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.
[Illustration: "I SHOULD NOT HAVE KNOWN THE WOMAN WHO STOOD THERE WITH
MY NAME FORMED ON HER LIPS."]
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!