A VILLAIN’S BLOW.
They tell me there are natures stern enough to be able to crush love
out of their lives. Ah! not such love as mine! Time, they say, can heal
every wound. Not such a wound as mine! My whole existence underwent
a change when Philippa showed me the wedding-ring on her finger. No
wonder it did. Hope was eliminated from it. From that moment I was a
changed man.
Life was no longer worth living. The spur of ambition was blunted;
the desire for fame gone; the interest which I had hitherto felt in
my profession vanished. All the spring, the elasticity, seemed taken
out of my being. For months and months I did my work in a perfunctory
manner. It gave me no satisfaction that my practice grew larger. I
worked, but I cared nothing for my work. Success gave me no pleasure.
An increase to the number of my patients was positively unwelcome to
me. So long as I made money enough to supply my daily needs, what did
it matter? Of what use was wealth to me? It could not buy me the one
thing for which I craved. Of what use was life? No wonder that such
friends as I had once possessed all but forsook me. My mood at that
time was none of the sweetest. I wanted no friends. I was alone in the
world; I should be always alone.
So things went on for more than a year. I grew worse instead of better.
My gloom deepened; my cynicism grew more confirmed; my life became more
and more aimless.
These are not lovers’ rhapsodies. I would spare you them if I could;
but it is necessary that you should know the exact state of my mind in
order to understand my subsequent conduct. Even now it seems to me that
I am writing this description with my heart’s blood.
Not a word came from Philippa. I made no inquiries about her, took no
steps to trace her. I dared not. Not for one moment did I forget her,
and through all those weary months tried to think of her as happy and
to be envied; yet, in spite of myself, I shuddered as I pictured her
lot as it might really be.
But all the while I knew that the day would come when I should learn
whether I was to be thankful that my prayer had been answered, or to be
prepared to keep my vow.
In my misanthropical state of mind I heard without the slightest
feeling of joy or elation that a distant relative of mine, a man from
whom I expected nothing, had died and left me the bulk of his large
property. I cared nothing for this unexpected wealth, except for the
fact that it enabled me to free myself from a round of toil in which
by now I took not the slightest interest. Had it but come two or three
years before! Alas! all things in this life come too late.
Now that I was no longer forced to mingle with men in order to gain the
means of living, I absolutely shunned my kind. The wish of my youth,
to travel in far countries, no longer existed with me. I disposed of
my practice--or rather I simply handed it over to the first comer. I
left the town of my adoption, and bought a small house--it was little
more than a cottage--some five miles away from the tiny town of Roding.
Here I was utterly unknown, and could live exactly as I chose; and for
months it was my choice to live almost like a hermit.
My needs were ministered to by a man who had been for some years in my
employment. He was a handy, faithful fellow; honest as the day, stolid
as the Sphinx; and, for some reason or other, so much attached to me
that he was willing to perform on my behalf the duties of housekeeping
which are usually relegated to female servants.
Looking back upon that time of seclusion, as a medical man, I wonder
what would eventually have been my fate if events had not occurred
which once more forced me into the world of men? I firmly believe
that brooding in solitude over my grief would at last have affected
my brain; that sooner or later I must have developed symptoms of
melancholia. Professionally speaking, the probabilities are I should
have committed suicide.
Even in the depth of my degradation I must have known the dangers of
the path which I was treading; for, after having passed six dreary
months in my lonely cottage, I was trying to brace myself to seek a
change of scene. I shrank from leaving my quiet abode; but every day
formed afresh the resolve to do so.
Yet the days, each the same as its forerunner, went by, and I was still
there. I had books, of course. I read for days together; then I would
throw the volumes aside, and, with a bitter smile, ask myself to what
end was I directing my studies. The accumulation of knowledge? Tush!
I would give all the learning I had acquired, all that a lifetime of
research could acquire, to hold Philippa for one brief moment to
my heart, and hear her say she loved me! If in the whirl of men, in
the midst of hard work, I found it impossible to conquer my hopeless
passion, how could I expect to do so living as I at present lived?
There! my egotistical descriptions are almost over. Now you know why I
said that you must sit by the fire and think with me; must enter, as
it were, into my inner self before you can understand my mental state.
Whether you sympathize with me or not depends entirely on your own
organization. If you are so constructed that the love of one woman, and
one only, can pervade your very being, fill your every thought, direct
your every action, make life to you a blessing or a curse--if love
comes to you in this guise, you will be able to understand me.
That night, when I first presented myself to you, my wounds seemed less
likely than ever to heal; forgetfulness seemed farther and farther
away. Somehow, as my thoughts took the well-worn road to the past,
every event seemed recent as yesterday, every scene vivid as if I had
just left it. Hour after hour I sat gazing at the glowing embers, but
seeing only Philippa’s beloved face. How had life fared with her? Where
was she at this moment? The resolve to quit my seclusion was made anew
by me. I would go into the world and find her--not for any selfish
motive. I would learn from her own lips that she was happy. If unhappy,
she should have from me such comfort as the love of a true friend can
give. Yes, I would leave this wretched life to-morrow. My cheek flushed
as I contrasted what I was with what I ought to be. No man has a right
to ruin his life or hide his talents for the sake of a woman.
I had another inducement which urged me to make a change in my mode of
life. I am ashamed that I have not spoken of it. That morning I had
received a letter from my mother. I had not seen her for six years.
Just as I entered man’s estate she married for the second time. My
stepfather was an American, and with many tears my mother left me for
her new home. Some months ago her husband died. I should have gone to
her, but she forbade me. She had no children by her second husband and
now that his affairs were practically wound up she proposed returning
to England. Her letter told me that she would be in London in three
days’ time, and suggested that I should meet her there.
Although of late years we had drifted apart, she was dear, very dear
to me. I hated the thought of her seeing me, her only child, reduced
to such a wreck of my former self; yet for her sake I again renewed my
resolve of leaving my seclusion.
Yet I knew that to-morrow I should forswear myself, and sink back into
my apathy and aimless existence. Ah! I knew not what events were to
crowd into the morrow.
But now back to the night. It was mid-winter, and bitterly cold out of
doors. My lamp was not yet lighted; the glow of my fire alone broke the
darkness of the room. I had not even drawn the curtains or shut the
shutters. At times I liked to look out and see the stars. They shone so
peacefully, so calmly, so coldly; they seemed so unlike the world, with
its strife and fierce passions and disappointments.
I rose languidly from my chair and walked to the window, to see what
sort of a night it was. As I approached the casement I could see that
the skies had darkened; moreover, I noticed that feathery flakes of
snow were accumulating in the corner of each pane. I went close to the
window and peered out into the night.
Standing within a yard of me, gazing into my dimly-lit room--her face
stern and pale as death, her dark eyes now riveted on my own--was a
woman; and that woman was Philippa, my love!
For several seconds I stood spellbound, gazing at her. That I saw more
than a phantom of my imagination did not at once enter into my head.
In dreams I had seen the one I loved again and again, but this was the
first time my waking thoughts had conjured up such a vision. Vision,
dream, reality! I trembled as I looked; for the form was that of
Philippa in dire distress.
It was seeing the hood which covered her head grow whiter and whiter
with the fast-falling snow which aroused me to my senses, and made
every fibre thrill with the thought that Philippa, in flesh and blood,
stood before me. With a low cry of rapture I tore asunder the fastening
of the French casement, threw the sashes apart, and without a word my
love passed from the cold, bleak night into my room.
She was wrapped from head to foot in a rich, dark fur-trimmed cloak.
As she swept by me I felt she was damp with partially-thawed snow.
I closed the window; then with a throbbing heart turned to greet my
visitor. She stood in the centre of the room. Her mantle had fallen to
the ground, and through the dusk I could see her white face, hands, and
neck. I took her hands in mine; they were as cold as icicles.
“Philippa! Philippa! why are you here?” I whispered. “Welcome, thrice
welcome, whether you bring me joy or sorrow.”
A trembling ran through her. She said nothing, but her cold hands
clasped mine closer. I led her to the fire, which I stirred until it
blazed brightly. She kneeled before it and stretched out her hands for
warmth. How pale she looked; how unlike the Philippa of old! But to my
eyes how lovely!
As I looked down at the fair woman kneeling at my feet, with her proud
head bent as in shame, I knew intuitively that I should be called
upon to keep my oath; and knowing this, I re-registered it in all its
entirety.
At last she raised her face to mine. In her eyes was a sombre fire,
which until now I had never seen there. “Philippa! Philippa!” I cried
again.
“Fetch a light,” she whispered. “Let me see a friend’s face once
more--if you are still my friend.”
“Your friend, your true friend forever,” I said, as I hastened to obey
her.
As I placed the lamp on the table Philippa rose from her knees. I could
now see that she was in deep mourning. Was the thought that flashed
through me, that it might be that she was a widow, one of joy or
sorrow? I hope--I try to believe it was the latter.
We stood for some moments in silence. My agitation, my rapture at
seeing her once more seemed to have deprived me of speech. I could
do little more than to gaze at her and tell myself that I was not
dreaming; that Philippa was really here; that it was her voice that I
had heard, her hands I clasped. Philippa it was, but not the Philippa
of old!
The rich, warm, glowing beauty seemed toned down. Her face had lost its
exquisite color. Moreover, it was the face of one who has suffered--one
who is suffering. To me it looked as if illness had refined it, as it
sometimes will refine a face. Yet, if she had been ill, her illness
could not have been of long duration. Her figure was as superb, her
arms as finely rounded, as ever. She stood firm and erect. Yet I
trembled as I gazed at that pale proud face and those dark solemn eyes.
I dared not for the while ask her why she sought me.
She was the first to break silence. “You are changed, Basil,” she said.
“Time changes every one,” I answered, forcing a smile.
“Will you believe me,” she continued, “when I say that the memory of
your face as I saw it last has haunted even my most joyful moments? Ah
me! Basil, had I been true to myself I think I might have learned to
love you.”
She spoke regretfully, and as one who has finished with life and its
love. My heart beat rapidly; yet I knew her words were not spoken in
order to hear me tell her that I loved her passionately as ever.
“I have heard of you once or twice,” she said softly. “You are rich
now, they tell me, but unhappy.”
“I loved you and lost you,” I answered. “How could I be happy?”
“And men can love like this?” she said sadly. “All men are not alike,
then?”
“Enough of me,” I said. “Tell me of yourself. Tell me how I can aid
you. Your husband--”
She drew a sharp, quick breath. The color rushed back to her cheek. Her
eyes glittered strangely. Nevertheless, she spoke calmly and distinctly.
“Husband! I have none,” she said.
“Is he dead?”
“No”--she spoke with surprising bitterness--“No; I should rather say
I never was a wife. Tell me, Basil,” she continued fiercely, “did you
ever hate a man?”
“Yes,” I answered emphatically and truly. Hate a man! From the moment I
saw the wretch with whom Philippa fled I hated him. Now that my worst
suspicions were true, what were my feelings?
I felt that my lips compressed themselves. I knew that when I spoke my
voice was as stern and bitter as Philippa’s. “Sit down,” I said, “and
tell me all. Tell me how you knew I was here--where you have come from.”
Let me but learn whence she came, and I felt sure the knowledge would
enable me to lay my hand on the man I wanted. Ah! life now held
something worth living for!
“I have been here some months,” said Philippa.
“Here! In this neighborhood?”
“Yes. I have seen you several times. I have been living at a house
about three miles away. I felt happier in knowing that in case of need
I had one friend near me.”
I pressed her hands. “Go on,” I said hoarsely.
“He sent me here. He had grown weary of me. I was about to have a
child. I was in his way--a trouble to him.”
Her scornful accent as she spoke was indescribable.
“Philippa! Philippa!” I groaned, “had you sunk so low as to do his
bidding?”
She laid her hand on my arm. “More,” she said. “Listen! Before we
parted he struck me. Struck--me! He cursed me and struck me! Basil, did
you ever hate a man?”
I threw out my arms. My heart was full of rage and bitterness. “And
you became this man’s mistress rather than my wife!” I gasped. Neither
my love nor her sorrow could stop this one reproach from passing my
lips.
She sprang to her feet. “You!” she cried. “Do you think--do you
imagine--Read! Only this morning I learned it.”
She threw a letter toward me--threw it with a gesture of loathing, as
one throws a nauseous reptile from one’s hand. I opened it mechanically.
“Yes,” she said, “you were right in thinking I had fallen low. So
low that I went where he chose to send me. So low that I would have
forgiven the ill-treatment of months--the blow, even. Why? Because
until this morning he was my husband. Read the letter. Basil, did you
ever hate a man?”
Before I read I glanced at her in alarm. She spoke with almost feverish
excitement. Her words followed one another with headlong rapidity. But
who could wonder at this mood with a woman who had such a wrong to
declare? She grew calm beneath my glance.
“Read,” she said beseechingly. “Ah, God! I have fallen low; but not so
low as you thought.”
She buried her face in her hands while I opened and read the letter. It
was dated from Paris, and ran so:
“As it seems to me that we can’t exactly hit it off together, I think
the farce had better end. The simplest way to make my meaning clear is
to tell you that when I married you I had a wife alive. She has died
since then; and I dare say, had we managed to get on better together,
I should have asked you to go through the marriage ceremony once more.
However, as things are now, so they had better stop. You have the
satisfaction of knowing that morally you are blameless.
“If, like a sensible girl, you are ready to accept the situation, I am
prepared to act generously, and do the right thing in money matters.
As I hate to have anything hanging over me unsettled, and do not care
to trust delicate negotiations to a third party, I shall run across to
England and see you. I shall reach Roding on Wednesday evening. Do not
send to the station to meet me; I would rather walk.”
The letter was unsigned. My blood boiled as I read it; yet, in spite
of my rage, I felt a grim humor as I realized the exquisite cynicism
possessed by the writer. Here was a man striking a foul and recreant
blow at a woman whom he once loved--a blow that must crush her to
the earth. His own words confess him a rogue, a bigamist; and yet he
can speak coolly about money arrangements; can even enter into petty
details concerning his approaching visit! He must be without shame,
without remorse; a villain, absolutely heartless!
I folded the letter and placed it in my breast. I wished to keep it,
that I might read it again and again during the next twenty-four hours.
Long hours they would be. This letter would aid me to make them pass.
Philippa made no objection to my keeping it. She sat motionless, gazing
gloomily into the fire.
“You knew the man’s right name and title?” I asked.
“Yes, from the first. Ah! there I wronged myself, Basil! The rank, the
riches, perhaps tempted me; and--Basil, I loved him then.”
Oh, the piteous regret breathed in that last sentence! I ground my
teeth, and felt that there was a stronger passion than even love. “That
man and I meet to-morrow,” I told myself softly.
“But you spoke of a child?” I said, turning to Philippa.
“It is dead--dead--dead!” she cried, with a wild laugh. “A fortnight
ago it died. Dead! My grief then; my joy to-day! See! I am in mourning;
to-morrow I shall put that mourning off. Why mourn for what is a happy
event? No black after to-morrow.”
Her mood had once more become excited. As before, her words came with
feverish rapidity. I took her hands in mine; they were now burning.
“Philippa, dearest, be calm. You will see that man no more?”
“I will see him no more. It is to save myself from seeing him that I
come to you. Little right have I to ask aid from you; but your words
came back to me in my need. There was one friend to turn to. Help me,
Basil! I come to you as a sister may come to a brother.”
“As a sister to a brother,” I echoed. “I accept the trust,” I added,
laying my lips reverentially on her white forehead, and vowing mentally
to devote my life to her.
“You will stay here now?” I asked.
“No, I must go back. To-morrow I will come--to-morrow. Basil, my
brother, you will take me far away--far away?”
“Where you wish. Every land is one as to me now.”
She had given me the right, a brother’s right, to stand between her and
the villain who had wronged her. To-morrow that man would be here! How
I longed for the moment which would bring us face to face!
Philippa rose. “I must go,” she said.
I pressed food and wine upon her: she would take nothing. She made,
however, no objection to my accompanying her to her home. We left the
house by the casement by which she entered. Together we stepped out on
the snow-whitened road. She took my arm, and we walked toward her home.
I asked her with whom she was staying. She told me with a widow
lady and two children, named Wilson. She went to them at Sir Mervyn
Ferrand’s command. Mrs. Wilson, he told her, was a distant connection
of his own, and he had made arrangements for her to look after Philippa
during her illness.
It was but another proof of the man’s revolting cynicism. To send the
woman who falsely believed herself to be his wife to one of his own
relations Oh, I would have a full reckoning with him!
“What name do they know you by?” I asked.
“He said I was to call myself by the false name, which, for purposes
of his own, he chose to pass under. But I felt myself absolved from my
promise of secrecy. Why should I stay in a strange house with strange
people by Sir Mervyn Ferrand’s request, unless I could show good cause
for doing so? So I told Mrs. Wilson everything.”
“She believed you?”
“She was bound to believe me. I would have no doubt cast upon my word.
I showed her the certificate of my marriage. Whatever she may have
thought at first, she saw then that I was his wife. No one else knows
it except her. To her I am Lady Ferrand. Like me, she never dreamed to
what man’s villainy can reach. O Basil! Basil! why are such men allowed
to live?”
For the first time Philippa seemed to break down. Till now the chief
characteristics of her mood had been scorn and anger. Now, sheer grief
for the time appeared to sweep away every other emotion. Sob after
sob broke from her. I endeavored to calm her--to comfort her. Alas!
how little I could say or do to these ends! She leaned heavily and
despondingly on my arm, and for a long while we walked in silence. At
last she told me her home was close at hand.
“Listen, Philippa,” I said; “I shall come in with you and see this lady
with whom you are staying. I shall tell her I am your brother; that for
some time I have known how shamefully your husband has neglected you;
and that now, with your full consent, I mean to take you away. Whether
this woman believes in our relationship or not, matters nothing. I
suppose she knows that man is coming to-morrow. After his heartless
desertion she cannot be surprised at your wish to avoid meeting him.”
I paused. Philippa bent her head as if assenting to my plan.
“To-morrow,” I continued, “long before that wretch comes here to poison
the very air we breathe, I shall come and fetch you. Early in the
morning I will send my servant for your luggage. Mrs. Wilson may know
me and my man by sight. That makes no difference. There need be no
concealment. You are free to come and go. You have no one to fear. On
Thursday morning we will leave this place.”
“Yes,” said Philippa dreamily, “to-morrow I will leave--I will come to
you. But I will come alone. In the evening most likely, when no one
will know where I have gone.”
“But how much better that I should take you away openly and in broad
daylight, as a brother would take a sister!”
“No; I will come to you. You will not mind waiting, Basil. There is
something I must do first. Something to be done to-morrow. Something
to be said; some one to be seen. What is it? who is it? I cannot
recollect.”
She placed her disengaged hand on her brow. She pushed back her head
a little, and gave a sigh of relief as she felt the keen air on her
temples. Poor girl! after what she had that day gone through, no wonder
her mind refused to recall trivial details and petty arrangements to be
made before she joined me. Sleep and the certainty of my sympathy and
protection would no doubt restore her wandering memory.
However, although I again and again urged her to change her mind, she
was firm in her resolve to come to me alone. At last, very reluctantly,
I was obliged to give way on this point; but I was determined to see
this Mrs. Wilson to-night; so when we reached the house I entered with
Philippa.
I told her there was no occasion for her to be present at my interview
with the hostess. She looked frightfully weary, and at my suggestion
went straight to her room to retire for the night. I sat down and
awaited the advent of Mrs. Wilson. She soon appeared.
A woman of about five-and-thirty; well but plainly dressed. As I
glanced at her with some curiosity, I decided that when young she must,
after a certain type of beauty, have been extremely good-looking.
Unfortunately hers was one of those faces cast in an aquiline
mould--faces which, as soon as the bloom of youth is lost or the owners
thereof turn to thinness, become, as a rule, sharp, strained, hungry,
and severe-looking. Whatever the woman’s charms might once have been,
she could now boast of very few.
There were lines around her mouth and on her brow which told of
suffering; and, as I judged it, the calm, resigned suffering, which
often leaves a sweet if sad expression on the face; but fierce,
rebellious, constrained suffering, such as turns a young heart into an
old one long before its time.
As she entered the room and bowed to me her face expressed undisguised
surprise at seeing a visitor who was a stranger to her. I apologized
for the lateness of my call; then hastened to tell her its object.
She listened with polite impassibility. She made no comment when
I repeatedly spoke of my so-styled sister as Lady Ferrand. It was
clear that, as Philippa had said, Mrs. Wilson was convinced as to the
valid nature of the marriage. I inveighed roundly against Sir Mervyn
Ferrand’s heartless conduct and scandalous neglect of his wife. My
hearer shrugged her shoulders, and the meaning conveyed by the action
was that, although she regretted family jars, they were no concern of
hers. She seemed quite without interest in the matter; yet a suspicion
that she was acting, indeed rather over-acting, a part, crossed my mind
once or twice.
When I told her it was Lady Ferrand’s intention to place herself
to-morrow under my protection, she simply bowed. When I said that
most likely we should leave England, and for a while travel on the
continent, she said that my sister’s health would no doubt be much
benefited by the change.
“I may mention,” she added, for the first time taking any real part in
the talk, “that your sister’s state is not quite all it should be. For
the last day or two I have been thinking of sending for the medical
man who attended her during her unfortunate confinement. He has not
seen her for quite a week. I mentioned it to her this afternoon; but
she appears to have taken an unaccountable dislike to him, and utterly
refused to see him. I do not wish to alarm you--I merely mention this;
no doubt you, her brother, will see to it.”
The peculiar stress she laid on the word “brother” told me that I was
right in thinking the woman was acting, and that not for one moment did
my assumed fraternity deceive her. This was of no consequence.
“I am myself a doctor. Her health will be my care,” I said. Then I rose.
“You are related to Sir Mervyn Ferrand, I believe, Mrs. Wilson?” I
asked.
She gave me a quick look which might mean anything. “We are
connections,” she said carelessly.
“You must have been surprised at his sending his wife away at such a
time?”
“I am not in the habit of feeling surprised at Sir Mervyn’s actions. He
wrote to me and told me that, knowing my circumstances were straitened,
he had recommended a lady to come and live with me for a few months.
When I found this lady was his wife, I own I was, for once, surprised.”
From the emphasis which she laid on certain words, I knew it was but
the fact of Philippa’s being married to the scoundrel that surprised
her, nothing else. I could see that Mrs. Wilson knew Sir Mervyn Ferrand
thoroughly, and something told me that her relations with him were of a
nature which might not bear investigation.
I bade her good-night, and walked back to my cottage with a heart in
which sorrow, pity, love, hatred, exaltation, and, it may be, hope,
were strangely and inextricably mingled.