MRS. BONTEEN.
At the time of the murder, Lady Eustace, whom we must regard as the
wife of Mr. Emilius till it be proved that he had another wife when
he married her, was living as the guest of Mr. Bonteen. Mr. Bonteen
had pledged himself to prove the bigamy, and Mrs. Bonteen had opened
her house and her heart to the injured lady. Lizzie Eustace, as
she had always been called, was clever, rich, and pretty, and knew
well how to ingratiate herself with the friend of the hour. She was
a greedy, grasping little woman, but, when she had before her a
sufficient object, she could appear to pour all that she had into
her friend's lap with all the prodigality of a child. Perhaps Mrs.
Bonteen had liked to have things poured into her lap. Perhaps Mr.
Bonteen had enjoyed the confidential tears of a pretty woman. It may
be that the wrongs of a woman doomed to live with Mr. Emilius as his
wife had touched their hearts. Be that as it might, they had become
the acknowledged friends and supporters of Lady Eustace, and she was
living with them in their little house in St. James's Place on that
fatal night.
[Illustration: Lizzie Eustace.]
Lizzie behaved herself very well when the terrible tidings were
brought home. Mr. Bonteen was so often late at the House or at his
club that his wife rarely sat up for him; and when the servants were
disturbed between six and seven o'clock in the morning, no surprise
had as yet been felt at his absence. The sergeant of police who had
brought the news sent for the maid of the unfortunate lady, and the
maid, in her panic, told her story to Lady Eustace before daring to
communicate it to her mistress. Lizzie Eustace, who in former days
had known something of policemen, saw the man, and learned from him
all that there was to learn. Then, while the sergeant remained on the
landing place, outside, to support her, if necessary, with the maid
by her side to help her, kneeling by the bed, she told the wretched
woman what had happened. We need not witness the paroxysms of the
widow's misery, but we may understand that Lizzie Eustace was from
that moment more strongly fixed than ever in her friendship with Mrs.
Bonteen.
When the first three or four days of agony and despair had passed
by, and the mind of the bereaved woman was able to turn itself from
the loss to the cause of the loss, Mrs. Bonteen became fixed in her
certainty that Phineas Finn had murdered her husband, and seemed
to think that it was the first and paramount duty of the present
Government to have the murderer hung,--almost without a trial.
When she found that, at the best, the execution of the man she so
vehemently hated could not take place for two months after the doing
of the deed, even if then, she became almost frantic in her anger.
Surely they would not let him escape! What more proof could be
needed? Had not the miscreant quarrelled with her husband, and
behaved abominably to him but a few minutes before the murder? Had he
not been on the spot with the murderous instrument in his pocket? Had
he not been seen by Lord Fawn hastening on the steps of her dear and
doomed husband? Mrs. Bonteen, as she sat enveloped in her new weeds,
thirsting for blood, could not understand that further evidence
should be needed, or that a rational doubt should remain in the mind
of any one who knew the circumstances. It was to her as though she
had seen the dastard blow struck, and with such conviction as this on
her mind did she insist on talking of the coming trial to her inmate,
Lady Eustace. But Lizzie had her own opinion, though she was forced
to leave it unexpressed in the presence of Mrs. Bonteen. She knew
the man who claimed her as his wife, and did not think that Phineas
Finn was guilty of the murder. Her Emilius,--her Yosef Mealyus, as
she had delighted to call him, since she had separated herself from
him,--was, as she thought, the very man to commit a murder. He was
by no means degraded in her opinion by the feeling. To commit great
crimes is the line of life that comes naturally to some men, and was,
as she thought, a line less objectionable than that which confines
itself to small crimes. She almost felt that the audacity of her
husband in doing such a deed redeemed her from some of the ignominy
to which she had subjected herself by her marriage with a runaway
who had another wife living. There was a dash of adventure about
it which was almost gratifying. But these feelings she was obliged,
at any rate for the present, to keep to herself. Not only must she
acknowledge the undoubted guilt of Phineas Finn for the sake of her
friend, Mrs. Bonteen; but she must consider carefully whether she
would gain or lose more by having a murderer for her husband. She
did not relish the idea of being made a widow by the gallows. She
was still urgent as to the charge of bigamy, and should she succeed
in proving that the man had never been her husband, then she did
not care how soon they might hang him. But for the present it was
better for all reasons that she should cling to the Phineas Finn
theory,--feeling certain that it was the bold hand of her own Emilius
who had struck the blow.
She was by no means free from the solicitations of her husband, who
knew well where she was, and who still adhered to his purpose of
reclaiming his wife and his wife's property. When he was released by
the magistrate's order, and had recovered his goods from Mr. Meager's
house, and was once more established in lodgings, humbler, indeed,
than those in Northumberland Street, he wrote the following letter to
her who had been for one blessed year the partner of his joys, and
his bosom's mistress:--
3, Jellybag Street, Edgware Road,
May 26, 18--.
DEAREST WIFE,--
You will have heard to what additional sorrow and disgrace
I have been subjected through the malice of my enemies.
But all in vain! Though princes and potentates have been
arrayed against me [the princes and potentates had no
doubt been Lord Chiltern and Mr. Low], innocence has
prevailed, and I have come out from the ordeal white as
bleached linen or unsullied snow. The murderer is in the
hands of justice, and though he be the friend of kings and
princes [Mr. Emilius had probably heard that the Prince
had been at the club with Phineas], yet shall justice
be done upon him, and the truth of the Lord shall be
made to prevail. Mr. Bonteen has been very hostile to
me, believing evil things of me, and instigating you, my
beloved, to believe evil of me. Nevertheless, I grieve
for his death. I lament bitterly that he should have been
cut off in his sins, and hurried before the judgment
seat of the great Judge without an hour given to him for
repentance. Let us pray that the mercy of the Lord may
be extended even to him. I beg that you will express my
deepest commiseration to his widow, and assure her that
she has my prayers.
And now, my dearest wife, let me approach my own affairs.
As I have come out unscorched from the last fiery furnace
which has been heated for me by my enemies seven times
hot, so shall I escape from that other fire with which the
poor man who has gone from us endeavoured to envelop me.
If they have made you believe that I have any wife but
yourself they have made you believe a falsehood. You, and
you only, have my hand. You, and you only, have my heart.
I know well what attempts are being made to suborn false
evidence in my old country, and how the follies of my
youth are being pressed against me,--how anxious are proud
Englishmen that the poor Bohemian should be robbed of the
beauty and wit and wealth which he had won for himself.
But the Lord fights on my side, and I shall certainly
prevail.
If you will come back to me all shall be forgiven. My
heart is as it ever was. Come, and let us leave this cold
and ungenial country and go to the sunny south; to the
islands of the blest,--
Mr. Emilius during his married life had not quite fathomed the depths
of his wife's character, though, no doubt, he had caught some points
of it with sufficient accuracy.
--where we may forget these blood-stained sorrows, and
mutually forgive each other. What happiness, what joys
can you expect in your present mode of life? Even your
income,--which in truth is my income,--you cannot obtain,
because the tenants will not dare to pay it in opposition
to my legal claims. But of what use is gold? What can
purple do for us, and fine linen, and rich jewels, without
love and a contented heart? Come, dearest, once more to
your own one, who will never remember aught of the sad
rupture which enemies have made, and we will hurry to the
setting sun, and recline on mossy banks, and give up our
souls to Elysium.
As Lizzie read this she uttered an exclamation of disgust. Did the
man after all know so little of her as to suppose that she, with all
her experiences, did not know how to keep her own life and her own
pocket separate from her romance? She despised him for this, almost
as much as she respected him for the murder.
If you will only say that you will see me, I will be at
your feet in a moment. Till the solemnity with which the
late tragical event must have filled you shall have left
you leisure to think of all this, I will not force myself
into your presence, or seek to secure by law rights which
will be much dearer to me if they are accorded by your own
sweet goodwill. And in the meantime, I will agree that
the income shall be drawn, provided that it be equally
divided between us. I have been sorely straitened in
my circumstances by these last events. My congregation
is of course dispersed. Though my innocence has been
triumphantly displayed, my name has been tarnished. It is
with difficulty that I find a spot where to lay my weary
head. I am ahungered and athirst;--and my very garments
are parting from me in my need. Can it be that you
willingly doom me to such misery because of my love for
you? Had I been less true to you, it might have been
otherwise.
Let me have an answer at once, and I will instantly take
steps about the money if you will agree.
Your truly most loving husband,
JOSEPH EMILIUS.
To Lady Eustace, wife of the Rev. Joseph Emilius.
When Lizzie had read the letter twice through she resolved that she
would show it to her friend. "I know it will reopen the floodgates of
your grief," she said; "but unless you see it, how can I ask from you
the advice which is so necessary to me?" But Mrs. Bonteen was a woman
sincere at any rate in this,--that the loss of her husband had been
to her so crushing a calamity that there could be no reopening of the
floodgates. The grief that cannot bear allusion to its causes has
generally something of affectation in its composition. The floodgates
with this widowed one had never yet been for a moment closed. It was
not that her tears were ever flowing, but that her heart had never
yet for a moment ceased to feel that its misery was incapable of
alleviation. No utterances concerning her husband could make her more
wretched than she was. She took the letter and read it through. "I
daresay he is a bad man," said Mrs. Bonteen.
"Indeed he is," said the bad man's wife.
"But he was not guilty of this crime."
"Oh, no;--I am sure of that," said Lady Eustace, feeling certain at
the same time that Mr. Bonteen had fallen by her husband's hands.
"And therefore I am glad they have given him up. There can be no
doubt now about it."
"Everybody knows who did it now," said Lady Eustace.
"Infamous ruffian! My poor dear lost one always knew what he was. Oh
that such a creature should have been allowed to come among us."
"Of course he'll be hung, Mrs. Bonteen."
"Hung! I should think so! What other end would be fit for him? Oh,
yes; they must hang him. But it makes one think that the world is too
hard a place to live in, when such a one as he can cause so great a
ruin."
"It has been very terrible."
"Think what the country has lost! They tell me that the Duke of
Omnium is to take my husband's place; but the Duke cannot do what
he did. Every one knows that for real work there was no one like
him. Nothing was more certain than that he would have been Prime
Minister,--oh, very soon. They ought to pinch him to death with
red-hot tweezers."
But Lady Eustace was anxious at the present moment to talk about her
own troubles. "Of course, Mr. Emilius did not commit the murder."
"Phineas Finn committed it," said the half-maddened woman, rising
from her chair. "And Phineas Finn shall hang by his neck till he is
dead."
"But Emilius has certainly got another wife in Prague."
"I suppose you know. He said it was so, and he was always right."
"I am sure of it,--just as you are sure of this horrid Mr. Finn."
"The two things can't be named together, Lady Eustace."
"Certainly not. I wouldn't think of being so unfeeling. But he has
written me this letter, and what must I do? It is very dreadful about
the money, you know."
"He cannot touch your money. My dear one always said that he could
not touch it."
"But he prevents me from touching it. What they give me only comes
by a sort of favour from the lawyer. I almost wish that I had
compromised."
"You would not be rid of him that way."
"No;--not quite rid of him. You see I never had to take that horrid
name because of the title. I suppose I'd better send the letter to
the lawyer."
"Send it to the lawyer, of course. That is what he would have done.
They tell me that the trial is to be on the 24th of June. Why should
they postpone it so long? They know all about it. They always
postpone everything. If he had lived, there would be an end of that
before long."
Lady Eustace was tired of the virtues of her friend's martyred lord,
and was very anxious to talk of her own affairs. She was still
holding her husband's letter open in her hand, and was thinking how
she could force her friend's dead lion to give place for a while
to her own live dog, when a servant announced that Mr. Camperdown,
the attorney, was below. In former days there had been an old Mr.
Camperdown, who was vehemently hostile to poor Lizzie Eustace; but
now, in her new troubles, the firm that had ever been true to her
first husband had taken up her case for the sake of the family and
her property--and for the sake of the heir, Lizzie Eustace's little
boy; and Mr. Camperdown's firm had, next to Mr. Bonteen, been the
depository of her trust. He had sent clerks out to Prague,--one who
had returned ill,--as some had said poisoned, though the poison had
probably been nothing more than the diet natural to Bohemians. And
then another had been sent. This, of course, had all been previous
to Madame Goesler's self-imposed mission,--which, though it was
occasioned altogether by the suspected wickednesses of Mr. Emilius,
had no special reference to his matrimonial escapades. And now Mr.
Camperdown was down stairs. "Shall I go down to him, dear Mrs.
Bonteen?"
"He may come here if you please."
"Perhaps I had better go down. He will disturb you."
"My darling lost one always thought that there should be two present
to hear such matters. He said it was safer." Mr. Camperdown, junior,
was therefore shown upstairs to Mrs. Bonteen's drawing-room.
"We have found it all out, Lady Eustace," said Mr. Camperdown.
"Found out what?"
"We've got Madame Mealyus over here."
"No!" said Mrs. Bonteen, with her hands raised. Lady Eustace sat
silent, with her mouth open.
"Yes, indeed;--and photographs of the registry of the marriage
from the books of the synagogue at Cracow. His signature was Yosef
Mealyus, and his handwriting isn't a bit altered. I think we could
have proved it without the lady; but of course it was better to bring
her if possible."
"Where is she?" asked Lizzie, thinking that she would like to see her
own predecessor.
"We have her safe, Lady Eustace. She's not in custody; but as
she can't speak a word of English or French, she finds it more
comfortable to be kept in private. We're afraid it will cost a little
money."
"Will she swear that she is his wife?" asked Mrs. Bonteen.
"Oh, yes; there'll be no difficulty about that. But her swearing
alone mightn't be enough."
"Surely that settles it all," said Lady Eustace.
"For the money that we shall have to pay," said Mr. Camperdown, "we
might probably have got a dozen Bohemian ladies to come and swear
that they were married to Yosef Mealyus at Cracow. The difficulty has
been to bring over documentary evidence which will satisfy a jury
that this is the woman she says she is. But I think we've got it."
"And I shall be free!" said Lady Eustace, clasping her hands
together.
"It will cost a good deal, I fear," said Mr. Camperdown.
"But I shall be free! Oh, Mr. Camperdown, there is not a woman in all
the world who cares so little for money as I do. But I shall be free
from the power of that horrid man who has entangled me in the meshes
of his sinful life." Mr. Camperdown told her that he thought that
she would be free, and went on to say that Yosef Mealyus had already
been arrested, and was again in prison. The unfortunate man had not
therefore long enjoyed that humbler apartment which he had found for
himself in Jellybag Street.
When Mr. Camperdown went, Mrs. Bonteen followed him out to the top
of the stairs. "You have heard about the trial, Mr. Camperdown?" He
said that he knew that it was to take place at the Central Criminal
Court in June. "Yes; I don't know why they have put it off so long.
People know that he did it--eh?" Mr. Camperdown, with funereal
sadness, declared that he had never looked into the matter. "I cannot
understand that everybody should not know it," said Mrs. Bonteen.