"O, ABOVE MEASURE FALSE!"
Victor Carrington was very well content with the state of affairs at
Hilton House in all but one respect. The fulfilment of his purpose was
not approaching with sufficient rapidity. The rich marriage which he
had talked about for Reginald was a pure figment; the virtuous
ironmonger, with the richly dowered daughter, existed only in his
prolific brain--the need of money was growing pressing. He had done
much, but there was still much to do, and he must make haste to do it.
He had also been mistaken on one point of much importance to his
success; he had not calculated on the strength of Douglas Dale's
constitution. Each day that he dined with Paulina--and the days on
which he did not were exceedingly few--Dale drank a small quantity of
curaçoa, into which Carrington had poured poison of a slow but sure
nature. As the small carafon in which the liquor was placed upon the
table was emptied, the poisoner never found any difficulty in gaining
access to the fresh supply.
The antique liquor-chest, with its fittings of Venetian glass was
always kept on the side-board in the dining-room, and was never locked.
Paulina had a habit of losing anything that came into her hands, and
the key of the liquor-chest had long been missing.
But the time was passing, and the poison was not telling, as far as he,
the poisoner, could judge from appearances, on Douglas Dale. He never
complained of illness, and beyond a slight lassitude, he did not seem
to have anything the matter with him. This would not do. It behoved
Carrington to expedite matters. His project was to accomplish the death
of Douglas Dale by poison, throwing the burthen of suspicion--should
suspicion arise--upon Paulina. To advance this purpose, he had
industriously circulated reports of the most injurious character
respecting her; so that Douglas Dale, if he had not been blinded and
engrossed by his love, must have seen that he was regarded by the men
whom he was in the habit of meeting even more coldly and curiously than
when he had first boldly announced his engagement to Madame Durski. He
made it known that Douglas Dale had made a will, by which the whole of
his disposable property was bequeathed to Paulina, and circulated a
rumour that the Austrian widow was utterly averse to the intended
marriage, in feeling, and was only contracting it from interested
motives.
"If Dale was only out of the way, and his heir had come into the money,
she would rather have Reginald," was a spiteful saying current among
those who knew the lady and her suitor, and which had its unsuspected
origin with Carrington. Supposing Dale to come to his death by poison,
and that fact to be ascertained, who would be suspected but the woman
who had everything to gain by his death, whose acknowledged lover was
his next heir, and who succeeded by his will to all the property which
did not go immediately into the possession of that acknowledged lover?
The plan was admirably laid, and there was no apparent hitch in it, and
it only remained now for Carrington to accelerate his proceedings. He
still maintained reserve with Reginald Eversleigh, who would go to his
house, and lounge purposelessly about, sullen and gloomy, but afraid to
question the master-mind which had so completely subjugated his weak
and craven nature.
The engagement between Paulina and Douglas had lasted nearly two
months, when a cloud overshadowed the horizon which had seemed so
bright.
Madame Durski became somewhat alarmed by a change in her lover's
appearance, which struck her suddenly on one of his visits to the
villa. For some weeks past she had seen him only by lamplight--that
light which gives a delusive brightness to the countenance.
To-day she saw him with the cold northern sunlight shining full upon
his face; and for the first time she perceived that he had altered much
of late.
"Douglas," she said, earnestly, "how ill you are looking!"
"Indeed!"
"Yes; I see it to-day for the first time, and I can only wonder that I
never noticed it before. You have grown so much paler, so much thinner,
within the last few weeks. I am sure you cannot be well."
"My dearest Paulina, pray do not look at me with such alarm," said
Douglas, gently. "Believe me, there is nothing particular the matter. I
have not been quite myself for the last few weeks, I admit--a touch of
low fever, I think; but there is not the slightest occasion for fear on
your part."
"Oh, Douglas," exclaimed Paulina, "how can you speak so carelessly of a
subject so vital to me? I implore you to consult a physician
immediately."
"I assure you, my dearest, it is not necessary. There is nothing really
the matter."
"Douglas, I beg and entreat you to see a physician directly. I entreat
it as a favour to me."
"My dear Paulina, I am ready to do anything you wish."
"You will promise me, then, to see a doctor you can trust, without an
hour's unnecessary delay?"
"I promise, with all my heart," replied Douglas. "Ah, Paulina, what
happiness to think that my life is of some slight value to her I love
so fondly!"
No more was said upon the subject; but during dinner, and throughout
the evening, Paulina's eyes fixed themselves every now and then with an
anxious, scrutinizing gaze upon her lover's face.
When he had left her, she mentioned her fears to her _confidante_ and
shadow, Miss Brewer.
"Do you not see a change in Mr. Dale?" she asked.
"A change! What kind of change?"
"Do you not perceive an alteration in his appearance? In plainer words,
do you not think him looking very ill?"
Miss Brewer, generally so impassive, started, and looked at her
patroness with a gaze in which alarm was plainly visible.
She had hazarded so much in order to bring about a marriage between
Douglas and her patroness; and what if mortality's dread enemy, Death,
should forbid the banns?
"Ill!" she exclaimed; "do you think Mr. Dale is ill?"
"I do, indeed; and he confesses as much himself, though he makes light
of the matter. He talks of low fever. I cannot tell you how much he has
alarmed me."
"There may be nothing serious in it," answered Miss Brewer, with some
hesitation. "One is so apt to take alarm about trifles which a doctor
would laugh at. I dare say Mr. Dale only requires change of air. A
London life is not calculated to improve any one's health."
"Perhaps that is the cause of his altered appearance," replied Paulina,
only too glad to be reassured as to her lover's safety. "I will beg him
to take change of air. But he has promised to see a doctor to-morrow:
when he comes to me in the afternoon I shall hear what the doctor has
said."
Douglas Dale was very much inclined to make light of the slight
symptoms of ill-health which had oppressed him for some time--a
languor, a sense of thirst and fever, which were very wearing in their
effect, but which he attributed to the alternations of excitement and
agitation that he had undergone of late.
He was, however, too much a man of honour to break the promise made to
Paulina.
He went early on the following morning to Savile Row, where he called
upon Dr. Harley Westbrook, a physician of some eminence, to whom he
carefully described the symptoms of which he had complained to Paulina.
"I do not consider myself really ill," he said, in conclusion; "but I
have come to you in obedience to the wish of a friend."
"I am very glad that you have come to me," answered Dr. Westbrook,
gravely.
"Indeed! do you, then, consider the symptoms alarming?"
"Well, no, not at present; but I may go so far as to say that you have
done very wisely in placing yourself under medical treatment. It is a
most interesting case," added the doctor with an air of satisfaction
that was almost enjoyment.
He then asked his patient a great many questions, some of which Douglas
Dale considered frivolous, or, indeed, absurd; questions about his
diet, his habits: questions even about the people with whom he
associated, the servants who waited upon him.
These latter inquiries might have seemed almost impertinent, if Dr.
Westbrook's elevated position had not precluded such an idea.
"You dine at your club, or in your chambers, eh, Mr. Dale?" he asked.
"Neither at my club, nor my chambers; I dine every day with a friend."
"Indeed; always with the same friend?"
"Always the same."
"And you breakfast?"
"At my chambers."
Here followed several questions as to the nature of the breakfast.
"These sort of ailments depend so much on diet," said the physician, as
if to justify the closeness of his questioning. "Your servant prepares
your breakfast, of course--is he a person whom you can trust?"
"Yes; he is an old servant of my father's. I could trust him implicitly
in far more important matters than the preparation of my breakfast."
"Indeed! Will you pardon me if I ask rather a strange question?"
"Certainly, if it is a necessary one."
"Answered like a lawyer, Mr. Dale," replied Dr. Westbrook, with a
smile. "I want to know whether this old and trusted servant of yours
has any beneficial interest in your death?"
"Interest in my death--"
"In plainer words, has he reason to think that you have put him down in
your will--supposing that you have made a will; which is far from
probable?"
"Well, yes," replied Douglas, thoughtfully; "I have made a will within
the last few months, and Jarvis, my old servant knows that he is
provided for, in the event of surviving me--not a very likely event,
according to the ordinary hazards; but a man is bound to prepare for
every contingency."
"You told your servant that you had provided for him?"
"I did. He has been such an excellent creature, that it was only
natural I should leave him comfortably situated in the event of my
death."
"No; to be sure," answered the physician, with rather an absent manner.
"And now I need trouble you with no further questions this morning.
Come to me in a few days, and in the meantime take the medicine I
prescribe for you."
Dr. Westbrook wrote a prescription, and Mr. Dale departed, very much
perplexed by his interview with the celebrated physician.
Douglas went to Fulham that evening as usual, and the first question
Paulina asked related to his interview with the doctor.
"You have seen a medical man?" she asked.
"I have; and you may set your mind at rest, dearest. He assures me that
there is nothing serious the matter."
Paulina was entirely reassured, and throughout that evening she was
brighter and happier than usual in the society of her lover--more
lovely, more bewitching than ever, as it seemed to Douglas.
He waited a week before calling again on the physician; and he might,
perhaps, have delayed his visit even longer, had he not felt that the
fever and languor from which he suffered increased rather than abated.
This time Dr. Westbrook's manner seemed graver and more perplexed than
on the former visit. He asked even more questions, and at last, after a
thoughtful examination of the patient, he said, very seriously--
"Mr. Dale, I must tell you frankly that I do not like your symptoms."
"You consider them alarming?"
"I consider them perplexing, rather than alarming. And as you are not a
nervous subject I think I may venture to trust you fully."
"You may trust in the strength of my nerve, if that is what you mean."
"I believe I may, and I shall have to test your moral courage and
general force of character."
"Pray be brief, then," said Douglas with a faint smile. "I can almost
guess what you have to say. You are going to tell me that I carry the
seeds of a mortal disease; that the shadowy hand of death already holds
me in its fatal grip."
"I am going to tell you nothing of the kind," answered Dr. Westbrook.
"I can find no symptoms of disease. You have a very fair lease of life,
Mr. Dale, and may enjoy a green old age, if other people would allow
you to enjoy it."
"How do you mean?"
"I mean that if I can trust my own judgment in a matter which is
sometimes almost beyond the reach of science, the symptoms from which
you suffer are those of slow poisoning."
"Slow poisoning!" replied Douglas, in almost inaudible accents. "It is
impossible!" he exclaimed, after a pause, during which the physician
waited quietly until his patient should have in some manner recovered
his calmness of mind. "It is quite impossible. I have every confidence
in your skill, your science; but in this instance, Dr. Westbrook, I
feel assured that you are mistaken."
"I would gladly think so, Mr. Dale," replied the doctor, gravely; "but
I cannot. I have given my best thought to your case. I can only form
one conclusion--namely, that you are labouring under the effects of
poison."
"Do you know what the poison is?"
"I do not; but I do know that it must have been administered with a
caution that is almost diabolical in its ingenuity--so slowly, by such
imperceptible degrees, that you have scarcely been aware of the change
which it has worked in your system. It was a most providential
circumstance that you came to me when you did, as I have been able to
discover the treachery to which you are subject while there is yet
ample time for you to act against it. Forewarned is forearmed, you
know, Mr. Dale. The hidden hand of the secret poisoner is about its
fatal work; it is for you and me to discover to whom the hand belongs.
Is there any one about you whom you can suspect of such hideous guilt?"
"No one--no one. I repeat that such a thing is impossible."
"Who is the person most interested in your death?" asked Dr. Westbrook,
calmly.
"My first cousin, Sir Reginald Eversleigh, who would succeed to a very
handsome income in that event. But I have not met him, or, at any rate,
broke bread with him, for the last two months. Nor can I for a moment
believe him capable of such infamy."
"If you have not been in intimate association with him for the last two
months, you may absolve him from all suspicion," answered Dr.
Westbrook. "You spoke to me the other day of dining very frequently
with one particular friend; forgive me if I ask an unpleasant question.
Is that friend a person whom you can trust?"
"That friend I could trust with a hundred lives, if I had them to
lose," Douglas replied, warmly.
The doctor looked at his patient thoughtfully. He was a man of the
world, and the warmth of Mr. Dale's manner told him that the friend in
question was a woman.
"Has the person whom you trust so implicitly any beneficial interest in
your death?" he asked.
"To some amount; but that person would gain much more by my continuing
to live."
"Indeed; then we must needs fall back upon my original idea and painful
as it may be to you, the old servant must become the object of your
suspicion."
"I cannot believe him capable--"
"Come, come, Mr. Dale," interrupted the physician. "We must look at
things as men of the world. It is your duty to ascertain by whom this
poison has been administered, in order to protect yourself from the
attacks of your insidious destroyer. If you will follow my advice, you
will do this; if, on the other hand, you elect to shut your eyes to the
danger that assails you, I can only tell you that you will most
assuredly pay for your folly by the forfeit of your life."
"What am I to do?" asked Douglas.
"You say that your habits of life are almost rigid in their regularity.
You always breakfast in your own chambers; you always dine and take
your after-dinner coffee in the house of one particular friend. With
the exception of a biscuit and a glass of sherry taken sometimes at
your club, these two meals are all you take during the day. It is,
therefore, an indisputable fact, that poison has bee a administered at
one or other of these two meals. Your old butler serves one--the
servants of your friend prepare the other. Either in your own chambers,
or in your friend's house, you have a hidden foe. It is for you to find
out where that foe lurks."
"Not in her house," gasped Douglas, unconsciously betraying the depth
of his feeling and the sex of his friend; "not in hers. It must be
Jarvis whom I have to fear--and yet, no, I cannot believe it. My
father's old servant--a man who used to carry me in his arms when I was
a boy!"
"You may easily set the question of his guilt or innocence at rest, Mr.
Dale," answered Dr. Westbrook. "Contrive to separate yourself from him
for a time. If during that time you find your symptoms cease, you will
have the strongest evidence of his guilt; if they still continue, you
must look elsewhere."
"I will take your advice," replied Douglas, with a weary sigh;
"anything is better than suspense."
Little more was said.
As Douglas walked slowly from the physician's house to the Phoenix
Club, he meditated profoundly on the subject of his interview with Dr.
Westbrook.
"Who is the traitor?" he asked himself. "Who? Unhappily there can be no
doubt about it. Jarvis is the guilty wretch."
It was with unspeakable pain that Douglas Dale contemplated the idea of
his old servant's guilt: his old servant, who had seemed a model of
fidelity and devotion!
This very man had attended the deathbed of the rector--Douglas Dale's
father--had been recommended by that father to the care of his two
sons, had exhibited every appearance of intense grief at the loss of
his master.
What could he think, except that Jarvis was guilty? There was but one
other direction in which he could look for guilt, and there surely it
could not be found.
Who in Hilton House had any interest in his death, except that one
person who was above the possibility of suspicion?
He sat by his solitary breakfast-table on the morning after his
interview with the physician, and watched Jarvis as he moved to and
fro, waiting on his master with what seemed affectionate attention.
Douglas ate little. A failing appetite had been one of the symptoms
that accompanied the low fever from which he had lately suffered.
This morning, depression of spirits rendered him still less inclined to
eat.
He was thinking of Jarvis and of the past--those careless, happy,
childish days, in which this man had been second only to his own
kindred in his boyish affection.
While he meditated gravely upon this most painful subject, deliberating
as to the manner in which he should commence a conversation that was
likely to be a very serious one, he happened to look up, and perceived
that he was watched by the man he had been lately watching. His eyes
met the gaze of his old servant, and he beheld a strange earnestness in
that gaze.
The old man did not flinch on meeting his master's glance.
"I beg your pardon for looking at you so hard, Mr. Douglas," he said;
"but I was thinking about you very serious, sir, when you looked up."
"Indeed, Jarvis, and why?"
"Why you see, sir, it was about your appetite as I was thinking. It's
fallen off dreadful within the last few weeks. The poor breakfastes as
you eats is enough to break a man's heart. And you don't know the pains
as I take, sir, to tempt you in the way of breakfastes. That fish, sir,
I fetched from Grove's this morning with my own hands. They comes up in
a salt-water tank in the bottom of their own boat, sir, as lively as if
they was still in their natural eleming, Grove's fish do. But they
might be red herrings for any notice as you take of 'em. You're not
yourself, Mr. Douglas, that's what it is. You're ill, Mr. Douglas, and
you ought to see a doctor. Excuse my presumption, sir, in making these
remarks; but if an old family servant that has nursed you on his knees
can't speak free, who can?"
"True," Douglas answered with a sigh; "I was a very small boy when you
carried me on your shoulders to many a country fair, and you were very
good to me, Jarvis."
"Only my dooty, sir," muttered the old man.
"You are right, Jarvis, as to my health--I am ill."
"Then you'll send for a doctor, surely, Mr. Douglas."
"I have already seen a doctor."
"And what do he say, sir?"
"He says my case is very serious."
"Oh, Mr. Douglas, don't 'ee say that, don't 'ee say that," cried the
old man, in extreme distress.
"I can only tell you the truth, Jarvis," answered Douglas: "but there
is no occasion for despair. The physician tells me that my case is a
grave one, but he does not say that it is hopeless."
"Why don't 'ee consult another doctor, Mr. Douglas," said Jarvis;
"perhaps that one ain't up to his work. If it's such a difficult case,
you ought to go to all the best doctors in London, till you find the
one that can cure you. A fine, well-grown young gentleman like you
oughtn't to have much the matter with him. I don't see as it can be
very serious."
"I don't know about that, Jarvis; but in any case I have resolved upon
doing something for you."
"For me, sir! Lor' bless your generous heart, I don't want nothing in
this mortal world."
"But you may, Jarvis," replied Douglas. "You have already been told
that I have provided for you in case of my death."
"Yes, sir, you was so good as to say you had left me an annuity, and it
was very kind of you to think of such a thing, and I'm duly thankful.
But still you see, sir, I can't help looking at it in the light of a
kind of joke, sir; for it ain't in human nature that an old chap like
me is going to outlive a young gentleman like you; and Lord forbid that
it should be in human nature for such a thing to happen."
"We never know what may happen, Jarvis. At any rate, I have provided
against the worst. But as you are getting old, and have worked hard all
your life, I think you must want rest; so, instead of putting you off
till my death, I shall give you your annuity at once, and you may
retire into a comfortable little house of your own, and live the life
of an elderly gentleman, with a decent little income, as soon as you
please."
To the surprise of Douglas Dale, the old man's countenance expressed
only grief and mortification on hearing an announcement which his
master had supposed would have been delightful to him.
"Begging your pardon, sir," he faltered; "but have you seen a younger
servant as you like better and as could serve you better, than poor old
Jarvis?"
"No, indeed," answered Douglas, "I have seen no such person. Nor do I
believe that any one in the world could serve me as well as you."
"Then why do you want to change, sir?"
"I don't want to change. I only want to make you happy, Jarvis."
"Then make me happy by letting me stay with you," pleaded the old
servant. "Let me stay, sir. Don't talk about annuities. I want nothing
from you but the pleasure of waiting on my dear old master's son. It's
as much delight to me to wait upon you now as it was to me twenty years
ago to carry you to the country fairs on my shoulder. Ah, we did have
rare times of it then, didn't we, sir? Let me stay, and when I die give
me a grave somewhere hard by where you live; and if, once in a way,
when you pass the churchyard where I lay, you should give a sigh, and
say, 'Poor old Jarvis!' that will be a full reward to me for having
loved you so dear ever since you was a baby."
Was this acting? Was this the perfect simulation of an accomplished
hypocrite? No, no, no; Douglas Dale could not believe it.
The tears came into his eyes; he extended his hand, and grasped that of
his old servant.
"You _shall_ stay with me, Jarvis," he said; "and I will trust you with
all my heart."
Douglas Dale left his chambers soon after that conversation, and went
straight to Dr. Westbrook, to whom he gave a fall account of the
interview.
"I have tested the old man thoroughly," he said, in conclusion; "and I
believe him to be fidelity itself."
"You have tested him, Mr. Dale! stuff and nonsense!" exclaimed the
practical physician. "You surely don't call that sentimental
conversation a test? If the man is capable of being a slow poisoner, he
is, of course, capable of acting a part, and shedding crocodile's tears
in evidence of his devoted affection for the master whose biliary
organs he is deranging by the administration of antimony, or aconite.
If you want to test the man thoroughly, test him in my way. Contrive to
eat your breakfast elsewhere for a week or two; touch nothing, not so
much as a glass of water, in your own chambers; and if at the end of
that time the symptoms have ceased, you will know what to think of that
pattern of fidelity--Mr. Jarvis."
Douglas promised to take the doctor's advice. He was convinced of his
servant's innocence; but he wanted to put that question beyond doubt.
But if Jarvis was indeed innocent, where was the guilty wretch to be
found?
Douglas Dale dined at Hilton House upon the evening after his interview
with Dr. Westbrook, as he had done without intermission for several
weeks. He found Paulina tender and affectionate, as she had ever been
of late, since respect and esteem for her lover's goodness had
developed into a warmer feeling.
"Douglas," she said, on this particular evening, when they were alone
together for a few minutes after dinner, "your health has not improved
as much as I had hoped it would under the treatment of your doctor. I
wish you would consult some one else."
She spoke lightly, for she feared to alarm the patient by any
appearance of fear on her part. She knew how physical disease may be
augmented by mental agitation. Her tone, therefore, was one of assumed
carelessness.
To-night Douglas Dale's mind was peculiarly sensitive to every
impression. Something in that assumed tone struck strangely upon his
ear. For the first time since he had known her, the voice of the woman
he loved, seemed to him to have a false sound in its clear, ringing
tones.
An icy terror suddenly took possession of his mind.
What if this woman--this woman, whom he loved with such intense
affection--what if she were something other than she seemed! What if
her heart had never been his--her love never withdrawn from the
reprobate upon whom she had once bestowed it! What if her tender
glances, her affectionate words, her graceful, caressing manner, were
all a comedy, of which he was the dupe! What if--
"I am the victim of treachery," he thought to himself; "but the traitor
cannot be here. Oh, no, no! let me find the traitor anywhere rather
than here."
Paulina watched her lover as he sat with his eyes fixed on the ground,
absorbed in gloomy meditation.
Presently he looked up suddenly, and addressed her.
"I am going on a journey, Paulina, on business," he said; "business,
which I can only transact myself. I shall, therefore, be compelled to
be absent from you for a week; it may be even more. Perhaps we shall
never meet again. Will that be very distressing to you?"
"Douglas," exclaimed Paulina, "how strangely you speak to me to-night!
If this is a jest, it is a very cruel one."
"It is no jest, Paulina," answered her lover. "Life is very precarious,
and within the last week I have learnt to consider my existence in
imminent peril."
"You are ill, Douglas," said Paulina; "and illness has unnerved you.
Pray do not give way to these depressing thoughts. Consult some other
physician than the man who is now your adviser."
"Yes, yes; I will do so," answered Douglas, with, a sudden change of
tone; "you are right, Paulina. I will not be so weak as to become the
prey of these distressing fancies, these dark forebodings. What have I
to fear? Death is no terrible evil. It is but the common fate of all. I
can face that common doom as calmly as a Christian should face it. But
deceit, treachery, falsehood from those we love--those are evils far
more terrible than death. Oh, Paulina! tell me that I have no need to
fear those?"
"From whom should you fear them, Douglas!"
"Aye, from whom, that is the question! Not from you, Paulina?"
"From me!" she echoed, with a look of wonder. "Are you mad?"
"Swear--swear to me that there is no falsehood in your heart, Paulina;
that you love me as truly as you have taught me to believe; that you
have not beguiled me with false words, as false as they are sweet!"
cried the young man, in wild excitement.
"My dear Douglas, this is madness!" exclaimed Madame Durski; "folly too
wild for reproof. This passionate excitement must be surely the effect
of fever. What can I say to you except that I love you truly and
dearly; that my heart has been purified, my mind elevated by your
influence; that I have now no thought which is not known to you--no
hope that does not rest itself upon your love. You ought to believe
this, Douglas, for my every word, my every look, should speak the
truth, which I do not care to reiterate in protestations such as these.
It is too painful to me to be doubted by you."
"And if I have wronged you, I am a base wretch," said Douglas, in a low
voice.
Early the following morning he paid another visit to Dr. Westbrook.
"I will not trespass on your time this morning," he said, after shaking
hands with the physician. "I have only come here in order to ask one
question. If the poison were discontinued for a week, would there be
any cessation of the symptoms?"
"There would," replied the doctor. "Nature is quick to reassert
herself. But if you are about to test your butler, I should recommend
you to remain away longer than a week--say a fortnight."
But it was not to test his old servant that Douglas Dale absented
himself from London, though he had allowed the physician to believe
that such was his intention. He started for Paris that night; but he
took Jarvis with him.
His health improved day by day, hour by hour, from the day of his
parting from Paulina Durski. The low fever had left him before he had
been ten days in Paris; the perpetual thirst, the wearisome debility,
left him also. He began to be his old self again; and to him this
recovery was far more terrible than the worst possible symptoms of
disease could have been, for it told him that the hidden foe who had
robbed him of health and strength, was to be found at Hilton House.
In that house there was but one person who would profit by Douglas
Dale's death, and she would profit largely.
"She has never loved me," he thought to himself. "She still loves
Reginald Eversleigh. My death will give her both fortune and liberty;
it will leave her free to wed the man she really loves."
He no longer trusted his own love. He believed that he had been made
the dupe of a woman's treachery; and that the hand which had so often
been pressed passionately to his lips, was the hand which, day by day,
had mingled poison with his cup, sapping his life by slow degrees.
Against the worldly wisdom of his friends he had opposed the blind
instinct of his love; and now that events conspired to condemn this
woman, he wondered that he could ever have trusted her.
At the end of a fortnight Douglas Dale returned from Paris, and went
immediately to Paulina. He believed that he had been the dupe of an
accomplished actress--the vilest and most heartless of women--and he
was now acting a part, in order to fathom the depth of her iniquity.
"Let me know her--let me know her in all her baseness," he said to
himself. "Let me tax the murderess with her crime! and then, surely,
this mad love will be plucked for ever from my heart, and I shall find
peace far from the false syren whose sorcery has embittered my life."
Douglas had received several letters from Paulina during his visit to
Paris--letters breathing the most devoted and disinterested love; but
to him every word seemed studied, every expression false. Those very
letters would, a few short weeks ago, have seemed to Douglas the
perfection of truth and artlessness.
He returned to England wondrously restored to health. Jarvis had been
his constant attendant in Paris, and had brought him every morning a
cup of coffee made by his own hands.
At the Temple, he found a note from Paulina, telling him that he was
expected hourly at Hilton House.
He lost no time in presenting himself. He endeavoured to stifle all
emotion--to conquer the impatience that possessed him; but he could not.
Madame Durski was seated by one of the windows in the drawing-room when
Mr. Dale was announced.
She received her lover with every appearance of affection, and with an
emotion which she seemed only anxious to conceal.
But to the jaundiced mind of Douglas Dale this suppressed emotion
appeared only a superior piece of acting; and yet, as he looked at his
betrothed, while she stood before him, perfect, peerless, in her
refined loveliness, his heart was divided by love and hate. He hated
the guilt which he believed was hers. He loved her even yet, despite
that guilt.
"You are very pale, Douglas," she said after the first greetings were
over. "But, thank heaven, there is a wonderful improvement. I can see
restored health in your face. The fever has gone--the unnatural
brightness has left your eyes. Oh, dearest, how happy it makes me to
see this change! You can never know what I suffered when I saw you
drooping, day by day."
"Yes, day by day, Paulina," answered the young man, gravely. "It was a
gradual decay of health and strength--my life ebbing slowly--almost
imperceptibly--but not the less surely."
"And you are better, Douglas? You feel and know yourself that there is
a change?"
"Yes, Paulina. My recovery began in the hour in which I left London. My
health has improved from that time."
"You required change of air, no doubt. How foolish your doctor must
have been not to recommend that in the first instance! And now that you
have returned, may I hope to see you as often as of old? Shall we renew
all our old habits, and go back to our delightful evenings?"
"Were those evenings really pleasant to you, Paulina?" asked Mr. Dale,
earnestly.
"Ah, Douglas, you must know they were!"
"I cannot know the secrets of your heart, Paulina," he replied, with
unspeakable sadness in his tone. "You have seemed to me all that is
bright, and pure, and true. But how do I know that it is not all
seeming? How do I know that Reginald Eversleigh's image may not still
hold a place in your heart?"
"You insult me, Douglas!" exclaimed Madame Durski, with dignity. "But I
will not suffer myself to be angry with you on the day of your return.
I see your health is not entirely restored, since you still harbour
these gloomy thoughts and unjust suspicions."
His most searching scrutiny could perceive no traces of guilt in the
lovely face he looked at so anxiously. For a while his suspicions were
almost lulled to rest. That soft white hand, which glittered with gems
that had been his gift, could not be the hand of an assassin.
He began to feel the soothing influence of hope. Night and day he
prayed that he might discover the innocence of her he so fondly loved.
But just as he had begun to abandon himself to that sweet influence,
despair again took possession of him. All the old symptoms--the fever,
the weakness, the unnatural thirst, the dry, burning sensation in his
throat--returned; and this time Jarvis was far away. His master had
sent him to pay a visit to a married daughter, comfortably settled in
the depths of Devonshire.
Douglas Dale went to one of the most distinguished physicians in
London. He was determined to consult a new adviser, in order to
discover whether the opinion of that other adviser would agree with the
opinion of Dr. Harley Westbrook.
Dr. Chippendale, the new physician, asked all the questions previously
asked by Dr. Westbrook, and, after much deliberation, he informed his
patient, with all proper delicacy and caution, that he was suffering
from the influence of slow poison.
"Is my life in danger, Dr. Chippendale?" he asked.
"Not in immediate danger. The poison has evidently been administered in
infinitesimal doses. But you cannot too soon withdraw yourself from all
those who now surround you. Life is not to be tampered with. The
poisoner may take it into his head to increase the doses."
Douglas Dale left his adviser after a long conversation. He then went
to take his farewell of Paulina Durski.
There was no longer the shadow of doubt in his mind. The horrible
certainty seemed painfully clear to him. Love must be plucked for ever
from his breast, and only contempt and loathing must remain where that
divine sentiment had been enthroned.
Since his interview with the physician, he had carefully recalled to
memory all the details of his life in Paulina's society.
She had given him day by day an allotted portion of poison.
How had she administered it?
This was the question which he now sought to solve, for he no longer
asked himself whether she was guilty or innocent. He remembered that
every evening after dinner he had, in Continental fashion, taken a
single glass of liqueur; and this he had received from Paulina's own
hand. It had pleased him to take the tiny, fragile glass from those
taper fingers. The delicate liqueur had seemed sweeter to him because
it was given by Paulina.
He now felt convinced that it was in this glass of liqueur the poison
had been administered to him.
On more than one occasion he had at first declined taking it; but
Paulina had always persuaded him, with some pretty speech, some half
coquettish, half caressing action.
He found her waiting him as usual: her toilet perfection itself; her
beauty enhanced by the care with which she always strove to render
herself charming in his eyes. She said playfully that it was a tribute
which she offered to her benefactor.
They dined together, with Miss Brewer for their sole companion. She
seemed self-contained and emotionless as ever; but if Douglas had not
been so entirely absorbed by his thoughts of Paulina, he might have
perceived that she looked at him ever and anon with furtive, but
searching glances.
There was little conversation, little gaiety at that dinner. Douglas
was absent-minded and gloomy. He scarcely ate anything; but the
constant thirst from which he suffered obliged him to drink long
draughts of water.
After dinner, Miss Brewer brought the glasses and the liqueur to Madame
Durski, after her customary manner.
Paulina filled the ruby-stemmed glass with curaçoa, and handed it to
her lover.
"No, Paulina, I shall take no liqueur to-night."
"Why not, Douglas?"
"I am not well," he replied, "and I am growing rather tired of curaçoa."
"As you please," said Paulina, as she replaced the delicate glass in
the stand from which she had just taken it.
Miss Brewer had left the room, and the lovers were alone together. They
were seated face to face at the prettily decorated table--one with
utter despair in his heart.
"Shall I tell you why I would not take that glass from your hands just
now, Paulina Durski?" asked Douglas, after a brief pause, rising to
leave the table as he spoke. "Or will you spare me the anguish of
speaking words that must cover you with shame?"
"I do not understand you," murmured Paulina, looking at her lover with
a gaze of mingled terror and bewilderment.
"Oh, Paulina!" cried Douglas; "why still endeavour to sustain a
deception which I have unmasked? I know all."
"All what?" gasped the bewildered woman.
"All your guilt--all your baseness. Oh, Paulina, confess the treachery
which would have robbed me of life; and which, failing that, has for
ever destroyed my peace. If you are human, let some word of remorse,
some tardy expression of regret, attest your womanhood."
"I can only think that he is mad," murmured Paulina to herself, as she
gazed on her accuser with wondering eyes.
"Paulina, at least do not pretend to misunderstand me."
"Your words," replied Madame Durski, "seem to me the utterances of a
madman. For pity's sake, calm yourself, and speak plainly."
"I think that I have spoken, very plainly."
"I can discover no meaning in your words. What is it you would have me
regret? Of what crime do you accuse me?"
"The worst and darkest of all crimes," replied Douglas; "the crime of
murder."
"Murder?"
"Yes; the crime of the secret poisoner!"
"Douglas!" cried Paulina, with a stifled shriek of terror; and then,
recoiling from him suddenly, she fell half fainting into a chair. "Oh,
why do I try to reason with him?" she murmured, piteously; "he is
mad--he is mad! My poor Douglas!" continued Paulina, sobbing
hysterically, "you are mad yourself, and you will drive me mad. Do not
speak to me. Leave me to myself. You have terrified me by your wild
denunciations. Leave me, Douglas: for pity's sake, leave me."
"I will leave you, Paulina," answered her lover, in a grave, sad voice;
"and our parting will be for ever. You cannot deny your guilt, and you
can no longer deceive me."
"Do as you please," replied Madame Durski, her passionate indignation
changing suddenly to an icy calmness. "You have wronged me so deeply,
you have insulted me so shamefully, that it matters little what further
wrong or insult I suffer at your hands. In my own justification, I will
say but this--I am as incapable of the guilt you talk of as I am of
understanding how such a wild and groundless accusation can come from
you, Douglas Dale, my affianced husband--the man I have loved and
trusted, the man whom I have believed the very model of honour and
generosity. But this must be madness, and I am not bound to endure the
ravings of a lunatic. You have said our farewell was to be spoken
to-night. Let it be so. I could not endure a repetition of the scene
with which you have just favoured me. I regret most deeply that your
generosity has burthened me with, pecuniary obligations which I may
never be able to repay, and has, in some measure, deprived me of
independence. But even at the hazard of being considered ungrateful, I
must tell you that I trust we may meet no more."
No one can tell the anguish which Paulina Durski endured as she uttered
these words in cold, measured accents. It was the supreme effort of a
proud, but generous-minded woman, and there was a kind of heroism in
that subjugation of a stricken and loving heart.
"Let it be so, Paulina," answered Douglas, with emotion. "I have no
wish to see your fair, false face again. My heart has been broken by
your treachery; and my best hope lies in the chance that your hand may
have already done its wicked work, and that my life may be forfeited to
my confidence in your affection. Let no thought of my gifts trouble
you. The fortune which was to have been shared with you is henceforth
powerless to purchase one blessing for me. And of the law which you
have outraged you need have no few; your secret will never be revealed
to mortal ears by me. No investigation will drag to light the details
of your crime."
"_You_ may seek no investigation, Douglas Dale," cried Paulina, with
sudden passion; "but I shall do so, and without delay. You have accused
me of a foul and treacherous crime--on what proof I know not. It is for
me to prove myself innocent of that black iniquity; and if human
ingenuity can fathom the mystery, it shall be fathomed. I will bring
you to my feet--yes, to my feet; and you shall beseech my pardon for
the wicked wrong you have done me. But even then this breach of your
own making shall for ever separate us. I may learn to forgive you,
Douglas, but I can never trust you again. And now go."
She pointed to the door with an imperious gesture. There was a quiet
dignity in her manner and her bearing which impressed her accuser in
spite of himself.
He bowed, and without another word left the presence of the woman who
for so long had been the idol of his heart.
He went from her presence bowed to the very dust by a sorrow which was
too deep for tears.
"She is an accomplished actress," he said to himself; "and to the very
last her policy has been defiance. And now my dream is ended, and I
awake to a blank, joyless life. A strange fatality seems to have
attended Sir Oswald Eversleigh and the inheritors of his wealth. He
died broken-hearted by a woman's falsehood; my brother Lionel bestowed
his best affections on the mercenary, fashionable coquette, Lydia
Graham, who was ready to accept another lover within a few weeks of her
pretended devotion to him; and lastly comes my misery at the hands of a
wicked adventuress."
Douglas Dale resolved to leave London early next day. He returned to
his Temple chambers, intending to start for the Continent the next
morning.
But when the next day came he did not carry out his intention. He found
himself disinclined to seek change of scene, which he felt could bring
him no relief of mind. Go where he would, he could not separate himself
from the bitter memories of the past few months.
He determined to remain in London; for, to the man who wishes to avoid
the companionship of his fellow-men, there is no hermitage more secure
than a lodging in the heart of busy, selfish London. He determined to
remain, for in London he could obtain information as to the conduct of
Paulina.
What would she do now that the stage-play was ended, and deception
could no longer avail? Would she once more resume her old habits--open
her saloons to the patrician gamblers of West-end London, and steep her
weary, guilt-burdened soul in the mad intoxication of the gaming-table?
Would Sir Reginald Eversleigh again assume his old position in her
household?--again become her friend and flatterer? She had affected to
despise him; but that might have been only a part of the great
deception of which Douglas had been the victim.
These were the questions the lonely, heartbroken man asked himself that
night, as he sat brooding by his solitary hearth, no longer able to
find pleasure in the nightly studies which had once been so delightful
to him.
Ah! how deeply he must have loved that woman, when the memory of her
guilt poisoned his existence! How madly he still clung to the thought
of her!--how intensely he desired to penetrate the secrets of her life!