My portion is to tell it; forty years ago it all befell, and till
now no word of it has ever left my lips.
There was no sound of her advancing tread across the lawn as I
stepped back into my own grounds to enter the pavilion. But as I
left the path and put foot inside the wall, I heard a far, faint
sound like the harsh closing of a door in timid hands, followed by
another bark from the dog, louder and sharper than the first--for
he did not recognize my Aline as mistress, though I had striven for
six months to teach him the place she held in my heart.
By this I knew she was coming, and that what preparations I had to
make must be made soon. They were not many. Entering the well-known
place, I lit the lantern I had brought with me and set it down near
the door. It cast a feeble light about the entrance, but left great
shadows in the rear. This I had calculated on, and into these
shadows I now stepped.
The pavilion, as you remember it, is not what it was then. I had
used it little, fancying more my own library up at the house, but
it was not utterly without furnishings, and to young eyes might
even look attractive, with love, or fancied love, to mellow its
harsh lines and lend romance to its solitude. At this hour and
under these circumstances it was a dismal hole to me; and as I
stood there waiting, I thought how the place fitted the deed--if
deed it was to be.
I had always thought her timid, afraid of the night and all
threatening things. But as I listened to the sound of her soft
footfall at the door, I realized that even her breast could grow
strong under the influence of a real or fancied passion. It was a
shock--but I did not cry out--only set my teeth together and turned
a little so that what light there was would fall on my form rather
than on my face.
She entered; I felt rather than heard the tremulous push she gave
to the door, and the quick drawing in of her breath as she put her
foot across the threshold. These sapped my courage. This fear, this
almost hesitation, drew me from thoughts of myself to thoughts of
her, and it was in a daze of mingled purposes and regrets that I
felt her at last at my side.
"Walter!" fell softly, doubtfully from her lips.
It was the name of him the dip of whose oars as he made for his
boat I could now faintly hear in the river below us.
Turning, I looked her in the face.
"You are late," said I. God gave me words in my extremity. "Walter
has gone." Then, as the madness of terror replaced love in her
eyes, I lifted her forcibly and carried her to the window, where I
drew aside the vines. "That is his boat's lantern you see drawing
away from the dock. I bade him God-speed. He will not come again."
Without a word she looked, then fell back on my arm. It was not
life which forsook her face, and left her whole sweet body
inert--that I could have borne, for did she not merit death who had
killed my love, killed me?--but happiness, the glow of youthful
blood, the dreams of a youthful brain. And seeing this, seeing that
the heart I thought a child's heart had gone down in this
shipwreck, I felt my anger swell and master me body and soul, and
before I knew it, I was towering over her and she was cowering at
my feet, crushed and with hands held up in defense, hands that had
been like rose-leaves in my grasp, futile hands, but raised now in
entreaty for her life to me, to me who had loved her.
Why did they not move me? Why did my muscles tighten instead of
relax? I do not know; I had never thought myself a cruel man, but
at that instant I felt that this toy of my strong manhood had done
harm far beyond its value, and that it would comfort me to break it
and toss it far aside; only I could not bear the cry which now left
her lips:
"I am so young! not yet, not yet, Philo! I am so young! Let me live
a little while."
Was it a woman's plea, conscious of the tenderness she appealed to,
or only a child's instinctive grasping after life, just life? If it
were the first, it would be easy to finish; but a child's terror, a
child's longing--that pulled hard at my manhood, and under the
possibility, my own arm fell.
Instantly her head drooped. No defense did she utter; no further
plea did she make; she simply waited.
"You have deserved death." This I managed to utter. "But if you
will swear to obey me, you shall not pay your forfeit till you have
had a further taste of life. Not in my house; there is not
sufficient freedom within its walls for you; but in the broad
world, where people dance and sing and grow old at their leisure,
without duty and without care. For three months you shall have
this, and have it to your heart's content. Then you shall come back
to me my true wife, if your heart so prompts; if not, to tell me of
your failure and quit me for ever. But--" Here I fear my voice grew
terrible, for her hands instinctively rose again. "Those three
months must be lived unstained. As you are in God's sight this
hour, I demand of you to swear that, if you forget this or
disregard it, or for any cause subject my name to dishonor, that
you will return unbidden at the first moment your reason returns to
you, to take what punishment I will. On this condition I send you
away to-night. Aline, will you promise?"
She did not answer; but her face rose. I did not understand its
look. There was pathos in it, and something else. That something
else troubled me.
"Are you dissatisfied?" I asked. "Is the time too short? Do you
want more months for dancing?"
She shook her head and the little hands rose again:
"Do not send me away," she faintly entreated; "I don't know
why--but I--had rather stay."
"With me? Impossible. Are you ready to promise, Aline?"
Then she rose and looked me in the eye with courage, almost with
resolution.
"As I live!" said she.
And I knew she would keep her word.
The next thing I remember of that night was the sight of her little
white, shivering figure looking out at me from the carriage that
was to carry her away. The night was cold, and I had tucked her in
with as much care as I might have done the evening before, when I
still worshiped her, still thought her mine, or at least as much
mine as she was any one's. When I had done this and pressed a
generous gift into her hand, I stood a minute at the carriage door,
in pity of her aspect. She looked so pinched and pale, so dazed and
hopeless. Had she been alone--but the companion with whom I had
provided her was at her side and my tongue was tied. I turned, and
the driver started up the horses.
"Philo!" I heard blown by me on the wind.
Was it she who called? No, for there was anguish in the cry, the
anguish of a woman, and she was only a frightened, disheartened
child whom I had sent away to--dance.
One month, two months went by, and I began to take up my life.
Another, and she would be home for good or ill. I thought that I
could live through that other. I had heard of her; not from
her--that I did not require; and the stories were all of the same
character. She was enjoying life in the great city to which I had
sent her; radiant at night, if a little spiritless by day. She was
at balls, at concerts and at theaters. She wore jewels and shone
with the best; I might be proud of her conquests and the sweetness
and dignity with which she bore herself. Thus her friends wrote.
But she wrote nothing; I had not required it. Once, some one--a
visitor at the house--spoke of having seen her. "She was surrounded
with admirers," he had said. "How early our American women ripen!"
was his comment. "She held her head like one who has held sway for
years; but I thought her a trifle worn; as if pleasure absorbed too
much of her sleep. You must look out for her, Judge."
And I smiled grimly enough, I own, to think just how I was looking
out for her.
Then came the thunderbolt.
"I am told that no one ever sees her in the day-time; that she is
always busy, days. But she does not look as if she took that time
for rest. What can your little wife be doing? You ought to hurry up
that important opinion of yours and go see."
He was right; what was she doing? And why shouldn't I go see? There
was no obstacle but my own will, but that is the greatest obstacle
a man can have. I remained at Homewood, but the four weeks of our
further probation looked like a year.
Meanwhile, I had my way with the pavilion. I have shown you my
heart, sometimes at its best, oftenest at its worst. I will show it
to you again in this. I had a wall built round it, close against
the thicket in which it lay embedded. This wall was painted white,
and near it I had lamps placed which were lit at nightfall. Should
a figure pass that wall I could see it from my window. No one could
enter that doorway now, without running the risk of my seeing him
from where I sat at my desk.
Did I feel easier? I do not know that I did. I merely followed an
impulse I dared not name to myself.
Two weeks of this final month went by. Then (it was in the evening)
some one came running up from the grounds, with the message that
Mrs. Ocumpaugh had ridden into the gate, but that she was not ready
to enter the house. Would I meet her at the pavilion?
I was in the library, at my desk, with my eyes on the wall, when
this was told me. I had just seen the fierce figure of that
unmanageable dog of mine run by that white surface, and my lips
were open to order him tied up, when he, and everything else in
this whole world, was forgotten in this crushing news of her
return. For the three months were not up and her presence here
could mean but one thing--she had found temptation too much for
her, and she had come back to tell me so in obedience to her
promise.
"I will go meet Mrs. Ocumpaugh," I said.
The man stared.
"I will go meet Mrs. Ocumpaugh now," I repeated, and tried to rise.
But my limbs refused; death had entered my heart, and it was some
few minutes before I found myself upon the lawn outside.
When I got there I was trembling and so uncertain of movement that
I tottered at the gate. But seeing signs of her presence within, I
straightened myself and went in.
She was standing at the extreme end of the room when I entered, in
the full light of the solitary moonbeam which shot in at the
western casement. She had thrown aside her hat and coat, and never
in all my life had I seen anything so ethereal as the worn face and
wasted form she thus disclosed. Had it not been for the haunting
and pathetic smile which by some freak of fate gave poignancy to
her otherwise infantile beauty, I should not have known the woman
who stood there with my name formed on her lips.
"Destroyed!" was my thought; and the rage which I felt that moment
against fate flushed my whole being, and my arms went up, not in
threat against her, but to an avenging Heaven, when I heard an
impetuous rush, an angry growl, and the delicate, trembling figure
went down under the leap of the monstrous animal which I had taught
to love me, but could never teach to love her.
In horror and unspeakable anguish of soul I called off the dog;
and, stooping with bitter cries, I took her in my arms.
"Hurt?" I gasped. "Hurt, Aline?" I looked at her anxiously.
"No," she whispered, "happy." And before I realized my own feelings
or the passion with which I drew her to my breast, she had nestled
her head against my heart, smiled and died.
The shock of the dog's onslaught had killed her.
I would not believe it at first, but when I was quite sure, I took
out the pistol I carried in my breast and shot the cowering brute
midway between the eyes.
When this was done, I turned back to her. There was no light but
the moon, and I needed no other. The clear beams falling on her
face made her look pure and stainless and sweet. I could almost
have loved her again as I marked the tender smile which lingered
from that passing moment on her lips. "Happy," she had said. What
did she mean by that "Happy"? As I asked myself I heard a cry. The
companion who had been with her had rushed in at the doorway, and
was gazing in sorrow and amazement at the white form lying
outstretched and senseless against that farther wall.
"Oh," she cried, in a tone that assured me she had not seen the dog
lying in his blood at my back; "dead already? dead at the first
glance? at the first word? Ah, she knew better than I, poor lamb. I
thought she would get well if she once got home. She wearied so for
you, sir, and for Homewood!"
I thought myself quite mad; past understanding aright the words
addressed to me.
"She wearied--" I began.
"With all her soul for you and Homewood," the young woman repeated.
"That is, since her illness developed."
"Her illness?"
"Yes, she has been ill ever since she went away. The cold of that
first journey was too much for her. But she kept up for several
weeks--doing what no other woman ever did before with so little
strength and so little hope. Danced at night and--"
"And--and--what by day, what?" I could hardly get the words out of
my mouth.
"Studied. Learned what she thought you would
like--French--music--politics. It was to have been a surprise. Poor
soul! it took her very life. She did not sleep--Oh, sir, what is
it?"
I was standing over her, probably a terrifying figure. Lights were
playing before my eyes, strange sounds were in my ears, everything
about me seemed resolving itself into chaos.
"What do you mean?" I finally gasped. "She studied--to please _me_?
Why did she come back, then, so soon--" I paused, choked. I had
been about to give away my secret. "I mean, why did she come thus
suddenly, without warning me of what I might expect? I would have
gone--"
"I told her so; but she was very determined to come to you
herself--to this very pavilion. She had set the time later, but
this morning the doctor told her that her symptoms were alarming,
and without consulting him or heeding the advice of any of us, she
started for home. She was buoyant on the way, and more than once I
heard her softly repeating your name. Her heart was very
loving--Oh, sir, you are ill!"
"No, no," I cried, crushing my hand against my mouth to keep down
the cry of anguish and despair which tore its way up from my heart.
"Before other hands touch her, other eyes see her, tell me when she
began--I will not say to love me, but to weary for me
and--Homewood."
"Perhaps she has told you herself. Here is the letter, sir, she
bade me give you if she did not reach here alive. She wrote it this
morning, after the doctor told her what I have said."
"Give--give--"
She put it in my hand. I glanced at it in the moonlight, read the
first few words, and felt the world reel round me. Thrusting the
letter in my breast, I bade the woman, who watched me with
fascinated eyes, to go now and rouse the house. When she was gone I
stepped back into the shadows, and catching hold of the murderous
beast, I dragged him out and about the wall to a thick clump of
bushes. Here I left him and went back to my darling. When they came
in, they found her in my arms. Her head had fallen back and I was
staring, staring, at her white throat.
That night, when all was done for her which could be done, I shut
myself into my library and again opened that precious letter. I
give it, to show how men may be mistaken when they seek to weigh
women's souls:
_My Husband_:
I love you. As I shall be dead when you read this, I may say so
without fear of rebuff. I did not love you then; I did not love
anybody; I was thoughtless and fond of pleasure, and craved
affectionate words. He saw this and worked on my folly; but when
his project failed and I saw his boat creep away, I found that what
feeling I had was for the man who had thwarted him, and I felt
myself saved.
If I had not taken cold that night I might have lived to prove
this. I know that you do not love me very much, but perhaps you
would have done so had you seen me grow a little wiser and more
like what your wife should be. I was trying when--O Philo, I can
not write--I can not think. I am coming to you--I
love--forgive--and take me back again, alive or dead. I love
you--I love--
As I finished, the light, which had been burning low, suddenly went
out. The window which opened before me was still unshuttered. Before
me, across the wide spaces of the lawn, shone the pavilion wall,
white in the moonlight As I stared in horror at it, a trembling
seized my whole body, and the hair on my head rose. The dark figure
of a running dog had passed across it--_the dog which lay dead under
the bushes_.
"God's punishment," I murmured, and laid my head down on that
pathetic letter and sobbed.
The morning found me there. It was not till later that the man sent
to bury the dog came to me with the cry, "Something is wrong with
the pavilion! When I went in to close the window I found the ceiling
at that end of the room strangely dabbled. It looks like blood. And
the spots grew as I looked."
Aghast, bruised in spirit and broken of heart, I went down, after
that sweet body was laid in its grave, to look. The stains he had
spoken of were gone. But I lived to see them reappear,--as you have.
God have mercy on our souls!