PUT yourself in his place. At first, as we have seen, he was simply
stunned, bewildered. His breath was taken away, his understanding
baffled. His senses were thrown into disorder. It was as if a cannon had
gone off under his feet, all was uproar and smoke and confusion. But by
degrees the smoke lifted. The outlines of things became distinct.
One stupendous fact stared Arthur in the face. Its magnitude was
appalling. Its proportions were out of nature: The sight of it froze his
blood, sickened his heart, turned his brain to stone. Judith Peixada,
the woman whom he had pursued, insnared, betrayed; the woman whom he had
delivered over to the clutches of the law, whom the officers had just
dragged away from him, who even at this moment was under lock and
key for a capital offense in the Tombs prison; the woman whom he had
heretofore regarded as an abandoned murderess, beyond the pale of human
pity, but whom he knew now, all appearances, all testimony, to the
contrary notwithstanding, now at the eleventh hour, to be somehow as
guiltless as the babe unborn: this woman was identical with his wife,
with Ruth, with the lady whom he had wooed and married! He had been
groping in the dark. He had brought his own house crashing down around
his ears.
The vastness of the catastrophe, its apparent hopelessness, its grim,
far-reaching corollaries, and the bitter knowledge that he might have
prevented it, loomed up before him like a huge, misshaped monster, by
which his earthly happiness was irretrievably to be destroyed. Add to
this his consciousness of what she thought of him, and the sternest
reader must pity his condition. She believed that, surreptitiously, he
had been prying into the story of her life—a story which on more than
one occasion she had volunteered to tell him, but to which, with feigned
magnanimity, he had refused to listen, preferring to gather it covertly
from other lips. She believed that, once having discovered her identity,
he had ceased to love her, and had entered ruthlessly into a conspiracy
whose object it was to lure her within reach of the criminal law.
Unnatural, impossible, enormous, as such baseness would be, she
nevertheless believed it of him. Ignorant of the circumstances,
too indignant to suffer an explanation, she had jumped to the first
conclusion that presented itself, and had gone to her prison, convinced
that her husband had played her false.
His sensations, of course, were far too complicated, far too turbulent,
to be easily disentangled. Senseless hatred of Peixada for having
crossed his path; senseless hatred of himself for having accepted
Peixada’s case; self-reproach, deep and bitter, for having forbidden
her to share her secret with him; a wild desire to follow her, see
her, speak to her, force her to understand; an intense wish to be doing
something that might help to remedy matters, without the remotest notion
of what ought to be done; a remorse that bordered upon fury, in thinking
of the past; a despair and a terror that bordered upon madness, in
thinking of the future; a sense of impotence that lashed him into
frenzy, in thinking of the present; these were a few of the emotions
fermenting in Arthur’s breast. His intelligence was quite unhinged. He
had lost his reckoning. He was buffeted hither and thither by the waves
of thought and feeling that smote upon him, like a ship without a rudder
in a stormy sea. He wandered aimlessly through the streets, neither
knowing nor caring whither his steps might lead him: while the people
along his route stopped to stare and wonder at this crazy man, who,
without a hat, with eyes gleaming vacantly from their sockets, with
the pallor of death upon his cheek, hurried straight forward, looking
neither to the right nor to the left. His blood coursed like liquid fire
through his arteries. There was the hubbub of bedlam in his ears. The
sole relief he could obtain came from ceaseless motion.
Toward four o’clock that afternoon Hetzel, who lay prone upon his
sofa, glancing lazily at the last issue of his favorite magazine, heard
a heavy, unsteady footfall upon the stairs. Next instant the door flew
open, and Arthur stood before him, hair awry, clothing disordered,
countenance drawn, haggard, and soiled with dust and perspiration.
Hetzel jumped up, and was at his side in no time.
“What—what is the matter with you?” he demanded.
Arthur tottered a short distance into the room, and sank upon a chair.
It flashed across Hetzel’s mind that his friend might possibly be
the worse for drink. He laid hold of an ammonia bottle, and held it to
Arthur’s nostrils.
“No—no; I don’t need that,” Arthur said, waving Hetzel away.
“Well, then, speak. Tell me, what is the trouble?”
“Oh, Julian, I am ruined. If—if you knew what I have done!”
Arthur buried his face in his hands.
“Is—has—has something happened to your wife?”
“Oh, my wife, my wife,” groaned Arthur, incoherently.
Hetzel was perplexed, puzzled as to what to do or say; so, very
sensibly, held his tongue. By and by Arthur began, “My wife—my
wife—oh, Hetzel, listen.”
Then, brokenly, in half sentences, with frequent pauses, he managed
to give Hetzel some account of the day’s happening, winding up thus:
“You—you see how it is. She had offered to tell me that secret she
said she had, but I wouldn’t let her. I wanted her to keep it, to show
her how much I loved her. At least, that’s what I thought. But I—I
know now that it was my cowardice. I was afraid to hear it. We were so
happy, I didn’t want to run any risk of having our happiness
lessened by—by thinking about unpleasant things. My ignorance was
comfortable—I dreaded enlightenment. I was afraid of what it might be.
I preferred to keep it entirely out of my head. God, that was a terrible
mistake! If I had only had the courage to let her speak! But I was
a coward. I went to work and persuaded myself that I was acting from
motives of generosity—that I wanted to spare her the pain of talking
about it—that I loved her too much to care about it—and all that.
But that wasn’t it at all. It was weakness, and downright cowardice,
and evasion of my duty. I see it plainly now—now, when worse has come
to worst. And she—she thinks—she thinks that I made inquiries behind
her back, and found out what it was, and got to be friendly with Peixada
in that way, and then went and put that advertisement into the papers
just for the sake of—of humiliating her—oh, God!—and she thinks
it was I who arranged to have her taken to prison. She actually believes
that—believes that I did that! She wouldn’t listen to me. Her
indignation carried her away. She doesn’t see how unreasonable it is.
She hates me and despises me, and never will care for me again.”
Hetzel himself was staggered. Arthur’s tale ended, there befell a long
silence.
Finally Arthur broke out petulantly, “Well, why don’t you speak? Why
don’t you tell me what there is to be done?”
“It—I think it is very grave. You must let me consider a little
while.”
Another long silence. Hetzel, with bent head, was walking up and down
the room. At length, coming to a standstill, he began, “Yes, it is
very serious. But it is not—can not be—irremediable. There must be
a way out of it—of course there must. I—I—by Jove, let’s look
it squarely in the face. It will merely make matters worse to—to sit
still and think about how bad it is.”
“What else is there to do?”
“This,” answered Hetzel. “We must get her \ out of prison.”
“That’s very easy to say.”
“Well, we’ll do it, no matter how difficult it may be. She mustn’t
be left in the Tombs an hour longer than we can help. After that, it
will be time to make her understand your part in the business. But now
we must bend every muscle to get her out of prison. Whom do you know who
will go bail for her?”
“That’s the worst of it. They don’t take bail in—in—murder
cases,”
“They don’t? Are you sure? Is it never done? We must move heaven and
earth to induce them to, in this case.”
“It’s their rule. Romer might depart from it, she being—who she
is. But I am afraid not.”
“Well, we must try, at any rate, and without dillydallying. Whom can
you get to go upon her bond?”
“The only person I know would be Mr. Flint.”
“Then we must see Mr. Flint at once. Where does he live? Every minute
is precious. We’ll ask him to be her bondsman. Then we’ll seek out
Romer, and persuade him. If he’s got a grain of manhood in him,
he won’t refuse. If we make haste, there’s no reason why she
shouldn’t be free before sundown to-night. Come—let’s be about
it.”
Hetzel’s speech really inspired Arthur with a certain degree of hope
and confidence. At all events, it was a relief to feel that he was doing
something to repair the mischief he had wrought. So, in a hat borrowed
from his chum, he led the way to Mr. Flint’s residence.
On the way thither he began, “To think that it was I who started the
authorities upon her track—-I who urged them to prosecute her! And to
think how the prosecution may end!”
Hetzel retorted, “End? I wish the end had come. I’m not afraid
of the end. I know nothing of the circumstances of the case, but I do
know—and you know, and we all know—that she never was guilty of
murder. I know that we can prove it, too—establish her innocence
beyond a shade of suspicion. We shall only need strength and patience to
do that. You needn’t worry about the end.”
“But the meanwhile, then! Meanwhile, fancy what she thinks of me!
Fancy her despair! Meanwhile, she—she may die—or—she may go
mad—or kill herself.”
“You little know your wife, if you think that. She’s altogether too
strong a woman to succumb to misfortune like that, altogether too noble
a woman to do any thing of that kind. And as for her opinion of you,
why, it stands to reason that she’ll see the absurdity of it, as
soon as the first shock has passed off. Just as soon as she’s in
a condition to use her mind, and think things over, she’ll say to
herself that there’s something which she doesn’t understand, and
she’ll ask you to explain. Take my word for it.”
As they mounted Mr. Flint’s steps, Arthur said, “Will—will you
do the talking? I don’t think I could bear to go over the whole story
again.”
Mr. Flint had but just got home from down-town. He was now in his bath.
He sent word to the callers that he would dress and be with them as
quickly as he could. They waited silently in the darkened drawing room,
and listened to the ticking of an old-fashioned hall-clock. In about ten
minutes Mr. Flint joined them.
Hetzel stated their errand. Of course, Mr. Flint was horrified and
amazed. Of course, he agreed eagerly to do every thing in his power to
aid them.
“Now then, for Romer,” said Hetzel. “Where shall we find him?”
“I don’t know,” said Arthur. “We must look in the directory.”
They stopped at an apothecary’s shop, noted Romer’s address, and
started for the nearest elevated railway station.
Half way there Mr. Flint halted.
“No,” he said, “we can’t depend upon the cars. We must have a
carriage. There’s no telling how much traveling we shall have to do,
before this business is completed.”
They engaged a carriage at a hack-stand hard-by; and in it were jolted
over the cobble-stones to Mr. Romer’s abode.
Mr. Romer was not at home!
For a moment they gazed blankly into each other’s faces. Finally Mr.
Flint said, “Where has he gone?”
“I don’t know,” returned the servant.
“Is there any body in this house who does know?”
“His mother might.”
“Well then, we want to see his mother.”
The servant left them in the vestibule, and went up-stairs. Presently
she returned, accompanied by a corpulent old lady.
“Did you desire to see Mr. Romer upon official business?” inquired
the old lady.
“We did, madam—important official business,” said Mr. Flint.
“Then, gentlemen, you can’t see him till to-morrow morning at his
office. He don’t see people officially after office-hours. If he did,
he’d get no peace.”
Mr. Flint accepted the situation, and was equal to it.
“I understand,” he said; “but this is business in which Mr. Romer
is personally interested. We must see him to-night. To-morrow morning
will be too late. If you know where he is, you’d better tell us.
Otherwise, I shan’t answer for his displeasure.”
“Oh, in that case,” said the old lady, quite deceived by Mr.
Flint’s white lie, “in that case, you’ll find him dining at the *
* * Club. At least, he said he should dine there, when he left the house
this morning.”
“Thank you, madam,” said Mr. Flint. In the carriage, “Bless my
soul!” he added. “It couldn’t have fallen out better. I’m a
member of the * * * Club, myself.”
They entered the club-house. Mr. Flint led Arthur and Hetzel into
the reception-room, where, for a moment, he left them alone.
Shortly returning, “Mr. Romer,” he announced, “is in the
bowling-alley—hasn’t yet gone up to dinner. I’ve sent him my
card.”
In due time Romer appeared, his face flushed by recent exercise.
Catching sight of Arthur, “What, you—Ripley?” he exclaimed.
“I’d fust been telling the fellows down-stairs about—that
is—I—well, I—I’m real glad to see you.”
“Mr. Romer,” said Mr. Flint, plunging in medias res, “I have
ventured to disturb you in your leisure for the purpose of offering bail
in the case of Mrs. Ripley, who, I am informed, was taken in custody
to-day by your officers.”
“Oh,” said Romer, “a question of bail.”
“Yes—we want to give bail for the lady at once—in any amount
that you may wish—but without delay. She must be out of prison before
to-morrow morning.”
“Hum,” mused Romer, “I don’t see how you’ll manage it.”
“Manage it? What is there to be managed? I offer bail; it only remains
for you to take it.”
“Oh, excuse me, but I have no authority in the matter—no more than
you yourself. Mr. Orson, my chief, is the man for you to see, and he’s
out of town. We don’t take bail generally in murder cases; and I
can’t make an exception of this one—though I’d like to, first
rate, for Ripley’s sake. Perhaps Mr. Orson might do so—in fact I
should advise him to—but, as I’ve said, he’s not on hand.
Then, the amount would have to be determined, the papers drawn, the
proceedings submitted to a magistrate—and on the whole, it couldn’t
be arranged inside of a day or two, at the shortest.”
“The devil you say!” cried Mr. Flint.
“I’m very sorry, I’m sure. But that’s about the size of it,”
said Romer.
“And is—is there nothing to be done? Is this lady to remain
indefinitely in the Tombs—a common prisoner?”
“Until you can bring the question before Mr. Orson, at any rate.”
“Well, where is he, Mr. Orson?”
“He’s on his vacation—down at Long Branch.”
“What hotel?”
“The * * *.”
“Good. Will you go with me to Long Branch to-morrow morning?”
“To-morrow morning? No, I can’t go to-morrow morning.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ve got a calendar on my hands.”
“When can you go?”
“I might arrange to run down to-morrow night, and come back Wednesday
morning.”
“For mercy’s sake, then, do so. On what train will you start with me
to-morrow night?”
“Call at my office at four o’clock in the afternoon, and I’ll let
you know. You may count, Ripley, upon my doing all I can for you.”
Mr. Romer went back to his bowling.
Mr. Flint said, “Well, I don’t see that we can go any further
to-night.”
“I suppose we’ll have to reconcile ourselves to waiting and
hoping,” said Hetzel.
“Good God! Is she to—to pass the night in prison?” cried Arthur.
“Come, come, my dear boy,” said Mr. Flint.
“We must make the best of it.” Turning to Hetzel. “Where are you
going now?” he asked.
“I think—it has just occurred to me—that we ought to see Mrs.
Hart,” Hetzel returned.
“Well then, set me down at my house on your way up.” And Mr. Flint
gave the necessary instructions to the driver.
Mrs. Hart was posted on her stoop, peering anxiously up and down the
street, as the carriage containing Hetzel and Arthur rumbled into
Beekman Place. When she saw that the carriage had stopped directly in
front of her domicile, she made a rush toward it, pulled open the door,
and cried, “Ruth, Ruth—at last you have come back! I was so much
worried!” Then, discovering her mistake, “Oh, it is not Ruth? Where
can she be?”
“She is perfectly safe,” said Hetzel. “Come into the house.”
“You have seen her?” questioned Mrs. Hart. “She has been gone such
a long time! I was frightened half to death. Tell me, why doesn’t she
come home? What—?”
Mrs. Hart faltered. By this time they had reached the parlor, which was
brilliantly lighted up; and at the spectacle of Arthur’s face, livid
enough at best, but rendered doubly so by the gas-jets, Mrs. Hart
faltered.
“Let me reassure you. Mrs. Ripley is perfectly safe,” repeated
Hetzel.
“But then—then, why does he look like this?” pointing to Arthur,
and laying a stress upon each syllable.
“Sit down,” said Hetzel, “and compose yourself; and he will tell
you.”
To Arthur, “Now, Arthur, try to command your feelings, and tell Mrs.
Hart all about it.”
As best he could, he told Mrs. Hart as much as was needful to make her
comprehend the state of affairs.
Mrs. Hart was nervous enough at the outset. As Arthur’s story
proceeded, her nervousness became more and more ungovernable. When she
learned that Ruth had been carried off to prison, she cried, “Oh, take
me to her at once. I must go to her at once. She must not be left alone
there all night.”
“It would be impossible to obtain admittance at this hour,” said
Hetzel.
But saying it did not suffice. Mrs. Hart insisted. “Oh, they would
surely let me in. She—she will die if she is left there alone.”
Hetzel undertook to comfort her, and to bring her around to reason.
Finally she was sufficiently calm to listen to the rest of what Arthur
had to say.
His tale complete, Hetzel took up the sequel, explaining how they had
tried to have her liberated on bail, how Mr. Flint was to visit Mr.
Orson at Long Branch to-morrow night, and going on to express his
assurance that in a week’s time at the furthest the storm would have
blown over, and made way for calm and sunshine.
For a long while Mrs. Hart could only cry and utter inarticulate
syllables of grief.
By and by Hetzel asked, “Can you tell us how she came to go down
there—to Mr. Peixada’s place?”
“Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Hart. “It was my fault. I advised her to. You
see, this is the way it happened. After Arthur had left the house
this morning, Ruth picked up the newspaper. She was just glancing over
it—not reading any thing in particular—when all at once, she gave a
little scream. I asked her what it was; and she said, ’Look here.’
Then she showed me the advertisement that he has spoken of. ’Would you
pay any attention to it?’ she asked. I read it, and considered, and
then asked her what action her impulse prompted her to take. She said
that she hardly knew. If there was something they wanted of her, which
was right and proper, she supposed she ought to do it; but she hated
to have any dealings with Peixada. ’I thought Judith Peixada had been
dead two years,’ she said; ’but now she comes to life again just
when she is least expected.’ I suggested that she might write a
letter. But on thinking it over she said, ’No. Perhaps the best thing
I can do will be to go at once and beard the lion in his den. I shall
worry about it otherwise. I may as well know right away what it is.
After lunch I’ll go down-town and call upon Mr. Peixada; and then
I’ll surprise Arthur in his office, and bring him home.’ Then I—I
said I thought that was the best thing she could possibly do,” Mrs.
Hart interrupted herself to dry her eyes. Presently, “You see, it was
my fault,” she resumed. “I ought to have suspected that they meant
foul play; but instead, I let her walk straight into their pitfall.
Right after lunch, at about halfpast one, she started out. She promised
to be home again by four o’clock. When she didn’t come and didn’t
come, I began to get more and more anxious about her. I was almost
beside myself, when at last you arrived.”
Hetzel said, “It is bad enough to think of her being locked up in
prison, but that is not the worst. I’m sure we can get her out of
prison; and although I don’t know the first thing about the case,
I’m sure that we can prove her innocence. The trouble now is
this. She’s suffering all manner of torments, because she totally
misconceives her husband’s part in the transaction. Our endeavor must
be to put her husband’s conduct before her in the right light—make
her understand that he acted all along in good faith, and without the
faintest suspicion that she and Judith Peixada were one and the same.
She was so much incensed at him this afternoon, that she wouldn’t let
him justify himself. We must set this mistake right tomorrow morning.
I think that you, Mrs. Hart, had better visit her as early to-morrow as
they will admit you, and—”
“Of course I will,” interpolated Mrs. Hart.
“—And tell her Arthur’s side of the story. When she understands
that, she’ll feel like another woman. Then he can see her, and talk
to her, and find out the facts of the case, and lay them before the
authorities. It seems to me that this is the plain course to take.”
“And meanwhile, meanwhile!” cried Arthur, wringing his hands.
“Come,” said Hetzel, “show your grit. Look at Mrs. Hart. See how
bravely she bears up. Do you want to make it harder for every one by
your example?”
“Mrs. Hart isn’t her husband,” Arthur retorted.
Then he bit his lip and kept silence. Mrs. Hart sat bolt upright,
staring at vacancy, with brows knitted into a tight frown. Hetzel tugged
away at his whiskers, and was evidently thinking hard.
By and by the door-bell rang. A servant entered.
“Here is a note, ma’am, a man just left,” she said to Mrs. Hart.
Mrs. Hart read the note and passed it to Hetzel. It was written upon a
half sheet of paper, headed in heavy black print, “City Prison.” It
was brief:—
“My dear, dear Friend:—You must be anxious about me. I have tried
hard to get word to you. At last they have found a messenger for me. You
see by this letter-heading where I am. The advertisement was a trick.
But it was worse, much worse, than you can fancy. If I could only see
you! Will you come to me to-morrow morning? I am too heartsick to write,
Ruth.”
Hetzel was returning the note to Mrs. Hart, when Arthur stretched out
his hand for it.
“Am I not to read what my own wife has written?” he demanded
fiercely.
He took in its contents at a glance. Even this sheet of common prison
paper was sweet with that faint, evanescent perfume that clung to
everything Ruth’s fingers touched. Letting it drop to the floor, “I
can’t stand it,” he cried in a loud voice, and left the room.
They heard the vestibule door slam behind him.
“He is mad,” said Mrs. Hart. “He will do himself an injury.”
“No, he won’t—not if I can stop him,” said Hetzel; and he
hurried forth upon Arthur’s track.
But he came back in a little while, panting for breath.
“I ran as far as First Avenue,” he explained; “but he had
succeeded in getting out of sight. Never mind. He’ll come home all
right. No doubt he needs to be alone.”
Once out of doors, Arthur dashed blindly ahead. It was a sultry night.
The odor of ailanthus trees hung heavy on the air. Many people were
abroad. On the door-steps of most of the houses, the inmates sat,
chatting, smoking, dozing, airing themselves. The city had given itself
over to rest and recreation. Through open windows escaped bursts of
song and laughter and piano playing. Young girls, dressed in white,
promenaded on the arms of young men who puffed cigarettes.
Arthur had no fixed destination. He walked, because walking was a
counter-irritant. He walked rapidly, and took no notice of the sights
and sounds round about him. He remembers dimly that he left the
respectable quarters of the city far behind, and entered a maze of
crooked, squalid, foul-smelling streets. Then, he remembers that all at
once he looked up and wondered where he was. And there, a blot upon the
sky, there loomed the prison that held his beloved.
He remained within eyeshot of this dismal structure till daybreak, when
at last he went back to Beekman Place.