REMORSE
And well we know your tenderness of heart
And gentle, deep, compassionate remorse.
SHAKESPEARE.
Filled with horror, that subdued all outward show of emotion, the old
black woman lifted the light form of her mistress and bore it across the
room to the lounge.
Overcome with grief and terror, the child followed her, shaking as with
a hard ague fit.
’Phia laid the fast-stiffening body down on the couch and straightened
the limbs, and drew the white dress down to the small, rigid feet.
Little Gloria stood by, clasping the woman’s skirts, and crying and
sobbing as if her heart would burst.
When ’Phia had decently composed the small body, she went to the bell
and rang it sharply, then she turned the key of the door and came back
to her post.
She gazed for a moment on the poor, dead face, and then tenderly closed
the eyes, keeping her fingers and thumb lightly pressed on the white
lids.
Some one came running swiftly along the passage outside, tried the lock,
and then rapped.
’Phia went and unlocked the door, holding it a few inches apart, to
prevent the entrance of the new-comer.
There were but three servants in that reduced establishment—’Phia, her
husband Laban, and her daughter Lamia.
It was the latter who had come to answer the bell.
“What does yer want, mammy?” inquired the girl, seeing that her mother
barred her farther progress.
“You tell your daddy to run here right off. No nonsense, now; not to
’lay a minute, but to run here right off! Yer hear me, don’t yer?”
“Yes, mammy; but daddy done gone ’way in de boat to Sinnigger’s.”
“Whey?” sharply demanded the woman.
“To Sinnigger’s, mammy.”
“What he done gone dere for, when he wanted so bad here?”
“Marster done sent him dere arter de doctor. Marster come a-rabin’ out
to de quarter, just now, like he gone rip stabin’ mad, an’ say how
mist’ess wer’ took berry ill, an’ he hauled off daddy down to de landin’
to start him off to Sinnigger’s arter de doctor. Is mist’ess dat bad,
sure ’nough?”
“Hum! Sent arter de doctor, eh? No use send arter de doctor now. Set a
house afire, an’ den run for a gourd o’ water to put it out! Hum! Dat a
blind!” muttered ’Phia.
“Is mist’ess so berry bad?” inquired the girl.
“So yer daddy’s gone to Sinnigger’s. Whey’s yer marster?”
“Marster done gone down to de boat landin’ to hurry daddy off, I telled
you before, mammy. But, say, is mist’ess bad as all dat comes to?”
inquired the girl for the third time.
“It ain’t none o’ your business! You go right straight down de kitchen
and put on a kettle ob water to heat,” replied the woman, closing the
door on her daughter.
“Sent for de doctor! Hum. Dat piece ob ’ception ain’t a gwine to do no
good. Lord, Lord, did I ebber expect to lib to see dis awful day? Dough
I hab offen an’ offen prophesied as how murder would be done in dis
forsak, unlawful house, did I ebber expect as it would come to pass?
He’s done it, an’ he’ll sure to be hung, an’ den what is to come ob de
place? O-o-m-me,” groaned the woman, as she returned to her post of
duty.
At these dreadful words, the voice of the child, that had sunk into low
sobs, now arose in wails of anguish.
The next moment the door was thrown open and Marcellus de Crespigney
hurried into the room, haggard, ghastly, with distended eyeballs and
disheveled hair. After rapidly glancing around the room, his eyes fell
upon the form lying on the lounge, and he hurried up to it, breathing
hard, as he put the questions:
“How is she? How is she? Better?”
The appalled woman silently moved aside and the child crouched down upon
the floor and made room for him.
He stooped anxiously over the rigid form, looked deeply into the marble
face and uttered a cry which those that heard never forgot in all their
after life.
Then dashing his hand violently against his forehead, he flung himself
down by the couch, and dropped his head upon the cold breast of his
wife, wailing forth:
“Dead! Dead! Dead! And I have killed her! I, a murderer, most accursed!”
He was totally unconscious of the sobbing child at his feet, or the
frowning woman who stood with folded arms, like a black Nemesis, at his
back. He had eyes for neither—for nothing but the lifeless form before
him.
Gazing on her, pressing his lips to her cold brow, again and again, he
broke into the most violent lamentations, the most awful
self-accusations.
Then hiding his head in the folds of her raiment, he groaned aloud and
seemed to swoon into silence.
Again, with an accession of frenzy, he started up and began striding to
and fro, from end to end of the long room, uttering the most agonized
self-reproaches, and calling down the most horrible maledictions upon
his own head.
This terrible scene went on until at last the weeping child, her heart
half broken with grief for her who was beyond suffering, and for him who
still suffered, arose from her crouching position and dried her tears
and tried to still her sobs, and went to the maddened man, as he raged
up and down the floor, invoking imprecations on his own head.
She came behind him, pleading in her pitiful tones:
“Oh, uncle, do not curse yourself! Pray! The Lord is merciful!” And she
put her little hand out to touch his.
Then he whirled around upon her like a furious wind, his eyes flashing
lightnings of frenzy, his voice thundering:
“Avaunt! Begone! Let no innocent thing come near me!”
The child turned and fled and buried her face in the lap of Sophia, who
was now seated by the dead body of her mistress.
“Let me take you to bed, little Glo’,” whispered the woman.
“No—no,” sobbed the aggrieved and terrified child. “No—no. I want to
stay near him! I—I want to stay near him!”
Three dreadful hours passed in this way, with little change.
Sophia sat near the head of the lounge, keeping constant watch over the
corpse.
Little Gloria crouched on the floor at her feet, with her head hidden in
the old woman’s lap.
Marcellus de Crespigney raged up and down the floor, breathing
maledictions upon himself, or he dropped down before the dead body of
his wife, uttering awful groans or lapsing into more awful silence.
An hour after midnight there came a sound of footsteps, crunching
through the frozen snow, and followed by an alarm on the iron knocker at
the front door, which announced the arrival of Dr. Prout, the physician
of St. Inigoes.
De Crespigney, almost exhausted by the long continued violence of his
emotions, was now calm with the calmness of prostration and despair.
“Nothing serious the matter, I hope!” said the cordial voice of the
doctor, as he entered the room, ushered by Laban, and met by Colonel de
Crespigney, who advanced to receive him.
The physician of St. Inigoes was a short, stout, round-bodied little old
man, with a bald head, a smooth face, cheery voice and manner. He was
always dressed in speckless black from head to foot.
“Nothing serious, I hope? Only one of madame’s usual nervous attacks,
eh?” he cheerfully demanded, as he shook hands with the master of the
house.
“It is her last attack, sir. She is dead,” answered De Crespigney, in
steady tones.
“Dead? Lord bless my soul, I am—I—dead, do you say?” exclaimed the
doctor, in surprise and confusion.
“Yes, sir, she is gone. Come and see.”
“Lord bless my soul, I am very much shocked!” exclaimed the good little
man, as he followed the bereaved husband to the lounge on which the body
of the ill-fated wife lay.
Old ’Phia lifted the white handkerchief that covered the white face, and
then withdrew to give way to her master and the doctor, leading the
trembling child away with her.
“How did this happen?” solemnly inquired the doctor, as he gazed down on
the waxen face, with the stream of scarlet blood curdled from the corner
of the mouth down upon the chin and throat, where it lay in a thick
cake.
“Through me. I killed her,” answered De Crespigney, in the same dread
monotone in which all his answers to the doctor’s questions had been
made.
Dr. Prout turned and gazed at him in amazement for a moment, and then
said gravely and kindly:
“My dear friend, this shock has been too much for you. Compose yourself.
This unhappy lady has had a fatal hemorrhage of the lungs, such as I
feared for a long time past; such as I warned you might be the result of
any unusual excitement.”
“Just so, you warned me, yet I killed her.”
The doctor looked at him in a great trouble, then replaced the
handkerchief over the quiet face of the dead, and taking his arm led him
to a distant sofa, placed him on it, took the seat beside him, and said:
“De Crespigney, you must not say such false things about yourself. Think
what the effect upon other minds may be.”
“They are not false; they are true. Listen to me, Dr. Prout. You know
you warned me that excitement might prove fatal to my unhappy wife.”
“Yes.”
“You know how prone she was to excitement. You knew her delicate health
and her extreme nervous irritability?”
“I knew the weakness of her lungs and the violence of her temper. I knew
all that, Colonel de Crespigney, before you ever saw her face.”
“Let that pass,” said Marcel, waving his hand impatiently. “You warned
me against the danger of excitement for her. I was not man enough to
heed your warning in her behalf. I have been frenzied to-night, Dr.
Prout. But attend! This evening I irritated her, excited, taunted,
maddened, murdered her!”
“Oh, my dear Colonel. Oh, tut, tut, tut!”
“But hear me! I must tell some one. Oh, this necessity of
confession—this afternoon a dispute arose between us, indeed I know not
how—I should have calmed, soothed, conciliated her, knowing how
dangerous was excitement to that poor, fragile being! But I did not.
When she accused me, I recriminated; when she reproached me, I retorted.
‘One word brought on another,’ as the people say. She grew frantic and
knew not what she said, I do verily believe. Yet her words stung me to
frenzy, and, forgetting my manhood, I—I——”
Here Marcel de Crespigney’s voice broke, and he covered his brow with
his hand and dropped his head upon his breast with a look of unutterable
shame.
“You never could have raised your hand against your wife, De
Crespigney?” exclaimed the doctor, in a harsh voice, and shrinking away
from his companion.
Up went the fine head, and wide open with astonishment at such a
question the splendid eyes, as Marcel replied:
“Who—I? I raise my hand against that poor little, fragile being? I raise
my hand against any woman? I may be a devil, Dr. Prout, but I am
not—a—what would you call a man who would strike a woman anyway? I am
sure I don’t know.”
“Pardon me the base thought, De Crespigney. It was but a passing
thought. Scarcely that indeed. But what do you mean, then, by your
self-accusations, my poor friend?”
“I killed her all the same. If I did not strike with my hand, I struck
with the poisoned arrow of the tongue. Is any serpent’s sting so
venomous as the tongue? Her tongue had stung me to frenzy. She accused
me, poor, wrong-headed child that she was, she accused me of marrying
her for money, for this miserable, sterile promontory, with its ruinous
house and worthless land. I retorted by telling her I married her for
pity. “Yes!” cried Marcel, suddenly starting up, and striding to and fro
with rising excitement, “yes, villain! caitiff! cur that I was, I told
my wife—I told that delicate and sensitive creature that I had married
her only for pity! And worse, far worse than that, I saw her pale face
grow scarlet at my cruel, shameful words, then, white as death, as she
sank upon a chair and placed her hand upon her chest. I did not care.
The devil had possession of me.””
“‘You will kill me,’ she gasped.
“‘DIE, then, and end it all!’ I answered, brutally, for I half suspected
she was acting all this illness. But the next instant she fell heavily
forward, with the blood welling from her throat.”
“Gracious Heaven!” murmured the doctor in a low tone.
“I remembered what you had warned me to do in case of such an emergency.
I went and laid her down on the rugs quietly, and then ran out and
dispatched a servant for you. In ten minutes I was back again at her
side, but—she was gone.”
“I came the very moment that I was summoned, but the way was long,” said
the doctor.
“You could have done no good, as it turned out, even if you had been in
the house. The fault was mine. I killed her! I killed the poor little
fragile woman, whose only fault was to love me too well, too jealously,
too exactingly, too insanely!” exclaimed De Crespigney, heaping up words
as men will do under any strong excitement. “Yes, I killed my delicate,
sensitive wife! I killed her with cruel, shameful, unmanly words. Oh,
accursed VILLAIN!” he cried, smiting his forehead with a violent blow,
as he strode up and down the room.
Dr. Prout went up to him, took his arm and drew it within his own, and
saying, with the authority of a keeper over a madman:
“Come, De Crespigney, you must go with me. I am going to take you off to
bed and give you an opiate. You, Laban, there! Lead the way to your
master’s chamber.”
Marcel, whose stormy fits of emotion had reduced him to the weakness of
infancy, submitted himself to be led from the room, preceded by his
servant, Laban.
Then there was left in the apartment of death, with the corpse, the old
watcher, Sophia, and the child, Gloria, who had sobbed herself to sleep
with her head on the black woman’s lap.
A few minutes after the doctor had led De Crespigney away, however,
Lamia softly entered the room and whispered:
“The hot water is ready, mammy.”
“Yes. Well, now take this child and carry her up to her room, and
undress her without waking her, if possible, and put her to bed. But if
she do wake, you stay with her till she goes to sleep again, an’ then
you come down here an’ help me. You know what’s happened of by dis time,
don’t you?”
“Oh, yes; mist’ess hab broken a blood-vessel, an’ ’deed——”
“Yes! Lord forgive me! I did fink by de way he ran on, as marster had
done it hisself! I thanks my Lord it wasn’t him, and dere’ll be no
crowner’s quest, nor hanging! Dere, gal, take de poor dear chile and
carry her to bed. Well, poor mist’ess, I hopes de Lord will hab messy on
her soul! Anyways, dere won’t be no more quarrellin’ an’ fightin’ an’
’fendin’ an’ provin’ an’ ’spoundin’ an’ ’splainin’ in de house to drive
a body ravin’, ’stracted mad. Marse ain’t ’clined to quarrel much
hisself, an’ if he was, he couldn’t quarrel by hisself ’dout some one
else to help him,” growled old ’Phia, as she lifted the child and laid
her, still sleeping, in the arms of Lamia.
The girl took the exhausted child up to her room, undressed, and put her
into bed without awakening her.
Once, indeed, the poor little creature half waked as she was finally
laid on her pillow; but she only sobbed and swooned away to sleep.
Lamia stood by the bed watching her for a few minutes, and seeing that
she was not likely to wake for hours to come, left the chamber and went
down stairs to join her “mammy” in the room of death.
Together they washed and dressed the dead, and laid it out neatly on the
long table to await the undertaker. Then ’Phia lighted a couple of wax
candles and placed one at the head and one at the foot.
Lastly, the two set the room in perfect order, replenished the fire, and
finally took up their positions, sitting one on the right, and the other
on the left of the body, to watch until daylight.
Dr. Prout remained all night with his sorrowing friend, and then, after
an early breakfast the next morning, departed to make, at the request of
Colonel de Crespigney, the necessary arrangements for the funeral.
When Marcel de Crespigney re-entered the room of death he found it
filled with an atmosphere of repose that calmed even his perturbed
spirit. He went to the table and turned down the white linen cover, and
saw the face of the dead soothed into a peaceful beauty such as it had
never known in life. He gazed on it for some minutes, and then stooped
and pressed his lips to the cold, quiet brow with more tenderness than
he had ever kissed the living woman. Then he reverently covered the face
again, and stole silently from the room.
Little Gloria slept the deep sleep of mental and physical prostration.
She did not wake until noon. Then she awoke to memory, and to an agony
of grief that refused to be comforted.
“And not a lady about de house to look arter de poor chile! Not eben a
white ’oman anywhere in reach. An’ me an’ Lamia dat oberloaded with
work, along ob dis drea’ful business!” groaned ’Phia, as she trotted
from chamber to parlor, and from parlor to kitchen on her multifarious
duties.
Even in the midst of her lamentations she met relief. In the kitchen she
found David Lindsay and his grandmother, just arrived, and waiting to
see if they could be of any use.
David, on coming to work that morning, had met Dr. Prout and had
anxiously inquired if any one was sick at the “house,” and in answer had
received the news of Madame de Crespigney’s death.
Then remembering the limited resources of service in that small and
isolated household, David, with the thoughtfulness of a boy who had long
had a man’s responsibilities on his own young shoulders, re-entered his
boat and rowed rapidly across to the little sandy isle, to tell his
grandmother, and even to suggest her returning with him.
The gentle old dame saw even more clearly than her grandson had done,
the need they had of her at Promontory Hall. So she lost no time in
getting ready to go, and in less than half an hour from the moment when
she received the news, she stood in Sophia’s kitchen, earnestly offering
her services.
“If you’ll only look after de chile, which I b’lieve you is a great
favorite ’long o’ her, dat is all as I shall ax ob you,” said ’Phia.
And so the sweet old dame “looked after” little Gloria, and comforted
her, night and day, during the three days that preparations for the
funeral went on.
Meanwhile, David Lindsay made himself useful in many ways at the Hall
during the day, and at night returned to the little isle to take care of
the house in the absence of its mistress.
Often Gloria tried to see and console her stricken uncle; but he always
refused to have her, saying:
“Let all innocent beings keep aloof from me.”
Thus, in alternations between the frenzy of remorse and the stupor of
despair, Marcel de Crespigney passed the interval between the death and
burial of his “murdered wife,” as, in his morbid self-reproach, he
called her.
“Words kill!” he answered to the expostulations of his friend, the
doctor. “Words kill, and I killed her with cruel words! The last words I
spoke to her—the last words her failing senses heard from me—were cruel,
murderous words! They killed her! What though no law can drag me before
an earthly tribunal to answer for her life? Before the awful judgment
seat of the God in my own soul, I stand a self-convicted murderer!”
The good doctor shrugged his shoulders, reflecting that it was of no use
to argue with a man whose morbid sensibility made him, for the time
being, a monomaniac.
Marcel de Crespigney, who had so greatly distinguished himself for
martial courage and ability during the Mexican war, was weaker than a
child where his sympathies were involved.
This weakness had betrayed him into all the misery of his life. It had
drawn him, in his early youth, into a marriage with a plain, sickly,
faded woman, who loved him with that morbid, exclusive, absorbing
passion that, disappointed, sometimes sends its victim to the madhouse
or the grave.
He had married her—let the truth be here told—from the promptings of
compassion alone. He had given her all that he had to give—sympathy,
tenderness, service. But this was not love—not the love she craved and
missed. Hence came humiliation, morbid brooding, and the monomania that
turned all his kindly acts and motives into outrage and offence.
Had children blessed their union, and so divided her thoughts and
affections, or had they—the husband and wife—though childless, lived in
a city, where society must have claimed some of her attention, and
taught her something of life, she might have been much healthier in mind
and body, and their marriage might have been happier.
But in the drear solitude of Promontory Hall, with no children to
fondle, no society but that of the studious, intellectual man whom she
vainly and madly loved, there could have been but one of two results for
her—madness or death. The most merciful of the two was hers.
But it was also impossible that De Crespigney’s mind, under all these
circumstances, should have retained its healthy tone, or that his long
patience should not have at last become exhausted, so that in one moment
of unexampled exasperation he lost the self-control of years and told
her the truth—the truth, not “in love,” but in wrath and scorn, that had
slain her.
Now he would not seek to palliate his fault or justify himself. He would
not remember the jealousy, the violence, the acrimony with which she had
driven him to frenzy; he would only remember her strong love for him and
his secret indifference to her, and his deeply sympathetic,
compassionate and conscientious spirit suffered pangs of remorse that
would seem to others morbid, excessive and unjustifiable.
On the fifth day following the catastrophe, the remains of Eusebie de
Crespigney were placed in an elegant rosewood casket and conveyed by
boat to the little Gothic chapel on La Compte’s Landing, where they were
met by a small number of old friends and neighbors, and where, after the
religious services were over, they were consigned to the family vault
under the chancel.
Immediately after the funeral, Marcel de Crespigney utterly broke down
and fell ill of a brain fever.
Dr. Prout, taking authority on himself in the household anarchy,
installed Mrs. Lindsay as nurse, and wrote to his family.