to the aimless chatter that came from the white lips, but it
was worse at night. The sombre shadows that hung over all, the faint
glimmer of the shaded lamp, the uncanny stillness of the house, and
nothing awake but the sick girl with her pathetic pleadings, her
causeless laughter, and the incessant stream of disconnected
wanderings. No wonder Judith was quite worn out with constant
watching; much, however, as she needed rest, she never surrendered her
weary post by the bed, but sat, watchful and tender, during the long
hours, only calling in the nurse when the paroxysms seized the
invalid. All through the endless night succeeding the interview she
had sat like a stone image in the sick-room, going over in her own
tortured mind all that Guinaud had said. The morning broke dull and
gray, and the nurse insisted upon her resting for a time. Rest! there
was no such luxury for her; for even when lying down, her weary brain
went mechanically over the old ground, imagining a thousand terrors,
and agonising itself with a thousand pangs.
At last she slept for a time, but it was no refreshing slumber such as
would bring relief. No! nothing but dreams, strange, horrible dreams,
in all of which Judas, cruel and merciless, was the central figure; so
in despair of gaining quiet in any way, she arose in the afternoon,
and returned to her post by the side of Florry.
At four o'clock a card was brought to her bearing the name of Roger
Axton, and a few lines scribbled thereon asking her to see him at
once. With a start of terror, she wondered whether Judas had been to
Axton, and revealed anything; but remembering that silence was as
necessary to Judas as to herself, she dismissed this fear as idle, and
having called in the nurse, descended to the drawing-room.
Roger was there, pacing restlessly to and fro like a caged lion, but
when she entered he stopped at once, and looked at her fixedly as she
came towards him in her sweeping black dress. Worn and haggard both of
them, anxious and apprehensive both of them, they looked like two
criminals meeting for the first time after the commission of a secret
crime.
On seeing Roger's altered face, Judith also paused and gazed at him
with a terrified look in her dilated eyes. They stood silently looking
at one another for a single moment, but in that moment the agony of a
lifetime was concentrated.
At last Roger spoke in a low, smothered tone, as if the words issued
from his white lips against his will.
"No! no! I cannot believe it."
This speech broke the strange spell that held Judith motionless, and
stealing forward she touched him lightly on the shoulder as he sank
into a chair, covering his wild face with his hands.
"Roger!"
No answer. Only the short quick breath of the man and the soft rustle
of the woman's dress.
"Roger, what is the matter?"
He looked up suddenly, hollow-eyed and shrinking, with a wild,
questioning look on his worn face.
"I--I--have been told something."
"By--by that Frenchman?"
"Yes!"
"My God!" she muttered to herself, falling nerveless into a chair,
"what has he told him?"
"He has told me all!"
"All?"
"He has told not only me but Fanks!"
"The detective?"
"Yes."
She hid her face in her hands with a startled cry, at which he sprang
quickly from his chair and flung himself on his knees beside her.
"Oh, my love--my love!" he cried, entreatingly, "you are innocent; you
are innocent. I know you are!"
"I innocent?"
She was looking down at him with an expression of amazement on her
face, the beauty of which was marred by tears, by weariness, and by
anxious thought.
"Yes! I'll swear you did not kill him!"
"Kill whom?"
"Sebastian Melstane!"
"I kill Sebastian Melstane?" she cried, rising quickly, and drawing
herself up to her full height. "Who dares to accuse me of such a
thing?"
"Judas!"
"That wretch?"
"Yes; but you are innocent; I know you are innocent."
"Why?"
"Because I love you!"
Judith looked down at the man kneeling at her feet with a look of
infinite gratitude in her eyes, and passed her hand caressingly over
his dishevelled hair.
"Poor boy, how true you are! You are willing to believe in my
innocence without my denial."
"I am!"
She sat down, again, caught his head between her two hands and kissed
him softly on the forehead. As she did so, he felt a hot tear fall on
his cheek, and when he looked at her she was crying.
"Judith!" he cried, with sudden terror, "you are weeping."
"Yes. May God always send mankind such true hearts as yours!"
"I would be unworthy of your love if I did not believe you before all
the lying scoundrels in the world."
"Alas, Don Quixote!"
"But you can explain everything, Judith. I feel certain you can."
"I can explain when I hear your story. At present I know nothing
beyond the fact that Monsieur Guinaud has accused me of a vile crime.
What does he say?"
Roger, still kneeling by her side, told the story as related to him by
Fanks, and at the conclusion eagerly waited for her denial.
She said nothing, but sat in sombre silence, with her eyes fixed
beyond his head in a vague, unseeing manner.
"Judith!" he cried, desperately, "do you not hear what I say? This
scoundrel says that you visited Melstane at night and put those two
pills into the box with the intention of poisoning him."
Still she said nothing, and Roger felt a feeling of horror arise in
his breast as he watched her face, so cold, so frozen, so impassive in
its fixed calm.
"He has your handkerchief to prove that you were there. Judith,
speak!"
All at once the still figure became endowed with life, and with a
choking cry she tore herself from his encircling arms, and sprang
across the room.
"Judith!"
In a frenzy of dread he leaped up from his kneeling position, and went
rapidly towards her with outstretched hands.
"Stop!" she cried, wildly, shrinking against the wall, "stop!"
"Speak, speak! You must speak and deny this story."
"I cannot."
"Judith."
"I cannot!"
"My God!" he said, in a hoarse whisper, "is it true?"
"I cannot answer you."
Roger felt the room spin round him, and, reeling back, caught at a
chair for support, while he gazed with horror-filled eyes at the woman
he loved, standing there so rigid and speechless.
"Judith, you do not mean what you say," he cried entreatingly, "you
cannot understand. Judas says you murdered Melstane. He can prove it,
he says, by the handkerchief. He has told Fanks, who is a detective.
You are in danger. I cannot save you. Great Heaven! if you have any
pity for me--if you have any pity for yourself, speak and give the lie
to this foul accusation."
"I cannot, I tell you, Roger, I cannot!"
"You are innocent!"
"I cannot say."
"Are you guilty?"
"I cannot say."
Axton passed his hand over his brow in a bewildered fashion, hardly
knowing if he were asleep or awake, then, with a sudden resolution of
despair, flung himself on his knees at her feet.
"Judith! Judith! you must speak, you must. See me kneeling at your
feet. I love you, I love you! I do not believe this vile story. In my
eyes you are innocent. But the world--think of the world. It will deem
you guilty if you cannot defend yourself. Judas has you in his power.
He is a merciless wretch. He hates you. He will drag you down to
infamy and disgrace, unless you can clear yourself of this crime.
Speak for your own sake--for mine. Do not let this devil triumph over
you, for Heaven's sake. Deny his foul lies, and let him be punished as
he deserves. Speak, for the love of God, speak!"
Judith said nothing, but the quick panting of her breath, the nervous
tremor agitating her frame, and the rapid opening and shutting of her
hands showed how she was moved.
"She says nothing," said Axton to himself, as he arose slowly to his
feet, "she is silent. What does it mean?"
He made one last effort to induce her to deny the accusation of Judas.
"You will not speak!" he said, in tones of acute anguish. "I have
knelt, I have prayed; you are silent. I can do nothing. You are
innocent, I'll swear; but I cannot prove it. No one can prove it but
yourself, and you say nothing. Judith, listen! You are in deadly
peril. Fanks is coming up to-night with Judas, and they will accuse
you of this crime!"
"To-night?"
"Yes; they have written to Mr. Marson. They will produce the
handkerchief. They will tell the story. You refuse to answer me; you
must answer them. Fanks told me of this to-day, and I came up at once
to warn you."
"It is useless! I can say nothing."
"You must say something. It is a question of life and death. The
affair is in the hands of the law. Nothing can save you but your own
denial. You must prove the falseness of this horrible story. It means
disgrace. It means prison! It means death!"
She looked up suddenly as he spoke those last words, and crossing over
to him, laid her hand on his shoulder, speaking wildly, and with
uncontrollable agitation.
"I know what it means. You need not tell me that. I know it means the
smirching of my fair fame as a woman, I know that it condemns me to an
ignominious death; but I can say nothing. Roger, on my soul, I can say
nothing. I cannot say I am innocent; I dare not say I am guilty. I
must be silent. I must be dumb. Let them say what they like; let them
do what they like; my honour and my life rest in the hands of God, and
He alone can save me."
"But you are innocent!"
She burst into tears.
"Oh, why do you torture me like this? I tell you I can say nothing;
not even to you. My lips are sealed. Let them come up to-night; let
them accuse me; let them drag me to prison. I can say nothing. For
days, for nights I have dreaded this, now it has come at last. You
believe me innocent, my true-hearted lover, but the world will believe
me guilty. Let them do so. God knows my sufferings. God knows my
anguish, and in His hands I leave myself for good or ill."
He heard her with bowed head, and at the end of her speech he felt a
soft kiss on his hair. When he looked up the room was empty.
"Judith!"
There was no reply, and the only sound he heard was the distant
slamming of a door that seemed to his agonised imagination to separate
him from the woman he loved--for ever.