A Turn of the Screw.
Chudleigh Wilmot had not seen Mrs. Prendergast since the day on which
his wife's funeral had taken place; and it was with equal surprise and
satisfaction that she received a brief but kindly-worded note from
him, requesting her to permit him to call upon her.
"I wonder what it's all about," she thought, as she wrote with
deliberation and care a gracious answer in the affirmative. Mrs.
Prendergast had been thinking too since her friend's death, and her
cogitations had had some practical results. It was true that Mabel
Darlington had not been happy with Wilmot; but Mrs. Prendergast,
thinking it all over, was not indisposed to the opinion that it was a
good deal her own fault, and to entertain the very natural feminine
conviction that things would have been quite otherwise had she been in
Mabel's place. Why should she not--of course in due time, and with a
proper observance of all the social decencies--hope to fill that place
now? She was a practical, not a sentimental woman; but when the idea
occurred to her very strongly, she certainly did find pleasure in
remembering that Mabel Wilmot had been very much attached to her, and
would perhaps have liked the notion of her being her successor as well
as any woman ever really likes any suggestion of the kind, that is to
say, resignedly, and with an "it-might-be-worse" reservation.
Henrietta Prendergast had cherished a very sound dislike to Chudleigh
Wilmot for some time; but it was, though quite real--while the fact
that he had chosen another than herself, though she had been so ready
and willing to be chosen, was constantly impressed upon her
remembrance--not of a lasting nature. Besides, she had had the
satisfaction of making him understand very distinctly that the choice
he had made had not been a wise one; and ever since her feelings
towards him had been undergoing a considerable modification.
How much ground had Mabel had for her jealously of Miss Kilsyth? What
truth was there in the suspicions they had both entertained respecting
the influence which his young patient had exercised over Wilmot?'. She
had no means of determining these questions. It would have been
impossible for her, had she been a woman capable of such a meanness,
to have watched Wilmot during the interval which had elapsed since his
wife's death. His numerous professional duties, the constant demands
upon his time, all rendered her attaining any distinct knowledge of
his proceedings impossible; and beyond the announcement in the
_Morning Post_ that Kilsyth of Kilsyth and his family had arrived in
town, she knew nothing whatever concerning them. Henrietta Prendergast
had, on the whole, been considerably occupied with the idea of
Chudleigh Wilmot when his note reached her, and she prepared to
receive him with feelings which resembled those of long-past days
rather than those which had actuated her of late.
It was late in the afternoon when the expected visitor made his
appearance, and Henrietta had already begun to feel piqued and angry
at the delay. His note indicated a pressing wish to see her--she had
answered it promptly. What had made him so dilatory about availing
himself of her permission?
The first look she caught of Wilmot's face convinced her that the
motive of his visit was a grave one. He was pale and sedate, even to a
fixed seriousness far beyond that which had fallen upon him after the
shock of Mabel's death, and a painful devouring anxiety might be read
in the troubled haggard expression of his deep-set dark eyes. He
entered at once upon the matter which had induced him to ask Mrs.
Prendergast for an interview; and though her manner was emphatically
gracious, and designed to show him that she desired to maintain their
former relations intact, he took no notice of her courtesy. This was a
mistake. All women are quick to take cognisance of a slight, and
Henrietta was no slower than the rest of her sex. He showed her much
too plainly that he had an object in seeking her presence entirely
unconnected with herself. It was not wise; but the shock of the
discovery which he had made had shaken Wilmot's nerves and overthrown
his judgment for the time. He briefly informed Mrs. Prendergast that
he came for the purpose of asking her to recapitulate all the
circumstances of his wife's illness and death; to entreat her to tax
her memory to the utmost, to recall everything, however trivial,
bearing upon the progress of the malady, and in particular every
detail bearing upon her state of mind.
Henrietta listened to him with profound astonishment. Previously he
had shunned all such details. When she had met him, prepared to supply
them, he had asked her no questions; he had been apparently satisfied
with the medical report made to him by Dr. Whittaker; he had been
almost indifferent to such minor facts as she had stated; and the
painful revelation which she had made to him had not been followed up
by any close questioning on his part. And now, when all was at an end,
when the grave had closed over the sad domestic story, as over all
the tragedies of human life, hidden or displayed, the grave must
close,--now he came to her with this preoccupied brooding face and
manner to ask her these vain and painful questions. Thus she was newly
associated with dark and dismal images in his mind, and this was
precisely what Henrietta had no desire to be. She answered him,
therefore, in her coldest tone (and no woman knew how to ice her
answers better than she did), that the subject was extremely painful
to her for many reasons. Was it absolutely necessary to revive it?
Wilmot said it was, and expressed no consideration for her feelings
nor regret for the necessity of wounding them.
"Well, then, Dr. Wilmot," said Henrietta, "as I presume you wish to
question me in some particular direction, though I am quite at a loss
to understand why, you are at liberty to do so."
Wilmot then commenced an interrogatory, which, as it proceeded, filled
Henrietta with amazement. Had he any theory of his wife's illness and
death incompatible with the facts as she had seen and understood them?
Did he suspect Dr. Whittaker of ignorance and mismanagement in the
case? Even supposing he did, what would it avail him now to convince
himself that such suspicion was well founded? All was inevitable, all
was irreparable now. While these thoughts were busy in her brain, she
was answering question after question put to her by Wilmot in a cold
voice, and with her steady neutral-tinted eyes fixed in pitiless
scrutiny upon him. He asked her in particular about the period at
which Mabel had suppressed Dr. Whittaker's letter to him. Had she been
particularly unhappy just then; had the "unfortunate notion she had
conceived about--about Miss Kilsyth, been in her mind before, or just
at that time?"
This question Mrs. Prendergast could not, or would not, answer very
distinctly. She did not remember exactly when Mabel had heard so much
about Miss Kilsyth; she did not know what day it was on which Dr.
Whittaker had written. Wilmot produced the letter, and pointed out the
date. Still Mrs. Prendergast's memory refused to aid her reliably. She
really did not know; she could not answer this. Could she remember
whether Mabel had ever left her room after that letter had been
written? or whether she had been confined to her room when she had
received his (Wilmot's) letter from Kilsyth; the letter which Mrs.
Prendergast had said had distressed her so much, had brought about the
confidence between Mabel and herself relative to the feelings of the
former, and had led Mabel to say that she had no desire to live?
Wilmot awaited the reply to these questions in a state of suspense not
far removed from agony. He could not indeed permit himself to cherish
a hope that the dreadful idea he entertained was unfounded; but in the
answer awful confirmation or the germ of hope must lie.
Henrietta replied, after a few moments' thoughtful silence. She could
remember the circumstances, though not the precise date. Mabel had
left her room on the day on which she had received Wilmot's letter;
she had been in the drawing-rooms, and even in the consulting-room on
that day. It was on the night that she had told Mrs. Prendergast all,
and had expressed her desire to die, her conviction that she could not
recover. Henrietta was not certain whether that day was the same as
that on which Dr. Whittaker's letter was written, but she was
perfectly clear on the point on which Wilmot appeared to lay so much
stress; she knew it was the day after his last letter from Kilsyth had
reached her.
The intense suffering displayed in every line of Wilmot's face as she
made this statement touched Henrietta as much as it puzzled her. Had
she mistaken this man? Had he really deep feelings, strong
susceptibilities? Had the shock of his wife's death been far otherwise
felt than she had believed, and was he now groping after every detail,
in order to feed the vain flame of love and memory? Such a supposition
accorded very ill with all she knew and all she imagined of Chudleigh
Wilmot; but she could find no other within her not infertile brain.
"What became of my letter to her?" Wilmot asked her abruptly.
"It is in her coffin, together with every other you ever wrote her. I
placed them there at her own request. She had them tied up in a
packet,--the others I mean; but she gave me that one separately."
"Why?" asked Wilmot in a hoarse whisper.
"Why!" repeated Henrietta. "I don't know. It was only a few hours
before she died. She hardly spoke at all after, but she told me quite
distinctly then that I was to give you her wedding-ring, and to place
those letters in her coffin. 'I could not destroy those,' she said,
touching the packet in my hand; 'and this,' she drew it from under her
pillow as she spoke, 'I want to be placed with me too. It is my
justification.'"
"My justification!" repeated Wilmot. "What did she mean? What did you
understand that she meant by that?"
"I did not think much about it. The poor thing was near her end then,
and I thought little of it; though of course I did what she desired."
"Yes, yes, I understand," said Wilmot. "But her
justification--justification in what--for what?"
"In her gloomy and miserable ideas of course, and, above all, in her
desire to die. She believed that your letter contained the proof of
all she feared and suffered from, and so justified her longing to
escape from further neglect and sorrow."
"You did not suspect that it had any further meaning?"
Henrietta stared at him in silence. "I beg your pardon," he said; "my
mind is confused by anxiety. I am afraid, Mrs. Prendergast, there may
have been features in this case not rightly understood. Could it be
that Whittaker was deceived?"
"I think not--I cannot believe that there was any error. Dr. Whittaker
never expressed any anxiety on _that_ point, any uncertainty, any wish
to divide the responsibility, except with yourself. I understood him
to say that he had gone into the case very fully with you, and that
you were satisfied everything had been done within the resources of
medicine."
"Yes, he did. I don't blame him; I don't blame anyone but myself. But,
Mrs. Prendergast, that is not the point. What I want to get at is
this: did she--my wife I mean--did she hide anything from Whittaker's
knowledge?"
"Anything? In her physical state do you mean? Of her mental sufferings
no one but myself ever had the smallest indication. Will you wrong her
dead as well as living?" said Henrietta angrily.
"No," he answered, "I will not,--I trust I will not, and do not. I
meant, did she tell Whittaker all about her illness? Did she conceal
any symptoms from him? Did she suffer more or otherwise than he knew
of?"
"Frankly, I think she did, Dr. Wilmot. She was extremely, almost
painfully patient; I would much rather have seen her less so. She
answered his questions and mine, but she said nothing except in answer
to questioning. She suffered, I am convinced, infinitely more than she
allowed to appear; and especially on the night of her death, just
before the stupor set in, she was in great agony."
"Yes," said Wilmot hurriedly. "Was Whittaker there? Did he know it?"
"He was not there; he had been sent for a little while before, when
she was tranquil; and she was quite insensible when he returned in
about three hours. He told you, of course, that we had had good hope
of her during the day,--in fact, up to the evening?"
"Yes, he said there had been a rally, but it had not lasted. Did she
know that there was hope?"
"She did," said Henrietta slowly and reluctantly. "You ask me very
painful questions, Dr. Wilmot,--painful to me in the extreme; and I am
sure my answers must be acutely distressing to you. I cannot
understand your motive."
"No," he said, "I am sure you cannot; neither can I explain it. But
indeed I am compelled to put these questions; I cannot spare either
you or myself. You say she knew there was hope of her recovery on the
day before her death; and yet while the rally lasted,--before the
suffering of which you speak set in,--she gave you those solemn
charges which you fulfilled?"
"Yes," said Henrietta--and her voice was soft now and her eyes were
full of tears--"she did. She did not trust the rally. She told me,
with such a dreadful smile, that it would not avail to keep her from
her rest. She was right. From the moment she grew worse the progress
of death was awfully rapid."
"What medicine did you give her during the brief improvement?"
"Only some restorative drops. Dr. Whittaker gave them to her himself
several times, and when he left I gave them to her."
"Did she ever take this medicine of her own accord? Was she strong
enough in the interval of improvement to take medicine, or to move
without assistance?"
Again Henrietta looked at him for a little while before she replied:
"If you are afraid, Dr. Wilmot, that any mistake was made about the
medicine, dismiss such a fear. There was no other medicine in the room
but the bottle containing the drops; and now your strange question
reminds me that she did take them once unassisted."
Wilmot rose and came towards her. "How? when?" he said eagerly. "How
could she do so in her weak state?"
"The bottle was on the table, close by her bed. Only one dose was
left. She had asked me to raise the window-blind; and I was doing so,
when she stretched out her arm and took the bottle off the table. When
I turned round she was drinking the last drops, and the next moment
she dropped the bottle on the floor, and it was broken."
"Was she fainting, then?"
"O no," said Henrietta, "she was quite sensible, until the pain came
on. Indeed I remember that she told me to keep away from the bed until
the broken glass had been swept up."
"Was that done?"
"Yes, I did it myself at once."
"One more question, Mrs. Prendergast," said Wilmot, who had put a
strong constraint upon himself, and spoke calmly now. "When did she
charge you to have her coffin closed within two days of her death? Was
it within the interval during which her recovery seemed possible?"
"It was," answered Henrietta,--"it was when she told me that the rally
was deceitful, and was not to keep her from her rest. Then I undertook
to carry out her wish."
"Did she give any reason for having formed it?"
"She did--the reason you surmised when I first told you of it. I need
not repeat it."
"I would wish you to do so--pray let me hear the exact words she
said."
"Well, then, they were these. 'You will promise me to see it done,
Henrietta. He cannot get home, even supposing he could leave at once,
when he hears that I am dead, until late on the second day.' I told
her it was an awful thing that she should wish you not to see her
again, and she said, 'No, no, it is not. If he thinks of my face at
all, I want him to see it in his memory as it was when I thought he
liked to look at it. I could not bear him to remember it black and
disfigured.' Those were her exact words, Dr. Wilmot; and like all the
rest she said, they proved to me how much she loved you."
Wilmot made no answer, and neither spoke for some minutes. Then Wilmot
extended his hand, which Henrietta took with some cordiality, and
said, "I thank you very much, Mrs. Prendergast, for the patience with
which you have heard me and answered me. I have no explanation to give
you. I shall never forget your kindness to my wife, and I hope we
shall always be good friends."
He pressed her hand warmly as he spoke; and before Henrietta could
reply, he left her to cogitations as vain and unsatisfactory as they
were absorbing and unceasing.
Chudleigh Wilmot went direct to his own house after his interview with
Henrietta, and gave himself up to the emotions which possessed him.
Not a shadow of doubt did he now entertain that his wife had destroyed
herself. In the skill and ingenuity with which he invested the act, in
his active fancy, which had read the story from the unconscious
narrative of Henrietta, he recognised a touch of insanity, which his
experience taught him was not very rare in cases similar to that of
his wife. To a certain extent he was relieved by the conviction that
when she had done the irrevocable deed she was not in her right mind.
But what had led to it? what had been the predisposing causes? His
conscience, awakened too late, his heart, softened too late, gave him
a stern and searching answer. Her life had been unhappy, and she had
made her escape from it. He was as much to blame as if he had
voluntarily and actively made her wretched. He saw this now by the
light of that keener susceptibility, that higher understanding, which
had been kindled within him. It had been kindled by the magic touch of
love. Another woman had made him see into his wife's heart, and
understand her life. What was he to do now? how was it to be with him
in the future? He hardly dared to think. Sometimes his mind dwelt on
the possibility that it might not be as he believed it was, and the
only means of resolving his doubts suggested itself. He might have
Mabel's body exhumed, and then the truth would be known. But he shrank
with horror from the thought, as from a dishonour to her memory. If he
took such a step, it must be accounted for; and could he, would he
dare to cast such a slur upon the woman who, if she had done this
deed, had resorted to it because, as his wife, she was miserable? Had
he any right, supposing it was all a dreadful delusion that she had
meddled with his poisons for some trivial motive, however
inexplicable,--had he any right to solve his own doubts at such a
price as their exposure to cold official eyes? No--a resolute negative
was the reply of his heart to these questions; and he made up his mind
that his punishment must be lifelong irremediable doubt, to be borne
with such courage as he could summon, but never to be escaped from or
left behind.
Utter sickness of heart fell upon him and a great weariness. From the
past he turned away with vain terrible regret; to the future he dared
not look. The present he loathed. He must leave that house, he thought
impatiently--he could not bear the sight of it. It had none of the
dear and sorrowful sacredness which makes one cling to the home of the
loved and lost; it was hateful to him; for there the life his
indifference, his want of comprehension had blighted, had been
terminated--he shuddered as he thought by what means. And then he
thought he would leave England; he could not see Madeleine Kilsyth
again; or if he had to do so, he could not see her often. To think of
her, in her innocent youth and beauty, as one to be loved, or wooed,
or won--if even in his most distant dreams such a possibility were
approached by a man whose life had such a story in it, such a dreadful
truth, setting him apart from other men--was almost sacrilegious. No,
he would go away. Fate had dealt him a tremendous blow; he could not
stand against it; he must yield to it for the present, at all events.
Under the influence of the terrible truth which he was forced to
confront, all his ambition, all his energy seemed suddenly to have
deserted the rising man.
* * * * *
"But, my dear fellow, I can't bring myself to believe that you are
serious; I can't indeed, just as the ball is at your foot too. I
protest I expected you to distance them all in another year. Everybody
talks of you; and what is infinitely better, everyone is ready to call
you in if they require your services, or fancy they require them. Why,
there's Kilsyth of Kilsyth--ah, Wilmot, you threw me over in that
direction, but I don't bear malice--he swears by you. The fine old
fellow came to the bank yesterday; I met him in the hall, and he got
into my brougham, and came home with me, for no other reason on earth
than to talk about you. Wilmot's skill and Wilmot's coolness, Wilmot's
kindness and Wilmot's care--nothing but Wilmot. I should have been
bored to death by so much talking all about one man, if it had been
any man but yourself. And now to tell me that you are going away,
going to make a gap in your life, going to give up the running, and
forfeit such prospects as yours--because you must remember, my dear
fellow, you must not calculate on resuming exactly where you have left
off, in any sort of game of life; to do such a thing as this because
you have met with a loss which thousands of men have to bear, and work
on just as usual notwithstanding! Impossible, my dear Wilmot; you are
not in earnest--you have not considered the thing!"
Thus emphatically spoke Mr. Foljambe to Chudleigh Wilmot, all the more
emphatically because his friend's resolution had astonished as much as
it had displeased and disquieted him. Mr. Foljambe had never looked
upon Wilmot at all in the light of a particularly devoted husband; and
when he alluded to the loss of a wife being one which he had to bear
in common with many other sufferers, he had done so with a shrewd
conviction that Wilmot must be trusted to find all the fortitude
necessary for the occasion.
Mr. Foljambe, of Portland-place, was a very rich and influential
banker; gouty enough to bear out the tradition of his wealth, and
courteous and wise enough to do credit to his calling. He was not
describable as a City man, however, but was, on the contrary, a
pleasure and fashion-loving old gentleman, who was perfectly versed in
the ways of society, _au courant_ of all the gossip of "town," very
popular in the gayest and in the most select circles, an authority
upon horses, though he never rode, learned in wines, though he
consumed them in great moderation, believed not to possess a relative
in the world, and more attached to Chudleigh Wilmot than to any human
being alive, at his present and advanced period of existence. The old
gentleman and Chudleigh Wilmot's father had been chums in boyhood and
friends in manhood; and the friendship he felt for the younger man was
somewhat hereditary, though Wilmot's qualities were precisely of a
nature to have won Mr. Foljambe's regard on their own merits. He had
watched Wilmot's course with the utmost interest, pride, and pleasure.
His unflagging industry, his determined energy commanded his sympathy;
and he anticipated a triumphant career of professional success and
renown for his favourite. The intelligence that he had determined, if
not to relinquish, at least to suspend his professional labours, gave
the kind old gentleman sincere concern. He did not understand it, he
repeated over and over again; he could not make it out; it was not
like Wilmot. Of course he could not say distinctly to him that he had
never supposed his wife to be so dear to him that her death must needs
revolutionise his life. But if he did not say this, Wilmot discerned
it in his manner; but still he offered no explanation. He could not
remain in England; he must go. His health, his mind would give way, if
he did not get away into another scene, into new associations. All
remonstrance, all argument proved unavailing; and when Wilmot bade his
old friend farewell, he left him half angry and half mistrustful, as
well as altogether depressed and sorrowful.