At last nature turns if tried beyond her limit, snapped the frail cord
which held Andrew’s mind in soundness, and in a moment that which he had
dreaded was upon him. He knew that he was insane.
One night he had repaired to his study as usual. The pressure in his
head was something almost unendurable. He felt the cord snapping, and
resolved ere it was too late, to write a letter to his wife. To write
the confession so long deferred. He took his pen and endeavored to
collect his thoughts. It was not difficult to inscribe “My Darling Wife”
at the top of the page. Then he gazed at it dreamily. Something was
wrong in those three words, but what was it? Where did the right begin,
and where did it end? He read the words over and over again aloud, so
that he might understand them more fully. Then he slowly drew his pen
through them and wrote beneath “My Cherished Victoria.” “She will know
why I did it,” he murmured. “Oh, yes, she will know.” He lingered over
the next words with a tender smile on his face. “No woman on this earth
was ever loved with the worship, adoration, which I have lavished upon
you. She knows that too,” he continued, resting his head upon one hand.
“Why do I tell her what she already knows so well? Ah, why?” He dropped
the pen and seemed to be musing, then resuming, with a fierce wild light
burning in his eyes, he wrote: “But I have also sinned grievously
against you; so grievously, that I can never hope for pardon, therefore
I have resolved to take my life, and so end it all.”
He stopped and looked wildly about him. Where was the blessed instrument
which in a moment would put him out of the torments and misery now
assailing him. He opened several drawers in his desk, and at last found
what he sought. He handled it lovingly. This little toy would give him
that peace which had fled from him for so many years. He could lie down
to a dreamless sleep and waken—where? He did not care. The unknown and
untried hereafter could be better borne than the tears and reproaches of
Victoria. He had no dread of what he should meet. If he could only
escape, only escape. He kissed the weapon which was so soon to bring him
that coveted rest, and laid it down to finish his confession.
He had just taken up his pen when a loud tattoo was beat upon the wall
nearest to where he was sitting. He arose with an air of resignation, as
if what he was about to do was a duty most irksome to him, and opening
the book-case door, placed his hand inside. Noiselessly the ponderous
case rolled forward, disclosing an aperture rather larger than a common
door. A powerful mulatto stepped into the study, and approached Andrew,
gesticulating wildly. He placed his hands to his head, and then upon his
chest, motioning toward the opening through which he had just entered.
“Is your master ill?” asked Andrew. The man nodded a quick assent.
Andrew motioned him to follow, and went quickly up the stairs which
could be plainly seen from the opening.
It was fully an hour ere he returned. He descended the stairs with a
weary, lagging step, as if every motion of his limbs was an effort. His
eyes had lost their wild, frenzied look, and seemed filled with a dull,
heavy pain. The man was suffering deeply, and as he crawled to his chair
beside the desk, and dropped into it like a log, one felt that whatever
the crisis might be, it was now near at hand.
He folded his arms upon the desk and laid his tired head upon them. Just
then Mary’s voice was heard outside the door. “Papa, I am going to bed.
I want my kiss.” He heard her but he could not answer. The latch was
lifted, the door opened, and Mary entered. For the first time Andrew had
forgotten to bolt the door. He was conscious of it. He heard Mary’s step
approaching, but some power held him fast in his chair, and he could not
rise to close the book-case which still remained open. He heard the
sweet, shrill voice in accents of pity say: “What is the matter, papa?
Is your naughty head bad again?” Then, although he did not see, he felt
that her wondering eyes had discovered the secret door. He heard her
moving from him, and he had the strength to raise his head, and watch
Mary as she laboriously climbed the stairs. He listened until his ears
could no longer distinguish her footsteps, and then buried his face—upon
which despair and ruin was plainly written—once more in his arms. The
sword had fallen, and the hair had been severed by his own child. He had
not even the strength to lift the toy lying so near him, and so escape
the wrath to come.
He heard Mary returning, and heard her running swiftly from the room.
His benumbed brain could still determine what she was about to do. She
had gone to tell her mother; but somehow, the thought did not worry him.
He felt rather glad than otherways. Presently he heard voices. Mary was
bringing Victoria. A wild thought flashed through his mind. With an
effort he grasped the revolver. He would slay Victoria and the child as
they entered, and then himself. At the same instant the toy fell from
his nerveless fingers. Ah, no, he could not harm a hair of those so
precious to him. Only himself. Only himself; but he did not feel equal
to it, just now, and it would shock Victoria. He must wait. Again his
head sunk upon his arms.
Victoria entered, her face white and fearful, with Mary clinging to her
skirts. She glanced toward the aperture, and approached the wretched
man. “Andrew, what is this Mary has been telling me? The child is nigh
frightened out of her senses. She declares she has been up some hidden
stairs, into rooms which she has never seen before, and there she saw a
big negro standing by a bed in which an old man was sleeping. When the
negro saw her, he ran at her as if to beat her, and the child came
running to me. Is all this true? I can see the secret staircase for
myself, but who is the old man, and what does all this mystery mean?”
There was no answer from the bowed figure.
Mary gently shook him. “I have had no share in your secrets, Andrew.
Perhaps it were better if I had, but now I demand an answer. Have I your
permission to ascend those stairs which I have already divined lead to
the rooms in the western gable? Shall I see for myself what those rooms
contain?”
“Yes, go!” hoarsely answered Andrew.
Victoria turned to leave him. He raised his head and caught her gown
with his hand.
“Victoria!” he cried, “my angel! My more than life! Go, I dare not
detain you. God has spoken to me. The time has now come; but my darling,
keep what you shall see there a secret for Mary’s sake, and remember
that I did it all out of my great overpowering love for you.” He kissed
the hem of her gown and sank upon his knees as she wonderingly turned
and ascended the stairs. His agonized eyes watched her disappear, and
then his hand sought that thing which should give him peace. He groped
for it. He had not the strength to reach it, and with a groan he fell
forward upon his face.
Victoria had not a suspicion of what she was about to behold. Many
strange wild thoughts floated through her mind as she ascended the
stairs. The foremost one was that Andrew’s father had not been killed,
as had been believed, but that he was an imbecile perhaps, and so had
been confined in these apartments for years. Yes, this must be it. She
trembled violently as she reached the topmost stair, and stood gazing
into the room beyond. It was vacant. No person was in sight, but
scattered about the room were several toys such as very small children
are amused with. A rattle box, a tin horn, and a drum. Victoria saw, and
her eyes also noted the luxurious furnishings of the apartment, which
was octagon in shape; and the walls were hung with very rare tapestries,
which although faded, she knew were of immense value. How often she had
wanted to investigate these rooms, but now that the opportunity had
come, she felt an irresistable desire to turn and go back to Andrew, and
be content with what he should tell her. A vague dread of what she might
see in the further room, stayed her footsteps, and she turned to descend
the stairs, but Mary who had become brave now that her mother was with
her, pulled at Victoria’s gown and cried: “Come mamma, into the other
room, the negro won’t dare to touch me now that you are with me. The old
man in the bed looks so funny. Do come, mamma.”
Victoria turned again, and with hesitating steps went toward the further
room, whose door stood open. The violent trembling which had left her
for a moment returned now and her limbs shook under her so that she was
scarcely able to stand. She steadied herself by clasping the door with
her hands, while she gazed fascinated into that mysterious room, of
which she had dreamed so often, but which was so entirely different from
her wildest imaginings. As with the other room, this also was only
lighted from the top by one single glass, which was lowered or raised at
one’s will, to admit both air and light. The floor was inlaid with
different colored woods, over which rich rugs were strewn. The walls
were hung with what had once been a bright yellow satin, but which had
now faded to a dirty brown in streaks where the light had touched it.
The chairs were all upholstered in rich stuffs whose beauty had long
since disappeared, but the wonderful carvings still remained. They were
the most beautiful Victoria thought that she had ever seen. A Chinese
table of teak wood next caught her eye. It was a wonderful work of art.
The legs which came together at the top were marvels of carving. The top
of the table was inlaid about every two inches with solid ivory, in
which were carved tiny figures of men and women, birds and flowers, and
in fact everything known to the cunning Chinese artizan. Victoria
bewildered, took in the surroundings with a rapid glance, and in much
less time than it has taken to describe them.
“What a pity to let these rare things go to ruin when they might be put
to good use,” she thought as her eyes sought the bed. A mulatto stood at
the bedside, fanning the occupant vigorously. So engrossed was he that
he did not heed Victoria’s footsteps. She approached the bed with an
awed manner which one is apt to use in a sick chamber.
“Is your patient ill?” she whispered, touching him upon the arm. He
turned with a start, and gazed with a frightened look at her and the
child. Then he seized her roughly by the arm and strove to push her from
the room, but Victoria, who had by this time recovered her usual calm
manner, resolved to end this long hidden mystery. She did not remember
of ever having seen this negro before, but no doubt he was one of their
own men. She turned haughtily upon him. “I am your mistress,” she said,
raising her hand. “Don’t dare to touch me. Your master has given his
consent to my coming here. Now, tell me who is this man, and if he is
not ill why he remains so quiet?”
The man released her with a gutteral sound, which made her start, and
wildly moved his arms about, while he opened his mouth and pointed at
it. To her horror she saw that he had no tongue.
“Great heavens!” she ejaculated, “what mystery is here?” Her tone was
very tender as she added pityingly: “My poor man, I did not know of your
affliction. Can you hear? Do you understand what I say?”
He nodded assent.
“Then, who is the man in that bed?”
He shook his head slowly.
“You do not know?” she asked in surprise. “How long has he been here?
How long have you been here?”
Again the man shook his head, this time with an air of sadness most
pitiful to Victoria.
“Poor fellow,” she said, gently stroking his arm. Then, as a thought
came to her, she added: “Can you read and write?” Again that mournful
gesture more sad than tears.
Victoria turned in despair toward the bed. “Perhaps I can get a lucid
answer from this person,” she thought.
The mulatto approached the bed with a candle. As its rays fell upon the
upturned face of the sleeper, Victoria started back with a cry of
horror, snatched the candle from the man and placed it close to the
sleeper’s face.
“Roger!” she gasped. “Oh, my God! What do I see? Roger’s living face,
yet surrounded by snow-white hair? Am I going mad?” She reeled, and the
mulatto caught the candle as it fell from her hand. Although everything
seemed turning to darkness around her, Victoria did not faint. She felt
a tightening grip at her heart, as if some one was slowly squeezing it
between their hands. Her eyes could not leave the face of that old man
lying upon the pillow. “Who was he?” Not Roger, of course. How silly of
her to imagine so for even one moment. Had she not seen Roger’s body
placed in the ground with her own eyes? Had she not insisted upon gazing
at the horribly disfigured body of her beloved, although the sight had
been one which she should never forget? Ah, no, this was not Roger.
“Whoever he might be he was not her first beloved.”
As she reasoned she felt calmer. “This was Roger’s father without a
doubt. That was why the resemblance was so startling.” Then she
remembered that Roger’s father had been of swarthier skin, like Andrew,
with a dark, forbidding face, handsome, yet repelling. Mary had often
told Victoria how like to his father Andrew was, and their pictures
hanging side by side in the gallery demonstrated the fact. Again the
cold perspiration gathered upon her body. She must discover this mystery
or she should go mad. She turned to the mulatto who was stolidly
regarding her. “What is this man’s name? Can you tell me?”
He bowed his head.
“Is it—is it—” Victoria steadied herself by grasping his arm—“Roger?”
The man smiled and nodded. Victoria thought she must have died and then
returned to life, such a rush of emotion swept over her, such a flood of
darkness, and then the light again. Ah, if she could only die, but she
must ask one more question. Only one more. The answer to that would
either confirm or deny her suspicions. With an imploring look on her
white drawn face, as if she were begging him to say “No,” she asked: “Is
he blind?”
Again the man bowed his head, and with a cry which disturbed the
sleeper, she threw herself upon the bed, and clasped him in her arms.
This was her Roger alive, she knew not how, or by what means he had been
restored to life, but it was surely he, the husband of her youth, the
man whom she had loved so tenderly, and whose loss she still deeply
mourned. Forgetting the wondering child by her side who was now
beginning to cry; forgetting the wretched man below who had called her
wife for so many years; forgetting everything but the sightless lover of
her youth, she laid her cheek against that of the white-haired man, and
called him by all the fond endearing names which once had made sweet
music for his ears.
“Roger, my best beloved, my own husband, it is your Victoria who speaks
to you; your sweet wife. Awaken, and unravel all this mystery. Do you
not hear? Speak to me, call me your darling. Say anything, anything.”
Her voice ended in a sob. She kissed his eyelids, his white hair, while
the blessed tears fell unrestrainedly from her eyes. How good it seemed
to be able to weep. He had evidently awakened, for his eyelids were now
open, and a puzzled expression was on his face.
“Adam,” he called petulantly, “what is all this noise about? How do you
suppose I can sleep? Tell all those people to go away? Oh, my head, my
poor head. It’s buzzing again, Adam, buz, buz, buzzing.” He raised his
hands and placed them to his temples.
Victoria softly kissed his forehead. “Roger, your loving wife, from whom
you have been cruelly separated for so long, is here, right here by your
side. Can you not understand what I am saying?”
“Go away,” cried Roger, pushing her from him. “I want Adam.” He began to
whimper like a child. “I want Adam, I tell you.”
Victoria shrank from him in horror. Was he mad? Ah, no, God would not
have restored him to her only to have her find him an imbecile.
The mulatto now approached the bedside, and laid his hand upon the sick
man’s forehead, while he made a gutteral humming sound in his throat.
Roger’s cries subsided, and his face resumed its former placid
expression.
“That’s a good Adam,” he said, after a while. “A very good Adam. Such a
kind Adam.”
Victoria stood in silence gazing upon the mental wreck before her. A
thousand thoughts flashed through her brain, most of them wild, vague,
and full of terror. “Roger was alive, without a doubt, but that was all.
In all things pertaining to the past he was as dead as though he were
indeed within his grave; but the fact remained that he was her husband.
Then what was the wretched man waiting for her below?” She glanced at
Mary, who had sobbed herself asleep upon the floor—“and what was her
child, her innocent child who had never harmed anybody?” With the cry of
a wounded tigress, she snatched up the child and swiftly descended the
stairs, forgetful of Roger lying helpless in that other room. All her
thoughts were centered on the man who had wrecked her life, and that of
her child. “He _shall_ confess,” she whispered, pressing her lips to
those of the sleeping child. “I will strangle him; yes, I will even
commit murder, but he shall account to me for every day of that wretched
time when I supposed Roger to be dead!”
She stepped into the study. Andrew lay on the spot where he had fallen.
She placed Mary upon the couch and approached the prostrate figure. She
touched it with her foot. Her face was hard and resolute. Not an atom of
mercy would she show him. Was he not deserving of the most withering
scorn? “Wretch!” she said, “I have discovered your secret. At last the
truth has been made known. Get up and let me see your miserable guilty
face. Come, confess your sin.”
There was no answer, not even a muscle moved under her foot. She caught
sight of the half-finished letter lying upon the desk, the revolver
beside it. She devined at once what had been his intention. She caught
up the letter and read it. The erased words, “My Darling Wife,” touched
her deeply. The significance of the erasure was fully understood by her.
She groaned as she read it, but the next words brought the tears to her
eyes. “No woman on this earth was ever loved with the worship and
adoration, which I have lavished upon you.” When she had finished
reading the few remaining words Victoria knelt in tender pity beside the
guilty man, whom she had just cause for hating. There was no hatred in
her heart now. Nothing but sorrow, and a desire to shield and forgive
his sin. She turned his face toward her. It was ashen pale and cold as
one dead, and bore marks of great suffering. Indeed, for a moment she
thought his soul had forever fled, and perhaps even now was being judged
by Him who never errs.
“God is just,” she murmured, as she placed her ear at his heart. “He
will judge Andrew rightly. What right have I to pass judgment upon this
man who has gone to meet his Maker?”
She started to her feet. She had felt just the least motion of the
heart, but it had been enough to tell her that life still remained. She
hastily rang the bell and bade the servant who answered it to send two
men to her without delay, and to go himself for a physician.
When the men came she assisted them in getting Andrew to bed. He knew
nothing, and she watched beside him, applying all sorts of restoratives,
but without avail, until the doctor came. Andrew moaned incessantly, but
further than that had shown no signs of consciousness. The doctor took
several moments in thoroughly examining his patient, while Victoria
watched him breathlessly. Those few moments seemed like hours to her.
“This has been coming on him for some time,” said the doctor at last.
“His brain shows a severe mental strain. I would not like to express my
opinion too hastily. To-morrow will determine it, but I fear, Mrs.
Willing, that your husband will have an attack of brain fever, and it
will be almost certain death, owing to the overworked state of the
brain.”
And so it proved. Andrew became violent through the night, and as
morning dawned his ravings were such that Victoria had to be taken from
the room prostrated. She had confided in the doctor as they watched
beside the sick man, and he had at once shown her that now was not the
time to disclose to the world the skeleton which had been concealed for
so long. Andrew’s severe illness could be a pretext for shutting the
doors against all intruders, and with the help of two faithful nurses,
they could still retain the secret until a more suitable time, and if
Andrew should die, the doctor saw no use of ever unfolding a tale which
could only bring upon the survivors shame and ridicule, and upon the
name of the dead a tarnished reputation; whereas, keeping the secret
could injure nobody. Together they read the few words which expressed so
much of what was in Andrew’s heart; which told of the boundless love for
the woman whom he had called wife, and of the terrible remorse which
haunted him day and night, and which, like an incurable disease, was
slowly eating his life away.
“The man has suffered agonies,” said the doctor, holding Andrew’s hand
firmly as he struggled and writhed with the pain. “If he were tortured
with knives, or his body was put to the rack, he could not begin to
suffer what he has undergone mentally during these few past years. The
wonder is, how he has borne up so long. Most men would have succumbed
long ere this.” And then, as Andrew’s ravings became more violent, they
used their united strength in quieting him, until Victoria succumbed to
a nervous fit, and the doctor ordered her to be taken from the room.
In a few hours she was again herself, and insisted upon returning to
Andrew, who had become more quiet, and seemed to rest contented while
her hand was within his. The sick room being next to the study made
deception more easy, as the doctor took the study for his retiring room,
having promised Victoria not to leave her so long as Andrew lived, for
they looked upon his death as a certainty. Here all the doctor’s meals
were sent, and much comment was indulged in by the servants in the
kitchen over the enormous appetite of the “medicine man,” as he was
called.
“I tought Marse Andrew had a comin’ appetite,” said old Chloe, the cook,
as she was one day arranging the doctor’s dinner on a tray, “but golly
me! I neber did see sech a gormad as dat yer medicine man. Nuffin eber
comes back. Now, Marse Andrew, his midnight supper was de only one he
car’d fer. He neber teched anythin’ trough de day scasely, but de Lord
save us! dis yer man ull eat us yout o’ house an’ home. Heyar yo’ Sam,
stir yer stumps lively now, an’ flax roun’ an’ kill two more o’ dem
settin’ chicks. We’ll need em all fo’ mawnin. Ya, ya, ya.”
Aunt Chloe chuckled as she placed a plate of steaming hoe cake on the
tray, beside a delicately broiled steak garnished with plenty of
vegetables. “Don’t spose dar’s nigh ’nough,” she added, thoughtfully,
“bet a cookie he’ll be sendin’ down fer mo’; he gen’lally do. Heyar, you
Pete, lazy bones, tak’ dis up to Marse Doctor, un don’ drap it on yo’
big feet.”
Pete took the tray, and with a flourish which bid fair to land the whole
contents just where Aunt Chloe had admonished him not, he placed it on
his head, laughing at her horrified gestures and loud exclamations.
“I is all hunkey, Aunty; don’ you go for to cuttin’ up like dat now.
You’ll git de runktums agin suah, hark wat I’se tellin’ ye. Ef dat ar
docta wants mo’ stuff, he kin jes’ ma’ch down an’ git it fer hisself.
Don’ he tink I’se got nuffin else to do, ’cept wait on his bread basket?
Well, I reckon I has. As fer totin’ up and down star’s mor’en fifty
times, ter fetch tings ter stuff inter his big jaw, I’se done. Why don’
he keep me dar till he’s done? Den I could go arfter wat he wants, but
no, he jes’ sayes, ‘Lay de cloth, Pete, dat’s a good boy; and den yer
kin detire.’ In five minutes he wants mo’ bread. In five minutes mo’ he
dequests mo’ coffee, and den he only opens de do’ a little teenty crack,
jes’ ’nough to git my han’ in. You’se hearn o’ tape-worms, Aunt Clo? By
gollys! I tinks dat yer mans got a dozen.”
“Go long wid your tape-worms,” cried Aunt Chloe, “de blessed dinner’s
all gettin’ cold, while you’se shootin’ off dat trap o’ your’n. Spect I
want ter stan’ all day cookin’ tings fer yer ter leave ston’ cold, yer
soft headed nigger? Start yer stumps now.” She emphasized her remarks by
vigorous whacks with the wet dish cloth in her hand, and Pete started on
a trot, rattling the dishes together, while Aunt Chloe followed him with
anxious eyes, expecting every moment to see a grand tumble of viands
from their lofty perch; but a mysterious providence guarded his
footsteps, and brought the tray safely to the study door, which was
opened by the grave doctor, who took the tray from Pete, saying kindly:
“You need not enter, my boy. I can arrange things myself very well
without you.”
Pete, not to be outdone in courtesy, bobbed his head and made an
elaborate gesture with his arms, thereby causing the doctor to nearly
lose his grasp of the tray. As it was, a cup and saucer balanced
perilously near the edge, and the doctor loosened his hold of the door
to catch it. The door slowly swung open, and to Pete’s utter
astonishment he saw standing near the window, a tall, powerful mulatto
whom he had never seen before, and who looked at him curiously. The
doctor saw the whites of Pete’s eyes grow until the pupils disappeared,
and divining the cause he said, nodding at Adam: “You have not seen my
new body servant before, Pete? He has just come to bring me some fresh
linen,” and a moment later Pete found himself in the hall looking at the
closed door.
“Huh!” he grunted, “de docta tinks heself might cute, he do, but I tinks
_I_ knows a heap. I’ll jes watch for massa body servant w’en he comes
out, and scrap’ quaintance with him. I’se had my ’spicions dat de docta
nebber eat all dat stuff. I recon de body servant done help. Ya, ya.”
But Pete, although he sat on the top stair and kept his eyes on the
study door, never saw the body servant again much to his chagrin, for in
some way he had begun to suspect that all was not as it should be behind
the closed door.