In the Green Chamber.
General Lennox opened the door suddenly, and stood in the green chamber,
holding his candle above his temple, and staring with a rather wild
countenance and a gathered brow to the further end of the room. A candle
burned on the table, and the Bible lay beside it. No one was there but
the inmate of the bed, who sat up with a scared face. He locked the door
in silence, and put the key in his pocket.
"Who's there?--who is it? O my God! Arthur, is it you?" she cried. It
was not a welcome. It was as if she had seen a ghost--but she smiled.
"You're well? quite well? and happy? no doubt happy?" said Lennox,
setting down his candle on the table near the bed, "and glad to see me?"
"Yes, Arthur; Arthur, what's the matter? You're ill--_are_ you ill?"
"Ho! no, very well, quite well--very well indeed."
There was that in his look and manner that told her she was ruined. She
froze with a horror she had never dreamed of before.
"There's something, Arthur--there is--you won't tell me."
"That's strange, and _you_ tell _me_ everything."
"What do you _mean_, sir? Oh, Arthur, what _do_ you mean?"
"Mean! Nothing!"
"I was afraid you were angry, and I've done nothing to vex you--nothing.
You looked so angry--it's so unreasonable and odd of you. But I am glad
to see you, though you don't seem glad to see me. You've been a long
time away, Arthur, in London, very long. I hope all your business is
settled, I hope. And I'm very glad to hear you're not ill--indeed I am.
Why are you vexed?"
"Vexed! ho! I'm vexed, am I? that's odd."
She was making a desperate effort to seem as usual, and talked on.
"We have had old Lady Alice Redcliffe here, my chaperon, all this while,
if you please, and takes such ridiculous care of me, and locks me into
my room every night. She means kindly, but it is very foolish."
"Yes, it is, d--d foolish."
"We have been employed very much as usual--walking, and driving, and
croquet. Beatrix and I have been very much together, and Sir Paul and
Lady Blunket still here. I don't think we have had any arrival since you
left us. Mr. Guy Strangways has gone away, and Monsieur Varbarriere
returned to-day."
She was gabbling as merrily as she could, feeling all the time on the
point of fainting.
"And the diamonds came?" the General said, suddenly, with a sort of
laugh.
"Oh! yes, the diamonds, so beautiful. I did not thank you in my
letter--not half enough. They are beautiful--so exquisitely
beautiful--brilliants--and so becoming; you have no idea. I hope you got
my letter. Indeed I felt it all, every word, Arthur, only I could not
say half what I wished. Don't you believe me, Arthur?"
"Lie down, woman, and take your sleep; you sleep _well_? you _all_
do--of course you sleep? Lie down."
"You are angry, Arthur; you are excited; something has
happened--something bad--what is it? For God's sake, Arthur, tell me
what it is. Why won't you tell me?"
"Nothing--nothing strange--quite common."
"Oh! Arthur, tell me at once, or kill me. You look as if you hated me."
"_Hate_ you!--There's a hereafter. God sees."
"I can't understand you, Arthur; you wish to distract me. I'd rather
know anything. For mercy's sake speak out."
"Lie you down, and wait."
She did lie down. The hour of judgment had come as a thief in the night.
The blood in her temples seemed to drum on the pillow. There was not a
clear thought in her brain, only the one stunning consciousness.
"He knows all! I am ruined." Yet the feminine instinct of _finesse_ was
not quite overpowered.
Having placed the candle on the chimneypiece, so that the curtain at the
foot of the bed throw its shadow over that recess in which the sorcerer
Varbarriere had almost promised to show the apparition, old Lennox sat
down at the bedside, next this mysterious point of observation.
Suddenly it crossed him, as a break of moonlight will the blackest night
of storm, that he must act more wisely. Had he not alarmed his
wife?--what signal might not be contrived to warn off her guilty
accomplice?
"Jennie," said he, with an effort, in a more natural tone, "I'm tired,
very tired. We'll sleep. I'll tell you all in the morning. Go to sleep."
"Good-night," she murmured.
"That will do; go to sleep," he answered.
Gently, gently, she stole a peep at that pretty watch that stood in its
little slanting stand at her bedside. There was still twenty
minutes--Heaven be praised for its mercy!--and she heard old Lennox at
the far side of this "great bed of Ware," making an ostentation of
undressing. His boots tumbled on the floor. She heard his watchguard
jingle on the stand, and his keys and purse dropped in turn on the
table. She heard him adjust the chair, as usual, on which he was wont to
deposit his clothes as he removed them; she fancied she even heard him
yawn. Her heart was throbbing as though it would choke her, and she was
praying as she never prayed before--for a reprieve. And yet her
respiration was long and deep, as if in the sleep she was
counterfeiting.
Lennox, at the other side, put off his muffler, his outer coat, the
frock-coat he wore, the waistcoat. She dared not look round to observe
his progress. But at last he threw himself on the bed with a groan of
fatigue, and pulled the coverlet over him, and lay without motion, like
a man in need of rest.
Lady Jane listened. She could not hear him breathe. She waited some five
minutes, and then she murmured, "Arthur." No answer. "_Arthur._" Again
no answer; and she raised herself on her elbow, cautiously, and
listened; and after a little pause, quick as light she got out of bed,
glided to the chimneypiece, and lighted a taper at the candle there,
listened again for a moment, and on tiptoe, in bare feet, glided round
the foot of the bed, and approached the recess at the other side of the
bed's head, and instantly her fingers were on one of those little
flowers in the ormolu arabesque that runs along the edge of the wooden
casing.
Before she could turn it a gouty hand over her shoulder took hold of
hers, and, with a low sudden cry, she saw her husband.
"Can't I do that for you? What is it?" said he.
Her lips were white, and she gazed in his face without saying a word.
He was standing there unbooted, in his trowsers, with those crimson
silk suspenders on, with the embroidery of forget-me-nots, which
she had described as "her work"--I am afraid inaccurately--a
love-token--hypocrisy on hypocrisy.
Asmodeus, seated on the bed's head, smirked down sardonically on the
tableau, and clapped his apish hands.
"Get to your bed there. If you make a sign, by ----, I'll kill you."
She made no answer. She gazed at him dumbly. He was not like himself. He
looked like a villain.
He did not lie down again. He sat by the little table, on which his
watch, his keys, and loose shillings lay. The night was chill, but he
did not feel it then.
He sat in his shirt-sleeves, his chin on his breast, eyeing from under
his stern white brows the shadowy arch through which the figure was to
emerge.
Suddenly he heard the swift steps of little, naked feet on the carpet
come round the foot of the bed, and his wife wildly threw herself at his
feet, and clasped them in an agony. He could feel every sinew in her
arms vibrate in the hysterical strain of her entreaty.
"Oh, Arthur! oh, darling, take me away from this, for God's sake. Come
down with me; come to the drawing-room, or to the dressing-room; take me
away; you'll be happier, indeed you will, than ever you were; you'll
never repent it, darling; do what I say. I'll be the best wife, indeed I
will. See, I've been reading my Bible; look at it. I'm quite
changed--quite changed. God only knows how changed. Oh, Arthur, Arthur,
if you ever loved me, take me away; come from this room--come, you'll
never repent it. Oh, Arthur, be wise, be merciful! The more you forgive
the more you'll be loved. It is not I, but God says that. I'm praying to
you as I would to Him, and He forgives us when we implore: take pity on
me; you'll never be sorry. Have mercy, Arthur, have mercy--you are kind,
I know you're kind, you would not ruin your wretched Jennie. Oh, take
pity before it is too late, and take me from this dreadful room. You'll
be glad, indeed you will; there never was such a wife as I'll be to you,
the humblest, the most loving, and you'll be happier than ever you
were. Oh, Arthur, Arthur, I'm praying to you as if you were God, for
mercy; don't say no! Oh, can you; can you; can you?"
General Lennox was moved, but not from his course. He never saw before
such a face of misery. It was like the despairing pleading of the last
day. But alas! in this sort of quarrel there can be no compromise;
reconciliation is dishonour.
"Go and lie down. It's all over between us," said he in a tone that left
her no room for hope. With a low, long cry, and her fingers clasped over
her forehead, she retraced her steps, and lay down, and quietly drew her
icy feet into the bed, awaiting the inevitable. Lennox resumed his
watch.