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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5b3fc12 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #51986 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/51986) diff --git a/old/51986-0.txt b/old/51986-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 1765a60..0000000 --- a/old/51986-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,3608 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Two Women or One?, by Henry Harland - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: Two Women or One? - From the Mss. of Dr. Leonard Benary - -Author: Henry Harland - -Release Date: May 3, 2016 [EBook #51986] -Last Updated: March 13, 2018 - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TWO WOMEN OR ONE? *** - - - - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by Google Books - - - - - - - - - -TWO WOMEN OR ONE? - -From The Mss. Of Dr. Leonard Benary - -By Henry Harland - -New York - -1890 - -_DEDICATION_ - -TO -------- --------, ESQUIRE. - - - - “I'll link my waggon to a star;” - - I'll dedicate this tale to you: - - Wit, poet, scholar, that you are, - - And skilful story-teller too, - - And theologue, and critic true, - - And main-stay of the-------Review. - - I'll link my waggon to a star, - - Does not the Yankee sage advise it? - - And yet I dare not name your name, - - Lest the wide lustre of its fame - - Eclipse my humble candle-flame: - - But you'll surmise it. - -January 1890. - - - - - -TWO WOMEN OR ONE? - - - - -CHAPTER I.--THE FIRST NIGHT. - -|My name is Leonard Benary--rather a foreign-sounding name, though I am -a pure-blooded Englishman. I reside at No. 63, Riverview Road, in the -American city of Adironda, though I was born in Devonshire. And I am a -physician and surgeon, though retired from active practice. My age can -be computed when I say that I came into the world on the 21st day of -July, in the year 1818. - -I must at the outset crave the reader's indulgence for two things. -First, my style. I am not a literary man; and my style will therefore -be ungraceful. Secondly, my provincialisms. I have lived in Adironda -for very nearly half a century, and I have therefore fallen into divers -local peculiarities of speech. But I have a singular, and I believe an -interesting and significant, story to tell, and I think it had better be -ill told than not told at all. - -It begins with the night of Friday, June 13th, 1884. - -Towards twelve o'clock on that night I was walking in an easterly -direction along the south side of Washington Street, between Myrtle -Avenue and Riverview Road, on my way home from a concert which I had -attended at the Academy of Music. Moving in the same direction, on the -same side of the street, and leading me by something like a hundred -feet, I could make out the figure of a woman. Except for us two, the -neighbourhood appeared to be deserted. - -Anything about my fellow pedestrian, beyond her sex, which was -proclaimed by the outline of her gown as she passed under a -street-lamp--whether she was young or old, white or black, a lady or -a beggar--I was unable, owing to the darkness of the night, and to the -distance that separated us, to distinguish. Indeed, I should most likely -have paid no attention whatever to her, for I was busy with my own -thoughts, had I not happened to notice that when she readied the corner -of Riverview Road, instead of turning into that thoroughfare, she -proceeded to the terrace at the foot of Washington Street, and -immediately disappeared down the stone staircase which leads thence to -the water's edge. - -This action at once struck me as odd, and put an end to my -pre-occupation. - -What could a solitary woman want at the brink of the Yellow Snake River -at twelve o'clock midnight? - -Her errand could scarcely be a benign one; and the conjecture that -suicide might possibly be its object, instantly, of course, arose in my -mind. - -My duty under the circumstances, anyhow, seemed plain--to keep an eye -upon her, and hold myself in readiness to interfere, if needful. - -After a moment's deliberation, I, too, descended the stone stairs. - - - - -CHAPTER II.--AT THE RIVER SIDE. - -|Yet to keep an eye upon her was more easily said than done. At the -bottom of the terrace it was impenetrably dark. Not a star shone from -the clouded sky. The points of light along the opposite shore--and here -and there, upon the bosom of the stream, the red or green lantern of a -vessel--punctured the darkness without relieving it. Strain my eyesight -as I might, I could see nothing beyond the length of my arm. - -But the lapping of the waves upon the strand, and about the piles of the -little T-shaped landing-stage that extends into the river at this -point, was distinctly audible, and served to guide me. Towards the -landing-stage I cautiously advanced; and when I felt the planking of it -beneath my feet, I halted. The whereabouts of the woman I had no -means of determining. “However,” thought I, “if her business be -self-destruction, she has not yet transacted it, for I have heard -no splash.” - -Ah! Suddenly a flare of heat-lightning on the eastern horizon -illuminated the land and the water. It was very brief, but it lasted -long enough for me to take my bearings, and to discern the object of my -quest. - -She was standing, a mass of shadow, at the very verge of the little -wharf, distant not more than three yards in front of me. A moment later -I had silently gained her side, stretched out my hand, and laid firm -hold upon her by the arm. - -In great and entirely natural terror, she started back: as luck would -have it, not in the direction of the water, for else she had certainly -tumbled in, perhaps dragging me with her. And though she uttered no -articulate sound, she caught her breath in a sharp spasmodic gasp, and I -could feel her tremble violently under my touch. - -I sought to reassure her. - -“Do not be alarmed,” I said, speaking as gently as I could; “I mean you -no manner of evil. I saw you come down here from the street above; and -it struck me as hardly a safe place for a person of your sex to visit -alone at such an hour.” - -She made no answer. A prolonged shudder swept over her, and she drew a -deep long sigh. - -“You have no reason to fear me,” I continued. “I have only come to you -for the purpose of protecting you, of being of service to you, if I can. -Look--ah! no; it's too dark for you to see me. But I am a white-haired -old man, the last person in the world you need be afraid of. You would -not tremble and draw away like that, if you could know how far I am from -wishing you anything but good.” - -She spoke. “Then release my arm.” - -Her tone was haughty and indignant. She enunciated each syllable -with frigid preciseness. From the correctness of her accent and the -cultivated quality of her voice, I learned that I had to do with a woman -of education and refinement. - -“Then release my arm.” - -“No,” I said, “I dare not release your arm.” - -“Dare not!” echoed she, in the same indignant tone, to which now was -added an inflection of perplexity. Sightless as the darkness rendered -me, I could have wagered that she raised her eyebrows and curled her -lip. - -“I dare not,” I repeated. - -“Possibly you will be good enough to explain what it is you fear.” - -“Frankly, I fear that you mean to do yourself a mischief. I dare not let -go my hold upon you, lest you might take advantage of your liberty to -throw yourself into the water.” - -“Well, and if I should?” - -“That would be a very foolish thing to do.” - -“But what concern is it of yours? What right have you to molest me? My -life is my own, is it not, to dispose of as I please?” - -“That is a very difficult and subtle question, involving the first -principles of theology and ethics. I do not think we can profitably -enter into a discussion of it just now, and here. But this much I will -promise you,” said I, “I shall not let go my hold upon your arm until I -am persuaded that you have renounced your suicidal purpose.” - -She gave a _tchk_ of exasperation. Then, after a momentary silence-- - -“You are insolent and intrusive, sir. You presume upon the fact that I -am a woman and alone, to take a shameful and unmanly advantage of me.” - -“I am sorry if such is your opinion of me,” I returned. “I do only what -I must.” - -“You tell me you are an old man. I am not old, and I am strong. I warn -you now to let me go. I assure you, you are unwise to trifle with me. I -am a very desperate woman, and shall not mind consequences. If you try -me beyond endurance--if we should come to a struggle----” - -“Ah! but we will not,” I hastily interposed. “You will not improve your -superior strength against one who is moved by no other feeling than -goodwill toward you. And besides,” I added, “though it is true that I am -close upon sixty-six years of age, my muscles have still some iron in -them. I fancy I should be able to hold my own.” - -This, I must acknowledge, was sheer braggadocio. I weigh but nine -stone, measure but five feet four in my boots, and am anything rather -than an athlete. - -“You are a meddler, sir. Good or bad, your motives do not interest -me. Let me go. My patience is exhausted. I will brook no further -interference. Release my arm. Your conduct is an outrage.” - -She spoke in genuine anger, stamping her foot, and tugging to escape my -grasp. - -“What I do, madam, be it outrageous or otherwise, I am in common -humanity bound to do. I should be virtually your murderer if I did less. -It is my bounden duty to restrain you, to do what I may to help you.” - -“Help me, sir? You are in no position to help me. I have not asked your -help. There is no help for me. You are meddlesome and officious. I will -not dispute with you further. _Let me go!_” - -She spoke the last three words with threatening emphasis. I could hear -her teeth come together with a decisive click after them. Again she -tugged to break loose from me. - -“You require of me the impossible,” was my reply. “It is impossible for -me to let you go. I implore you to control your anger, and to listen to -me for one moment. You are labouring under great excitement, you are not -accountable, you are not yourself. How can I let you go? I should never -know another instant of peace if I stood by and suffered you to do -yourself the injury that you contemplate. I should be a brute, a craven, -a criminal, if I did that. I should be answerable for your death. As a -human being, I am compelled to restrain you if I can. You must see that -it is impossible for me to let you go.” - -“Well, have you finished?” she demanded, as I paused. - -“Not quite,” I answered, “for now I must ask you to let me take you to -your home. Tomorrow morning you will feel differently, you will see all -things by a different light. You will thank me then for what you now -call an outrage. Think of your friends, your family. No matter what -anguish you may be suffering, no matter to what desperate straits your -affairs may be arrived, you have no right to attempt your life. Besides, -you say you are young. Therefore you have the future before you; you -have hope. I am older than you, and wiser. Be advised and guided by me. -Come, let me take you to your home.” - -“Home!” she repeated bitterly. “Home, friends, family! Ha-ha-ha!” She -laughed; but her laughter was dry and sardonic, horrid to hear. “What -you say would be cruel, sir, if it were not so highly humorous. You -speak and act in ignorance. You are very far from comprehending the -situation. I have no home. I have no family, no friends, and, worst of -all, no money. There is not a roof in this city--no, nor in the whole -world, for that matter--under which I can seek a welcome; not a friend, -acquaintance, relation, not a human being, in short, to miss me, or even -to enquire after me, if I disappear. Except, indeed, enemies; except -those who would wish to find me for my further hurt: of them there are -plenty. Now will you let me go? I am in extreme misery, sir. There is no -help for me, no hope. My life is a wreck, a horror. I can't bear it, -I can't endure it any longer. Let me go. If you understood the -circumstances, you would not detain me. If you knew what I am, what I -have done, and what I should have to look forward to if I lived; if you -knew what it is to reach that pass where life means nothing for you but -fire in the heart: you would not refuse to let me go. You could condemn -me to no agony, sir, worse than to have to live. To live is to remember; -and so long as I remember I shall be in torment. Even to sleep brings me -no relief, for when I sleep I dream. Oh, for mercy's sake, let me go! -Go yourself. Go away, and leave me here. You will not repent it. You may -always recall it as an act of kindness. I believe you mean to be kind. -Be really kind, and do not interfere with me longer.” - -She had begun to speak with a recklessness and a savage irony that were -shocking and repulsive; but in the end she spoke with a pathos and a -passion that were irresistible. I was stirred to the bottom of my heart. - -“I wish, dear lady,” I said, “I wish you could know how deeply and -sincerely I feel for you, how genuine and earnest my desire is to help -you. Pray, pray give me at least a chance to do so. Look; I live in one -of those houses, above there, on the terrace--where you see the lights. -Come with me to my house. You say you have no roof under which you can -seek a welcome: I will promise you a welcome there. You say you -are friendless: let me be your friend. Come with me to my house. I -believe--nay, I am sure--I shall be able in some way to help you. -Anyhow, give me a chance to try. I am an old man, a physician. Come with -me, and let us talk together. Between us we shall discover some better -solution of your difficulties than the drastic one that you are looking -to. But I will make a bargain with you. Come with me to my house, and -remain there for one hour. If, at the expiration of that hour, I shall -not have persuaded you to think better of your present purpose--if then -you are still of your present mind--I will promise to let you depart -unattended, without further hindrance, to go wherever and to do -whatever you see fit. No harm can come to you from accompanying me to -my house--no harm by any hazard, but possibly much good. Try it. Try me. -Trust me. Come. Within an hour, if you still wish it, you may go your -way alone. I give you my word of honour. Will you come?” - -“You leave me no free choice, sir. It will be my only means of -deliverance from you. I run a great risk, a great peril, greater than -you can think, in doing so. But it is agreed that at the end of one hour -I shall be my own mistress again? After that--hands off?” - -“At the end of one hour you may go or stay, according to your own -pleasure.” - -“Very well; I am ready.” - - - - -CHAPTER III.--WHENCE SHE CAME. - -|I led her into my back drawing-room--which apartment I use as a library -and study--and turned up the drop-light on my writing-table. - -Then I looked at her, and she looked at me. - -She had said that she was young. I was not surprised to see that she -was beautiful as well. I do not know that I can explain just what had -prepared me for this discovery. Perhaps, in part, her voice, which -was exquisitely sweet and melodious. Perhaps simply the tragical and -romantic circumstances under which I had found her. However that may be, -beautiful she indubitably was. - -She wore no bonnet. Her hair, dark brown, curling, and abundant, was cut -short like a boy's. - -Her skin was fine in texture, and deathly pale. Her eyes, large, dark, -liquid, were emotional and intelligent. Her mouth was generous in size, -sensitive in form, and in colour perfect. But over her whole countenance -was written legibly the signature of hard and fierce despair. - -From throat to foot she was wrapped in a black waterproof cloak. - -“Be seated,” I began. “Put yourself at ease in mind and body. And first -of all, let me offer you a glass of wine.” - -“You may spare yourself that trouble, sir,” she replied. “I have no -appetite for wine.” - -“But it will do you good. A single glass?” - -“I will not drink a single drop.” - -“Well, then, a composing draught. You are my patient for the time being, -remember. You must let me prescribe for you. You are in a state of -excessive nervous excitement, bordering upon hysteria. Drink this.” - -“I assure you, sir, my disorder is not of the body,” she said wearily. -“No medicine can relieve it.” - -“Nevertheless, I will beg of you to give this a trial. It is but a -thimbleful. It can't hurt you, even if it should fail to benefit you.” - -“For aught I know it may contain a drug.” - -“It certainly does contain a drug. I should not offer you _aqua pura_.” - -“You juggle words, sir. I mean a poison.” - -“Come; that is good. Do you think I would have been at such pains to -dissuade you from suicide, immediately thereafter to seek to poison -you?” - -“I don't mean a deadly poison. You could do me no greater kindness than -to offer me a deadly poison. I mean--it may contain some opiate, some -narcotic, to deprive me of power over myself, so that I shall be unable -to leave your house when the time is up.” - -“Madam, look at me. Have I the appearance of a man who would attempt to -get the better of you by an underhand trick like that?” - -“No, you do not look deceitful,” she answered, after a moment's scrutiny -of my face. - -“Then trust me enough to drink this.” - -Without further protest she took the glass I proffered, and emptied it. - -“Now, if you are willing, we may talk,” said I. - -“What is there to talk about? I, at any rate, have nothing to say. But -I am at your mercy for the term of one hour. You, of course, may talk as -much as you desire. But at the end of one hour---- Please look at your -watch. What o'clock is it now?” - -“It is twenty minutes after midnight.” - -“Thank you. Five minutes have already passed. At a quarter after one I -shall be free to leave.” Therewith she let her head fall back upon the -cushion of the easy-chair in which she was seated, and closed her eyes. - -“Yes,” said I, “you will then be free to leave, if you still wish it. -But I doubt if you will.” - -“Your doubt is groundless, sir. However, if it pleases you to cherish -it, you may do so till the hour is finished.” - -“No, I cannot think my doubt is groundless. I told you I believed I -should be able to show you a better way out of your troubles than the -desperate one that you were purposing to take; and now I will make good -my promise.” - -“Being more fully acquainted with my own affairs than you are, I assure -you that your promise is one which cannot by any possibility be made -good.” - -“Time will prove or disprove the truth of that assertion. To begin with, -may I ask you a question or two?” - -“You may ask me twenty questions. I do not pledge myself to answer -them.” - -“Well, will you answer this one? Am I right in having understood you to -say, when we were below there, on the wharf, that you have no friends -or kindred whose feelings you are bound to consider in determining your -conduct, and no worldly ties or associations which you are bound to -respect?” - -“Yes, you are right in that.” - -“I am right in having understood you to say that; but is what you said -true?” - -“Which would imply that you suspect me of having lied,” she returned, -with an unlovely smile. “Well, I don't blame you. I am a skilful and -habitual liar, and I daresay it shows in my face. But in that case I -broke my rule, and told the truth.” - -“My dear madam, I intended no such imputation. But you were agitated and -excited; and sometimes under the stress of our excitement we unwittingly -exaggerate.” - -“Well, I did not exaggerate. What I told you was literally true.” - -“And the rest that you said? That also you re-affirm? That you are -penniless, homeless, wretchedly unhappy, and weary of life? It seems -brutal for me to state it thus; but I must understand clearly, for a -purpose which you will presently see.” - -“You need not apologise, sir. This is no occasion for mincing matters. -Yes, I am penniless, homeless, wretchedly unhappy, and weary of life. -But I am worse than that. I am bad. I am utterly base and degraded. Look -at me,” she added, fixing her eyes boldly, even defiantly, upon mine. -“Examine me. I am a rare specimen. Very probably you have never seen my -like before, and never will again. I am an example of--” she paused -and laughed; and there was something in her laughter that made me -shudder--“of total depravity,” she concluded. Then suddenly her manner -changed, and she became very grave. “Would you entertain a leper in your -house, sir? Yet I have been told that I am a moral leper. I have been -told that the corruption-spot upon me reaches in to the core. And I -think my informant put it very moderately. If you suspected the crimes -I have been guilty of, the worse crimes that I have meditated, and -only failed to commit because of material obstacles that I could not -overcome, you would not harbour me in your house for a single minute. -You would feel that my presence was a contamination: that I polluted -the chair I sit in, the floor under my feet. The glass I just drank -from--you would shatter it into bits, that no innocent man or woman -might ever put lips to it again. There! can't you see now that I am -beyond help, beyond hope? What have I to live for? I am an incumbrance -upon the face of the earth, and hateful to myself into the bargain. -Why keep me here an hour? Let us rescind our compromise.* Let me go at -once.” - - * It is possible that here and elsewhere Dr. Benary, in - reporting conversations from memory, puts into the mouths of - his interlocutors words and phrases from his own vocabulary, - at the same time, without doubt, giving the substance and - the spirit of their remarks correctly. “Let us rescind our - compromise,” at any rate, falling from the lips of a woman, - has, to say the least, an unrealistic sound.---Editor. - -She rose, and stood restive, as if expecting a dismissal. - -“No, no; you must stay out your hour, at all events,” I insisted. “Sit -down again. I am sure you are not so black as you paint yourself; and in -any case, guilt confessed and repented of is more than half atoned for.” - -“That is not so, to begin with,” she retorted; “that is the shallowest, -hollowest sort of cant. It may pass with people who know guilt only by -hearsay, but is ridiculous to those who, like myself, have a knowledge -of the subject at first hand. - -“Guilt, crime, is atoned for only when it is undone, and all its -consequences are obliterated. And now, speaking from my first-hand -knowledge of the subject, I will tell you two things--first, all the -confession and repentance in the world cannot undo a crime once done, -nor obliterate its consequences; secondly, nothing can. You are a -physician; I take it, therefore, you are familiar with the first -principles of science: with what they call, I think, the Law of the -Persistence of Force, the Law of the Conservation of Energy. If you -understand that law, you will not dispute this simple application of it: -a crime once done can never be undone; its consequences are ineradicable -and eternal. Well and good. It is a puerility, in the face of the Law of -the Persistence of Force, to talk of atonement. Atonement could come -to pass only by means of a miracle--a suspension of Nature, and the -interposition of a Supernatural Power. And that is where the Christians, -with their dogma of vicarious atonement, are more rational than all -the Rationalists from _a to zed_. So much for atonement. And now, as to -repentance--who said that I repented? Repentance! Remorse! I will -give you another piece of information, also speaking from firsthand -knowledge. Repentance and Remorse are unmeaning sounds. There are no -realities, no _things_, to correspond with them. I do not repent. No -man or woman, from the beginning of time, has ever yet repented, in your -sense of the word. We regret the losses that our crimes entail upon -us: yes. We suffer because our crimes find us out, because retribution -overtakes us: yes. But repent? We do not repent. Most of us pretend to. -But I will be frank; I will not pretend. - -“I suffer because the punishment which, by my crimes, I have brought down -upon myself, is greater than I can bear; I suffer, too, because the last -purpose I had left to live for, which was also a criminal purpose, has -been defeated. But I do not repent. I will not pretend to repent.” - -“Be all which as it may, I will repeat what I said before: I do not -believe that you are so black as you paint yourself. You, young, -beautiful, intelligent--no, no. But even if you were ten times blacker, -it would make no difference to me. For, look you, since you have -introduced a question of science, and favoured me with a scientific -generalisation, I will pursue the question a little further, and cap -your generalisation with another: namely, good, bad, or indifferent, -we are not our own creators; we do not make ourselves; we are the -resultants of our Heredity and our Environment; and our actions, -whether criminal or the reverse, are determined not by free-will, but by -necessity. I will not enlarge upon that generalisation; I will leave its -corollaries for your own imagination to perceive. But in view of it, -I will say again: even if you were ten times blacker, it would make no -difference to me. You are no more to blame for the colour of your soul -than for the colour of your hair.” - -“You are very magnanimous,” she said bitterly, “and your doctrine would -sound well in a criminal court.” - -“Think of me as scornfully as you will,” I returned, “I am very -sincerely anxious to befriend you.” - -“If that is true, you have it in your power to do so with marvellous -ease.” - -“How so?” I queried. - -“Absolve me from my agreement to stay here an hour. Sit still there in -your chair, and let me go about my business unmolested and at once.” - -“No; to that agreement I must hold you, for your own sake. I have much -to say to you, if you would only let me once get started.” - -“Good God, sir!” she cried, springing up in passion. “You drive me to -extremes. Do you know that you are violating the laws of the State -in harbouring me here?--that you are exposing yourself to the risk of -prosecution?” - -“I know that I should be violating the laws of humanity if I suffered -you to lay violent hands upon yourself so long as I have it in my power -to restrain you. As for the laws of the State, do you mean that you can -bring an action against me for damages in interfering with your personal -liberty? I doubt if you will do so. And I am sure no jury, apprised of -the circumstances, would find against me.” - -“You are still in ignorance of the situation.” said she. “Now open your -eyes.” - -With that she threw off the waterproof cloak in which she was enveloped, -and stood before me in the blue and white striped uniform of a Deadlock -Island convict. - - - - -CHAPTER IV.--THE DOCTOR SPEAKS. - - -|I confess my heart leapt into my throat, and I gasped for breath. She, -witnessing my stupefaction, laughed, as if in cynical enjoyment of it. - -After a little: “I think now you will permit me to bid you good -evening,” she said with mock ceremoniousness. - -“You--you have escaped from prison!” I faltered out. - -“Yes, from the Penitentiary across the river. You see, though we have -never met until to-night, we have been neighbours, living within sight -each of the other's residence, for some time. Two years already I have -spent, somewhat monotonously, upon Deadlock Island; and, to employ -technical language, I was 'in' for a term of which that was but an -insignificant fraction. I had, however, certain business to transact -here in town--a little matter to arrange with the gentleman who was -the principal witness for the prosecution at my trial--and I seized, -therefore, upon the first opportunity that presented itself to come -hither incognito. But when I arrived I found that Fate, with her usual -perversity, had put it out of my power to transact that business, the -party of the second part having died from natural causes. Thus the -one last only purpose I had left to live for had become impossible of -accomplishment. And now I wish for nothing except death. At last even -you must see the absurdity of my staying longer here in your house. Let -me _go_.” - -“You say,” I rejoined, having by this time recovered somewhat of my -equanimity; “you say that you wish for nothing except death. Say what -you will, I do not believe that you wish for death at all.” - -“To that I can only answer that you deceive yourself.” - -“No, it is you who deceive yourself. What you wish for is not death, -but change--a change of condition. No truer words were ever spoken than -those of Tennyson's:-- - - Whatever crazy sorrow saith, - - No life that breathes with human breath - - Has ever truly longed for death. - -What you crave under the name of death is forgetfulness. You yourself -compressed the whole truth into five words when you said: 'To live is -to remember.' Your inference was that to die is to forget. It is memory -that agonizes you; it is the past which lives in memory that handicaps -you, that hangs like a mill-stone round your neck, and goads you to -despair. If you could forget, if you could erase the entire past from -your consciousness, you would cease to suffer. Is not that true?” - -“True enough, perhaps. But without pertinence. A quibble. Forgetfulness -is what I wish for, yes. But there is no forgetfulness except in -death--no Lethe save the Styx.” - -“No forgetfulness _except_ in death? You assume, then, that there -_is_ forgetfulness in death; a bold assumption. Have you no dread of -something after death, the undiscovered country? Do you ignore the -possibility of a future life? Suppose, beyond the grave, you preserve -your identity--that is to say, your memory: in what respect will you -have gained by the change?” - -“I must take my risks. This much I know for certain: there is no -forgetfulness in life. In death there may be. I will take my chances. -Am I not in hell now? Any change must be a change for the better. I will -take the risks.” - -“You say there is no forgetfulness in life. But suppose there were? -Suppose it were possible for you to obtain total and permanent -forgetfulness without dying, without taking those risks, without taking -any risks at all? Suppose some one should come to you and say: 'See! -I have it in my power to bestow upon you total and permanent -obliviousness, so that the entire past, with all its events and -circumstances, shall be perfectly effaced from your mind; so that you -shall not even recall your name, nor your language; but, with unimpaired -bodily health and mental capacities, shall begin life afresh, like the -new-born infant, speechless, innocent, regenerated; another person, and -yet the same:--suppose some one should come to you and offer that?” - -“It is an idle supposition! The age of miracles has passed.” - -“An idle supposition? You deem it such? Let us see, let us consider. -To begin with, answer me this: Have you never heard or read--in -conversation, newspaper, medical report, or novel--have you never heard -or read, I say, of a case where, through an accident, a human being has -had befall him exactly the experience which I have just described? A -case where a lesion of the cerebral tissues, caused perhaps by disease, -perhaps by a concussion of the brain, or by a fracture of the skull, -has resulted in the total annihilation of memory, without injury to -the other intellectual faculties, so that the patient, upon recovering -health and consciousness, could remember absolutely nothing of the -past--neither his name, nor his nationality, nor the face of his father -or mother, nor even how to speak, walk, eat--but was literally _born -anew_, and had to begin life over again from the start? Surely, -everybody who has ears has heard, everybody who can read has read, of -cases of that nature?” - -“Oh, yes; I have read of such cases, certainly.” - -“Very well. You have read of such cases. So!--Now, then, suppose an -accident of that sort should befall _you?_ Everything you can hope for -from death would come to pass, and yet you would live. What better could -you desire? - -“And yet _I_ would live? Hardly. My body would live, true. But _I_, my -personality, my identity, would have vanished. For is not the very pith -and marrow of one's identity, remembrance? Is not memory the birthmark, -so to speak, by which one recognises one's-self? Is it not the cord -upon which one's experiences are strung, which holds them together, and -establishes their unity? My body would live, true enough. But it would -be inhabited and animated by another spirit, another mind.” - -“Well, even so? It is the extinction of your identity which you seek to -bring about by means of death. But you have no ground for supposing that -death involves any such extinction. Atheist, agnostic, what you will, -you must always acknowledge and allow for that possibility of a future -life. Whereas, the man or woman to whom the accident happens which -we have assumed, obtains for a surety that which he or she can only -dubiously hope for from death.” - -“Ah, but there is a mighty difference. It is not within my power to -cause such an accident. It _is_ within my power to die.” - -“Not within your power to cause such an accident? Not within _your_ -power, I grant. But will you say that it is not within human power, not -within any man's power? Imagine whatever human circumstance you like, -which can come to pass by accident. Then, speaking _à priori_, tell me -of any conclusive reason why that circumstance should not be brought to -pass by design? Why man, investigating the causes of it, enlightened -by his science, employing his cunning, should not be able at will to -occasion it? Take this very case in hand--the total obliteration of a -human being memory of the past. A blow upon the head, the result of an -accident, can occasion it. Why not a blow upon the head, the result of -man's deliberate purpose? Insanity, small-pox, consumption, paralysis, -deafness, blindness--each of these it would be entirely possible for man -voluntarily to induce. Why not oblivion?” - -“I have never heard of its being done. I once read a novel in which -something of the kind was related--'Dr. Heidenhoff's Process'--but even -in that novel, the author had not the audacity to pretend that his story -was possible; it turned out to be a dream. But then, after all, that -was quite a different thing. It was the obliteration not of the whole -memory, but simply the memory of one particular fact or group of facts. -The memory in respect of other facts remained intact.” - -“Ah, that indeed! That, of course, it may not as yet be within the power -of science to accomplish. That, as yet, I will grant you, is only the -material for a romancer's fancy. I cannot cause you to forget any one -fact or train of facts, while leaving your memory unaffected regarding -other facts. But the obliteration of the whole memory is a very -different matter. It has happened frequently by accident. You have never -heard of its being effected by design, though you will acknowledge the -theoretical possibility of its being so effected. Well and good. Now -the truth is this: not only is it theoretically possible, but it is -practically feasible.. It can be done; and I, even I, can do it. That -same obliviousness which, as the case-books of physicians bear abundant -testimony, Nature often produces through the medium of disease or -violence, I--I who speak to you--I can produce by means of a surgical -operation.” - -“It is incredible,” said she. - -“Incredible or not, it is a fact,” said I. “What a stone striking you -upon the head may accomplish, I can accomplish with my instruments. I -can cause a depression of one of the bones of your skull, at a certain -point upon the tissues of the brain, so that, when you recover from the -influence of the anaesthetic which I administer, you are returned to the -mental and moral condition of infancy. You remember nothing. You know -nothing. Your mind is as a blank sheet of paper. The past is abolished. -The future is before you.” - -“If what you say is true, you possess a terrible power. Are surgeons -generally able to do this?” - -“Every intelligent surgeon must recognise the antecedent possibility of -the operation. But when you ask me whether surgeons generally know how -to perform it, I suppose that they do not. It is a discovery which -I have made, by the examination of a large number of skulls, and the -dissection of a large number of brains. I have never communicated it to -anybody else. Others, for all I know, may have made the same discovery -independently.” - -“But why have you kept it a secret? It would have made you famous.” - -“I have had many reasons for keeping it a secret. You yourself have -named one of them: it is a terrible power. I have not thought it prudent -as yet to put it into the hands of the faculty at large; but it will be -published after, if not before, my death.” - -“You say you _can_ do this. _Have_ you ever done it?” - -“Upon a human being--no. Upon animals--upon dogs, monkeys, and -horses--yes; often, and with unvarying success.” - -“Animals, indeed!” She smiled. “But never upon a human being. It is a -descent from the sublime to the grotesque. You are anxious to obtain a -subject?” - -“I will not deny that I should be glad to obtain a subject, if it -pleases you to put it in that downright way. I have never performed the -operation upon a human being; but I can predict with absolute assurance -just what its consequences upon a human being would be.” - -“Let me hear your prediction.” - -“Well, to begin with, let me tell you the circumstances of an actual -case, which came under my observation, where the thing happened -accidentally. The patient was a Frenchman, thirty-two years old, in -robust health. I think, from the point of view of morals, he was the -most depraved wretch it was ever my bad fortune to encounter. He was a -brute, a sot, a liar, a thief--a bad lot all round. I chanced to know -a good deal about him, because he was the husband of a servant in my -family. The affair occurred more than thirty years ago. I say he was a -depraved wretch. What does that mean? It means that, like every mother's -son of us, he came into this world a bundle of potentialities, of -latent spiritual potentialities, inherited from his million or more of -ancestors, some of these potentialities being for good, others of them -for evil; and it means that his environment had been such, and had so -acted upon him, as to develop those that were for evil, and to leave -dormant those that were for good. That wants to be borne in mind. Very -well. He was the husband of a servant in my family, a most respectable -and virtuous woman, also French, who would have nothing to do with him; -but whom it was his pleasantest amusement to torment by hanging around -our house, seeking to waylay her when she went abroad, striving to gain -admittance when she was within doors. Late one evening we above stairs -were surprised by the noise of a disturbance in the kitchen: a man's -voice, a woman's voice, loud in altercation. I hurried down to learn the -occasion of it. Halfway there, my ears were startled by the sudden short -sound of a pistol-shot, followed by dead silence. I entered the kitchen, -but arrived a moment too late. Our woman servant stood in the centre -of the floor, holding a smoking revolver in her hand. Her husband -lay prostrate, unconscious, perhaps dead, at her feet. I demanded an -explanation. It appeared that he had stolen into the kitchen, where his -wife sat alone, and, coming upon her suddenly, had attempted to abduct -and carry her off by main force. The foolish woman confessed that some -days before she had bought herself a pistol, with a view to just such -an emergency as this; and now she had used it. Well, I examined the man, -and I found, to my great relief, that he was not dead, and that, she -being but an indifferent marks-woman, the ball had not even entered his -body. It had struck him on the head at an oblique angle, and had glanced -off. However, it had injured him quite seriously enough, having, indeed, -fractured his skull at a certain point. We carried him upstairs, and -put him to bed. For upwards of sixty hours--nearly three days--he lay -in total unconsciousness. For six weeks he lay in a stupor just a hair's -breadth removed from total unconsciousness; but by-and-by his wound -had healed, and he was convalescent. Now, however, what was his mental -condition? Precisely that of a new-born baby! His memory had been -utterly destroyed. He had forgotten the simplest primary functions of -life: how to speak, how to eat, how to walk, how to use his fingers. He -could not remember his name; he could not recognise his wife. He had all -the lessons of experience to learn anew. But you must recollect that, -being an adult, his brain, as an organ, was full-grown, was mature. -Therefore, he acquired knowledge with astonishing rapidity--learning -almost as much in a fortnight as a child learns in a year. At the end -of one month after we began his education, he could walk, feed himself, -dress himself, and was beginning to talk. At the end of six months he -spoke as fluently as I do--English, mind you, not French, which had been -his mother-tongue. At the end of a year he read without difficulty, and -wrote a good hand. What was most remarkable, however, though entirely -natural, his moral nature had undergone a complete transformation. In -a new environment, treated with kindness, surrounded by wholesome -influences, 'trained up in the way he should go,' and absolutely -oblivious of every fact, event, circumstance, and association of his -past, he became a new, another, an entirely different man. Now, of the -million spiritual potentialities, predispositions, that heredity had -implanted in him, those that made for good were vivified, those that -made for bad left dormant. He was as decent and as honest a fellow as -one could wish to meet, and he had plenty of intelligence and common -sense. I kept him in my service, as a sort of general factotum, for -more than twenty years; then he died. Before his death he made a will, -bequeathing to me the only thing of especial value that he had to leave -behind him. Here it is.” - -I unlocked a cabinet, and produced from it a skull. - -“Let me see it,” she said eagerly. - -She took it in her hands, without the faintest show of repugnance, and -studied it intently. - -“It is like a fairy-tale. It is marvellous,” she said at last. - -“Science abounds in marvels no less stupendous,” said I. “It was my -observation of that man's case, and of the beneficent results of it, -that suggested to me the possibility of bringing such things to pass of -a set, purpose.” - -“For years I have made the brain and the skull a study, with that -possibility in view. I am able to say now that I can perform the -operation with perfect certainty of success.” - -“But,” she went on, after a pause, “it is scarcely inspiring to think -that the character, the morality, of a human being, can be influenced, -can be radically altered, by a mere physical condition like that--to -think that the character of the soul can be changed by a change in the -structure of the body. It is enough to establish materialism pure -and simple; the only logical consequences of which are cynicism and -pessimism.” - -“It is certainly one of the many psychological facts which go to prove -that while it is the tenant of the body the soul must adapt itself to -its habitation.” - -“It would seem to prove that the soul is not simply the tenant of the -body, but its slave, its victim, its creature. As the materialists -express it, that mind, thought, emotion, are but functions of the -brain.” - -“It would perhaps lend colour to that hypothesis; but it does not prove -it. Nothing can be proved relative to the human soul. Like all elemental -things, it is in its very essence an insoluble mystery. All elemental -things? Nay, it is _the_ elemental thing, the ultimate thing, the only -thing we know at first hand. All other things we know only as they are -mirrored in it; we know them only by the impressions they produce upon -our souls. Ten thousand hypotheses concerning it--concerning its origin, -its nature, its meaning, its destiny--are equally plausible, equally -inadequate. It cannot by seeking be found out.” - -She was silent now for a long while. At last, “Will you describe your -operation to me?” she inquired. - -“You would need a medical education to follow such a description.” - -“Is it anything like what they call trepanning, or trephining?” - -“But very remotely. A partial fracture, and a depression, of the bone -are caused; but no particle of it is removed.” - -“What is the worst that could happen, in case of the operation -miscarrying? What would be the chances of the subject's losing not only -his memory, but his reason--becoming an imbecile or a maniac?” - -“There is no chance of that. The worst that could happen would be death. -It is as safe an operation as any in which the knife is employed. But, -of course, in all operations which involve the use of the knife there is -some danger. There is always the possibility of inflammation. But -that possibility is by no means a probability. The chances are largely -against it.” - -“So that you are sure one of two things would happen either the -operation would prove a success, or the patient would die?” - -“Exactly so.” - -“How much time would have to elapse after the operation, before the -patient would be able to take care of himself again--before he would -have regained sufficient knowledge to act as a responsible and competent -human being?” - -“I should say a year. Perhaps more, perhaps less. But I will say a -year.” - -“And during that year? Suppose, for example, that I should offer myself -to you as a subject--how should I be provided for during the period of -my incompetence? And what education should I receive?” - -“You would be provided for by me. You would be lodged and taken care of -here in this house. My sister, ten years younger than I, the kindest -and the gentlest of women, would be your nurse, your companion, and your -teacher. We would give you the same education that we would give a child -of our own.” - -“I beg your pardon, but you have not told me your name.” - -“My name is Benary--Leonard Benary.” - -“Well, Dr. Benary, I am willing to submit to your operation. I make -no professions of gratitude, for--though, whether it kills me or -regenerates me, I shall be equally your debtor--I take it you are not -sorry to find a subject to experiment upon; and therefore it will be a -fair exchange, and no robbery. Will you proceed with the operation here, -now, to-night?” - -“Oh, dear me, no. You must have some sleep first. I will call my sister. -She will show you to a room. Then, perhaps, to-morrow, after a good -night's rest, you will be in a favourable condition.” - -“But your sister--what will she say to this?” She pointed to her -prison-garb. - -“If you will wait here while I go to summon her, I can promise you a -kindly welcome from her. I shall explain all the circumstances to her; -and she will not mind your costume.” - -And I went upstairs to rouse my sister, Miss Josephine Benary. - - - - -CHAPTER V.--THE DOCTOR ACTS. - -|Next morning, at about eleven o'clock, my good sister Josephine came to -me in my study, and said, “She is awake now and wishes to see you.” - -“I am at her service,” I replied. “Will she join me here?” - -“She is eager to have you operate. She asked me where you would do so. I -told her I supposed there, in her bed. Then she said she would not waste -time by getting up, and wished me to tell you that she is waiting to -have it done. I suspect that she is partly influenced by a reluctance to -put on her prison uniform again. I should have offered her the use of my -wardrobe, but she is so much taller and larger than I, that that would -be absurd.” - -“Yes, to be sure, so it would. Very well. I will go to her directly. If -she is in a favourable condition of mind and body, it will, perhaps, be -as well not to delay. But first tell me--you have held some conversation -with her?” - -“Yes, a little.” - -“And what impression do you form of her character?” - -“She is very pretty. She is even beautiful.” - -I laughed. “What has that to do with her character?99 - -“I infer her character as much from her appearance as from her -behaviour, as much from her physiognomy as from her speech.” - -“Oh, I see. And your inference is?” - -“I cannot be quite sure. There is a certain hardness in her face, a -certain cynical listlessness in her manner, which may indicate a vice of -character, but which may, on the other hand, result simply from hardship -and suffering. She is undoubtedly clever. She has received a good -education; she expresses herself well; she has a marvellously musical -voice. Yet, on the whole, I cannot say that I find her likeable or -agreeable. She seems to proceed upon the assumption that nobody is moved -by any but selfish motives; that everybody has an axe to grind; and that -she must be constantly on her guard lest we take some advantage of her. -She is horribly suspicious.” - -“Well, go on.” - -“Well, I do not know that I can say anything more. I cannot quite fathom -her--quite make her out. It is a question in my mind whether she is -naturally a young woman of good instincts, whose passions have betrayed -her into the commission of some crime, or whether she is inherently and -intrinsically corrupt.” - -“Towards which alternative do you incline?” - -“I do not like to express a final opinion; but I am afraid, from what -little I have seen of her, I am afraid that I incline towards the -latter.” - -“That she is intrinsically bad. Well, it will be interesting, after our -operation, to see whether, in a new environment, under new conditions, -the good that is latent in her--as good is latent in every human -soul--will be developed. And now will you come with me to her room?” - -“Will she not prefer to see you alone?” - -“Why should she? Come, let us go.” - -We found her sitting up in bed, waiting for us. By daylight she seemed -to me even more beautiful than she had seemed by gaslight. Her features -were strongly yet finely modelled; her skin was exquisitely delicate, -both in texture and in colour; and her eyes were wonderfully liquid and -translucent. But an expression of deep melancholy brooded over her whole -countenance; while underlying that again, was certainly visible the -cynical hardness that Josephine had complained of. - -Having wished her good-morning, I proceeded at once to my business as a -physician; ascertained her pulse and her temperature, and inquired how -she had slept. - -“I have not had such a night's sleep for I know not how long,” she -answered. “Heaven knows I had enough to think about to keep me awake, -yet I must have lain in total unconsciousness for fully nine hours. What -was most grateful, I did not dream. All which leads me to suspect that, -despite your protestations to the contrary, the medicine you made me -drink last evening contained an opiate.” - -“The medicine I prevailed upon you to drink last evening,” I explained, -“was the mildest composing-draught known to the Pharmacopoeia--a most -harmless mixture of orange-flower water, bromide, and sugar. If it had -the effect of a sleeping-potion, I am very glad to learn it, for it -indicates the degree of your nervous susceptibility--a point upon which -it is highly desirable that I should be informed. And are you still -of the same mind in which I left you? You have not reconsidered your -determination?” - -“No. I am still ready to be killed or regenerated--I am really quite -indifferent which. When I awoke this morning, I could not help fancying -that the conversation which I seemed to recall had never really taken -place--that I had dreamed it. But this lady, your sister, assures me -that my doubt is groundless. Now I can only request you to begin and get -over with it as soon as possible.” - -“My beginning must be in the nature of an interrogatory. I must ask you -for certain information.” - -“Very well. Ask.” - -“My questions shall be few: only those formal ones which, as a -physician, I should put to any patient whom I was about to treat. -First, then, what is your name?” - -“My name is Louise Massarte, spelt M-a-s-s-a-r-t-e.” - -I opened my case-book, prepared my fountain-pen for action, and wrote -“Louise Massarte.” - -“It is a foreign name, is it not?” I inquired “Were you born in this -country?” - -“Like the other hopeful subject of whom you told me last night, I was -born in France--at the city of Tours.” - -“Native of France,” I wrote. Then aloud s “Of French parents?” - -“Yes, I am French by descent and by place of birth. But I have lived in -America all my life. I was brought here when I was two years old.” - -“But you speak French, I take it?” - -“I speak French and English with equal ease.” - -“Any other language?” - -“No other.” - -“How old are you, if you will forgive my asking?” - -“I shall be six-and-twenty on the eighth of August.” - -“Are your parents living?” - -“Both my father and mother are long since dead.” - -“Have you any brothers or sisters?” - -“I was an only child.” - -“Are you married or single?” - -“I have never been married.” - -“And now, finally, is there any fact or circumstance which you would -like to mention and have recorded? For, you must bear in mind, you will -shortly have forgotten everything connected with your past; and if there -is anything you will wish to remember, you had better tell it to me now, -and I will make a memorandum of it.” - -“There is nothing that I shall wish to remember,” she replied. “Nothing -but what I shall be glad to forget. However, I fancy what you say is but -a hint to the effect that you are curious to know my history. I have no -objection in telling it to you. It is not an edifying history. Most -women, I daresay, would be ashamed to tell it; but I have got beyond -even pretending to feel ashamed of anything; and if you desire to hear -it, you have only to say so.” - -“On the contrary,” I rejoined, “you must not think of telling it. -It would excite you and fatigue you; whereas it is of the highest -importance for the success of our operation that you should be at -rest in mind as well as in body. Besides, and irrespective of that -consideration, it is better that neither my sister, nor I, nor indeed -any living person, should hear it. You yourself will in a little while -have forgotten it. What right has anybody else to remember it?” - -“Oh, well, you will doubtless find the gist of it in the morning paper. -It will in all likelihood be printed with an account of my escape from -the Penitentiary,” she returned. - -At which insinuation my sister Josephine cried out, “You little know -my brother. There is indeed something about your escape in the morning -paper; but the instant he discovered the headlines of the article, he -said, 'This is something, Josephine, that neither you nor I must read.' -And he threw the paper into the fireplace, and applied a match to it.” - -The woman made no answer. - -I left the room and descended to my study, where I procured my -instruments and the requisite anæsthetic. - - - - -CHAPTER VI.--MIRIAM BENARY. - -|I watched her carefully as she recovered from the effects of the ether. -An uncommonly small quantity of that drug had sufficed to deprive her of -her senses; and now her recovery was unusually speedy. - -Having taken her respiration, her temperature, and her pulse, and -having found each to be nearly normal, I looked her straight in the -eyes, and demanded, making every syllable clear and emphatic, -“Louise Massarte, do you know me?” - -Had I addressed my inquiry to a month-old infant, the result would have -been the same. - -I repeated the question in French: “Louise Massarte, _me reconnaissez -vous?_”--with precisely the same negative result. - -I then wrote the question both in French and English upon a slip of -paper, and held it before her eyes. - -No sign of intelligence. - -In the end I applied tests to each of her five senses, and satisfied -myself that each was unimpaired. - -After which, “Well, Josephine,” I said, “unless all signs fail, we have -succeeded to admiration. None of her senses have sustained the slightest -injury, yet she has lost the knowledge of language, both spoken and -written. Louise Massarte is dead, annihilated, abolished from the face -of creation. This is a new-born infant, this apparently full-grown woman -lying here. Her soul is still to develop and unfold itself. It will be -for us to shape it, to colour it, to direct it towards good or evil. -Heredity has furnished the capacities, the propensities, which her -environment will quicken, stimulate, cause to grow and to ripen. And it -is for us to provide and to regulate that environment. May Heaven guide -our labours.” - -“Amen, heartily. It is an awful responsibility. And yet-------” - -“And yet?” - -“And yet I cannot help hoping for the best. Look at her, brother. See -how beautiful she is. Surely, such a beautiful face must be meant to -go with a beautiful spirit. Already the expression of bitterness, of -hardness, of suspicion, seems to have faded from it. It is as if it had -been washed in some element infinitely cleansing. I never saw a more -innocent face than hers has become already. Yes, I am sure we may hope -for the best.” - -“Well, for the present, we need concern ourselves only for the welfare -of her body. We must darken the room. Inflammation is the only ill -consequence we have to fear; and that can be averted, if we keep her in -darkness and in silence until the wound has healed.” - -The wound healed quickly. Not an unpleasant symptom of any kind -manifested itself. And, as I had foreseen she would do, our patient -relearned the primary lessons of life with an ease and a rapidity that -seemed almost incredible. I had anticipated this because she was an -adult; because, that is to say, her brain, as an organ, was of mature -development. - -She began to speak as soon as ever we allowed ourselves to speak in -her presence, at first simply imitating the sounds we made, but very -speedily coming to employ words with understanding. A single lesson -taught her how to walk. After my sister had dressed her twice, she was -perfectly well able to dress herself--no trivial achievement when the -intricacy of the feminine toilet is borne in mind. At the end of an -incredibly short period of time she could read and write as easily as I -can. Of the former capability she made good use, devouring eagerly all -such books as we thought wise to give her. Her progress, in a word, -precisely corresponded to that made by a bright child, only it was -infinitely more rapid; and what a fascinating thing it was to observe, I -need not stop to tell. It was like watching the growth and blossoming -of some most wonderful and beautiful flower. We were permitted, so -to speak, to be eye-witnesses of a miracle. If you had met her at the -expiration of one year, and had conversed with her, you would have put -her down for a singularly intelligent and well-informed, yet at the same -time singularly innocent and unsophisticated, girl of eighteen. Yes, -I mean it--a girl of eighteen. For the most astonishing result of my -operation--most astonishing because least expected--was this: that in -body as well as in mind she seemed to have been rejuvenated. With the -obliteration of her memory, every trace of experience faded from her -face. You would have laid a wager that it was the face of a young -maiden not yet out of her teens. She had said that she was all but -six-and-twenty. It was unbelievable when you looked at her now. To the -desperate-eyed woman whom I had dissuaded from self-destruction on that -clouded Bummer's night a year gone by, she bore only such a resemblance -as a younger sister might have borne. To Josephine I remarked, “Is it -possible that we have builded better than we knew? That we have stumbled -upon the discovery which the alchemists sought in vain--the Elixir of -Youth?” - -“Indeed,” Josephine assented, “she has grown many years younger. She has -the appearance and the manner of seventeen.” - -“It only proves,” said I, “the truth of the oft-repeated commonplace: -that it is experience and not time which ages one; time being simply the -receptacle and measure of experience. Could we double the rate of our -experience--experiencing as much in one year as we are now able to -experience in two--we should grow old just twice as quickly, reaching -at thirty-five the limit which we now reach at threescore-and-ten. -Contrariwise, could we halve the rate of our experience--requiring two -years to experience what we can now experience in one--we should grow -old just twice as slowly, being mere boys at forty, and at seventy in -the very prime of early manhood. Our consciousness of time, in other -words, is simply the consciousness of so much experience. Well and good. -Now, in this case, her experience has been undone. That is to say, her -memory, the storehouse of her experience, has been destroyed. Past time, -so far as it affects her mind, has been neutralised, has been cancelled -out of her equation. Hence this return to adolescence. Her bodily -structure--the size and shape of her bones, and all that--of course -remains as it was. But her spirit returns to the condition of youth; -and, since it is the spirit which animates the body, it gives to her -body the expression and the activity of its own age.” - -Then I offered to perform my operation upon Josephine herself, to the -end that she also might enjoy a restored youth: which offer Josephine -haughtily declined. - -“It is very fortunate,” she added, “that this alteration in her -appearance has taken place, for now it will be impossible for anybody -who may have known her in former days to identify her: a danger which -otherwise we should have had to fear.” - -“Yes,” I acquiesced, “that is very true.” - -The disposition which our visitor developed, furthermore, better -than answered to our most sanguine anticipations. Her new environment -vivified the best of those propensities which heredity had implanted in -her, and left dormant those that were for evil. Her quality was so -sweet and winning, that in a little while she had taken our old hearts -captive, and become the delight and the treasure of our home. We loved -her like a daughter; and the notion that we might some time have to -part with her was intolerable. Therefore, we put our heads together, and -entered into a pious conspiracy, agreeing to represent to her that she -was our niece, the child of our brother, an orphan, eighteen years old, -by name Miriam, who, on the 14th day of June, 1884, had sustained an -accident which had destroyed her recollection of the past. As our niece, -recently arrived from England, we introduced her to our friends. She -reciprocated our affection in the tenderest manner, called us aunt and -uncle, and was in every respect a blessing to our lives--so beautiful, -so gentle, so merry, so devoted. - -This mysterious and impressive circumstance I must not for one moment -allow to be lost sight of:--That, of all living human beings, she who -least suspected that such a woman as Louise Massarte had ever lived, -sinned, suffered, was Miriam Benary. She upon whom Louise Massarte's -life, sins, and sufferings had least effect or influence, was Miriam -Benary. Her identity was in every respect as separate, and as distinct -from that of Louise Massarte, as mine is from my reader's. Louise -Massarte was dead, dead utterly. Into her tenement of clay a new soul -had entered It was a fearful and wonderful metamorphosis, rich in -suggestiveness; a _datum_, it seems to me, bearing importantly upon -three sciences: Psychology, Divinity, and Ethics. - -***** - -Thus nearly four years elapsed, and it was Monday, the 12th day of -March, 1888, the day of the memorable snowstorm, called the Blizzard. - - - - -CHAPTER VII.--WITHIN AN ACE. - -|On that day certain imperative business demanded my presence in the -lawyer's quarter of the town. I had been summoned, in short, to appear -as a witness in a litigation that was pending in the Court of Common -Pleas--a summons which I felt myself the more disposed to obey inasmuch -as a penalty of two hundred and fifty dollars attached to contempt of -it. Therefore, despite the unprecedented brutality of the weather, -and against the earnest remonstrances of Josephine and Miriam, I was -foolhardy enough to venture out. - -The clock on our drawing-room mantel marked a few minutes before ten -when I left the house, my immediate destination being the Jefferson -Street Station of the Overhead Railway--distant not more than a quarter -of a mile from my own door, and in ordinary circumstances an easy five -minutes' walk. - -However, it must be remembered, I was at that time within a few months -of completing my seventieth year; and such a storm was raging, and such -a gale blowing, as might have strained the mettle of a youngster one -third my age: a veritable tempest, indeed, the like of which Adironda -had never in the memory of man experienced before. The mercury stood -below zero Fahrenheit; the wind was travelling at the pace of sixty -miles an hour; and the snow was falling in such unheard of quantities as -to obscure the air like fog. I don't mind owning, therefore, that I was -pretty badly exhausted when I arrived at my journey's end, and that I -had consumed a good half-hour in the process of getting there. - -My path, as it were, had led through one continuous and unbroken drift, -knee-deep at its shallowest, waist-high at its average, and frequently -engulphing me up to my chin. Through this I had dug and ploughed my way, -with the wind cold and furious in my teeth, and under a running fire of -snow-flakes, frozen so hard, and driven with such force, that they stung -my face like bird-shot, and nearly put out my eyes. I can assure the -reader that it was no child's play. My nose and ears, from burning as if -in a bath of scalding water, had become numb and rigid, like features of -wood. The moisture from my breath had congealed in my beard, until -that appendage felt like an iron mask. My legs were stiff and heavy. -My shoulders ached. My respiration had become painful and laborious; my -heart-action so faint as to induce sickness similar to that which one -suffers at sea. - -And finally, to cap the climax, when I reached the station, I found a -chain stretched across the entrance to the booking-office, and a placard -announcing that no trains were running! So that I had earned my labour -for my pains; and there was nothing for me to do but to turn my face -back toward home, and retrace my steps. - -Exhausted as I was, then, I set forth at once upon that undertaking. -Of course, it was excessively imprudent for me to do so, without first -seeking shelter in some public house, and resting there until I had got -warmed through, and in a measure recovered my strength. But I suppose -I did not realise at the moment how far gone I was; and the prospect of -regaining the comfort of my own fireside was a deliciously tempting one. -So off I started, down Jefferson Street, towards Myrtle Avenue. - -Very soon, however, I had reason to repent my rashness. A hundred yards -or thereabouts from the corner, a mountainous drift of snow stretched -diagonally across the road. I was half blinded; my wits were half -frozen; I underestimated both its depth and its width, and plunged -boldly into it. - -Next instant I found myself buried up to my neck. - -I struggled to push on. My legs were as immovable as if bound with -ropes. - -Then I strove to dig myself free with my hands. My arms, too, I learned, -were pinioned as in a strait-waistcoat. - -Here was a pleasant predicament, and one that constantly increased in -interest; for, to say nothing of the deadly and aggressive cold, the -snow was pouring down upon me by the bucket-full; and I appreciated very -vividly the fact that unless I speedily effected an escape, I should be -covered over my head. - -My only hope, it was obvious, lay in calling for assistance. Whether -other human beings were within hearing distance or not, I had no means -of discovering; for, so opaque was the atmosphere rendered by the -multitude of snow-flakes that filled it, I could see nothing beyond a -radius of two or three yards; and even the houses that lined the street -were indistinguishable, except when, by fits and starts, for a second at -a time, the wind rent asunder the veil that hid them. Nevertheless, -my only hope lay in trying the experiment of a cry for help; and that -accordingly I did, with the utmost energy I could command: - -“Help! help!” - -But at the sound of my voice, my heart sank. It was the still, small -ghost of itself, to such a degree had the exposure and the hardship of -the last half-hour depleted my physical resources; and besides, dampened -by the blanket of snow in which I was enveloped, and lost in the roar -of the hurricane, the likelihood that it would carry beyond a rod in any -direction seemed infinitesimally slight. - -“Well, I am lost,” thought I. “Here, not five hundred yards from my own -doorstep, lost as hopelessly as if wrecked in mid-ocean. Ah, well! they -say death by freezing is comparatively painless. Anyhow, it will soon be -over. Yet----” - -Suddenly, with the desperate unreasonableness of a man in -extremities--like him who, drowning, clutches at a chip--I repeated my -feeble signal of distress: “Help! help!” - -I waited half a minute, and then repeated it for a third time: “Help!” - -Conceive my emotions, to hear instantly, and from immediately behind me, -the response, in the lustiest of baritones: “Hello, there!” - -“Heaven be praised!” I gasped. Then: “Can you help me out of this -drift?” - -“That remains to be tried,” came the reply. “I shouldn't wonder, -though.” - -And therewith I felt myself seized by two strong arms, lifted bodily -from off my feet, and a moment later set down upon a spot of the -pavement which the wind had swept clean, where I had a chance to see and -to thank mv rescuer. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII.--A CHANCE ACQUAINTANCE. - -|He was a tall and athletic-looking man, perhaps thirty years old, with -a ruddy, good-humoured face, an honest pair of blue eyes, and a curling -yellow beard. He wore a sealskin cap which came down over his ears, -sealskin gloves which reached up above his coat-sleeves nearly to his -elbows, a pea-jacket, and rubber top-boots. His beard, his eyebrows, -and so much of his hair as was exposed, were dense with frozen snow, and -from his moustache depended a series of icicles, like tusks, where his -breath had condensed and congealed. - -“I believe I have to thank you for saving my life,” I began, in such -voice as I could muster, and I noticed that my utterance was thick, like -that of a drunken man. “A very little more and I had been done for.” - -“Yes, you were in rather a nasty box,” he admitted. “But all's well -that ends well; and you're safe enough now. When I heard you calling, I -thought it was a child, your voice was so thin and faint.” - -“It's highly fortunate for me that you heard me at all. I had given -myself up for lost. What a storm this is!” - -“Yes; glorious, isn't it? It's the grandest spectacle I've ever seen. I -tell you, sir, it's well for us that Nature should occasionally show -us her sharp claw; otherwise we'd get to considering her a quite tame -domestic pet, which she's not by any means. She's man's hereditary foe; -there stands a perpetual feud between her and us, a _vendetta_ handed -down from father to son, from generation to generation. It's only by the -exercise of an eternal vigilance and industry that we manage to subsist -in spite of her. She's constantly striving, one way or another, to -exterminate us: freeze us out, roast us out, starve us out--I know not -what all. Here we are, huddled together upon this bleak, mysterious -planet, parasites upon its surface, like mould on cheese, sheltering -ourselves in fortresses of straw--wondering whence we came, why we're -here, whither we're bound, and what the fun of the whole thing is--while -she whirls us through her dark immensities, and seeks hourly to shake -us off; which is rather unmannerly of her, seeing it was she herself who -brought us here. Life which she gives us with one hand, she withholds -with the other. She begrudges what she lavishes. Oh, it is strange, it -is magnificent; it's some grand paradoxical farce, which we haven't -wit enough to see the point of. Still, there's an exhilaration in the -conflict, unequal though it is. She's sure to win in the end; she plays -with us like a cat with a mouse, amused at our desperate antics, but -confident of her power to administer a quietus when they begin to pall; -yet there's a pleasure, somehow, in the struggle. They say, you know, -the fox enjoys being hunted. To-day she's in a particularly frolicsome -mood, and puts vim into her buffets. For my part, I'm grateful to her. -She'll laugh best, because she'll laugh last; but she can't prevent my -relishing my laugh meanwhile. I have not lived in vain, who have lived -to experience this storm. Isn't it stimulating? I vow, it makes a man -feel like a boy.” - -I had stood shivering, teeth chattering, while he delivered himself of -this extraordinary harangue. Now, “That would depend somewhat upon the -age and the physique of the man,” I stammered. - -“Why, yes, true enough. Your observation is altogether apposite and -just. But for me, I declare, it is like wine. Which way do you go?” - -“I go east and south--to my home, which is in Riverview Road, if you -know where that is. But to tell you the truth, I doubt my ability to go -at all. _I'm_ pretty badly used up. I think I shall ask to be taken in -at one of these neighbouring houses.” - -“As you like it. But I know where River-view Road is; in fact I'm bound -in that direction myself, being curious to see how the storm affects -the Yellow Snake. It must be a sight for the gods--the writhing and -the lashing of the reptile river under such a wind. If you please -we'll march together. I suspect, with my assistance, you'll be able to -arrive.” - -“You've already saved my life, and now you offer to see me safely home. -I shall owe you a heavy debt. But I could never consent to take you out -of your way.” - -“As I've already had the honour to intimate, that's precisely what you -won't do. I was bound for the riverside--upon my word. Come on.” - -And the next thing I knew, my robust interlocutor had again lifted me -from my feet, and was trudging off towards Myrtle Avenue, bearing -me like a child in his arms--which, of course, was altogether too -ignominious a position for me to occupy without protest. - -“Oh, this is needless. I beg of you to put me down. Really, I can't -submit to this. Let me walk at your side, and lean upon your arm, and I -shall do very well.” - -“My dear sir,” he rejoined, “permit me to observe--and I beseech you -not to resent the observation as personal--that if ever a mortal man was -completely tuckered out, you are. You've lost your wind, and your legs -are as shaky as if you had the palsy. Pardon my austere frankness--the -circumstances compel it. You couldn't get as far as the corner yonder -to save your neck. You are, to employ the politest of modern -languages, _hors de combat_. You are _ansgespielt_, you are _non compos -corporis_--that is to say, in pure Americanese, you are _busted_. Now, -so far as I am concerned, on the contrary, I don't mind carrying you any -more than I would a baby. At the outside you don't weigh ten stone; and -what's the like of that to a fellow of my horse-power? Lie still, and I -sha'n't know you're there. Lie still and rest, recover your breath, and -be yourself again.” - -“But the thing is too ridiculous. I can't in dignity consent to it, I -entreat you to put me down.” - -I attempted to release myself, but his arms were like bands of iron. - -“There, there--resign yourself! I prithee, wriggle not,” he said. “I -shall put you down presently--when the time is ripe. And as for your -dignity, remember the device of Cæsar: _Esée quant videri_. This, sir, -is an occasion for choosing between appearances and a very grim reality. -I can understand that, other things equal, you wouldn't care to have -the world see us in our present situation; but console yourself with the -reflection that the storm answers every purpose of a dose of fern-seed, -and renders us beautifully invisible. Anyhow, I take it, your dignity -isn't as precious to you as your health; and I will go bail for this, -that if you tried to foot it another hundred yards, you'd pay for your -temerity with a fit of sickness. Consider, furthermore, that I am old -enough to be your son. Let me play a son's part for the nonce, and carry -you home.” - -“Well, I have no right to quarrel with you,” I answered; “but you place -me under an obligation which I shall never be able to discharge. It will -bear as heavily upon my conscience as I now weigh upon your muscles.” - -“Then it will cause you mighty slight annoyance. To tell you the -truth, it's a jolly good lark for me. It's an added excitement, a most -interesting adventure; and it will provide a capital chapter for the -winter's tale that I shall have to tell. But a truce to talk. Let's -waste no further breath in that way. You lie still there and meditate. -I'll devote my energies to the business of getting on.” - -So for a good while we forbore speech. At length, “Now, then,” he -announced, “here's Riverview Road. Our toilsome journey's o'er; and, -all our perils past, in harbour safe at last we rest. What would you -more?--What's your number?” - -“Sixty-three, the fourth house from the corner.” - -“Well, here you are on your own doorstep.--There!” - -He set me upon my feet. - -“And now, sir,” he concluded, “trusting that you may suffer no ill -effects from your experience, I will wish you farewell. Farewell, a long -farewell. This is a life made up of partings. Again, farewell.” - -“Farewell by no manner of means,” I hastily retorted. “You must come in. -You must do me the honour of entering my house, and allowing me to offer -you some refreshment. And besides, if, as you said, you are anxious to -watch the play of the storm upon the river, you could possess no better -coigne of vantage than one of my back windows.” - -“Such an inducement, sir, is superfluous. Your invitation in itself -would be quite irresistible. For, aside from the pleasure I derive -from your society, and the instruction from your conversation, I will -confidentially admit to you that I shall be glad to thaw out my nose.” - -I opened the door with my latch-key, and preceded him into my study. - - - - -CHAPTER IX.--JOSEPHINE WRITES. - -|A beautiful fire was blazing in the grate. The transition from the -cold and uproar of the street, to the snug quiet and warmth of this cosy -book-lined room, was an agreeable one, I can tell you. I was pretty -well rested by this time; and, except for the tingling of my nose, ears, -toes, and fingers, felt very little the worse for my encounter with the -elements. - -“Now,” said I to my guest, “the tables are turned. But a moment since, I -was your prisoner; now you are mine. Draw up to the fire. Throw off your -over jacket and your rubber-boots. I hope you are not wet through; for, -we are built respectively upon such different patterns, it would be -ironical for me to offer you dry garments from my wardrobe.” - -“You need give yourself no uneasiness upon that score, sir. Im as dry as -a Greek lexicon.” - -“In that case, let me at once offer you a drop of something wet,” I -said, producing a decanter and a couple of glasses. - -“Yes,” he assented, “a toothful of this will do neither of us harm.” - -We clinked our glasses, and drank. - -“Ah,” he cried, smacking his lips, “sweet ardent spirit of the rye, may -the shade of Christopher Columbus be fed upon you thrice every day, to -reward him for the discovery of this continent. I've tasted Irish and -I've tasted Scotch, Dutch barley-brandy and Slavonic vodka; but of all -distillations to make glad the inmost heart of man, give me Kentucky -rye! Another glass? Thank you, kind sir, not e'en another drop. 'Twere -desecration worthy only of a widower to take a second after so rare a -first. And now, by-the-bye, since I find myself the beneficiary of -your hospitality, it behoves me to introduce myself. My name is Henry -Fairchild, and by trade I am a sculptor.” - -“My name is Leonard Benary, physician and surgeon. And I trust, Mr. -Fairchild, that you have no urgent affairs to call you from my house, -for I should never feel easy in my mind if I permitted you to leave it -before this storm has abated; and that doesn't look like an imminent -event. My affairs are not urgent. In fact, as I believe I have already -remarked, when we ran across each other I was abroad for my diversion, -pure and simple. But that is no reason why I should abuse your kindness. -If I may thaw here before your fire for a half-hour, I shall be in -perfect condition to make my way home.” - -“That would depend upon the distance of your home from mine.” - -“My home is in my studio. And my studio is in St. Matthew's Park.” - -“So far! Very well, then. I shall certainly not hear of your leaving -me so long as the storm continues. It would be as much as your life is -worth to attempt such a journey in such circumstances. It's a matter of -three, four, well-nigh five miles. And since all public conveyances are -at a standstill, you'd have to trust yourself for the whole distance -to Shanks's mare. I shall count upon your spending the night here, at -least. There's no prospect of the weather moderating before to-morrow. -And now, if you will excuse me, I will leave you here for a few moments, -while I go to change my clothes.” - -“That's the wisest thing you could possibly do,” he returned. “I shall -amuse myself excellently looking out of the window; but as for your kind -invitation to remain over night----” - -“As for that, since you acknowledge that you have no pressing business -to call you elsewhere, I will listen to no refusal.” - -I went upstairs, my first care being to make known my return to -Josephine and Miriam, who, of course, were thereby greatly surprised -and relieved. They professed they had suffered the acutest anxiety ever -since I had left the house; and as they listened to the account I gave -them of my misadventures, they paled and shuddered for very terror. - -“Mr. Fairchild, the young man who came to my rescue, is even now below -stairs in the library,” I concluded. - -“Oh, is he? Then,” cried Miriam, addressing Josephine, “let us go to him -at once, and tell him how we thank him. To think that, except for him, -my uncle might----” She completed her sentence by putting her arms -around my neck, and giving me three of the sweetest kisses that were -ever given in this world: one on either cheek and one full on the lips. -“Now, sir,” she went on, shaking the prettiest of fingers at me, “I hope -that you have learned a lesson, and will never do anything again that we -two wise women warn you not to.” - -“I promise to be a good, obedient, little old man in the future,” I -replied; and was rewarded for my docility with a fourth kiss--this time -imprinted among the wrinkles on my forehead. - -The two wise women went off downstairs. - -I joined them as soon as I had got into dry clothing; and we sat down to -luncheon--the young sculptor enlivening and entertaining us with a -flow of droll, high-spirited talk. He and Miriam got on famously -together--chatting, laughing, exchanging bits of repartee, with the -vivacity that was becoming to their age. Josephine and I hearkened and -enjoyed. At least, I enjoyed; and I had no reason to suppose that my -sister did not. Luncheon concluded, we adjourned to the drawing-room. -There, observing the piano, Fairchild demanded of Miriam whether she -played. She answered, “Yes.” (We had procured for her the best musical -instruction to be had in Adironda; and she had mastered the instrument -with a facility which proved that Louise Massarte must have been a -talented pianist.) Miriam answered, “Yes,” and then Fairchild said-- - -“Will you not be persuaded to play for us now?” - -She played one of Liszt's Hungarian Rhapsodies, and then something of -Chopin's, and then something of Schumann's; after which, leaving the -piano, she said to Fairchild-- - -“Now you must sing for us.” - -“Why, how do you know I can sing?” cried he. - -“It is evident from the _timbre_ of your voice,” she answered. - -“You must not be too sure of that,” he protested. “The speaking voice -and the singing voice are two very different things.” - -“Nevertheless, please sing for us,” she repeated. - -“Very good,” said he, taking possession of the key-board, “I will sing -for you; but at your peril. The beauty of the song, however, may perhaps -be allowed to atone for the deficiencies of my execution. It is by the -English composer, Marzials, a man of the rarest genius, too little known -out of his own country. He wrote both words and music, and the song is -entitled 'Never Laugh at Love.'” - -Therewith, to his own accompaniment, he sang in his sweet baritone -one of the pleasantest and wittiest songs of its kind that I have ever -heard. - - Oh, never laugh at Love, Miss, fancy free, - - Lest the wanton boy should laugh at thee! - - Should he but aim in play his tiny dart-- - - Ping! 't will break your heart! - - I knew a queen with golden hair, - - Few so proud, and none so fair; - - Her maids and she, one twilight gray, - - Went wand'ring down the garden way. - - A pretty page was standing there; - - Their eyes just met. Oh, long despair! - - For both have died of love, they say. - - So never laugh at Love, Miss, fancy free, - - Lest the wanton boy should laugh at thee! - -I cannot forbear quoting that one verse, to give a notion of the quaint -mediæval charm of the words. * I wish I could transcribe the melody as -well, which was delicious with the same quaint flavour. - - * The Editor of this work must disclaim all responsibility - Dr. Benary's opinions upon matters literary and aesthetic. - -Fairchild having finished his song, he and Miriam plunged into an -animated conversation about music in the abstract, which I, for -one--being, though an ardent lover of music, no musician--found of -dubious interest. - -“Wherefore, I think,” I interrupted them to say, “if you will forgive -the breach of ceremony, Mr. Fairchild, I shall retire to my bedroom for -a bit, and take a nap. I feel somewhat fatigued after the exertions of -the forenoon; and, anyhow, I am accustomed to my forty winks at this -hour of the day. I am sure I leave you in good hands when I leave you to -my sister and my niece.” - -“Indeed, Dr. Benary, the kindest thing you can do for me--you and your -good ladies--will be to let me feel that in no wise do I interfere with -your convenience or your pleasure. Otherwise, I shall be compelled to -take my departure _instanter_; and I confess that by this time I am so -deeply penetrated by the comfort of your interior that I should hate -mortally to renew close quarters with the storm.” - -So I withdrew to my bed-chamber, and was sound asleep in no time. Nor -did I wake till the mellow booming of the Japanese gong, which serves as -dinner-bell in our establishment, broke in upon my slumbers. - -As I rose to my feet, something dropped from the counterpane to the -floor. - -Stooping to pick it up, I discovered that it was a sheet of paper, -folded in the form of a cocked hat, and bearing my name written across -it in Josephine's hand. - -“What earthly occasion can Josephine have for writing me a note?” I -wondered. - -Donning my spectacles, I read as follows: - -“What ever shall we do? I cannot come and say this to you in person, for -I dare not leave them alone together. But he has recognised Miriam!--J.” - -It took fully a minute for the significance of that sentence: “He has -recognised Miriam,” to percolate my understanding, still thick with the -dregs of sleep. Then I started as if I had been stung; and rushing into -the passage, I called “Josephine! Josephine!” at the top of my lungs. - - - - -CHAPTER X.--JOSEPHINE EXPLAINS. - - -|The passage was quite dark. From the end of it, directly behind me, -came the response, “Yes, Leonard.” - -“Ah, you are there?” I questioned. - -“I have been waiting for you to wake. I did not wish to disturb your -sleep,” she explained. - -“And they--where are they now?” - -“Mr. Fairchild is in the guest-chamber, where he is to sleep. Miriam is -in her room. I could not come to you so long as they were together. It -would not do to leave them alone. That is why I wrote the note.” - -By this time we were between my own four walls, and I had closed the -door behind us. - -“And now, for Heaven's sake, explain to me what this means,” I said, -holding up the sheet of paper. - -“It means what it says. He has recognised Miriam.” - -“Oh, it is impossible,” I declared. - -“I only wish you were right,” sighed Josephine dolefully. - -“But how--but why--but what--what makes you think so?” stammered I. - -“His action when he first saw her--when she and t entered the room where -he was, to greet him, this forenoon.” - -“Oh, it is impossible--impossible!” I repeated, helplessly. “What was -his action? What did he do?” - -“He caught his breath, he started, he coloured up, and then turned -white, and then red again.” - -“Merciful Heavens!” I gasped, panic-stricken. - -“What shall we do? What can we do?” my poor sister groaned. - -“Did--did Miriam notice his embarrassment?” - -“I think not. She did not appear to, anyhow.” - -There befell a pause, during which I tried to collect my wits, and to -reflect upon the situation. - -“Well,” persisted Josephine, after the silence had continued for a -minute or two, “what shall we do?” - -“It is impossible, it is absolutely impossible,” I said. “Her own mother -would be unable to recognise her. She is altered beyond recognition. -Why, that dead woman would by this time be nearly thirty years of age; -whereas Miriam doesn't look two-and-twenty. Besides, the whole character -and expression of her face are changed. There remain the same bony -structure and the same general complexion: that is all that remains the -same. Confess that the thing is impossible.” - -“When he saw her, he started and coloured up.” - -“Well, even so. What of it. He started and coloured up. What does that -prove? Perhaps it was because of her resemblance to the dead woman, whom -we will suppose him to have known. But as for identifying them as one -and the same, he'd never dream of it. A merry, innocent young girl, of -one or two-and-twenty, and a sad-eyed, sorrow-stricken, sinful woman, -eight years her senior! The thing is on the face of it absurd. Absurd, -too, is the supposition that he ever knew Louise Massarte at all. He -started and coloured up at sight of Miriam, for the very simple reason -of her exceeding beauty. He is a young man, and he is an artist. What -quick-blooded young man, what artist, would not colour up at the sight -of so beautiful a girl? Or else, it is imaginable, he has seen Miriam -herself somewhere before--in the street, in an omnibus, or where -not--and has been impressed by her loveliness; and then he started for -surprise and pleasure at finding himself under the same roof with -her. You, my good Josephine, you have jumped to a most unwarranted -conclusion. Your fear was the father of your thought.--Afterwards, for -instance? Did he follow up his start with such conduct as was calculated -to justify you in your suspicion?” - -“No. He simply returned our salutations, and behaved toward her as he -did toward me--as if she were a perfectly new acquaintance.” - -“Good! And then, consider the freedom and the nonchalance with which he -talked to her at luncheon. No, no; it is impossible. Well, I will keep -an eye upon him during dinner. And when you and Miriam leave us to our -cigars, I'll seek to find out what the true explanation of the matter -may be.” - -And my sister and I descended to the drawing-room. - - - - -CHAPTER XI.--REASSURANCE. - -|Throughout the meal that followed, I carefully observed Fairchild's -bearing toward my niece; and great was my satisfaction to see in it -only and exactly what under the circumstances could rightly have -been expected. Frank, gay, interested, attentive, yet undeviatingly -courteous, respectful, and even deferential, it was precisely the -bearing due from a young gentleman of good breeding toward the lady at -whose side he found himself, and whose acquaintance he had but lately -made. - -“So that,” I concluded, “of all conceivable theories adequate to account -for his behaviour at first setting eyes upon her, Josephine's is the -farthest-fetched and the least tenable.” - -For the matter of that, as I had assured my sister, I was confident that -her own mother, had she been alive, must have failed to identify her, -so essentially was she altered both in expression of countenance and -in apparent age, to say nothing of her totally transformed personality. -That Fair-child did not do so I was certain. His manner exhibited -neither surprise, mystification, curiosity, nor constraint. It would -have required a far cunninger hypocrite than I took him to be, so -effectually to have disguised such emotions, had he really felt them; -and he could not have helped feeling them if, having known the -dead woman, Louise Massarte, he had recognised her in the young and -unsophisticated maiden, Miriam Benary. The right theory by which to -explain his conduct at first meeting her, I purposed discovering, if I -could, when he and I were alone. - -He and Miriam had a deal of fun together making the salad, in which -enterprise they collaborated--not, however, without much laughing -difference as to the best method of procedure. He pretended that, -instead of rubbing the bowl with garlic, one should introduce a -_chapon_--or crust of bread discreetly tinctured with that herb--and -“fatigue” it with the lettuce: whereas our niece vigorously maintained -the contrary. And finally they drew lots to determine which policy -should prevail, Miriam winning. - -“I am defeated but not disheartened,” Fair-child declared. “If there is -anything upon which I pride myself, Miss Benary, it is my erudition in -the science, and my dexterity in the art, of gastronomy. You have taken -it out of my power to display my skill in salad-making; but now, if you -are a generous victor, you will give me an opportunity to distinguish -myself in the confection of an omelet. It is an omelet of my own -invention, a sort of cross between the ordinary _omelette-au-vin_ of -the French and the Italian _zabaiano_, I shall require the use of that -chafing dish and spirit-lamp which I see yonder on the sideboard, the -sherry decanter, and half a dozen eggs. I can promise your palates -a delectable experience; and you, Miss Denary, by watching me, will -acquire an invaluable talent.” - -So, with much merriment, he proceeded with the manufacture of his -omelet, Miriam observing and assisting. When it was complete, we -unanimously voted it the most delicious thing in the way of an omelet -that we had ever tasted. But Miriam sighed, and said, “It is all very -simple except the most important point. The way is toss it up into the -air, and make it turn over, and then catch it again as it descends--I am -sure I shall never be able to do that.” - -“Never? That is a long word. You must practise it with beans,” said -Fairchild. “A pint of beans--dry beans--the kind Bostonians use for -baking. Three hours daily practice for six months, and you will do it -almost as easily as I do.” - -After the fruit the ladies left us; and having filled our glasses and -lighted our cigars, we sipped and smoked for a few minutes without -speaking. Fairchild was the first to break the silence. - -“I can do nothing,” he began, “but congratulate myself upon the happy -chance--if chance it was, and not a kind Providence--that brought about -our encounter this morning. For once in my life I was in luck.” - -“It seems to me,” I replied, “that it is I who was in luck, and who have -the best occasion for self-gratulation.” - -“That would depend upon the dubious question of the value of life,” said -he. “Has it ever struck you that this earth of ours is, after all, only -a huge grave-yard, a colossal burying-ground; and that we living persons -are simply waiting about--standing in a long _queue_, so to speak--till -our turn comes to be interred? That seems to me a very pleasing fancy, -and one which, considered as an hypothesis, clarifies many obscure -things. Accepting it, we cease to wonder at the phenomenon of death, -and regard it as the chief end, aim, object, and purpose of all human -life--the consummation devoutly to be wished, which we are all attending -with greater or less impatience. Anyhow, I am sceptical whether we -confer a boon or inflict a bane upon the human being whom we bring into -existence, or whose exit therefrom we prevent. It is indeed probable -that, except for our casual meeting this morning, you would at the -present hour have been numbered among the honoured dead. But, very -likely--either enjoying the excitements of the happy hunting-ground or -sleeping the deep sleep of annihilation--very likely, I say, you would -have been better off than you are actually, or can ever hope to be in -the flesh. About my good fortune, contrariwise, debate is inadmissible. -Here I am in veritable clover-smoking a capital cigar after a capital -dinner, in capital company, to the accompaniment of a capital glass of -wine, and the richer by the acquisition of three new friends--for as -friends, I trust, I may be allowed to reckon you and your ladies. Had -we not happened to run across each other in the way we did, on the other -hand, I should now have been seated alone by my bachelor's hearth, with -no companions more congenial to me than my plaster casts, and no voice -more jovial to cheer my solitude than the howling of the gale.” - -“It is very flattering of you to put the matter as you do,” said I; -“but being modish in no respect, I am least of all so in my metaphysics. -Therefore I cannot share your pessimistic doubt of the value of life; -and I assure you I should have hated bitterly to leave mine behind me -in that ungodly snowbank. It is true, I am perilously close to the -Scriptural limitation of man's age; and I ought perhaps to feel that -I have had my fit and proper share of this world's vanities, and to be -prepared for my inevitable journey to the next. But, I must confess, I -am so little of a philosopher, I should dearly like to tarry here a -few years longer; and hence, I maintain, my obligation to you is -indisputably established.” - -“Well, then, so far as I can see, we may say measure for measure; and -consider ourselves quit.” - -“Hardly. The balance is still tremendously in your favour.” - -After that we again smoked for a while without speaking. Then again -Fairchild broke the silence. - -“I wonder whether you would take it amiss, Dr. Benary, if I should -mention something which has been the object of my delighted admiration -almost from the moment I entered your house?” - -“Ah! What is that?” I queried. - -“I fear you will condemn me as overbold if I answer you candidly; but I -shall do so, and accept the consequences. The circumstance that I am an -artist may be pleaded in my behalf, if I seem to transcend the bounds of -the conventional.” - -“You pique my curiosity. What is it that you allude to? I do not think -you need be apprehensive of my wrath. My extended 'Life of Sir Joshua'? -That is the fruit of ten years' hard labour. Or my Japanese woman by -Theodore Wores? It's a wonderful piece of flesh-painting. It looks as -though it would bleed if you pricked it” * - -“Yes, it is in Worcs's best vein. But that is not what I have in mind. -Neither is the 'Life of Sir Joshua.' which, by-the-bye, I have not -seen.” - - * The Editor of this work must disclaim all responsibility - Dr. Benary's opinions upon matters literary and aesthetic. - -“Not seen it? Oh, well, I must show it to you directly we go upstairs. -It's my particular pet and pride. But what, then? I do not know what -else I have worthy of such admiration as you profess.” - -“You have--if you will tolerate my saying so--you have a niece; and I -allude to her extraordinary beauty.” - -My pulse quickened. Here had he, of his own accord, broached that very -topic upon which I was anxious to sound him. - -“Ah, yes; Miriam,” I assented, a trifle nervously, and wondering what -would come next. “Miriam. Yes, Miriam is a very pretty girl.” - -“Pretty!” echoed he. “Pretty? Why, sir, she's---- why, in all my life -I've not seen so beautiful a woman. And it isn't simply that she is so -beautiful; it's her type. Her type--I believe I am conservative when I -call it the least frequent, the rarest, in the whole range of womanhood. -Forgive my fervour: I speak in my professional capacity--as an artist, -as one to whom the beautiful is the subject-matter of his daily studies. -It is a type of which you occasionally see a perfect specimen in antique -marble, but in flesh and blood not oftener than once in a lifetime. -To say nothing of her colouring, which a painter would go mad over, -consider the sheer planes and lines of her countenance! That magnificent -sweep of profile--brow, nose, lips, chin, and throat, described by one -splendid flowing line! It's unutterable. It's Juno-esque. It's worth -ten years of commonplaceness to have lived to see it in a veritable -breathing woman.'' - -“Yes,” I admitted, “it's a fine profile--a noble face.” - -“Her type is so rare,” he went on, “that, as I have said, Nature -succeeds in producing a perfect specimen of it scarcely oftener than -once in a generation. Of faulty specimens--comparable, from a sculptor's -point of view, to flawed castings--she turns out many every year. You -have been in Provence? In the Noonday of France? Arles, Tours, Avignon, -teem with such failures--women who approach, approach, approach, but -always fall short of, the perfection that your niece embodies.” - -“Yes, I know the Méridionales, and I see the resemblance that you refer -to. But, as you intimate, they are coarse and crude copies of Miriam. -That expression of high spirituality, which is the dominant note in her -face, is usually quite absent from theirs.” - -“They compare to her as the pressed terracotta effigies of the Venus -of Milo, which may be bought for a song in the streets, compare to the -chiselled marble in the Louvre. In all my life I have never known but -one woman who could properly be mentioned in the same breath with her. -And even she was a good distance behind. Of her I happened to see just -enough to perceive the divine potentiality of the type. Ever since, -I have been watching for a faultless specimen. And to-day, when Miss -Benary came into the room where you had left me, I declare for a moment -my breath was taken away. I could scarcely believe my eyes. Such beauty -seemed beyond reality; it was like a dream come true. In my admiration -I forgot my manners: it was some seconds before I remembered to make my -bow. The point of all which is that when our friendship is older, you, -Dr. Benary, must permit _me_ to model her portrait.” - -Thus was my mind set at ease. - -Presently we rejoined the ladies, and while Fairchild and Miriam chatted -together in the bow window, I drew Josephine aside, and communicated to -her the upshot of our post-prandial conversation. She breathed a mighty -sigh, and professed herself to be enormously relieved. - - - - -CHAPTER XII.--THE DOCTOR'S DILEMMA. - -|Fairchild became a frequent visitor at our house, and an ever-welcome -one. His good looks, his good sense, his droll humour, his honesty, his -high spirits, made him an extremely pleasant companion. We all liked him -cordially; we were always glad to see him. I told him that if pot-luck -had no terrors for him, he must feel at liberty to drop in and dine with -us whenever his inclination prompted and his leisure would permit. He -took me at my word, as I meant he should; and from that time forth he -broke bread with us never seldomer than one evening out of the seven. - -At the end of a month, or perhaps six weeks, Josephine said to me, “Do -you think it well, Leonard, that two young people of opposite sexes -should be thrown together as frequently and as closely as Mr. Fairchild -and Miriam are?” - -“Why not?” questioned I. - -“The reasons are obvious. How would you be pleased if they should fall -in love?” - -“The Lord forbid! But I see no danger of their doing so.” - -“There is always danger when a beautiful young girl and a spirited young -man see too much of each other.” - -“But Fairchild pays no more attention to Miriam than he does to you -or to me. They are never left alone together. They are simply good -friends.” - -“As yet, perhaps, yes. But time can change friendship into love. -He begins, you must remember, with the liveliest and most profound -admiration for her; she, with the deepest sense of gratitude towards -him. True, as you say, they are never left alone together--not exactly -alone, that is. But are they not virtually alone when you and I are -seated here in the library over our backgammon-board, and he and she are -therein the drawing-room at the piano?” - -“But, my dear sister, the two rooms are as one. The folding doors are -never closed.” - -“True again: we are all within sight and hearing of one another. But -as a matter of fact, you and I give no heed to them, nor do they to us. -There are certain laws of nature which should not be ignored.” - -“Well, what do you want me to do?” I enquired rather testily. “Shall -I forbid Fairchild the house? Forbid my house to the man who saved my -life?” - -“Oh, no, of course not. You know I could not wish such a thing as that. -Mr. Fairchild's claims upon our gratitude must never be forgotten. -And besides, I like him, and I enjoy his visits as heartily as you do. -Only----” - -“Only what? If I don't forbid him the house, how can I prevent him and -Miriam meeting? Shall I direct her to keep her room whenever he comes?” - -“I do think, brother, it would be well if she were not always present -when he comes. If you wish to hear my honest opinion, I believe it is -to see her that he comes so often, and not to see a couple of sober, -elderly folk like you and me. I cannot think that you and I are so -irresistibly attractive as to draw him to our house as frequently as -once or twice a week. However, I only wished to call your attention to -the matter. It is for you now to act as your best judgment dictates.” - -“Well, then, my good Josephine, I shall not act at all. There is no -occasion for my acting. I should be most unjust and unreasonable to -prevent these two young people getting what innocent pleasure they can -from each other's friendship and society, simply because in the abstract -it is true that they are not incapable of falling in love. I might, as -reasonably enjoin Miriam against ever going out of doors, because it is -possible that in the street she might be run over; against ever drinking -a glass of water, because it is possible that the water might contain a -disease-germ. You have conjured up a chimera. Your fears are those of -a too imaginative woman. When I perceive the first symptom of anything -sentimental existing between them, it will be time enough to act.” - -“Perhaps then, Leonard, it will be too late,” retorted Josephine, and -with that she dropped the subject. - -***** - -Well, of course, as the reader has foreseen, that very complication -which my sister feared and warned me of, and which I refused to -consider--of course that very complication came to pass. Fairchild fell -in love with Miriam, and Miriam reciprocated his unfortunate passion. -Otherwise his name would never have been introduced into this narrative; -or, rather, there would have been no such narrative for me to recite. - -In June, 1888, Josephine, Miriam, and I went down to the little village -of Ogunquit, on the coast of Wade, there to rusticate until the autumn. -Toward the end of July, Fairchild joined us there, pursuant to an -arrangement made before we left town; and it was on the evening of the -15th of August that he requested a few minutes' private talk with me, -and then informed me of the condition of affairs. - -“I love your niece with all my heart and soul, Dr. Benary. Indeed, I -have loved her from the day I first became acquainted with her--the day -of that blessed Blizzard. I should like to know, who could help loving -her: she is so good and so intelligent, to say nothing of her beauty. -To-day I emptied my heart out to her, and she has made me the happiest -man in Christendom by signifying her willingness to become my wife. So, -now, it only remains for you to give us your approval and benediction. I -have an income sufficient to keep the wolf from the door, over and above -my earnings; and for the rest, you know me well enough to judge of my -eligibility for yourself.” - -What answer could I give him? - -Putting aside altogether, as I was bound to do, the selfish -consideration that her marriage would deprive us of the treasure and the -blessing of our old age, and leave our home desolate and forsaken--could -I in honour, could I in justice to the man, permit him to make Miriam -Benary his wife, without first imparting to him so much as I myself knew -concerning Louise Massarte? - -But the latter was a thing which, I was persuaded, I had no manner of -right to do. The secret of her connection with Louise Massarte, Miriam -herself was ignorant of. Surely, no other human being had the shadow -of a claim to learn it Miriam Benary had never even heard of Louise -Massarte. Louise Massarte was dead and abolished utterly. Therefore, to -saddle Miriam, in her youth and her innocence, with that dead woman's -name and history, to put upon her the burden of the dead woman's sin -and shame, it would be to do her not only a most grievous, but a most -unwarrantable, wrong. - -No, I could not, I would not, I must not, tell Fairchild the story of -Louise Massarte's annihilation, and the consequent existence of Miriam -Benary. Yet how could I say, “Yes, you may marry her,” and keep that -story to myself? What excuse could I invent wherewith to ease my -conscience, if I should practise such deceit upon him in an issue -that involved his dearest and most vital interests? _Suppressio veri, -suggestio falsi_. I should be as bad as any liar if I gave my consent -to their marriage, while allowing him to remain in error respecting -the truth about his bride--truth which, if made known to him, might -radically modify his intentions. - -But furthermore, and on the other hand, suppose I should say in reply -to his demand, “No, you cannot marry her”--what right had I to say -that? What reason could I allege in justification of my refusal? Not the -actual reason; for that would be to tell him the very story which, I -had made up my mind, I must not and should not tell. And if I alleged a -fictitious reason, I should simply escape the devil to plunge into the -deep sea--I should simply exchange a lie for a falsehood. These young -people loved each other. Therefore, to set up impediments to their -union, would be to impose upon each of them endless unmerited pain. What -right had I to do that? It was a vexed and difficult quandary. There -were strong arguments for and strong arguments against either course out -of it. - -“Well, Dr. Benary, you do not answer me,” Fairchild said. - -“I can't answer you. You must give me time--time to consider, to consult -my sister, to make up my mind.” - -We had been strolling together, he and I, up and down the sands. Now -we returned to the inn. Josephine was seated on the verandah, near the -entrance. - -“Ah, Leonard, at last!” she exclaimed, starting up the moment she caught -sight of me. “I have been waiting for you.” - -I accompanied her to her room. - -“Well,” she began, as soon as the door was closed behind us, “the worst -has happened, as I suppose you know. Mr. Fairchild has spoken to you, -has he not?” - -“Ah! Then you, too, know about it?” queried I. - -“Miriam has just told me the whole story.” - -“What does she say?” - -“That Mr. Fairchild has asked her to be his wife; that she loves him, -and has accepted him--conditionally, that is, upon your approval.” - -“She says she loves him?” - -“She says she loves him with all her heart. She says she is as happy -as the day is long. She doesn't dream that you will have any hesitation -about consenting.” - -For a little while we were silent. At last, “Well, what are you going to -do?” my sister asked. - -“That is what I wish to advise with you about.” - -“Have you given any answer to Mr. Fair-child?” - -“I have said to him that I must take time for reflection, and for -consultation with you.” - -“Well?” - -“Well, it is a most difficult dilemma.” - -“But you have got to make up your mind, one way or the other; and that -speedily. It is cruel to keep them in suspense.” - -“I know that, my dear sister.” - -“Do you mean to say yes or no?” - -“That's just it. That's just the difficulty, isn't it?” - -“But it is a difficulty which must be solved. You will have to say one -of the two.” - -“How dare I say yes?” - -“They love each other.” - -“What right have I to say no?” - -“It is their life-happiness which is at stake.” - -“Exactly, exactly; therefore, if I say no, it will be to condemn -them both to great misery, and misery which they have done nothing to -deserve.” - -“It certainly will--it will break Miriam's heart. And what reason -can you give them for saying no? It will seem all the harder to them, -because it will seem so unreasonable and unnecessary, so unjustifiable -and wanton. They will feel that it is an act of wilful cruelty, on the -part of a selfish, tyrannical old man.” - -“I know it, I know it,” I groaned. “And yet, on the other hand, if I say -yes----” - -“If you say yes, you will assure to them the greatest happiness their -hearts can desire.” - -“But how dare I say yes without sharing with Fairchild the secret of -Miriam's origin? Without telling him the story of Louise Massarte?” - -“Surely, you cannot purpose doing that! You cannot mean to confide to -another knowledge affecting her which she herself is unaware of!” - -“No, of course not. But there's just the rub. How, without doing that, -how can I honourably permit him to make her his wife?” - -“It is a choice of evils: to break their hearts or to suppress certain -facts. You must choose the lesser evil of the two.” - -“That is very easily said. But the trouble is to determine which of the -two evils _is_ the lesser. Deceit or cruelty?” - -“Forgive me, my dear brother, for reminding you of it: but if you had -listened to my warning in the first place, this painful alternative -would never have come about.” - -“What could I do? You yourself agreed with me that I couldn't forbid -Fairchild the house. And so long as he had the run of the house, how -could I prevent him and Miriam meeting? And meeting as frequently as -they did, I suppose it was inevitable that they should come to love each -other. There's no use reproaching me--no use regretting the past. What -was bound to happen has happened. That's the whole truth of it.” - -“I did not intend to reproach you, Leonard. I merely wished to say that, -since, in a manner, you have been responsible for the state of things -which has come to pass--since, in other words, you neglected to take -such measures as would have prevented that state of things from coming -to pass--it seems as if now you were under a sort of moral obligation -not to stand between them and their happiness. The time for action -was the outset. You did not act then. It seems as if you had thereby -forfeited your right to act. Since you have allowed things to go so far, -it seems as if you had no right to forbid their going farther.” - -“That is to say, you counsel me to consent.” - -“_I_ do not see how you can do otherwise now. It is too late for you to -step in and separate them.” - -“And the point of honour? I am to suppress the truth? I am to stand -still and suffer Fair-child to make Miriam his wife, in ignorance of -certain facts which, if he were aware of them, might totally change his -feeling? How can I do that? It would lie for ever on my conscience.” - -“So far from totally changing his feeling I do not believe those facts, -if Fairchild knew them, would weigh with him so much as one hair's -weight. They would not, if his love for Miriam is love in any vital -sense of the word. He would agree with us in looking upon her as an -entirely different person from Louise Massarte. However, he must not -know, he must not even dream those facts. Therefore, as I said before, -it is a choice of evils. The negative evil of suppressing the truth -does not seem to me so great as the positive evil of inflicting pain. -Besides, after all, is it not Miriam's prerogative to decide this matter -for herself? What right have you or I to do anything but stand aside, -with hands off, and let her choose her husband without constraint or -interference? She is of full age and sound mind; and our relationship -with her, which would give us our pretence for interfering, is, as you -know, only a fiction She could not wish for a better husband than Mr. -Fairchild. No woman could.” - -“What you say, my dear Josephine, and what you suggest, are Jesuitry, -pure and simple.” - -“There come emergencies in which Jesuitry is the only feasible policy.” - -A long silence followed. In the end, “Where is Miriam now?” I asked. - -“She was in her room when I left her.” - -“Will you find her, and send her to me? Or rather, bring her. You must -be present, too, to lend me countenance--to give me moral support in -the grossly immoral action which I am going to perpetrate. I feel like a -pickpocket. I need the encouragement of my accomplice.” - -Josephine went off. In three minutes she returned, leading Miriam by the -hand. - -Miriam's cheeks and throat turned crimson as she saw me; and she dropped -her eyes, and stood still, waiting. - -“My dear----” I called, holding out my hands. - -She came to me, and put her arms around my neck, and buried her face -upon my shoulder. - -“So this young rascal of a sculptor has asked you to be his wife?” I -began. - -“Yes,” she murmured, scarcely louder than a whisper. - -“And so--the double-faced rogue!--it was not, as we had supposed, -because of his great fondness for your aunt and uncle, that he became -a frequenter of our camp, but because he had covetous designs upon our -chief treasure!” - -“Oh! but he is very fond of my aunt and uncle, too,” she protested. - -“Is he, indeed! Well, what answer have you given him?” - -“I said--I said I--I said I liked him.” - -“Ah! I see. You said you liked him. That was rather irrelevant, wasn't -it?--a little evasive? He asked you to become his wife, and you said you -liked him. Did you give him no more categorical an answer than that?” - -“I said he must ask you.” - -“Ask me? Ask me what? It isn't I that he wants to marry. And I wouldn't -have him, anyhow. Why should he ask me?” - -“You know what I mean. I told him I could not marry without your -consent.” - -“And suppose I should withhold my consent?” - -“I should be very unhappy.” - -“But I don't really see what my consent matters. It's for you to decide. -You're of full age. I have no right to forbid you. Now, then, what are -you going to do?” - -“I said I would be his wife, unless you wished otherwise.” - -“Well, I suppose you must keep your word. The poor fellow is waiting on -the anxious seat to learn his fate. I really think, instead of tarrying -here, you ought to seek him out, and put an end to his suspense.” - -She hugged me and kissed me, and said some very jubilant and some very -complimentary things; and then she began to cry, and then she laughed -through her tears; and at last she went off to find her lover, and to -convey to him the joyful tidings. - -* * * * * - -They were married on the 15th day of December, and that same afternoon -they set sail for Havre aboard the steamship _La Touraine_, to pass six -months abroad. Anxiously did Josephine and I count the days that must -elapse before the post would bring us their first letter; and little did -we dream what ominous news that letter would contain. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII.--NATURE BEGINS REPRISALS. - -|OF course, we watched the newspapers for an announcement of the -_Touraine's_ arrival. A fast steamer, ordinarily accomplishing the -passage within seven days, she ought to have reached Havre on the 22nd. -She was not reported, however, until Monday, the 24th, being then two -days overdue. - -It was on Friday, the 4th of January, that we at last got a letter. The -envelope was superscribed not in Miriam's band, but in Fairchild's; and -when we tore it open we saw that the letter itself had been written by -the groom, and not by the bride. This struck us as rather odd, and made -us a little uneasy. We hastened to read: - -“Hôtel de la Grande Bretagne, - -“Havre, December 25. - -“Dear Dr. Benary, - -“Christmas day, and such news as I have to give you! I should put off -writing until we reach Paris, in the hope that when we are there the -face of things may have altered for the better; only I know, if you -don't receive a letter sooner than you would in that case, you will be -alarmed. - -“What I have to tell you is so horrible in itself, it must shock you -dreadfully whatever way I put it. I can't hope to make it any less -painful for you by mincing it, or beating about the bush. Yet it seems -brutal to state the hideous fact downright. Miriam has become blind, -totally blind. - -“Whether incurably so or not, we do not yet know. Of course we hope for -the best, but we can be sure of nothing till we reach Paris, where we -shall consult the best oculists to be found. Meantime, you may imagine -our state of mind. - -“We had a most frightful passage, and that was the cause of it. We ran -into a storm directly we left Cape Thunderhead; and it followed us all -the way across. Bad enough at the outset, it got steadily worse and -worse until we reached port. It had only this mitigation--it was behind -us, and moved in the same direction with us. Therefore we were delayed -but about forty-eight hours. If it had been against us, there's no -telling when we should have got ashore; and twenty-four hours more of it -Miriam could never have survived. - -“For six consecutive days (from the 17th to the 23rd) the hatches were -battened down; no passengers were allowed on deck; and not only were -the port-holes kept permanently closed, but the inner iron shutters were -screwed up, lest the sea should break in and swamp us. The skylights -also were, covered. Thus daylight was excluded, as well as fresh air. -Then the electric-lighting machine got out of order, and we had to fall -back upon candles and petroleum. The atmosphere in the cabins became -something unendurable. Much of the time, owing to the violent motion, it -was impossible to keep even the candles or the petroleum lamps burning; -and we were condemned to total darkness. At last, however, they got the -electric machine into running gear again, so that we had light. From -second to second, day and night, the sea broke over us with a roar -like the discharge of cannon, making every timber of the ship creak and -tremble. It was enough to drive one frantic, that everlasting rhythmic -thunder. - -“And all the while we were tossed up, down, and around, as if that giant -vessel were a cockle-shell. Standing erect or walking was not to be -thought of. I had to creep from place to place on hands and knees. And -then the never-ending motion, and the incessant noise: the howling -of the wind, the pounding of the water, the creaking of timbers, the -snapping of cordage, the clanking of chains, the crashing of loose -things being knocked about, the shouts and tramping of sailors overhead, -the groans of sea-sick people, the shrieks of scared women and children, -the darkness, the loathsome air--I tell you it was frightful; it was -like pandemonium gone mad; the memory of it is like the memory of a -nightmare. - -“Miriam suffered excruciatingly from seasickness. It was the most -heart-rending sight I have ever witnessed, the agony she endured. I had -never dreamed that sea-sickness could be so terrible; and the ship's -surgeon said he had never seen so severe a case. What made it worse, of -course, was the hopelessness of her obtaining any relief until the storm -abated, or until we reached shore. There was nothing anyone could do. -I just sat there beside her, and held her hand, while she either lay -exhausted, or started up and went through the torments of the damned. I -can give you no idea of what she suffered. It was hard work to sit -still there, and watch her sufferings, and realise that I was utterly -powerless to help her in any way. From Monday, the 17th, until last -night, when we had been ashore some hours--precisely one week--she did -not taste food. Once in a while she would drink a little water, with a -drop of brandy in it; but even that distressed her cruelly. On the 20th -she was seized with convulsions, awful beyond description. From then on, -until we left the ship, she simply alternated between terrible paroxysms -and utter prostration. Four days! I thought she was going to die, -her convulsions were so violent, the prostration that ensued was so -death-like. The ship's surgeon himself admitted that there was great -danger--that death might result from exhaustion. For those four -days--from the 20th to the 24th--he kept her almost constantly under the -influence of opiates. On Saturday she seemed a little better--that is, -her convulsions occurred seldomer, and were of shorter duration. When -not in convulsions, she would lie in a stupor, as if asleep, only most -of the time her eyes were half open, and she would groan. But on Sunday -she was worse again; and it was on Sunday night, about ten o'clock, -that, after she had lain perfectly quiet for an hour or so, all at once -she started up, and asked me whether the electric lights had gone -out again. The lights were at that moment burning brightly in our -state-room; and I told her so. Then she cried: 'I can't see you. I can't -see anything. It is all dark. What has happened? I believe I am blind.' - -“Of course, I thought it must be some hallucination caused by her -sickness. I could not believe that she had really become blind. But the -ship's surgeon came and made an examination, and discovered that it was -so. He could attribute it only to a paralysis of the optic nerve, -the consequence of shock and exhaustion. What the danger of its being -permanent was he could not say. - -“Yesterday, thank God, that hellish voyage came to an end. The instant -we reached this hotel, I got her into bed and sent off for the best -medical men this town holds. They simply corroborated the judgment of -the ship's doctor--that she is suffering from shock and exhaustion, and -that her blindness is due to a paralysis of the optic nerve. _They think -it will probably not be permanent_. She must keep her bed until she -is thoroughly rested, which will take several days. Then we must go to -Paris, and put her under the treatment of Dr. Geoffroy Désessaires, who, -it seems, is the great French specialist in diseases of the eye. - -“She is in bed now, in the next room, sleeping. She sleeps most of the -time--or rather, dozes. Her convulsions are over now, I hope for good. -But all last night they occurred from time to time--very much less -violently, however, than when on ship-board. She has not yet been able -to take much nourishment, but as often as she wakes, I give her a little -beef-tea. - -“That is about all there is to tell down to the present moment. You will -understand that I am in no condition of mind to write at greater length -than is necessary, having gone without sleep for the greater part of a -week, to say nothing of anxiety and distress. When she wakes she talks -of you and bids me say how she loves you. And of course you always means -yourself and Miss Josephine. - -“I pray God that in my next letter I may have more cheering news to -write. - -“Always yours, - -“Henry Fairchild.” - - -The dismay which the foregoing epistle occasioned Josephine and myself -the sympathetic reader will conceive without my telling. But it was -as nothing to that which we experienced when we read the next, and -considered its purport:-- - -“Hôtel de la Bourdonnaye, - -“Paris, January 1, 1889. - -“Dear Dr. Benary, - -“Miriam improved rapidly after I posted my letter of Christmas day. -Rest, quiet, and nourishment were what she needed--and those she had. -The doctors gave us permission to leave Havre yesterday; and we arrived -here in the afternoon. She is pale and weak, and wasted to the merest -shadow of herself, having lost _twenty-six pounds_ in weight. But she -does not suffer any more bodily pain; though what her agony of mind must -be it is not difficult for those who love her to imagine. However, that -will soon be over. - -“I telegraphed in advance to Dr. Désessaires, requesting him to call -upon us here at our hotel last evening. He came at eight o'clock, and -put Miriam through a thorough examination. He confirmed what all the -other doctors had said--that it was a paralysis of the optic nerve. He -enquired all about her health in the past, and particularly whether she -had ever had any trouble of the brain or spine. Then, of course, we told -him of that accident which she met with in 1884, which had deprived -her of her memory, 'Ah! said he, 'that gives me the key to the whole -difficulty.' He proceeded very carefully to examine her head, and when -he had finished he said there was a depression of the bone at the point -where she had been hurt at that time, and a consequent pressure upon the -brain; and it was that pressure upon the brain which accounted for the -extraordinary violence of her sea-sickness and the resultant blindness. -Finally, he said that an operation to relieve that pressure would, if -made at once, restore her sight; but that, unless such an operation was -performed, she must remain permanently blind. He assured me that the -operation was not a dangerous one; that it would consist in the removal -of a minute fragment of the bone--what is called trephining. Of course, -there was nothing for us to do but consent to having the operation -performed; and thereupon he went away, saying he would return this -morning. - -“At eleven o'clock this morning he arrived, accompanied by four other -physicians--Dr. Cidolt, also an oculist; Dr. Gouet, the famous alienist; -Dr. Marsac, a general practitioner of very high standing; and Dr. -Larquot, said to be the most skilful surgeon in France. They made a long -examination, and then withdrew to consult together. At the end of -nearly two hours they came to me with their report, which was simply -a repetition of what Dr. Dêsessaires had already said--that trephining -would be necessary, that it would be effective, and that it would be as -free from danger as such an operation ever is. It must be performed as -soon as possible, so that atrophy of the optic nerve may not have time -to set in; but before they can safely undertake it, Miriam must be -perfectly recovered in general health. They have set upon this day -fortnight--the 14th--as probably a favourable time. Meanwhile she is -under the care of Dr. Marsac. Dr. Larquot is to conduct the operation. - -“The brave little woman! She supports her calamity so patiently! And -she looks forward to that dreadful ordeal with an amount of nerve and -courage that a man might be proud of. God grant that all may go well. - -“There is nothing more for me to write at present. - -“Always Yours, - -“Henry Fairchild.” - -At the close of Fairchild's letter this postscript was added, in a hand -that we recognised as Miriam's, though it was cramped and irregular, as -if she had written with her eyes shut:-- - -“Dear Ones,--I cannot see to write to you; but I love you and love you, -with all my heart. - -“Miriam.” - -When my sister Josephine read that, she burst out crying like a child. - -I waited till she had dried her tears, Then, “Well, my dear sister,” I -questioned, “do you realise what that letter means?” - -“What it means? Why, that her blindness is only temporary, and can be -cured. That she will recover her sight.” - -“Nothing else?” - -“What else?” - -“What else! This else--and I am surprised that you do not see it for -yourself--it means that the same operation which will restore her sight -will also restore her memory. Do you understand? She will become -Louise Massarte again. She will begin at the precise point where Louise -Massarte left off. She will forget everything that has occurred during -the past four years, and will recall what occurred before. It is that -same pressure of the bone upon the brain to which they rightly or -wrongly attribute her blindness--it is that same pressure of the bone -upon the brain which keeps Louise Massarte in quiescence, and makes -Miriam Benary possible. Relieve that pressure, remove that point of -bone, and instantly Louise Massarte will spring into life again, while -at the same moment Miriam Benary will cease to exist. That is what -Fairchild's letter means.” - -“Good Heavens!” gasped Josephine, holding up her hands in helpless -dismay. “But--but surely---- but what--what is to be done?” - -“Which, in your opinion, would be the lesser of the two evils--to have -her remain permanently blind, or to have her regain her memory? She -would recollect all that she is happiest in forgetting, she would forget -all that she is happiest in remembering. The four years during which -she has lived here with us as our niece would be utterly obliterated and -undone. She would rise from that operation in mind and spirit exactly -where she was, and exactly what she was, just before you and I put her -under the influence of ether on the 14th day of June, 1884. Which, I -want you to tell me--which would be the lesser evil: the blindness of -Miriam Benary, or the resurrection of Louise Massarte?” - -“Oh, there is no room for question about that. Better a thousand times -that she should never see the light of day again, than that she should -cease to be herself, and return to her dead personality. Why, it is--it -is Miriam's very life, her very existence, which is at stake.” - -“Precisely. It is, so far as she is concerned, a choice between -blindness and death. Nay, something worse than death: a hideous -transformation of her identity, from that of a pure and innocent young -bride, to that of a weary, heart-sick, sinful woman-convict. To cure her -blindness by the means which they propose, would simply be to kill her; -to abolish Miriam Benary and to substitute for her Louise Massarte. It -is infinitely better that she should remain blind. Therefore, I am going -to prevent that operation if I can.” - -“If you can indeed! But how can you? They are three thousand miles away. -How can you?” - -“Well, let us see. To-day--to-day is the 12th, is it not?” - -“Yes, to-day is Saturday the 12th. Well?” - -“Well, the day set for the operation is the 14th--that is, the day after -to-morrow, Monday.” - -“Yes.” - -“Well, I shall go at once and cable to Fairchild, imploring him, -commanding him, no matter at what cost, to postpone the operation until -I arrive in Paris. Then I shall engage passage aboard the first swift -steamer that sails. The South German Clyde steamers sail on Mondays. -They make the passage in seven days, and touch at Cherbourg. Do -you, meanwhile, prepare my things, so that I may take ship day after -tomorrow. Once arrived in Paris, I will persuade Fairchild to relinquish -the idea of the operation for good and all. I will convince him that -Miriam's life will be imperilled. Or, failing in that, I may find myself -compelled to tell him the truth about Louise Massarte. Anything will be -better than to have her regain her memory.” - -“Yes, anything. God grant that he may not disobey your telegram. But -you must engage passage for me as well as for yourself. I cannot stay -at home here idle. You must let me go with you. I should die of anxiety -alone here at home.” - -I went to the nearest telegraph office, and sent the following cable -despatch:-- - -“Fairchild, Hôtel Bourdonnaye, Paris. - -“At all costs postpone operation till I arrive. Miriam's life -endangered. Sail Monday, viâ Cherbourg. - -“Benary.” - -Then I hastened to the steamship company's office in Bowling Slip, and -engaged staterooms for my sister and myself aboard the _Egmont_ which -was to sail promptly at noon on Monday the 14th. - -Yet, despite these precautionary measures, a heavy load of anxiety lay -upon my heart. What if Fairchild should suffer the operation to proceed, -notwithstanding my protest? I could not banish that contingency from my -mind, nor its ghastly _corollaries_ from my imagination. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV.--ALTER EGO. - -|Though by no means so stormy as that described by Fairchild, our voyage -was an unconscionably long one. To say nothing of fogs and head winds, -an accident befell our machinery, whereby we were compelled to lie to -for sixteen precious hours, while the damage was repaired. We did not -make Cherbourg till the afternoon of Friday, January 25. - -Ashore, my first act was to enquire when a train would leave for Paris. -A train would leave at midnight, due at the capital at half past nine -in the morning. My next act was to telegraph Fairchild, informing him of -our arrival, and warning him to expect us on the morrow. - -At half past nine to the minute, Saturday, we drew into the Gare St. -Lazare. We were a little surprised not to find Fairchild there to meet -us, and perhaps also a little disturbed. Was Miriam so ill that he dared -not leave her? After seeing our luggage through the Customs House, we -got into a cab, and were driven to the Hôtel de la Bourdonnaye. - -I inquired for Mr. Fairchild. - -“Monsieur Fairchild is in his room, Monsieur.” - -“Show us thither at once,” said I. - -“Pardon, Monsieur. If Monsieur will have the goodness to send up his -card---” - -“Josephine,” I exclaimed, “how do you account for this? Apparently we -are not expected. He does not meet us at the railway station; and here -at his hotel we are required to send up our card.” - -“Well, send it up. We shall soon have an explanation,” Josephine said; -and I acted upon her advice. - -In two minutes Fairchild appeared. - -“What! Arrived!” he cried, seizing each of us by a band. “Your -steamer was overdue; when did you get in? Why didn't you telegraph from -Cherbourg?” - -“Why _didn't_ I telegraph? But I did. Do you mean to say you haven't -received my despatch?” - -“Not the ghost of one. If I'd known you were coming this morning---- But -wait.” - -He stepped into the office of the hotel. Issuing thence in a moment, -“There!” he cried, exhibiting a blue envelope, “here's your telegram. -In America I should have received it twelve hours ago. But they manage -these things better in France. It came last night, after I'd gone to bed -and the authorities of this hostelery were too considerate to wake me. -Then this morning, they say, they thought I was so much occupied that, -they would do best to wait about delivering it till I was at leisure. -That's French courtesy with a vengeance. However, you're safely arrived -at last, and that's the important thing.” - -“And Miriam? Miriam?” I demanded impatiently. - -“The doctors are with her even now,” he answered. - -“You got my cable despatch, of course, and put off the operation?” - -“Yes, I got your despatch; and we put off the operation until all the -physicians insisted that it must not be put off longer--that, if put off -longer, it would be ineffective.” - -Panic-stricken, “You don't mean to say,” I gasped, “you can't mean to -say that it has been performed!” - -“As I just told you, they're with her now. They are performing it at -this moment?” - -“Heavens and earth, man! Didn't I say in my telegram that it would -imperil her life? Didn't I entreat you at all costs to postpone it until -I arrived?” - -“You did, certainly. But these other medical men, who were on the spot, -and could examine her for themselves, were of one mind in declaring that -her life would not be imperilled, but that the longer the operation was -delayed, the greater would be the danger of atrophy of the optic nerve. -Finally, on Wednesday of this week, they fixed upon this morning as -the furthest date to which they could consent to postpone it. It was a -choice between going on without your presence, and taking the risk of -permanent blindness. So I had to let them proceed.” - -“You don't know what you have done! You have done that which you will -repent to your dying day!!” I groaned, wringing my hands. “You might -have known that I never should have telegraphed as I did--that I -never should have packed up and taken ship for Europe at two days -notice--unless it was a matter of life and death But where are they? -Take me to them. Perhaps it is not yet too late. Perhaps I am still in -time to prevent it. Take me to them at once. - -“I doubt whether they will admit you. They would not allow me to be -present, and I am her husband. I have had to walk up and down the -corridor, waiting.” - -“Not admit me! They will admit me, if have to break down the door. Take -me to them this instant.” - -“Very well,” he assented. “This way.” - -He led me up a flight of stairs, and halted before a door, upon which he -gently rapped. - -The door was immediately opened by an elderly man, in professional -broad-cloth, who said in French: “You may enter now. It is finished.” - -My heart turned to ice. For a breathing-space I could neither move nor -speak. - -At last, with the stolidity that is born of despair, “Finished!” I -repeated. “You have then trephined?” - -“We have.” - -“And the patient----?” - -“She is not yet recovered from the anaesthetic.” - -We entered the room. Miriam, pale and beautiful, lay unconscious upon -a sofa near the windows. Two other professional-looking gentlemen stood -over her, one of whom was fanning her face. - -Fairchild presented me: “The English physician, Dr. Benary, the uncle of -my wife.” - -I was in no mood to be courteous or ceremonious. Having bowed, -“Gentlemen, I must beg you to leave me alone with the patient,” I began, -addressing the company at large. - -My remark created a sensation. The French physicians exchanged perplexed -and astonished glances; and a chorus of indignant “Mais, monsieurs,” - rose about my ears. - -“Fairchild, I am in earnest,” I said. “I insist upon these gentlemen -leaving me alone with my niece. I look to you to see that they do so. -I have neither the leisure nor the inclination to discuss the matter. -Every second is precious.” Somehow or other Fairchild prevailed upon -them to withdraw. I suspect they saw that I was in no frame of mind to -bear trifling with. - -“I may remain?” Fairchild queried. - -“No, not even you. I must be quite alone with her for the present.” - -“But-----” - -“Nay, do not waste time is controversy. Leave me at once.” - -Fairchild reluctantly went off. - -I sat down at the side of Miriam's couch, and fanned her. - -By-and-by she opened her eyes, and they rested upon my face. - -From their expression, it was obvious that she saw me. Her blindness had -been cured. - -Almost at once, however, she closed her eyes again; and then for a -little while she lay still, like one half asleep. - -Suddenly she drew a deep quick breath, sat up, and looking me intently -in the face, “Well, is it over?” she asked. - -“Yes, dear; it is over,” I replied. “Well, then, it is a failure--a -total, abject failure! I remember everything. My memory was never -clearer or more circumstantial. And you--you said there was no chance of -failure! Oh, I was a fool to believe you. But what were you, to tell me -such monstrous lies?” - -With these words, she sighed, and fell back upon her pillow, while I, -with a deadly sickness at the heart, realised that the worst which I had -feared had come to pass. - -She was Louise Massarte now. Where was Miriam Benary? She was Louise -Massarte. She had taken up her former life at the exact point where -Louise Massarte had dropped it. She had begun anew at the exact point -where Louise Massarte had left off. And the operation which she had in -her mind when she asked, “Is it over?” was the operation which I had -performed upon her nearly five years before. Those intervening years -were as perfectly erased from her consciousness as if they had been -passed in dreamless sleep. - -Where was Miriam Benary? What had become of that sweet and winning -personality? And of the innocent pure love with which she had blessed -our lives? Oh, it was a hideous transformation. Miriam was gone into the -infinite void of Nothingness, leaving this changeling in her place. It -was more unbelievable, it was more horribly impossible, than any wild -nightmare phantasy, than any ancient grisly tale of necromancy; and -yet it was true, it was undeniable, it was irremediable. It was worse, -incomparably worse, than it would have been if she had died. For had she -died, we could at least have hoped that her soul still lived, good and -true and beautiful as ever. But now her soul had simply changed its -form, and become the corrupt and sinful essence of Louise Massarte--just -as in books of the Black Art we read of the fair virgin Princess being -changed at a touch into a wicked grinning ape. - -“Yes, you have failed, you have failed,” she said again. - -Then, all at once, starting up, and speaking passionately: “Oh, why did -you interfere with me last night? Why did you cross my path and thwart -my will? Why did you not let me die then, when it would have been so -easy? Why did you bring me here to your house, to fill me and intoxicate -me with hopes that were doomed to be disappointed? Oh, it was cruel, it -was cruel of you. I was insane to listen to you. I was mad to place any -sort of credence in what you said. It was so obvious a fairy-tale. I -ought to have known that you promised the impossible, that you were -either a liar or a lunatic.--But it is not yet too late. Leave me. Leave -the room. Let me get up and dress myself, and go away. Where is your -sister? She put away my clothes. Send her to me. I will not be detained -here longer. Give me my clothes. I will get up, and go away, and throw -myself into the river, before they have a chance to retake me, and send -me back to prison.” - -What could I do? What could I say? “Oh, Miriam, Miriam,” I faltered -helplessly. “Calm yourself. For Heaven's sake, lie quiet. You will work -yourself into a fever, into delirium. Your agitation may cost you your -life. Lie quiet and let me think. My poor wits are distracted.” - -She caught at the name Miriam. - -“Miriam? Miriam! Who is Miriam? Have I not told you my name? My name is -Louise Massarte. Why do you call me by another? Miriam!--Miriam! Am I in -a madhouse? _Oh, oh! my head!_” she screamed sharply, putting her hand -to her head. “What have you done to my head? What have you done to me? -Oh, I had such a pain! It shot through my head. Oh! fool, imbecile, that -I was, ever to enter your house.” - -At this juncture the door opened, and Fair-child came into the room. - -“I could wait outside no longer,” he explained. “I heard her scream. I -cannot stay away from her.” - -To my unspeakable amazement, she, at the sight of her husband (whom, -I had every reason to suppose, she would not recognise), started -violently, and, catching her breath, exclaimed-- - -“What! You! Henry Fairchild! Henry Fairchild! Here! Good God!” - -“Yes, dear Miriam,” Fairchild answered, coming forward, and putting out -his hand to take hold of hers. - -But she drew quickly away from him. - -“Miriam again! Miriam! What farce is this? Am I really in a mad-house? -Or have I gone mad? I believe you are both maniacs, that you call me -Miriam. Or is it some charade that you are acting for my bewilderment? -And you, Henry Fairchild! What are you doing here? You, of all men! -Oh! this is some frightful trick that has been played upon me! This -glib-tongued old man, with his innocent face and his protestations of -benevolence, has trapped me here to send me back across the river. But -why so much ceremony about it. Call your officers at once, and give me -up to them. One thing I'll promise you: they'll never get me back -there alive. Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! And so, Mr. Fairchild, your friend, Roger -Beecham, is dead. I came to town last night for the especial purpose of -calling upon him, and settling our accounts; and then I learned that he -had died from natural causes. Well, there is one consolation: unless the -dogma of hell be a pure invention, he is roasting there now. I daresay I -shall join him there presently, and then we will roast together! What a -blow his death must have been to you, his faithful Achates!” During -the first part of her speech, it was plain that poor Fairchild simply -fancied her to be raving in delirium; but when she mentioned that name, -Roger Beecham, an expression of terrified amazement, mingled with blank -incomprehension, fell upon his face, and he stood staring at her, with -knitted brows and parted lips, like a man dumbfoundered and aghast. - -“Oh, I hope he died hard!” she cried. “I hope his mortal agony was -excruciating and long-drawn out. I hope his death-bed was haunted and -surrounded by twenty thousand hateful memories!” Fairchild found his -tongue. - -“Roger Beecham,” he repeated, as if dazed. “What do you know of Roger -Beecham?” - -“That's good! That's exquisite!” cried she. “What do I know of Roger -Beecham? You play your comedy very well, though I confess I don't see -the point of it. What does Louise Massarte know of Roger Beecham? What -does she _not_ know of him?” - -Fairchild became rigid. - -“Louise Massarte!” he gasped. “What have you to do with Louise -Massarte?--the murderess of Beecham's wife! Was she--for God's sake, was -she related to you? Long ago I noticed a certain resemblance--a certain -remote resemblance--such a resemblance as might exist between an angel -and a devil. But why do you speak to me of her? What can you know of -her? Louise Massarte!---- Dr. Benary, what has happened to my wife? She -is delirious. Yet how comes she to know these names? What can be done?” - -“I am not delirious, Mr. Fairchild,” she put in, hastily. “But either -you are, or you are a most clever actor, and have missed your vocation -in failing to go upon the stage. As I said before, I cannot see the -point of your mummery; but you do it uncommonly well. Why do you pretend -not to recognise me? Surely, I can't have changed beyond recognition in -two years.” - -“Not recognise you? Not recognise you, Miriam, my wife! Oh, what -dreadful insanity has come upon her?” - -“I? Miriam? Your wife?” She laughed. “Come, Mr. Fairchild, a truce to -this mystery.” - -Fairchild sank upon a chair, and pressed his brow between his hands. -“She is out of her senses. But how comes she to know those names?” he -said, as if speaking to himself. Then, turning to me: “Perhaps you, Dr. -Benary, can clear this puzzle up?” - -“This is hardly a fitting time or place for attempting to,” I replied. -“If you had only respected my desires, there would have been no such -occasion.” - -“Will you answer me this one question? Do you understand what she means -by her reference to Louise Massarte?” - -“Yes. I do.” - -“Explain that meaning to me.” - -“Not now, Fairchild. Not now. Later I will tell you everything. I have -not the heart nor the wit to explain anything just now.” - -“But the relation, the connection, between that woman and my wife? Were -they sisters?” - -“No, not sisters.” - -“What then?” - -“Fairchild, I implore you----” I began, but I got no further. - -From the couch upon which Miriam lay came a low peal of sarcastic -laughter. Then suddenly it expired in a most piteous moan. She gave a -sharp cry, and swooned. - -Fairchild was at her side in a twinkling. He knelt there, seizing her -hands, and gazing with wild eyes into her face. - -“She is dead! She is dead!” he groaned frantically. - -“No, she has only fainted, from pain and exhaustion. But the -consequences of a fainting fit in her condition may be terrible,” - said I. - -“Oh, my darling! my darling!” he sobbed, bending over till his cheek -swept her breast. - -* * * * * - -She never regained consciousness. - -I have not the heart to dwell upon what followed. - -This paragraph, cut from _Galignant's Messenger_ of February 1, tells -its own story:-- - -“_Fairchild.--On Wednesday morning, January 30, at the Hôtel de la -Bourdonnaye, of _phrenitis_, Miriam Benary, wife of Henry Fairchild, of -Adironda._” - - -THE END. - - - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Two Women or One?, by Henry Harland - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TWO WOMEN OR ONE? *** - -***** This file should be named 51986-0.txt or 51986-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/1/9/8/51986/ - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by Google Books - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: Two Women or One? - From the Mss. of Dr. Leonard Benary - -Author: Henry Harland - -Release Date: May 3, 2016 [EBook #51986] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TWO WOMEN OR ONE? *** - - - - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by Google Books - - - - - - - - - -TWO WOMEN OR ONE? - -From The Mss. Of Dr. Leonard Benary - -By Henry Harland - -New York - -1890 - -_DEDICATION_ - -TO -------- --------, ESQUIRE. - - - -```"I'll link my waggon to a star;" - -```I'll dedicate this tale to you: - -```Wit, poet, scholar, that you are, - -```And skilful story-teller too, - -```And theologue, and critic true, - -```And main-stay of the-------Review. - -```I'll link my waggon to a star, - -```Does not the Yankee sage advise it? - -```And yet I dare not name your name, - -```Lest the wide lustre of its fame - -```Eclipse my humble candle-flame: - -```But you'll surmise it.= - -January 1890. - - - - - -TWO WOMEN OR ONE? - - - - -CHAPTER I.--THE FIRST NIGHT. - -|My name is Leonard Benary--rather a foreign-sounding name, though I am -a pure-blooded Englishman. I reside at No. 63, Riverview Road, in the -American city of Adironda, though I was born in Devonshire. And I am a -physician and surgeon, though retired from active practice. My age can -be computed when I say that I came into the world on the 21st day of -July, in the year 1818. - -I must at the outset crave the reader's indulgence for two things. -First, my style. I am not a literary man; and my style will therefore -be ungraceful. Secondly, my provincialisms. I have lived in Adironda -for very nearly half a century, and I have therefore fallen into divers -local peculiarities of speech. But I have a singular, and I believe an -interesting and significant, story to tell, and I think it had better be -ill told than not told at all. - -It begins with the night of Friday, June 13th, 1884. - -Towards twelve o'clock on that night I was walking in an easterly -direction along the south side of Washington Street, between Myrtle -Avenue and Riverview Road, on my way home from a concert which I had -attended at the Academy of Music. Moving in the same direction, on the -same side of the street, and leading me by something like a hundred -feet, I could make out the figure of a woman. Except for us two, the -neighbourhood appeared to be deserted. - -Anything about my fellow pedestrian, beyond her sex, which was -proclaimed by the outline of her gown as she passed under a -street-lamp--whether she was young or old, white or black, a lady or -a beggar--I was unable, owing to the darkness of the night, and to the -distance that separated us, to distinguish. Indeed, I should most likely -have paid no attention whatever to her, for I was busy with my own -thoughts, had I not happened to notice that when she readied the corner -of Riverview Road, instead of turning into that thoroughfare, she -proceeded to the terrace at the foot of Washington Street, and -immediately disappeared down the stone staircase which leads thence to -the water's edge. - -This action at once struck me as odd, and put an end to my -pre-occupation. - -What could a solitary woman want at the brink of the Yellow Snake River -at twelve o'clock midnight? - -Her errand could scarcely be a benign one; and the conjecture that -suicide might possibly be its object, instantly, of course, arose in my -mind. - -My duty under the circumstances, anyhow, seemed plain--to keep an eye -upon her, and hold myself in readiness to interfere, if needful. - -After a moment's deliberation, I, too, descended the stone stairs. - - - - -CHAPTER II.--AT THE RIVER SIDE. - -|Yet to keep an eye upon her was more easily said than done. At the -bottom of the terrace it was impenetrably dark. Not a star shone from -the clouded sky. The points of light along the opposite shore--and here -and there, upon the bosom of the stream, the red or green lantern of a -vessel--punctured the darkness without relieving it. Strain my eyesight -as I might, I could see nothing beyond the length of my arm. - -But the lapping of the waves upon the strand, and about the piles of the -little T-shaped landing-stage that extends into the river at this -point, was distinctly audible, and served to guide me. Towards the -landing-stage I cautiously advanced; and when I felt the planking of it -beneath my feet, I halted. The whereabouts of the woman I had no -means of determining. "However," thought I, "if her business be -self-destruction, she has not yet transacted it, for I have heard -no splash." - -Ah! Suddenly a flare of heat-lightning on the eastern horizon -illuminated the land and the water. It was very brief, but it lasted -long enough for me to take my bearings, and to discern the object of my -quest. - -She was standing, a mass of shadow, at the very verge of the little -wharf, distant not more than three yards in front of me. A moment later -I had silently gained her side, stretched out my hand, and laid firm -hold upon her by the arm. - -In great and entirely natural terror, she started back: as luck would -have it, not in the direction of the water, for else she had certainly -tumbled in, perhaps dragging me with her. And though she uttered no -articulate sound, she caught her breath in a sharp spasmodic gasp, and I -could feel her tremble violently under my touch. - -I sought to reassure her. - -"Do not be alarmed," I said, speaking as gently as I could; "I mean you -no manner of evil. I saw you come down here from the street above; and -it struck me as hardly a safe place for a person of your sex to visit -alone at such an hour." - -She made no answer. A prolonged shudder swept over her, and she drew a -deep long sigh. - -"You have no reason to fear me," I continued. "I have only come to you -for the purpose of protecting you, of being of service to you, if I can. -Look--ah! no; it's too dark for you to see me. But I am a white-haired -old man, the last person in the world you need be afraid of. You would -not tremble and draw away like that, if you could know how far I am from -wishing you anything but good." - -She spoke. "Then release my arm." - -Her tone was haughty and indignant. She enunciated each syllable -with frigid preciseness. From the correctness of her accent and the -cultivated quality of her voice, I learned that I had to do with a woman -of education and refinement. - -"Then release my arm." - -"No," I said, "I dare not release your arm." - -"Dare not!" echoed she, in the same indignant tone, to which now was -added an inflection of perplexity. Sightless as the darkness rendered -me, I could have wagered that she raised her eyebrows and curled her -lip. - -"I dare not," I repeated. - -"Possibly you will be good enough to explain what it is you fear." - -"Frankly, I fear that you mean to do yourself a mischief. I dare not let -go my hold upon you, lest you might take advantage of your liberty to -throw yourself into the water." - -"Well, and if I should?" - -"That would be a very foolish thing to do." - -"But what concern is it of yours? What right have you to molest me? My -life is my own, is it not, to dispose of as I please?" - -"That is a very difficult and subtle question, involving the first -principles of theology and ethics. I do not think we can profitably -enter into a discussion of it just now, and here. But this much I will -promise you," said I, "I shall not let go my hold upon your arm until I -am persuaded that you have renounced your suicidal purpose." - -She gave a _tchk_ of exasperation. Then, after a momentary silence-- - -"You are insolent and intrusive, sir. You presume upon the fact that I -am a woman and alone, to take a shameful and unmanly advantage of me." - -"I am sorry if such is your opinion of me," I returned. "I do only what -I must." - -"You tell me you are an old man. I am not old, and I am strong. I warn -you now to let me go. I assure you, you are unwise to trifle with me. I -am a very desperate woman, and shall not mind consequences. If you try -me beyond endurance--if we should come to a struggle----" - -"Ah! but we will not," I hastily interposed. "You will not improve your -superior strength against one who is moved by no other feeling than -goodwill toward you. And besides," I added, "though it is true that I am -close upon sixty-six years of age, my muscles have still some iron in -them. I fancy I should be able to hold my own." - -This, I must acknowledge, was sheer braggadocio. I weigh but nine -stone, measure but five feet four in my boots, and am anything rather -than an athlete. - -"You are a meddler, sir. Good or bad, your motives do not interest -me. Let me go. My patience is exhausted. I will brook no further -interference. Release my arm. Your conduct is an outrage." - -She spoke in genuine anger, stamping her foot, and tugging to escape my -grasp. - -"What I do, madam, be it outrageous or otherwise, I am in common -humanity bound to do. I should be virtually your murderer if I did less. -It is my bounden duty to restrain you, to do what I may to help you." - -"Help me, sir? You are in no position to help me. I have not asked your -help. There is no help for me. You are meddlesome and officious. I will -not dispute with you further. _Let me go!_" - -She spoke the last three words with threatening emphasis. I could hear -her teeth come together with a decisive click after them. Again she -tugged to break loose from me. - -"You require of me the impossible," was my reply. "It is impossible for -me to let you go. I implore you to control your anger, and to listen to -me for one moment. You are labouring under great excitement, you are not -accountable, you are not yourself. How can I let you go? I should never -know another instant of peace if I stood by and suffered you to do -yourself the injury that you contemplate. I should be a brute, a craven, -a criminal, if I did that. I should be answerable for your death. As a -human being, I am compelled to restrain you if I can. You must see that -it is impossible for me to let you go." - -"Well, have you finished?" she demanded, as I paused. - -"Not quite," I answered, "for now I must ask you to let me take you to -your home. Tomorrow morning you will feel differently, you will see all -things by a different light. You will thank me then for what you now -call an outrage. Think of your friends, your family. No matter what -anguish you may be suffering, no matter to what desperate straits your -affairs may be arrived, you have no right to attempt your life. Besides, -you say you are young. Therefore you have the future before you; you -have hope. I am older than you, and wiser. Be advised and guided by me. -Come, let me take you to your home." - -"Home!" she repeated bitterly. "Home, friends, family! Ha-ha-ha!" She -laughed; but her laughter was dry and sardonic, horrid to hear. "What -you say would be cruel, sir, if it were not so highly humorous. You -speak and act in ignorance. You are very far from comprehending the -situation. I have no home. I have no family, no friends, and, worst of -all, no money. There is not a roof in this city--no, nor in the whole -world, for that matter--under which I can seek a welcome; not a friend, -acquaintance, relation, not a human being, in short, to miss me, or even -to enquire after me, if I disappear. Except, indeed, enemies; except -those who would wish to find me for my further hurt: of them there are -plenty. Now will you let me go? I am in extreme misery, sir. There is no -help for me, no hope. My life is a wreck, a horror. I can't bear it, -I can't endure it any longer. Let me go. If you understood the -circumstances, you would not detain me. If you knew what I am, what I -have done, and what I should have to look forward to if I lived; if you -knew what it is to reach that pass where life means nothing for you but -fire in the heart: you would not refuse to let me go. You could condemn -me to no agony, sir, worse than to have to live. To live is to remember; -and so long as I remember I shall be in torment. Even to sleep brings me -no relief, for when I sleep I dream. Oh, for mercy's sake, let me go! -Go yourself. Go away, and leave me here. You will not repent it. You may -always recall it as an act of kindness. I believe you mean to be kind. -Be really kind, and do not interfere with me longer." - -She had begun to speak with a recklessness and a savage irony that were -shocking and repulsive; but in the end she spoke with a pathos and a -passion that were irresistible. I was stirred to the bottom of my heart. - -"I wish, dear lady," I said, "I wish you could know how deeply and -sincerely I feel for you, how genuine and earnest my desire is to help -you. Pray, pray give me at least a chance to do so. Look; I live in one -of those houses, above there, on the terrace--where you see the lights. -Come with me to my house. You say you have no roof under which you can -seek a welcome: I will promise you a welcome there. You say you -are friendless: let me be your friend. Come with me to my house. I -believe--nay, I am sure--I shall be able in some way to help you. -Anyhow, give me a chance to try. I am an old man, a physician. Come with -me, and let us talk together. Between us we shall discover some better -solution of your difficulties than the drastic one that you are looking -to. But I will make a bargain with you. Come with me to my house, and -remain there for one hour. If, at the expiration of that hour, I shall -not have persuaded you to think better of your present purpose--if then -you are still of your present mind--I will promise to let you depart -unattended, without further hindrance, to go wherever and to do -whatever you see fit. No harm can come to you from accompanying me to -my house--no harm by any hazard, but possibly much good. Try it. Try me. -Trust me. Come. Within an hour, if you still wish it, you may go your -way alone. I give you my word of honour. Will you come?" - -"You leave me no free choice, sir. It will be my only means of -deliverance from you. I run a great risk, a great peril, greater than -you can think, in doing so. But it is agreed that at the end of one hour -I shall be my own mistress again? After that--hands off?" - -"At the end of one hour you may go or stay, according to your own -pleasure." - -"Very well; I am ready." - - - - -CHAPTER III.--WHENCE SHE CAME. - -|I led her into my back drawing-room--which apartment I use as a library -and study--and turned up the drop-light on my writing-table. - -Then I looked at her, and she looked at me. - -She had said that she was young. I was not surprised to see that she -was beautiful as well. I do not know that I can explain just what had -prepared me for this discovery. Perhaps, in part, her voice, which -was exquisitely sweet and melodious. Perhaps simply the tragical and -romantic circumstances under which I had found her. However that may be, -beautiful she indubitably was. - -She wore no bonnet. Her hair, dark brown, curling, and abundant, was cut -short like a boy's. - -Her skin was fine in texture, and deathly pale. Her eyes, large, dark, -liquid, were emotional and intelligent. Her mouth was generous in size, -sensitive in form, and in colour perfect. But over her whole countenance -was written legibly the signature of hard and fierce despair. - -From throat to foot she was wrapped in a black waterproof cloak. - -"Be seated," I began. "Put yourself at ease in mind and body. And first -of all, let me offer you a glass of wine." - -"You may spare yourself that trouble, sir," she replied. "I have no -appetite for wine." - -"But it will do you good. A single glass?" - -"I will not drink a single drop." - -"Well, then, a composing draught. You are my patient for the time being, -remember. You must let me prescribe for you. You are in a state of -excessive nervous excitement, bordering upon hysteria. Drink this." - -"I assure you, sir, my disorder is not of the body," she said wearily. -"No medicine can relieve it." - -"Nevertheless, I will beg of you to give this a trial. It is but a -thimbleful. It can't hurt you, even if it should fail to benefit you." - -"For aught I know it may contain a drug." - -"It certainly does contain a drug. I should not offer you _aqua pura_." - -"You juggle words, sir. I mean a poison." - -"Come; that is good. Do you think I would have been at such pains to -dissuade you from suicide, immediately thereafter to seek to poison -you?" - -"I don't mean a deadly poison. You could do me no greater kindness than -to offer me a deadly poison. I mean--it may contain some opiate, some -narcotic, to deprive me of power over myself, so that I shall be unable -to leave your house when the time is up." - -"Madam, look at me. Have I the appearance of a man who would attempt to -get the better of you by an underhand trick like that?" - -"No, you do not look deceitful," she answered, after a moment's scrutiny -of my face. - -"Then trust me enough to drink this." - -Without further protest she took the glass I proffered, and emptied it. - -"Now, if you are willing, we may talk," said I. - -"What is there to talk about? I, at any rate, have nothing to say. But -I am at your mercy for the term of one hour. You, of course, may talk as -much as you desire. But at the end of one hour---- Please look at your -watch. What o'clock is it now?" - -"It is twenty minutes after midnight." - -"Thank you. Five minutes have already passed. At a quarter after one I -shall be free to leave." Therewith she let her head fall back upon the -cushion of the easy-chair in which she was seated, and closed her eyes. - -"Yes," said I, "you will then be free to leave, if you still wish it. -But I doubt if you will." - -"Your doubt is groundless, sir. However, if it pleases you to cherish -it, you may do so till the hour is finished." - -"No, I cannot think my doubt is groundless. I told you I believed I -should be able to show you a better way out of your troubles than the -desperate one that you were purposing to take; and now I will make good -my promise." - -"Being more fully acquainted with my own affairs than you are, I assure -you that your promise is one which cannot by any possibility be made -good." - -"Time will prove or disprove the truth of that assertion. To begin with, -may I ask you a question or two?" - -"You may ask me twenty questions. I do not pledge myself to answer -them." - -"Well, will you answer this one? Am I right in having understood you to -say, when we were below there, on the wharf, that you have no friends -or kindred whose feelings you are bound to consider in determining your -conduct, and no worldly ties or associations which you are bound to -respect?" - -"Yes, you are right in that." - -"I am right in having understood you to say that; but is what you said -true?" - -"Which would imply that you suspect me of having lied," she returned, -with an unlovely smile. "Well, I don't blame you. I am a skilful and -habitual liar, and I daresay it shows in my face. But in that case I -broke my rule, and told the truth." - -"My dear madam, I intended no such imputation. But you were agitated and -excited; and sometimes under the stress of our excitement we unwittingly -exaggerate." - -"Well, I did not exaggerate. What I told you was literally true." - -"And the rest that you said? That also you re-affirm? That you are -penniless, homeless, wretchedly unhappy, and weary of life? It seems -brutal for me to state it thus; but I must understand clearly, for a -purpose which you will presently see." - -"You need not apologise, sir. This is no occasion for mincing matters. -Yes, I am penniless, homeless, wretchedly unhappy, and weary of life. -But I am worse than that. I am bad. I am utterly base and degraded. Look -at me," she added, fixing her eyes boldly, even defiantly, upon mine. -"Examine me. I am a rare specimen. Very probably you have never seen my -like before, and never will again. I am an example of--" she paused -and laughed; and there was something in her laughter that made me -shudder--"of total depravity," she concluded. Then suddenly her manner -changed, and she became very grave. "Would you entertain a leper in your -house, sir? Yet I have been told that I am a moral leper. I have been -told that the corruption-spot upon me reaches in to the core. And I -think my informant put it very moderately. If you suspected the crimes -I have been guilty of, the worse crimes that I have meditated, and -only failed to commit because of material obstacles that I could not -overcome, you would not harbour me in your house for a single minute. -You would feel that my presence was a contamination: that I polluted -the chair I sit in, the floor under my feet. The glass I just drank -from--you would shatter it into bits, that no innocent man or woman -might ever put lips to it again. There! can't you see now that I am -beyond help, beyond hope? What have I to live for? I am an incumbrance -upon the face of the earth, and hateful to myself into the bargain. -Why keep me here an hour? Let us rescind our compromise.* Let me go at -once." - - * It is possible that here and elsewhere Dr. Benary, in - reporting conversations from memory, puts into the mouths of - his interlocutors words and phrases from his own vocabulary, - at the same time, without doubt, giving the substance and - the spirit of their remarks correctly. "Let us rescind our - compromise," at any rate, falling from the lips of a woman, - has, to say the least, an unrealistic sound.---Editor. - -She rose, and stood restive, as if expecting a dismissal. - -"No, no; you must stay out your hour, at all events," I insisted. "Sit -down again. I am sure you are not so black as you paint yourself; and in -any case, guilt confessed and repented of is more than half atoned for." - -"That is not so, to begin with," she retorted; "that is the shallowest, -hollowest sort of cant. It may pass with people who know guilt only by -hearsay, but is ridiculous to those who, like myself, have a knowledge -of the subject at first hand. - -"Guilt, crime, is atoned for only when it is undone, and all its -consequences are obliterated. And now, speaking from my first-hand -knowledge of the subject, I will tell you two things--first, all the -confession and repentance in the world cannot undo a crime once done, -nor obliterate its consequences; secondly, nothing can. You are a -physician; I take it, therefore, you are familiar with the first -principles of science: with what they call, I think, the Law of the -Persistence of Force, the Law of the Conservation of Energy. If you -understand that law, you will not dispute this simple application of it: -a crime once done can never be undone; its consequences are ineradicable -and eternal. Well and good. It is a puerility, in the face of the Law of -the Persistence of Force, to talk of atonement. Atonement could come -to pass only by means of a miracle--a suspension of Nature, and the -interposition of a Supernatural Power. And that is where the Christians, -with their dogma of vicarious atonement, are more rational than all -the Rationalists from _a to zed_. So much for atonement. And now, as to -repentance--who said that I repented? Repentance! Remorse! I will -give you another piece of information, also speaking from firsthand -knowledge. Repentance and Remorse are unmeaning sounds. There are no -realities, no _things_, to correspond with them. I do not repent. No -man or woman, from the beginning of time, has ever yet repented, in your -sense of the word. We regret the losses that our crimes entail upon -us: yes. We suffer because our crimes find us out, because retribution -overtakes us: yes. But repent? We do not repent. Most of us pretend to. -But I will be frank; I will not pretend. - -"I suffer because the punishment which, by my crimes, I have brought down -upon myself, is greater than I can bear; I suffer, too, because the last -purpose I had left to live for, which was also a criminal purpose, has -been defeated. But I do not repent. I will not pretend to repent." - -"Be all which as it may, I will repeat what I said before: I do not -believe that you are so black as you paint yourself. You, young, -beautiful, intelligent--no, no. But even if you were ten times blacker, -it would make no difference to me. For, look you, since you have -introduced a question of science, and favoured me with a scientific -generalisation, I will pursue the question a little further, and cap -your generalisation with another: namely, good, bad, or indifferent, -we are not our own creators; we do not make ourselves; we are the -resultants of our Heredity and our Environment; and our actions, -whether criminal or the reverse, are determined not by free-will, but by -necessity. I will not enlarge upon that generalisation; I will leave its -corollaries for your own imagination to perceive. But in view of it, -I will say again: even if you were ten times blacker, it would make no -difference to me. You are no more to blame for the colour of your soul -than for the colour of your hair." - -"You are very magnanimous," she said bitterly, "and your doctrine would -sound well in a criminal court." - -"Think of me as scornfully as you will," I returned, "I am very -sincerely anxious to befriend you." - -"If that is true, you have it in your power to do so with marvellous -ease." - -"How so?" I queried. - -"Absolve me from my agreement to stay here an hour. Sit still there in -your chair, and let me go about my business unmolested and at once." - -"No; to that agreement I must hold you, for your own sake. I have much -to say to you, if you would only let me once get started." - -"Good God, sir!" she cried, springing up in passion. "You drive me to -extremes. Do you know that you are violating the laws of the State -in harbouring me here?--that you are exposing yourself to the risk of -prosecution?" - -"I know that I should be violating the laws of humanity if I suffered -you to lay violent hands upon yourself so long as I have it in my power -to restrain you. As for the laws of the State, do you mean that you can -bring an action against me for damages in interfering with your personal -liberty? I doubt if you will do so. And I am sure no jury, apprised of -the circumstances, would find against me." - -"You are still in ignorance of the situation." said she. "Now open your -eyes." - -With that she threw off the waterproof cloak in which she was enveloped, -and stood before me in the blue and white striped uniform of a Deadlock -Island convict. - - - - -CHAPTER IV.--THE DOCTOR SPEAKS. - - -|I confess my heart leapt into my throat, and I gasped for breath. She, -witnessing my stupefaction, laughed, as if in cynical enjoyment of it. - -After a little: "I think now you will permit me to bid you good -evening," she said with mock ceremoniousness. - -"You--you have escaped from prison!" I faltered out. - -"Yes, from the Penitentiary across the river. You see, though we have -never met until to-night, we have been neighbours, living within sight -each of the other's residence, for some time. Two years already I have -spent, somewhat monotonously, upon Deadlock Island; and, to employ -technical language, I was 'in' for a term of which that was but an -insignificant fraction. I had, however, certain business to transact -here in town--a little matter to arrange with the gentleman who was -the principal witness for the prosecution at my trial--and I seized, -therefore, upon the first opportunity that presented itself to come -hither incognito. But when I arrived I found that Fate, with her usual -perversity, had put it out of my power to transact that business, the -party of the second part having died from natural causes. Thus the -one last only purpose I had left to live for had become impossible of -accomplishment. And now I wish for nothing except death. At last even -you must see the absurdity of my staying longer here in your house. Let -me _go_." - -"You say," I rejoined, having by this time recovered somewhat of my -equanimity; "you say that you wish for nothing except death. Say what -you will, I do not believe that you wish for death at all." - -"To that I can only answer that you deceive yourself." - -"No, it is you who deceive yourself. What you wish for is not death, -but change--a change of condition. No truer words were ever spoken than -those of Tennyson's:--= - -```Whatever crazy sorrow saith, - -```No life that breathes with human breath - -```Has ever truly longed for death.= - -What you crave under the name of death is forgetfulness. You yourself -compressed the whole truth into five words when you said: 'To live is -to remember.' Your inference was that to die is to forget. It is memory -that agonizes you; it is the past which lives in memory that handicaps -you, that hangs like a mill-stone round your neck, and goads you to -despair. If you could forget, if you could erase the entire past from -your consciousness, you would cease to suffer. Is not that true?" - -"True enough, perhaps. But without pertinence. A quibble. Forgetfulness -is what I wish for, yes. But there is no forgetfulness except in -death--no Lethe save the Styx." - -"No forgetfulness _except_ in death? You assume, then, that there -_is_ forgetfulness in death; a bold assumption. Have you no dread of -something after death, the undiscovered country? Do you ignore the -possibility of a future life? Suppose, beyond the grave, you preserve -your identity--that is to say, your memory: in what respect will you -have gained by the change?" - -"I must take my risks. This much I know for certain: there is no -forgetfulness in life. In death there may be. I will take my chances. -Am I not in hell now? Any change must be a change for the better. I will -take the risks." - -"You say there is no forgetfulness in life. But suppose there were? -Suppose it were possible for you to obtain total and permanent -forgetfulness without dying, without taking those risks, without taking -any risks at all? Suppose some one should come to you and say: 'See! -I have it in my power to bestow upon you total and permanent -obliviousness, so that the entire past, with all its events and -circumstances, shall be perfectly effaced from your mind; so that you -shall not even recall your name, nor your language; but, with unimpaired -bodily health and mental capacities, shall begin life afresh, like the -new-born infant, speechless, innocent, regenerated; another person, and -yet the same:--suppose some one should come to you and offer that?" - -"It is an idle supposition! The age of miracles has passed." - -"An idle supposition? You deem it such? Let us see, let us consider. -To begin with, answer me this: Have you never heard or read--in -conversation, newspaper, medical report, or novel--have you never heard -or read, I say, of a case where, through an accident, a human being has -had befall him exactly the experience which I have just described? A -case where a lesion of the cerebral tissues, caused perhaps by disease, -perhaps by a concussion of the brain, or by a fracture of the skull, -has resulted in the total annihilation of memory, without injury to -the other intellectual faculties, so that the patient, upon recovering -health and consciousness, could remember absolutely nothing of the -past--neither his name, nor his nationality, nor the face of his father -or mother, nor even how to speak, walk, eat--but was literally _born -anew_, and had to begin life over again from the start? Surely, -everybody who has ears has heard, everybody who can read has read, of -cases of that nature?" - -"Oh, yes; I have read of such cases, certainly." - -"Very well. You have read of such cases. So!--Now, then, suppose an -accident of that sort should befall _you?_ Everything you can hope for -from death would come to pass, and yet you would live. What better could -you desire? - -"And yet _I_ would live? Hardly. My body would live, true. But _I_, my -personality, my identity, would have vanished. For is not the very pith -and marrow of one's identity, remembrance? Is not memory the birthmark, -so to speak, by which one recognises one's-self? Is it not the cord -upon which one's experiences are strung, which holds them together, and -establishes their unity? My body would live, true enough. But it would -be inhabited and animated by another spirit, another mind." - -"Well, even so? It is the extinction of your identity which you seek to -bring about by means of death. But you have no ground for supposing that -death involves any such extinction. Atheist, agnostic, what you will, -you must always acknowledge and allow for that possibility of a future -life. Whereas, the man or woman to whom the accident happens which -we have assumed, obtains for a surety that which he or she can only -dubiously hope for from death." - -"Ah, but there is a mighty difference. It is not within my power to -cause such an accident. It _is_ within my power to die." - -"Not within your power to cause such an accident? Not within _your_ -power, I grant. But will you say that it is not within human power, not -within any man's power? Imagine whatever human circumstance you like, -which can come to pass by accident. Then, speaking _ priori_, tell me -of any conclusive reason why that circumstance should not be brought to -pass by design? Why man, investigating the causes of it, enlightened -by his science, employing his cunning, should not be able at will to -occasion it? Take this very case in hand--the total obliteration of a -human being memory of the past. A blow upon the head, the result of an -accident, can occasion it. Why not a blow upon the head, the result of -man's deliberate purpose? Insanity, small-pox, consumption, paralysis, -deafness, blindness--each of these it would be entirely possible for man -voluntarily to induce. Why not oblivion?" - -"I have never heard of its being done. I once read a novel in which -something of the kind was related--'Dr. Heidenhoff's Process'--but even -in that novel, the author had not the audacity to pretend that his story -was possible; it turned out to be a dream. But then, after all, that -was quite a different thing. It was the obliteration not of the whole -memory, but simply the memory of one particular fact or group of facts. -The memory in respect of other facts remained intact." - -"Ah, that indeed! That, of course, it may not as yet be within the power -of science to accomplish. That, as yet, I will grant you, is only the -material for a romancer's fancy. I cannot cause you to forget any one -fact or train of facts, while leaving your memory unaffected regarding -other facts. But the obliteration of the whole memory is a very -different matter. It has happened frequently by accident. You have never -heard of its being effected by design, though you will acknowledge the -theoretical possibility of its being so effected. Well and good. Now -the truth is this: not only is it theoretically possible, but it is -practically feasible.. It can be done; and I, even I, can do it. That -same obliviousness which, as the case-books of physicians bear abundant -testimony, Nature often produces through the medium of disease or -violence, I--I who speak to you--I can produce by means of a surgical -operation." - -"It is incredible," said she. - -"Incredible or not, it is a fact," said I. "What a stone striking you -upon the head may accomplish, I can accomplish with my instruments. I -can cause a depression of one of the bones of your skull, at a certain -point upon the tissues of the brain, so that, when you recover from the -influence of the anaesthetic which I administer, you are returned to the -mental and moral condition of infancy. You remember nothing. You know -nothing. Your mind is as a blank sheet of paper. The past is abolished. -The future is before you." - -"If what you say is true, you possess a terrible power. Are surgeons -generally able to do this?" - -"Every intelligent surgeon must recognise the antecedent possibility of -the operation. But when you ask me whether surgeons generally know how -to perform it, I suppose that they do not. It is a discovery which -I have made, by the examination of a large number of skulls, and the -dissection of a large number of brains. I have never communicated it to -anybody else. Others, for all I know, may have made the same discovery -independently." - -"But why have you kept it a secret? It would have made you famous." - -"I have had many reasons for keeping it a secret. You yourself have -named one of them: it is a terrible power. I have not thought it prudent -as yet to put it into the hands of the faculty at large; but it will be -published after, if not before, my death." - -"You say you _can_ do this. _Have_ you ever done it?" - -"Upon a human being--no. Upon animals--upon dogs, monkeys, and -horses--yes; often, and with unvarying success." - -"Animals, indeed!" She smiled. "But never upon a human being. It is a -descent from the sublime to the grotesque. You are anxious to obtain a -subject?" - -"I will not deny that I should be glad to obtain a subject, if it -pleases you to put it in that downright way. I have never performed the -operation upon a human being; but I can predict with absolute assurance -just what its consequences upon a human being would be." - -"Let me hear your prediction." - -"Well, to begin with, let me tell you the circumstances of an actual -case, which came under my observation, where the thing happened -accidentally. The patient was a Frenchman, thirty-two years old, in -robust health. I think, from the point of view of morals, he was the -most depraved wretch it was ever my bad fortune to encounter. He was a -brute, a sot, a liar, a thief--a bad lot all round. I chanced to know -a good deal about him, because he was the husband of a servant in my -family. The affair occurred more than thirty years ago. I say he was a -depraved wretch. What does that mean? It means that, like every mother's -son of us, he came into this world a bundle of potentialities, of -latent spiritual potentialities, inherited from his million or more of -ancestors, some of these potentialities being for good, others of them -for evil; and it means that his environment had been such, and had so -acted upon him, as to develop those that were for evil, and to leave -dormant those that were for good. That wants to be borne in mind. Very -well. He was the husband of a servant in my family, a most respectable -and virtuous woman, also French, who would have nothing to do with him; -but whom it was his pleasantest amusement to torment by hanging around -our house, seeking to waylay her when she went abroad, striving to gain -admittance when she was within doors. Late one evening we above stairs -were surprised by the noise of a disturbance in the kitchen: a man's -voice, a woman's voice, loud in altercation. I hurried down to learn the -occasion of it. Halfway there, my ears were startled by the sudden short -sound of a pistol-shot, followed by dead silence. I entered the kitchen, -but arrived a moment too late. Our woman servant stood in the centre -of the floor, holding a smoking revolver in her hand. Her husband -lay prostrate, unconscious, perhaps dead, at her feet. I demanded an -explanation. It appeared that he had stolen into the kitchen, where his -wife sat alone, and, coming upon her suddenly, had attempted to abduct -and carry her off by main force. The foolish woman confessed that some -days before she had bought herself a pistol, with a view to just such -an emergency as this; and now she had used it. Well, I examined the man, -and I found, to my great relief, that he was not dead, and that, she -being but an indifferent marks-woman, the ball had not even entered his -body. It had struck him on the head at an oblique angle, and had glanced -off. However, it had injured him quite seriously enough, having, indeed, -fractured his skull at a certain point. We carried him upstairs, and -put him to bed. For upwards of sixty hours--nearly three days--he lay -in total unconsciousness. For six weeks he lay in a stupor just a hair's -breadth removed from total unconsciousness; but by-and-by his wound -had healed, and he was convalescent. Now, however, what was his mental -condition? Precisely that of a new-born baby! His memory had been -utterly destroyed. He had forgotten the simplest primary functions of -life: how to speak, how to eat, how to walk, how to use his fingers. He -could not remember his name; he could not recognise his wife. He had all -the lessons of experience to learn anew. But you must recollect that, -being an adult, his brain, as an organ, was full-grown, was mature. -Therefore, he acquired knowledge with astonishing rapidity--learning -almost as much in a fortnight as a child learns in a year. At the end -of one month after we began his education, he could walk, feed himself, -dress himself, and was beginning to talk. At the end of six months he -spoke as fluently as I do--English, mind you, not French, which had been -his mother-tongue. At the end of a year he read without difficulty, and -wrote a good hand. What was most remarkable, however, though entirely -natural, his moral nature had undergone a complete transformation. In -a new environment, treated with kindness, surrounded by wholesome -influences, 'trained up in the way he should go,' and absolutely -oblivious of every fact, event, circumstance, and association of his -past, he became a new, another, an entirely different man. Now, of the -million spiritual potentialities, predispositions, that heredity had -implanted in him, those that made for good were vivified, those that -made for bad left dormant. He was as decent and as honest a fellow as -one could wish to meet, and he had plenty of intelligence and common -sense. I kept him in my service, as a sort of general factotum, for -more than twenty years; then he died. Before his death he made a will, -bequeathing to me the only thing of especial value that he had to leave -behind him. Here it is." - -I unlocked a cabinet, and produced from it a skull. - -"Let me see it," she said eagerly. - -She took it in her hands, without the faintest show of repugnance, and -studied it intently. - -"It is like a fairy-tale. It is marvellous," she said at last. - -"Science abounds in marvels no less stupendous," said I. "It was my -observation of that man's case, and of the beneficent results of it, -that suggested to me the possibility of bringing such things to pass of -a set, purpose." - -"For years I have made the brain and the skull a study, with that -possibility in view. I am able to say now that I can perform the -operation with perfect certainty of success." - -"But," she went on, after a pause, "it is scarcely inspiring to think -that the character, the morality, of a human being, can be influenced, -can be radically altered, by a mere physical condition like that--to -think that the character of the soul can be changed by a change in the -structure of the body. It is enough to establish materialism pure -and simple; the only logical consequences of which are cynicism and -pessimism." - -"It is certainly one of the many psychological facts which go to prove -that while it is the tenant of the body the soul must adapt itself to -its habitation." - -"It would seem to prove that the soul is not simply the tenant of the -body, but its slave, its victim, its creature. As the materialists -express it, that mind, thought, emotion, are but functions of the -brain." - -"It would perhaps lend colour to that hypothesis; but it does not prove -it. Nothing can be proved relative to the human soul. Like all elemental -things, it is in its very essence an insoluble mystery. All elemental -things? Nay, it is _the_ elemental thing, the ultimate thing, the only -thing we know at first hand. All other things we know only as they are -mirrored in it; we know them only by the impressions they produce upon -our souls. Ten thousand hypotheses concerning it--concerning its origin, -its nature, its meaning, its destiny--are equally plausible, equally -inadequate. It cannot by seeking be found out." - -She was silent now for a long while. At last, "Will you describe your -operation to me?" she inquired. - -"You would need a medical education to follow such a description." - -"Is it anything like what they call trepanning, or trephining?" - -"But very remotely. A partial fracture, and a depression, of the bone -are caused; but no particle of it is removed." - -"What is the worst that could happen, in case of the operation -miscarrying? What would be the chances of the subject's losing not only -his memory, but his reason--becoming an imbecile or a maniac?" - -"There is no chance of that. The worst that could happen would be death. -It is as safe an operation as any in which the knife is employed. But, -of course, in all operations which involve the use of the knife there is -some danger. There is always the possibility of inflammation. But -that possibility is by no means a probability. The chances are largely -against it." - -"So that you are sure one of two things would happen either the -operation would prove a success, or the patient would die?" - -"Exactly so." - -"How much time would have to elapse after the operation, before the -patient would be able to take care of himself again--before he would -have regained sufficient knowledge to act as a responsible and competent -human being?" - -"I should say a year. Perhaps more, perhaps less. But I will say a -year." - -"And during that year? Suppose, for example, that I should offer myself -to you as a subject--how should I be provided for during the period of -my incompetence? And what education should I receive?" - -"You would be provided for by me. You would be lodged and taken care of -here in this house. My sister, ten years younger than I, the kindest -and the gentlest of women, would be your nurse, your companion, and your -teacher. We would give you the same education that we would give a child -of our own." - -"I beg your pardon, but you have not told me your name." - -"My name is Benary--Leonard Benary." - -"Well, Dr. Benary, I am willing to submit to your operation. I make -no professions of gratitude, for--though, whether it kills me or -regenerates me, I shall be equally your debtor--I take it you are not -sorry to find a subject to experiment upon; and therefore it will be a -fair exchange, and no robbery. Will you proceed with the operation here, -now, to-night?" - -"Oh, dear me, no. You must have some sleep first. I will call my sister. -She will show you to a room. Then, perhaps, to-morrow, after a good -night's rest, you will be in a favourable condition." - -"But your sister--what will she say to this?" She pointed to her -prison-garb. - -"If you will wait here while I go to summon her, I can promise you a -kindly welcome from her. I shall explain all the circumstances to her; -and she will not mind your costume." - -And I went upstairs to rouse my sister, Miss Josephine Benary. - - - - -CHAPTER V.--THE DOCTOR ACTS. - -|Next morning, at about eleven o'clock, my good sister Josephine came to -me in my study, and said, "She is awake now and wishes to see you." - -"I am at her service," I replied. "Will she join me here?" - -"She is eager to have you operate. She asked me where you would do so. I -told her I supposed there, in her bed. Then she said she would not waste -time by getting up, and wished me to tell you that she is waiting to -have it done. I suspect that she is partly influenced by a reluctance to -put on her prison uniform again. I should have offered her the use of my -wardrobe, but she is so much taller and larger than I, that that would -be absurd." - -"Yes, to be sure, so it would. Very well. I will go to her directly. If -she is in a favourable condition of mind and body, it will, perhaps, be -as well not to delay. But first tell me--you have held some conversation -with her?" - -"Yes, a little." - -"And what impression do you form of her character?" - -"She is very pretty. She is even beautiful." - -I laughed. "What has that to do with her character?99 - -"I infer her character as much from her appearance as from her -behaviour, as much from her physiognomy as from her speech." - -"Oh, I see. And your inference is?" - -"I cannot be quite sure. There is a certain hardness in her face, a -certain cynical listlessness in her manner, which may indicate a vice of -character, but which may, on the other hand, result simply from hardship -and suffering. She is undoubtedly clever. She has received a good -education; she expresses herself well; she has a marvellously musical -voice. Yet, on the whole, I cannot say that I find her likeable or -agreeable. She seems to proceed upon the assumption that nobody is moved -by any but selfish motives; that everybody has an axe to grind; and that -she must be constantly on her guard lest we take some advantage of her. -She is horribly suspicious." - -"Well, go on." - -"Well, I do not know that I can say anything more. I cannot quite fathom -her--quite make her out. It is a question in my mind whether she is -naturally a young woman of good instincts, whose passions have betrayed -her into the commission of some crime, or whether she is inherently and -intrinsically corrupt." - -"Towards which alternative do you incline?" - -"I do not like to express a final opinion; but I am afraid, from what -little I have seen of her, I am afraid that I incline towards the -latter." - -"That she is intrinsically bad. Well, it will be interesting, after our -operation, to see whether, in a new environment, under new conditions, -the good that is latent in her--as good is latent in every human -soul--will be developed. And now will you come with me to her room?" - -"Will she not prefer to see you alone?" - -"Why should she? Come, let us go." - -We found her sitting up in bed, waiting for us. By daylight she seemed -to me even more beautiful than she had seemed by gaslight. Her features -were strongly yet finely modelled; her skin was exquisitely delicate, -both in texture and in colour; and her eyes were wonderfully liquid and -translucent. But an expression of deep melancholy brooded over her whole -countenance; while underlying that again, was certainly visible the -cynical hardness that Josephine had complained of. - -Having wished her good-morning, I proceeded at once to my business as a -physician; ascertained her pulse and her temperature, and inquired how -she had slept. - -"I have not had such a night's sleep for I know not how long," she -answered. "Heaven knows I had enough to think about to keep me awake, -yet I must have lain in total unconsciousness for fully nine hours. What -was most grateful, I did not dream. All which leads me to suspect that, -despite your protestations to the contrary, the medicine you made me -drink last evening contained an opiate." - -"The medicine I prevailed upon you to drink last evening," I explained, -"was the mildest composing-draught known to the Pharmacopoeia--a most -harmless mixture of orange-flower water, bromide, and sugar. If it had -the effect of a sleeping-potion, I am very glad to learn it, for it -indicates the degree of your nervous susceptibility--a point upon which -it is highly desirable that I should be informed. And are you still -of the same mind in which I left you? You have not reconsidered your -determination?" - -"No. I am still ready to be killed or regenerated--I am really quite -indifferent which. When I awoke this morning, I could not help fancying -that the conversation which I seemed to recall had never really taken -place--that I had dreamed it. But this lady, your sister, assures me -that my doubt is groundless. Now I can only request you to begin and get -over with it as soon as possible." - -"My beginning must be in the nature of an interrogatory. I must ask you -for certain information." - -"Very well. Ask." - -"My questions shall be few: only those formal ones which, as a -physician, I should put to any patient whom I was about to treat. -First, then, what is your name?" - -"My name is Louise Massarte, spelt M-a-s-s-a-r-t-e." - -I opened my case-book, prepared my fountain-pen for action, and wrote -"Louise Massarte." - -"It is a foreign name, is it not?" I inquired "Were you born in this -country?" - -"Like the other hopeful subject of whom you told me last night, I was -born in France--at the city of Tours." - -"Native of France," I wrote. Then aloud s "Of French parents?" - -"Yes, I am French by descent and by place of birth. But I have lived in -America all my life. I was brought here when I was two years old." - -"But you speak French, I take it?" - -"I speak French and English with equal ease." - -"Any other language?" - -"No other." - -"How old are you, if you will forgive my asking?" - -"I shall be six-and-twenty on the eighth of August." - -"Are your parents living?" - -"Both my father and mother are long since dead." - -"Have you any brothers or sisters?" - -"I was an only child." - -"Are you married or single?" - -"I have never been married." - -"And now, finally, is there any fact or circumstance which you would -like to mention and have recorded? For, you must bear in mind, you will -shortly have forgotten everything connected with your past; and if there -is anything you will wish to remember, you had better tell it to me now, -and I will make a memorandum of it." - -"There is nothing that I shall wish to remember," she replied. "Nothing -but what I shall be glad to forget. However, I fancy what you say is but -a hint to the effect that you are curious to know my history. I have no -objection in telling it to you. It is not an edifying history. Most -women, I daresay, would be ashamed to tell it; but I have got beyond -even pretending to feel ashamed of anything; and if you desire to hear -it, you have only to say so." - -"On the contrary," I rejoined, "you must not think of telling it. -It would excite you and fatigue you; whereas it is of the highest -importance for the success of our operation that you should be at -rest in mind as well as in body. Besides, and irrespective of that -consideration, it is better that neither my sister, nor I, nor indeed -any living person, should hear it. You yourself will in a little while -have forgotten it. What right has anybody else to remember it?" - -"Oh, well, you will doubtless find the gist of it in the morning paper. -It will in all likelihood be printed with an account of my escape from -the Penitentiary," she returned. - -At which insinuation my sister Josephine cried out, "You little know -my brother. There is indeed something about your escape in the morning -paper; but the instant he discovered the headlines of the article, he -said, 'This is something, Josephine, that neither you nor I must read.' -And he threw the paper into the fireplace, and applied a match to it." - -The woman made no answer. - -I left the room and descended to my study, where I procured my -instruments and the requisite ansthetic. - - - - -CHAPTER VI.--MIRIAM BENARY. - -|I watched her carefully as she recovered from the effects of the ether. -An uncommonly small quantity of that drug had sufficed to deprive her of -her senses; and now her recovery was unusually speedy. - -Having taken her respiration, her temperature, and her pulse, and -having found each to be nearly normal, I looked her straight in the -eyes, and demanded, making every syllable clear and emphatic, -"Louise Massarte, do you know me?" - -Had I addressed my inquiry to a month-old infant, the result would have -been the same. - -I repeated the question in French: "Louise Massarte, _me reconnaissez -vous?_"--with precisely the same negative result. - -I then wrote the question both in French and English upon a slip of -paper, and held it before her eyes. - -No sign of intelligence. - -In the end I applied tests to each of her five senses, and satisfied -myself that each was unimpaired. - -After which, "Well, Josephine," I said, "unless all signs fail, we have -succeeded to admiration. None of her senses have sustained the slightest -injury, yet she has lost the knowledge of language, both spoken and -written. Louise Massarte is dead, annihilated, abolished from the face -of creation. This is a new-born infant, this apparently full-grown woman -lying here. Her soul is still to develop and unfold itself. It will be -for us to shape it, to colour it, to direct it towards good or evil. -Heredity has furnished the capacities, the propensities, which her -environment will quicken, stimulate, cause to grow and to ripen. And it -is for us to provide and to regulate that environment. May Heaven guide -our labours." - -"Amen, heartily. It is an awful responsibility. And yet-------" - -"And yet?" - -"And yet I cannot help hoping for the best. Look at her, brother. See -how beautiful she is. Surely, such a beautiful face must be meant to -go with a beautiful spirit. Already the expression of bitterness, of -hardness, of suspicion, seems to have faded from it. It is as if it had -been washed in some element infinitely cleansing. I never saw a more -innocent face than hers has become already. Yes, I am sure we may hope -for the best." - -"Well, for the present, we need concern ourselves only for the welfare -of her body. We must darken the room. Inflammation is the only ill -consequence we have to fear; and that can be averted, if we keep her in -darkness and in silence until the wound has healed." - -The wound healed quickly. Not an unpleasant symptom of any kind -manifested itself. And, as I had foreseen she would do, our patient -relearned the primary lessons of life with an ease and a rapidity that -seemed almost incredible. I had anticipated this because she was an -adult; because, that is to say, her brain, as an organ, was of mature -development. - -She began to speak as soon as ever we allowed ourselves to speak in -her presence, at first simply imitating the sounds we made, but very -speedily coming to employ words with understanding. A single lesson -taught her how to walk. After my sister had dressed her twice, she was -perfectly well able to dress herself--no trivial achievement when the -intricacy of the feminine toilet is borne in mind. At the end of an -incredibly short period of time she could read and write as easily as I -can. Of the former capability she made good use, devouring eagerly all -such books as we thought wise to give her. Her progress, in a word, -precisely corresponded to that made by a bright child, only it was -infinitely more rapid; and what a fascinating thing it was to observe, I -need not stop to tell. It was like watching the growth and blossoming -of some most wonderful and beautiful flower. We were permitted, so -to speak, to be eye-witnesses of a miracle. If you had met her at the -expiration of one year, and had conversed with her, you would have put -her down for a singularly intelligent and well-informed, yet at the same -time singularly innocent and unsophisticated, girl of eighteen. Yes, -I mean it--a girl of eighteen. For the most astonishing result of my -operation--most astonishing because least expected--was this: that in -body as well as in mind she seemed to have been rejuvenated. With the -obliteration of her memory, every trace of experience faded from her -face. You would have laid a wager that it was the face of a young -maiden not yet out of her teens. She had said that she was all but -six-and-twenty. It was unbelievable when you looked at her now. To the -desperate-eyed woman whom I had dissuaded from self-destruction on that -clouded Bummer's night a year gone by, she bore only such a resemblance -as a younger sister might have borne. To Josephine I remarked, "Is it -possible that we have builded better than we knew? That we have stumbled -upon the discovery which the alchemists sought in vain--the Elixir of -Youth?" - -"Indeed," Josephine assented, "she has grown many years younger. She has -the appearance and the manner of seventeen." - -"It only proves," said I, "the truth of the oft-repeated commonplace: -that it is experience and not time which ages one; time being simply the -receptacle and measure of experience. Could we double the rate of our -experience--experiencing as much in one year as we are now able to -experience in two--we should grow old just twice as quickly, reaching -at thirty-five the limit which we now reach at threescore-and-ten. -Contrariwise, could we halve the rate of our experience--requiring two -years to experience what we can now experience in one--we should grow -old just twice as slowly, being mere boys at forty, and at seventy in -the very prime of early manhood. Our consciousness of time, in other -words, is simply the consciousness of so much experience. Well and good. -Now, in this case, her experience has been undone. That is to say, her -memory, the storehouse of her experience, has been destroyed. Past time, -so far as it affects her mind, has been neutralised, has been cancelled -out of her equation. Hence this return to adolescence. Her bodily -structure--the size and shape of her bones, and all that--of course -remains as it was. But her spirit returns to the condition of youth; -and, since it is the spirit which animates the body, it gives to her -body the expression and the activity of its own age." - -Then I offered to perform my operation upon Josephine herself, to the -end that she also might enjoy a restored youth: which offer Josephine -haughtily declined. - -"It is very fortunate," she added, "that this alteration in her -appearance has taken place, for now it will be impossible for anybody -who may have known her in former days to identify her: a danger which -otherwise we should have had to fear." - -"Yes," I acquiesced, "that is very true." - -The disposition which our visitor developed, furthermore, better -than answered to our most sanguine anticipations. Her new environment -vivified the best of those propensities which heredity had implanted in -her, and left dormant those that were for evil. Her quality was so -sweet and winning, that in a little while she had taken our old hearts -captive, and become the delight and the treasure of our home. We loved -her like a daughter; and the notion that we might some time have to -part with her was intolerable. Therefore, we put our heads together, and -entered into a pious conspiracy, agreeing to represent to her that she -was our niece, the child of our brother, an orphan, eighteen years old, -by name Miriam, who, on the 14th day of June, 1884, had sustained an -accident which had destroyed her recollection of the past. As our niece, -recently arrived from England, we introduced her to our friends. She -reciprocated our affection in the tenderest manner, called us aunt and -uncle, and was in every respect a blessing to our lives--so beautiful, -so gentle, so merry, so devoted. - -This mysterious and impressive circumstance I must not for one moment -allow to be lost sight of:--That, of all living human beings, she who -least suspected that such a woman as Louise Massarte had ever lived, -sinned, suffered, was Miriam Benary. She upon whom Louise Massarte's -life, sins, and sufferings had least effect or influence, was Miriam -Benary. Her identity was in every respect as separate, and as distinct -from that of Louise Massarte, as mine is from my reader's. Louise -Massarte was dead, dead utterly. Into her tenement of clay a new soul -had entered It was a fearful and wonderful metamorphosis, rich in -suggestiveness; a _datum_, it seems to me, bearing importantly upon -three sciences: Psychology, Divinity, and Ethics. - -***** - -Thus nearly four years elapsed, and it was Monday, the 12th day of -March, 1888, the day of the memorable snowstorm, called the Blizzard. - - - - -CHAPTER VII.--WITHIN AN ACE. - -|On that day certain imperative business demanded my presence in the -lawyer's quarter of the town. I had been summoned, in short, to appear -as a witness in a litigation that was pending in the Court of Common -Pleas--a summons which I felt myself the more disposed to obey inasmuch -as a penalty of two hundred and fifty dollars attached to contempt of -it. Therefore, despite the unprecedented brutality of the weather, -and against the earnest remonstrances of Josephine and Miriam, I was -foolhardy enough to venture out. - -The clock on our drawing-room mantel marked a few minutes before ten -when I left the house, my immediate destination being the Jefferson -Street Station of the Overhead Railway--distant not more than a quarter -of a mile from my own door, and in ordinary circumstances an easy five -minutes' walk. - -However, it must be remembered, I was at that time within a few months -of completing my seventieth year; and such a storm was raging, and such -a gale blowing, as might have strained the mettle of a youngster one -third my age: a veritable tempest, indeed, the like of which Adironda -had never in the memory of man experienced before. The mercury stood -below zero Fahrenheit; the wind was travelling at the pace of sixty -miles an hour; and the snow was falling in such unheard of quantities as -to obscure the air like fog. I don't mind owning, therefore, that I was -pretty badly exhausted when I arrived at my journey's end, and that I -had consumed a good half-hour in the process of getting there. - -My path, as it were, had led through one continuous and unbroken drift, -knee-deep at its shallowest, waist-high at its average, and frequently -engulphing me up to my chin. Through this I had dug and ploughed my way, -with the wind cold and furious in my teeth, and under a running fire of -snow-flakes, frozen so hard, and driven with such force, that they stung -my face like bird-shot, and nearly put out my eyes. I can assure the -reader that it was no child's play. My nose and ears, from burning as if -in a bath of scalding water, had become numb and rigid, like features of -wood. The moisture from my breath had congealed in my beard, until -that appendage felt like an iron mask. My legs were stiff and heavy. -My shoulders ached. My respiration had become painful and laborious; my -heart-action so faint as to induce sickness similar to that which one -suffers at sea. - -And finally, to cap the climax, when I reached the station, I found a -chain stretched across the entrance to the booking-office, and a placard -announcing that no trains were running! So that I had earned my labour -for my pains; and there was nothing for me to do but to turn my face -back toward home, and retrace my steps. - -Exhausted as I was, then, I set forth at once upon that undertaking. -Of course, it was excessively imprudent for me to do so, without first -seeking shelter in some public house, and resting there until I had got -warmed through, and in a measure recovered my strength. But I suppose -I did not realise at the moment how far gone I was; and the prospect of -regaining the comfort of my own fireside was a deliciously tempting one. -So off I started, down Jefferson Street, towards Myrtle Avenue. - -Very soon, however, I had reason to repent my rashness. A hundred yards -or thereabouts from the corner, a mountainous drift of snow stretched -diagonally across the road. I was half blinded; my wits were half -frozen; I underestimated both its depth and its width, and plunged -boldly into it. - -Next instant I found myself buried up to my neck. - -I struggled to push on. My legs were as immovable as if bound with -ropes. - -Then I strove to dig myself free with my hands. My arms, too, I learned, -were pinioned as in a strait-waistcoat. - -Here was a pleasant predicament, and one that constantly increased in -interest; for, to say nothing of the deadly and aggressive cold, the -snow was pouring down upon me by the bucket-full; and I appreciated very -vividly the fact that unless I speedily effected an escape, I should be -covered over my head. - -My only hope, it was obvious, lay in calling for assistance. Whether -other human beings were within hearing distance or not, I had no means -of discovering; for, so opaque was the atmosphere rendered by the -multitude of snow-flakes that filled it, I could see nothing beyond a -radius of two or three yards; and even the houses that lined the street -were indistinguishable, except when, by fits and starts, for a second at -a time, the wind rent asunder the veil that hid them. Nevertheless, -my only hope lay in trying the experiment of a cry for help; and that -accordingly I did, with the utmost energy I could command: - -"Help! help!" - -But at the sound of my voice, my heart sank. It was the still, small -ghost of itself, to such a degree had the exposure and the hardship of -the last half-hour depleted my physical resources; and besides, dampened -by the blanket of snow in which I was enveloped, and lost in the roar -of the hurricane, the likelihood that it would carry beyond a rod in any -direction seemed infinitesimally slight. - -"Well, I am lost," thought I. "Here, not five hundred yards from my own -doorstep, lost as hopelessly as if wrecked in mid-ocean. Ah, well! they -say death by freezing is comparatively painless. Anyhow, it will soon be -over. Yet----" - -Suddenly, with the desperate unreasonableness of a man in -extremities--like him who, drowning, clutches at a chip--I repeated my -feeble signal of distress: "Help! help!" - -I waited half a minute, and then repeated it for a third time: "Help!" - -Conceive my emotions, to hear instantly, and from immediately behind me, -the response, in the lustiest of baritones: "Hello, there!" - -"Heaven be praised!" I gasped. Then: "Can you help me out of this -drift?" - -"That remains to be tried," came the reply. "I shouldn't wonder, -though." - -And therewith I felt myself seized by two strong arms, lifted bodily -from off my feet, and a moment later set down upon a spot of the -pavement which the wind had swept clean, where I had a chance to see and -to thank mv rescuer. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII.--A CHANCE ACQUAINTANCE. - -|He was a tall and athletic-looking man, perhaps thirty years old, with -a ruddy, good-humoured face, an honest pair of blue eyes, and a curling -yellow beard. He wore a sealskin cap which came down over his ears, -sealskin gloves which reached up above his coat-sleeves nearly to his -elbows, a pea-jacket, and rubber top-boots. His beard, his eyebrows, -and so much of his hair as was exposed, were dense with frozen snow, and -from his moustache depended a series of icicles, like tusks, where his -breath had condensed and congealed. - -"I believe I have to thank you for saving my life," I began, in such -voice as I could muster, and I noticed that my utterance was thick, like -that of a drunken man. "A very little more and I had been done for." - -"Yes, you were in rather a nasty box," he admitted. "But all's well -that ends well; and you're safe enough now. When I heard you calling, I -thought it was a child, your voice was so thin and faint." - -"It's highly fortunate for me that you heard me at all. I had given -myself up for lost. What a storm this is!" - -"Yes; glorious, isn't it? It's the grandest spectacle I've ever seen. I -tell you, sir, it's well for us that Nature should occasionally show -us her sharp claw; otherwise we'd get to considering her a quite tame -domestic pet, which she's not by any means. She's man's hereditary foe; -there stands a perpetual feud between her and us, a _vendetta_ handed -down from father to son, from generation to generation. It's only by the -exercise of an eternal vigilance and industry that we manage to subsist -in spite of her. She's constantly striving, one way or another, to -exterminate us: freeze us out, roast us out, starve us out--I know not -what all. Here we are, huddled together upon this bleak, mysterious -planet, parasites upon its surface, like mould on cheese, sheltering -ourselves in fortresses of straw--wondering whence we came, why we're -here, whither we're bound, and what the fun of the whole thing is--while -she whirls us through her dark immensities, and seeks hourly to shake -us off; which is rather unmannerly of her, seeing it was she herself who -brought us here. Life which she gives us with one hand, she withholds -with the other. She begrudges what she lavishes. Oh, it is strange, it -is magnificent; it's some grand paradoxical farce, which we haven't -wit enough to see the point of. Still, there's an exhilaration in the -conflict, unequal though it is. She's sure to win in the end; she plays -with us like a cat with a mouse, amused at our desperate antics, but -confident of her power to administer a quietus when they begin to pall; -yet there's a pleasure, somehow, in the struggle. They say, you know, -the fox enjoys being hunted. To-day she's in a particularly frolicsome -mood, and puts vim into her buffets. For my part, I'm grateful to her. -She'll laugh best, because she'll laugh last; but she can't prevent my -relishing my laugh meanwhile. I have not lived in vain, who have lived -to experience this storm. Isn't it stimulating? I vow, it makes a man -feel like a boy." - -I had stood shivering, teeth chattering, while he delivered himself of -this extraordinary harangue. Now, "That would depend somewhat upon the -age and the physique of the man," I stammered. - -"Why, yes, true enough. Your observation is altogether apposite and -just. But for me, I declare, it is like wine. Which way do you go?" - -"I go east and south--to my home, which is in Riverview Road, if you -know where that is. But to tell you the truth, I doubt my ability to go -at all. _I'm_ pretty badly used up. I think I shall ask to be taken in -at one of these neighbouring houses." - -"As you like it. But I know where River-view Road is; in fact I'm bound -in that direction myself, being curious to see how the storm affects -the Yellow Snake. It must be a sight for the gods--the writhing and -the lashing of the reptile river under such a wind. If you please -we'll march together. I suspect, with my assistance, you'll be able to -arrive." - -"You've already saved my life, and now you offer to see me safely home. -I shall owe you a heavy debt. But I could never consent to take you out -of your way." - -"As I've already had the honour to intimate, that's precisely what you -won't do. I was bound for the riverside--upon my word. Come on." - -And the next thing I knew, my robust interlocutor had again lifted me -from my feet, and was trudging off towards Myrtle Avenue, bearing -me like a child in his arms--which, of course, was altogether too -ignominious a position for me to occupy without protest. - -"Oh, this is needless. I beg of you to put me down. Really, I can't -submit to this. Let me walk at your side, and lean upon your arm, and I -shall do very well." - -"My dear sir," he rejoined, "permit me to observe--and I beseech you -not to resent the observation as personal--that if ever a mortal man was -completely tuckered out, you are. You've lost your wind, and your legs -are as shaky as if you had the palsy. Pardon my austere frankness--the -circumstances compel it. You couldn't get as far as the corner yonder -to save your neck. You are, to employ the politest of modern -languages, _hors de combat_. You are _ansgespielt_, you are _non compos -corporis_--that is to say, in pure Americanese, you are _busted_. Now, -so far as I am concerned, on the contrary, I don't mind carrying you any -more than I would a baby. At the outside you don't weigh ten stone; and -what's the like of that to a fellow of my horse-power? Lie still, and I -sha'n't know you're there. Lie still and rest, recover your breath, and -be yourself again." - -"But the thing is too ridiculous. I can't in dignity consent to it, I -entreat you to put me down." - -I attempted to release myself, but his arms were like bands of iron. - -"There, there--resign yourself! I prithee, wriggle not," he said. "I -shall put you down presently--when the time is ripe. And as for your -dignity, remember the device of Csar: _Ese quant videri_. This, sir, -is an occasion for choosing between appearances and a very grim reality. -I can understand that, other things equal, you wouldn't care to have -the world see us in our present situation; but console yourself with the -reflection that the storm answers every purpose of a dose of fern-seed, -and renders us beautifully invisible. Anyhow, I take it, your dignity -isn't as precious to you as your health; and I will go bail for this, -that if you tried to foot it another hundred yards, you'd pay for your -temerity with a fit of sickness. Consider, furthermore, that I am old -enough to be your son. Let me play a son's part for the nonce, and carry -you home." - -"Well, I have no right to quarrel with you," I answered; "but you place -me under an obligation which I shall never be able to discharge. It will -bear as heavily upon my conscience as I now weigh upon your muscles." - -"Then it will cause you mighty slight annoyance. To tell you the -truth, it's a jolly good lark for me. It's an added excitement, a most -interesting adventure; and it will provide a capital chapter for the -winter's tale that I shall have to tell. But a truce to talk. Let's -waste no further breath in that way. You lie still there and meditate. -I'll devote my energies to the business of getting on." - -So for a good while we forbore speech. At length, "Now, then," he -announced, "here's Riverview Road. Our toilsome journey's o'er; and, -all our perils past, in harbour safe at last we rest. What would you -more?--What's your number?" - -"Sixty-three, the fourth house from the corner." - -"Well, here you are on your own doorstep.--There!" - -He set me upon my feet. - -"And now, sir," he concluded, "trusting that you may suffer no ill -effects from your experience, I will wish you farewell. Farewell, a long -farewell. This is a life made up of partings. Again, farewell." - -"Farewell by no manner of means," I hastily retorted. "You must come in. -You must do me the honour of entering my house, and allowing me to offer -you some refreshment. And besides, if, as you said, you are anxious to -watch the play of the storm upon the river, you could possess no better -coigne of vantage than one of my back windows." - -"Such an inducement, sir, is superfluous. Your invitation in itself -would be quite irresistible. For, aside from the pleasure I derive -from your society, and the instruction from your conversation, I will -confidentially admit to you that I shall be glad to thaw out my nose." - -I opened the door with my latch-key, and preceded him into my study. - - - - -CHAPTER IX.--JOSEPHINE WRITES. - -|A beautiful fire was blazing in the grate. The transition from the -cold and uproar of the street, to the snug quiet and warmth of this cosy -book-lined room, was an agreeable one, I can tell you. I was pretty -well rested by this time; and, except for the tingling of my nose, ears, -toes, and fingers, felt very little the worse for my encounter with the -elements. - -"Now," said I to my guest, "the tables are turned. But a moment since, I -was your prisoner; now you are mine. Draw up to the fire. Throw off your -over jacket and your rubber-boots. I hope you are not wet through; for, -we are built respectively upon such different patterns, it would be -ironical for me to offer you dry garments from my wardrobe." - -"You need give yourself no uneasiness upon that score, sir. Im as dry as -a Greek lexicon." - -"In that case, let me at once offer you a drop of something wet," I -said, producing a decanter and a couple of glasses. - -"Yes," he assented, "a toothful of this will do neither of us harm." - -We clinked our glasses, and drank. - -"Ah," he cried, smacking his lips, "sweet ardent spirit of the rye, may -the shade of Christopher Columbus be fed upon you thrice every day, to -reward him for the discovery of this continent. I've tasted Irish and -I've tasted Scotch, Dutch barley-brandy and Slavonic vodka; but of all -distillations to make glad the inmost heart of man, give me Kentucky -rye! Another glass? Thank you, kind sir, not e'en another drop. 'Twere -desecration worthy only of a widower to take a second after so rare a -first. And now, by-the-bye, since I find myself the beneficiary of -your hospitality, it behoves me to introduce myself. My name is Henry -Fairchild, and by trade I am a sculptor." - -"My name is Leonard Benary, physician and surgeon. And I trust, Mr. -Fairchild, that you have no urgent affairs to call you from my house, -for I should never feel easy in my mind if I permitted you to leave it -before this storm has abated; and that doesn't look like an imminent -event. My affairs are not urgent. In fact, as I believe I have already -remarked, when we ran across each other I was abroad for my diversion, -pure and simple. But that is no reason why I should abuse your kindness. -If I may thaw here before your fire for a half-hour, I shall be in -perfect condition to make my way home." - -"That would depend upon the distance of your home from mine." - -"My home is in my studio. And my studio is in St. Matthew's Park." - -"So far! Very well, then. I shall certainly not hear of your leaving -me so long as the storm continues. It would be as much as your life is -worth to attempt such a journey in such circumstances. It's a matter of -three, four, well-nigh five miles. And since all public conveyances are -at a standstill, you'd have to trust yourself for the whole distance -to Shanks's mare. I shall count upon your spending the night here, at -least. There's no prospect of the weather moderating before to-morrow. -And now, if you will excuse me, I will leave you here for a few moments, -while I go to change my clothes." - -"That's the wisest thing you could possibly do," he returned. "I shall -amuse myself excellently looking out of the window; but as for your kind -invitation to remain over night----" - -"As for that, since you acknowledge that you have no pressing business -to call you elsewhere, I will listen to no refusal." - -I went upstairs, my first care being to make known my return to -Josephine and Miriam, who, of course, were thereby greatly surprised -and relieved. They professed they had suffered the acutest anxiety ever -since I had left the house; and as they listened to the account I gave -them of my misadventures, they paled and shuddered for very terror. - -"Mr. Fairchild, the young man who came to my rescue, is even now below -stairs in the library," I concluded. - -"Oh, is he? Then," cried Miriam, addressing Josephine, "let us go to him -at once, and tell him how we thank him. To think that, except for him, -my uncle might----" She completed her sentence by putting her arms -around my neck, and giving me three of the sweetest kisses that were -ever given in this world: one on either cheek and one full on the lips. -"Now, sir," she went on, shaking the prettiest of fingers at me, "I hope -that you have learned a lesson, and will never do anything again that we -two wise women warn you not to." - -"I promise to be a good, obedient, little old man in the future," I -replied; and was rewarded for my docility with a fourth kiss--this time -imprinted among the wrinkles on my forehead. - -The two wise women went off downstairs. - -I joined them as soon as I had got into dry clothing; and we sat down to -luncheon--the young sculptor enlivening and entertaining us with a -flow of droll, high-spirited talk. He and Miriam got on famously -together--chatting, laughing, exchanging bits of repartee, with the -vivacity that was becoming to their age. Josephine and I hearkened and -enjoyed. At least, I enjoyed; and I had no reason to suppose that my -sister did not. Luncheon concluded, we adjourned to the drawing-room. -There, observing the piano, Fairchild demanded of Miriam whether she -played. She answered, "Yes." (We had procured for her the best musical -instruction to be had in Adironda; and she had mastered the instrument -with a facility which proved that Louise Massarte must have been a -talented pianist.) Miriam answered, "Yes," and then Fairchild said-- - -"Will you not be persuaded to play for us now?" - -She played one of Liszt's Hungarian Rhapsodies, and then something of -Chopin's, and then something of Schumann's; after which, leaving the -piano, she said to Fairchild-- - -"Now you must sing for us." - -"Why, how do you know I can sing?" cried he. - -"It is evident from the _timbre_ of your voice," she answered. - -"You must not be too sure of that," he protested. "The speaking voice -and the singing voice are two very different things." - -"Nevertheless, please sing for us," she repeated. - -"Very good," said he, taking possession of the key-board, "I will sing -for you; but at your peril. The beauty of the song, however, may perhaps -be allowed to atone for the deficiencies of my execution. It is by the -English composer, Marzials, a man of the rarest genius, too little known -out of his own country. He wrote both words and music, and the song is -entitled 'Never Laugh at Love.'" - -Therewith, to his own accompaniment, he sang in his sweet baritone -one of the pleasantest and wittiest songs of its kind that I have ever -heard.= - -``Oh, never laugh at Love, Miss, fancy free, - -``Lest the wanton boy should laugh at thee! - -``Should he but aim in play his tiny dart-- - -``Ping! 't will break your heart! - -``I knew a queen with golden hair, - -``Few so proud, and none so fair; - -``Her maids and she, one twilight gray, - -``Went wand'ring down the garden way. - -``A pretty page was standing there; - -``Their eyes just met. Oh, long despair! - -``For both have died of love, they say. - -``So never laugh at Love, Miss, fancy free, - -``Lest the wanton boy should laugh at thee!= - -I cannot forbear quoting that one verse, to give a notion of the quaint -medival charm of the words. * I wish I could transcribe the melody as -well, which was delicious with the same quaint flavour. - - * The Editor of this work must disclaim all responsibility - Dr. Benary's opinions upon matters literary and aesthetic. - -Fairchild having finished his song, he and Miriam plunged into an -animated conversation about music in the abstract, which I, for -one--being, though an ardent lover of music, no musician--found of -dubious interest. - -"Wherefore, I think," I interrupted them to say, "if you will forgive -the breach of ceremony, Mr. Fairchild, I shall retire to my bedroom for -a bit, and take a nap. I feel somewhat fatigued after the exertions of -the forenoon; and, anyhow, I am accustomed to my forty winks at this -hour of the day. I am sure I leave you in good hands when I leave you to -my sister and my niece." - -"Indeed, Dr. Benary, the kindest thing you can do for me--you and your -good ladies--will be to let me feel that in no wise do I interfere with -your convenience or your pleasure. Otherwise, I shall be compelled to -take my departure _instanter_; and I confess that by this time I am so -deeply penetrated by the comfort of your interior that I should hate -mortally to renew close quarters with the storm." - -So I withdrew to my bed-chamber, and was sound asleep in no time. Nor -did I wake till the mellow booming of the Japanese gong, which serves as -dinner-bell in our establishment, broke in upon my slumbers. - -As I rose to my feet, something dropped from the counterpane to the -floor. - -Stooping to pick it up, I discovered that it was a sheet of paper, -folded in the form of a cocked hat, and bearing my name written across -it in Josephine's hand. - -"What earthly occasion can Josephine have for writing me a note?" I -wondered. - -Donning my spectacles, I read as follows: - -"What ever shall we do? I cannot come and say this to you in person, for -I dare not leave them alone together. But he has recognised Miriam!--J." - -It took fully a minute for the significance of that sentence: "He has -recognised Miriam," to percolate my understanding, still thick with the -dregs of sleep. Then I started as if I had been stung; and rushing into -the passage, I called "Josephine! Josephine!" at the top of my lungs. - - - - -CHAPTER X.--JOSEPHINE EXPLAINS. - - -|The passage was quite dark. From the end of it, directly behind me, -came the response, "Yes, Leonard." - -"Ah, you are there?" I questioned. - -"I have been waiting for you to wake. I did not wish to disturb your -sleep," she explained. - -"And they--where are they now?" - -"Mr. Fairchild is in the guest-chamber, where he is to sleep. Miriam is -in her room. I could not come to you so long as they were together. It -would not do to leave them alone. That is why I wrote the note." - -By this time we were between my own four walls, and I had closed the -door behind us. - -"And now, for Heaven's sake, explain to me what this means," I said, -holding up the sheet of paper. - -"It means what it says. He has recognised Miriam." - -"Oh, it is impossible," I declared. - -"I only wish you were right," sighed Josephine dolefully. - -"But how--but why--but what--what makes you think so?" stammered I. - -"His action when he first saw her--when she and t entered the room where -he was, to greet him, this forenoon." - -"Oh, it is impossible--impossible!" I repeated, helplessly. "What was -his action? What did he do?" - -"He caught his breath, he started, he coloured up, and then turned -white, and then red again." - -"Merciful Heavens!" I gasped, panic-stricken. - -"What shall we do? What can we do?" my poor sister groaned. - -"Did--did Miriam notice his embarrassment?" - -"I think not. She did not appear to, anyhow." - -There befell a pause, during which I tried to collect my wits, and to -reflect upon the situation. - -"Well," persisted Josephine, after the silence had continued for a -minute or two, "what shall we do?" - -"It is impossible, it is absolutely impossible," I said. "Her own mother -would be unable to recognise her. She is altered beyond recognition. -Why, that dead woman would by this time be nearly thirty years of age; -whereas Miriam doesn't look two-and-twenty. Besides, the whole character -and expression of her face are changed. There remain the same bony -structure and the same general complexion: that is all that remains the -same. Confess that the thing is impossible." - -"When he saw her, he started and coloured up." - -"Well, even so. What of it. He started and coloured up. What does that -prove? Perhaps it was because of her resemblance to the dead woman, whom -we will suppose him to have known. But as for identifying them as one -and the same, he'd never dream of it. A merry, innocent young girl, of -one or two-and-twenty, and a sad-eyed, sorrow-stricken, sinful woman, -eight years her senior! The thing is on the face of it absurd. Absurd, -too, is the supposition that he ever knew Louise Massarte at all. He -started and coloured up at sight of Miriam, for the very simple reason -of her exceeding beauty. He is a young man, and he is an artist. What -quick-blooded young man, what artist, would not colour up at the sight -of so beautiful a girl? Or else, it is imaginable, he has seen Miriam -herself somewhere before--in the street, in an omnibus, or where -not--and has been impressed by her loveliness; and then he started for -surprise and pleasure at finding himself under the same roof with -her. You, my good Josephine, you have jumped to a most unwarranted -conclusion. Your fear was the father of your thought.--Afterwards, for -instance? Did he follow up his start with such conduct as was calculated -to justify you in your suspicion?" - -"No. He simply returned our salutations, and behaved toward her as he -did toward me--as if she were a perfectly new acquaintance." - -"Good! And then, consider the freedom and the nonchalance with which he -talked to her at luncheon. No, no; it is impossible. Well, I will keep -an eye upon him during dinner. And when you and Miriam leave us to our -cigars, I'll seek to find out what the true explanation of the matter -may be." - -And my sister and I descended to the drawing-room. - - - - -CHAPTER XI.--REASSURANCE. - -|Throughout the meal that followed, I carefully observed Fairchild's -bearing toward my niece; and great was my satisfaction to see in it -only and exactly what under the circumstances could rightly have -been expected. Frank, gay, interested, attentive, yet undeviatingly -courteous, respectful, and even deferential, it was precisely the -bearing due from a young gentleman of good breeding toward the lady at -whose side he found himself, and whose acquaintance he had but lately -made. - -"So that," I concluded, "of all conceivable theories adequate to account -for his behaviour at first setting eyes upon her, Josephine's is the -farthest-fetched and the least tenable." - -For the matter of that, as I had assured my sister, I was confident that -her own mother, had she been alive, must have failed to identify her, -so essentially was she altered both in expression of countenance and -in apparent age, to say nothing of her totally transformed personality. -That Fair-child did not do so I was certain. His manner exhibited -neither surprise, mystification, curiosity, nor constraint. It would -have required a far cunninger hypocrite than I took him to be, so -effectually to have disguised such emotions, had he really felt them; -and he could not have helped feeling them if, having known the -dead woman, Louise Massarte, he had recognised her in the young and -unsophisticated maiden, Miriam Benary. The right theory by which to -explain his conduct at first meeting her, I purposed discovering, if I -could, when he and I were alone. - -He and Miriam had a deal of fun together making the salad, in which -enterprise they collaborated--not, however, without much laughing -difference as to the best method of procedure. He pretended that, -instead of rubbing the bowl with garlic, one should introduce a -_chapon_--or crust of bread discreetly tinctured with that herb--and -"fatigue" it with the lettuce: whereas our niece vigorously maintained -the contrary. And finally they drew lots to determine which policy -should prevail, Miriam winning. - -"I am defeated but not disheartened," Fair-child declared. "If there is -anything upon which I pride myself, Miss Benary, it is my erudition in -the science, and my dexterity in the art, of gastronomy. You have taken -it out of my power to display my skill in salad-making; but now, if you -are a generous victor, you will give me an opportunity to distinguish -myself in the confection of an omelet. It is an omelet of my own -invention, a sort of cross between the ordinary _omelette-au-vin_ of -the French and the Italian _zabaiano_, I shall require the use of that -chafing dish and spirit-lamp which I see yonder on the sideboard, the -sherry decanter, and half a dozen eggs. I can promise your palates -a delectable experience; and you, Miss Denary, by watching me, will -acquire an invaluable talent." - -So, with much merriment, he proceeded with the manufacture of his -omelet, Miriam observing and assisting. When it was complete, we -unanimously voted it the most delicious thing in the way of an omelet -that we had ever tasted. But Miriam sighed, and said, "It is all very -simple except the most important point. The way is toss it up into the -air, and make it turn over, and then catch it again as it descends--I am -sure I shall never be able to do that." - -"Never? That is a long word. You must practise it with beans," said -Fairchild. "A pint of beans--dry beans--the kind Bostonians use for -baking. Three hours daily practice for six months, and you will do it -almost as easily as I do." - -After the fruit the ladies left us; and having filled our glasses and -lighted our cigars, we sipped and smoked for a few minutes without -speaking. Fairchild was the first to break the silence. - -"I can do nothing," he began, "but congratulate myself upon the happy -chance--if chance it was, and not a kind Providence--that brought about -our encounter this morning. For once in my life I was in luck." - -"It seems to me," I replied, "that it is I who was in luck, and who have -the best occasion for self-gratulation." - -"That would depend upon the dubious question of the value of life," said -he. "Has it ever struck you that this earth of ours is, after all, only -a huge grave-yard, a colossal burying-ground; and that we living persons -are simply waiting about--standing in a long _queue_, so to speak--till -our turn comes to be interred? That seems to me a very pleasing fancy, -and one which, considered as an hypothesis, clarifies many obscure -things. Accepting it, we cease to wonder at the phenomenon of death, -and regard it as the chief end, aim, object, and purpose of all human -life--the consummation devoutly to be wished, which we are all attending -with greater or less impatience. Anyhow, I am sceptical whether we -confer a boon or inflict a bane upon the human being whom we bring into -existence, or whose exit therefrom we prevent. It is indeed probable -that, except for our casual meeting this morning, you would at the -present hour have been numbered among the honoured dead. But, very -likely--either enjoying the excitements of the happy hunting-ground or -sleeping the deep sleep of annihilation--very likely, I say, you would -have been better off than you are actually, or can ever hope to be in -the flesh. About my good fortune, contrariwise, debate is inadmissible. -Here I am in veritable clover-smoking a capital cigar after a capital -dinner, in capital company, to the accompaniment of a capital glass of -wine, and the richer by the acquisition of three new friends--for as -friends, I trust, I may be allowed to reckon you and your ladies. Had -we not happened to run across each other in the way we did, on the other -hand, I should now have been seated alone by my bachelor's hearth, with -no companions more congenial to me than my plaster casts, and no voice -more jovial to cheer my solitude than the howling of the gale." - -"It is very flattering of you to put the matter as you do," said I; -"but being modish in no respect, I am least of all so in my metaphysics. -Therefore I cannot share your pessimistic doubt of the value of life; -and I assure you I should have hated bitterly to leave mine behind me -in that ungodly snowbank. It is true, I am perilously close to the -Scriptural limitation of man's age; and I ought perhaps to feel that -I have had my fit and proper share of this world's vanities, and to be -prepared for my inevitable journey to the next. But, I must confess, I -am so little of a philosopher, I should dearly like to tarry here a -few years longer; and hence, I maintain, my obligation to you is -indisputably established." - -"Well, then, so far as I can see, we may say measure for measure; and -consider ourselves quit." - -"Hardly. The balance is still tremendously in your favour." - -After that we again smoked for a while without speaking. Then again -Fairchild broke the silence. - -"I wonder whether you would take it amiss, Dr. Benary, if I should -mention something which has been the object of my delighted admiration -almost from the moment I entered your house?" - -"Ah! What is that?" I queried. - -"I fear you will condemn me as overbold if I answer you candidly; but I -shall do so, and accept the consequences. The circumstance that I am an -artist may be pleaded in my behalf, if I seem to transcend the bounds of -the conventional." - -"You pique my curiosity. What is it that you allude to? I do not think -you need be apprehensive of my wrath. My extended 'Life of Sir Joshua'? -That is the fruit of ten years' hard labour. Or my Japanese woman by -Theodore Wores? It's a wonderful piece of flesh-painting. It looks as -though it would bleed if you pricked it" * - -"Yes, it is in Worcs's best vein. But that is not what I have in mind. -Neither is the 'Life of Sir Joshua.' which, by-the-bye, I have not -seen." - - * The Editor of this work must disclaim all responsibility - Dr. Benarys opinions upon matters literary and aesthetic. - -"Not seen it? Oh, well, I must show it to you directly we go upstairs. -It's my particular pet and pride. But what, then? I do not know what -else I have worthy of such admiration as you profess." - -"You have--if you will tolerate my saying so--you have a niece; and I -allude to her extraordinary beauty." - -My pulse quickened. Here had he, of his own accord, broached that very -topic upon which I was anxious to sound him. - -"Ah, yes; Miriam," I assented, a trifle nervously, and wondering what -would come next. "Miriam. Yes, Miriam is a very pretty girl." - -"Pretty!" echoed he. "Pretty? Why, sir, she's---- why, in all my life -I've not seen so beautiful a woman. And it isn't simply that she is so -beautiful; it's her type. Her type--I believe I am conservative when I -call it the least frequent, the rarest, in the whole range of womanhood. -Forgive my fervour: I speak in my professional capacity--as an artist, -as one to whom the beautiful is the subject-matter of his daily studies. -It is a type of which you occasionally see a perfect specimen in antique -marble, but in flesh and blood not oftener than once in a lifetime. -To say nothing of her colouring, which a painter would go mad over, -consider the sheer planes and lines of her countenance! That magnificent -sweep of profile--brow, nose, lips, chin, and throat, described by one -splendid flowing line! It's unutterable. It's Juno-esque. It's worth -ten years of commonplaceness to have lived to see it in a veritable -breathing woman.'' - -"Yes," I admitted, "it's a fine profile--a noble face." - -"Her type is so rare," he went on, "that, as I have said, Nature -succeeds in producing a perfect specimen of it scarcely oftener than -once in a generation. Of faulty specimens--comparable, from a sculptor's -point of view, to flawed castings--she turns out many every year. You -have been in Provence? In the Noonday of France? Arles, Tours, Avignon, -teem with such failures--women who approach, approach, approach, but -always fall short of, the perfection that your niece embodies." - -"Yes, I know the Mridionales, and I see the resemblance that you refer -to. But, as you intimate, they are coarse and crude copies of Miriam. -That expression of high spirituality, which is the dominant note in her -face, is usually quite absent from theirs." - -"They compare to her as the pressed terracotta effigies of the Venus -of Milo, which may be bought for a song in the streets, compare to the -chiselled marble in the Louvre. In all my life I have never known but -one woman who could properly be mentioned in the same breath with her. -And even she was a good distance behind. Of her I happened to see just -enough to perceive the divine potentiality of the type. Ever since, -I have been watching for a faultless specimen. And to-day, when Miss -Benary came into the room where you had left me, I declare for a moment -my breath was taken away. I could scarcely believe my eyes. Such beauty -seemed beyond reality; it was like a dream come true. In my admiration -I forgot my manners: it was some seconds before I remembered to make my -bow. The point of all which is that when our friendship is older, you, -Dr. Benary, must permit _me_ to model her portrait." - -Thus was my mind set at ease. - -Presently we rejoined the ladies, and while Fairchild and Miriam chatted -together in the bow window, I drew Josephine aside, and communicated to -her the upshot of our post-prandial conversation. She breathed a mighty -sigh, and professed herself to be enormously relieved. - - - - -CHAPTER XII.--THE DOCTOR'S DILEMMA. - -|Fairchild became a frequent visitor at our house, and an ever-welcome -one. His good looks, his good sense, his droll humour, his honesty, his -high spirits, made him an extremely pleasant companion. We all liked him -cordially; we were always glad to see him. I told him that if pot-luck -had no terrors for him, he must feel at liberty to drop in and dine with -us whenever his inclination prompted and his leisure would permit. He -took me at my word, as I meant he should; and from that time forth he -broke bread with us never seldomer than one evening out of the seven. - -At the end of a month, or perhaps six weeks, Josephine said to me, "Do -you think it well, Leonard, that two young people of opposite sexes -should be thrown together as frequently and as closely as Mr. Fairchild -and Miriam are?" - -"Why not?" questioned I. - -"The reasons are obvious. How would you be pleased if they should fall -in love?" - -"The Lord forbid! But I see no danger of their doing so." - -"There is always danger when a beautiful young girl and a spirited young -man see too much of each other." - -"But Fairchild pays no more attention to Miriam than he does to you -or to me. They are never left alone together. They are simply good -friends." - -"As yet, perhaps, yes. But time can change friendship into love. -He begins, you must remember, with the liveliest and most profound -admiration for her; she, with the deepest sense of gratitude towards -him. True, as you say, they are never left alone together--not exactly -alone, that is. But are they not virtually alone when you and I are -seated here in the library over our backgammon-board, and he and she are -therein the drawing-room at the piano?" - -"But, my dear sister, the two rooms are as one. The folding doors are -never closed." - -"True again: we are all within sight and hearing of one another. But -as a matter of fact, you and I give no heed to them, nor do they to us. -There are certain laws of nature which should not be ignored." - -"Well, what do you want me to do?" I enquired rather testily. "Shall -I forbid Fairchild the house? Forbid my house to the man who saved my -life?" - -"Oh, no, of course not. You know I could not wish such a thing as that. -Mr. Fairchild's claims upon our gratitude must never be forgotten. -And besides, I like him, and I enjoy his visits as heartily as you do. -Only----" - -"Only what? If I don't forbid him the house, how can I prevent him and -Miriam meeting? Shall I direct her to keep her room whenever he comes?" - -"I do think, brother, it would be well if she were not always present -when he comes. If you wish to hear my honest opinion, I believe it is -to see her that he comes so often, and not to see a couple of sober, -elderly folk like you and me. I cannot think that you and I are so -irresistibly attractive as to draw him to our house as frequently as -once or twice a week. However, I only wished to call your attention to -the matter. It is for you now to act as your best judgment dictates." - -"Well, then, my good Josephine, I shall not act at all. There is no -occasion for my acting. I should be most unjust and unreasonable to -prevent these two young people getting what innocent pleasure they can -from each other's friendship and society, simply because in the abstract -it is true that they are not incapable of falling in love. I might, as -reasonably enjoin Miriam against ever going out of doors, because it is -possible that in the street she might be run over; against ever drinking -a glass of water, because it is possible that the water might contain a -disease-germ. You have conjured up a chimera. Your fears are those of -a too imaginative woman. When I perceive the first symptom of anything -sentimental existing between them, it will be time enough to act." - -"Perhaps then, Leonard, it will be too late," retorted Josephine, and -with that she dropped the subject. - -***** - -Well, of course, as the reader has foreseen, that very complication -which my sister feared and warned me of, and which I refused to -consider--of course that very complication came to pass. Fairchild fell -in love with Miriam, and Miriam reciprocated his unfortunate passion. -Otherwise his name would never have been introduced into this narrative; -or, rather, there would have been no such narrative for me to recite. - -In June, 1888, Josephine, Miriam, and I went down to the little village -of Ogunquit, on the coast of Wade, there to rusticate until the autumn. -Toward the end of July, Fairchild joined us there, pursuant to an -arrangement made before we left town; and it was on the evening of the -15th of August that he requested a few minutes' private talk with me, -and then informed me of the condition of affairs. - -"I love your niece with all my heart and soul, Dr. Benary. Indeed, I -have loved her from the day I first became acquainted with her--the day -of that blessed Blizzard. I should like to know, who could help loving -her: she is so good and so intelligent, to say nothing of her beauty. -To-day I emptied my heart out to her, and she has made me the happiest -man in Christendom by signifying her willingness to become my wife. So, -now, it only remains for you to give us your approval and benediction. I -have an income sufficient to keep the wolf from the door, over and above -my earnings; and for the rest, you know me well enough to judge of my -eligibility for yourself." - -What answer could I give him? - -Putting aside altogether, as I was bound to do, the selfish -consideration that her marriage would deprive us of the treasure and the -blessing of our old age, and leave our home desolate and forsaken--could -I in honour, could I in justice to the man, permit him to make Miriam -Benary his wife, without first imparting to him so much as I myself knew -concerning Louise Massarte? - -But the latter was a thing which, I was persuaded, I had no manner of -right to do. The secret of her connection with Louise Massarte, Miriam -herself was ignorant of. Surely, no other human being had the shadow -of a claim to learn it Miriam Benary had never even heard of Louise -Massarte. Louise Massarte was dead and abolished utterly. Therefore, to -saddle Miriam, in her youth and her innocence, with that dead woman's -name and history, to put upon her the burden of the dead woman's sin -and shame, it would be to do her not only a most grievous, but a most -unwarrantable, wrong. - -No, I could not, I would not, I must not, tell Fairchild the story of -Louise Massarte's annihilation, and the consequent existence of Miriam -Benary. Yet how could I say, "Yes, you may marry her," and keep that -story to myself? What excuse could I invent wherewith to ease my -conscience, if I should practise such deceit upon him in an issue -that involved his dearest and most vital interests? _Suppressio veri, -suggestio falsi_. I should be as bad as any liar if I gave my consent -to their marriage, while allowing him to remain in error respecting -the truth about his bride--truth which, if made known to him, might -radically modify his intentions. - -But furthermore, and on the other hand, suppose I should say in reply -to his demand, "No, you cannot marry her"--what right had I to say -that? What reason could I allege in justification of my refusal? Not the -actual reason; for that would be to tell him the very story which, I -had made up my mind, I must not and should not tell. And if I alleged a -fictitious reason, I should simply escape the devil to plunge into the -deep sea--I should simply exchange a lie for a falsehood. These young -people loved each other. Therefore, to set up impediments to their -union, would be to impose upon each of them endless unmerited pain. What -right had I to do that? It was a vexed and difficult quandary. There -were strong arguments for and strong arguments against either course out -of it. - -"Well, Dr. Benary, you do not answer me," Fairchild said. - -"I can't answer you. You must give me time--time to consider, to consult -my sister, to make up my mind." - -We had been strolling together, he and I, up and down the sands. Now -we returned to the inn. Josephine was seated on the verandah, near the -entrance. - -"Ah, Leonard, at last!" she exclaimed, starting up the moment she caught -sight of me. "I have been waiting for you." - -I accompanied her to her room. - -"Well," she began, as soon as the door was closed behind us, "the worst -has happened, as I suppose you know. Mr. Fairchild has spoken to you, -has he not?" - -"Ah! Then you, too, know about it?" queried I. - -"Miriam has just told me the whole story." - -"What does she say?" - -"That Mr. Fairchild has asked her to be his wife; that she loves him, -and has accepted him--conditionally, that is, upon your approval." - -"She says she loves him?" - -"She says she loves him with all her heart. She says she is as happy -as the day is long. She doesn't dream that you will have any hesitation -about consenting." - -For a little while we were silent. At last, "Well, what are you going to -do?" my sister asked. - -"That is what I wish to advise with you about." - -"Have you given any answer to Mr. Fair-child?" - -"I have said to him that I must take time for reflection, and for -consultation with you." - -"Well?" - -"Well, it is a most difficult dilemma." - -"But you have got to make up your mind, one way or the other; and that -speedily. It is cruel to keep them in suspense." - -"I know that, my dear sister." - -"Do you mean to say yes or no?" - -"That's just it. That's just the difficulty, isn't it?" - -"But it is a difficulty which must be solved. You will have to say one -of the two." - -"How dare I say yes?" - -"They love each other." - -"What right have I to say no?" - -"It is their life-happiness which is at stake." - -"Exactly, exactly; therefore, if I say no, it will be to condemn -them both to great misery, and misery which they have done nothing to -deserve." - -"It certainly will--it will break Miriam's heart. And what reason -can you give them for saying no? It will seem all the harder to them, -because it will seem so unreasonable and unnecessary, so unjustifiable -and wanton. They will feel that it is an act of wilful cruelty, on the -part of a selfish, tyrannical old man." - -"I know it, I know it," I groaned. "And yet, on the other hand, if I say -yes----" - -"If you say yes, you will assure to them the greatest happiness their -hearts can desire." - -"But how dare I say yes without sharing with Fairchild the secret of -Miriam's origin? Without telling him the story of Louise Massarte?" - -"Surely, you cannot purpose doing that! You cannot mean to confide to -another knowledge affecting her which she herself is unaware of!" - -"No, of course not. But there's just the rub. How, without doing that, -how can I honourably permit him to make her his wife?" - -"It is a choice of evils: to break their hearts or to suppress certain -facts. You must choose the lesser evil of the two." - -"That is very easily said. But the trouble is to determine which of the -two evils _is_ the lesser. Deceit or cruelty?" - -"Forgive me, my dear brother, for reminding you of it: but if you had -listened to my warning in the first place, this painful alternative -would never have come about." - -"What could I do? You yourself agreed with me that I couldn't forbid -Fairchild the house. And so long as he had the run of the house, how -could I prevent him and Miriam meeting? And meeting as frequently as -they did, I suppose it was inevitable that they should come to love each -other. There's no use reproaching me--no use regretting the past. What -was bound to happen has happened. That's the whole truth of it." - -"I did not intend to reproach you, Leonard. I merely wished to say that, -since, in a manner, you have been responsible for the state of things -which has come to pass--since, in other words, you neglected to take -such measures as would have prevented that state of things from coming -to pass--it seems as if now you were under a sort of moral obligation -not to stand between them and their happiness. The time for action -was the outset. You did not act then. It seems as if you had thereby -forfeited your right to act. Since you have allowed things to go so far, -it seems as if you had no right to forbid their going farther." - -"That is to say, you counsel me to consent." - -"_I_ do not see how you can do otherwise now. It is too late for you to -step in and separate them." - -"And the point of honour? I am to suppress the truth? I am to stand -still and suffer Fair-child to make Miriam his wife, in ignorance of -certain facts which, if he were aware of them, might totally change his -feeling? How can I do that? It would lie for ever on my conscience." - -"So far from totally changing his feeling I do not believe those facts, -if Fairchild knew them, would weigh with him so much as one hair's -weight. They would not, if his love for Miriam is love in any vital -sense of the word. He would agree with us in looking upon her as an -entirely different person from Louise Massarte. However, he must not -know, he must not even dream those facts. Therefore, as I said before, -it is a choice of evils. The negative evil of suppressing the truth -does not seem to me so great as the positive evil of inflicting pain. -Besides, after all, is it not Miriam's prerogative to decide this matter -for herself? What right have you or I to do anything but stand aside, -with hands off, and let her choose her husband without constraint or -interference? She is of full age and sound mind; and our relationship -with her, which would give us our pretence for interfering, is, as you -know, only a fiction She could not wish for a better husband than Mr. -Fairchild. No woman could." - -"What you say, my dear Josephine, and what you suggest, are Jesuitry, -pure and simple." - -"There come emergencies in which Jesuitry is the only feasible policy." - -A long silence followed. In the end, "Where is Miriam now?" I asked. - -"She was in her room when I left her." - -"Will you find her, and send her to me? Or rather, bring her. You must -be present, too, to lend me countenance--to give me moral support in -the grossly immoral action which I am going to perpetrate. I feel like a -pickpocket. I need the encouragement of my accomplice." - -Josephine went off. In three minutes she returned, leading Miriam by the -hand. - -Miriam's cheeks and throat turned crimson as she saw me; and she dropped -her eyes, and stood still, waiting. - -"My dear----" I called, holding out my hands. - -She came to me, and put her arms around my neck, and buried her face -upon my shoulder. - -"So this young rascal of a sculptor has asked you to be his wife?" I -began. - -"Yes," she murmured, scarcely louder than a whisper. - -"And so--the double-faced rogue!--it was not, as we had supposed, -because of his great fondness for your aunt and uncle, that he became -a frequenter of our camp, but because he had covetous designs upon our -chief treasure!" - -"Oh! but he is very fond of my aunt and uncle, too," she protested. - -"Is he, indeed! Well, what answer have you given him?" - -"I said--I said I--I said I liked him." - -"Ah! I see. You said you liked him. That was rather irrelevant, wasn't -it?--a little evasive? He asked you to become his wife, and you said you -liked him. Did you give him no more categorical an answer than that?" - -"I said he must ask you." - -"Ask me? Ask me what? It isn't I that he wants to marry. And I wouldn't -have him, anyhow. Why should he ask me?" - -"You know what I mean. I told him I could not marry without your -consent." - -"And suppose I should withhold my consent?" - -"I should be very unhappy." - -"But I don't really see what my consent matters. It's for you to decide. -You're of full age. I have no right to forbid you. Now, then, what are -you going to do?" - -"I said I would be his wife, unless you wished otherwise." - -"Well, I suppose you must keep your word. The poor fellow is waiting on -the anxious seat to learn his fate. I really think, instead of tarrying -here, you ought to seek him out, and put an end to his suspense." - -She hugged me and kissed me, and said some very jubilant and some very -complimentary things; and then she began to cry, and then she laughed -through her tears; and at last she went off to find her lover, and to -convey to him the joyful tidings. - -* * * * * - -They were married on the 15th day of December, and that same afternoon -they set sail for Havre aboard the steamship _La Touraine_, to pass six -months abroad. Anxiously did Josephine and I count the days that must -elapse before the post would bring us their first letter; and little did -we dream what ominous news that letter would contain. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII.--NATURE BEGINS REPRISALS. - -|OF course, we watched the newspapers for an announcement of the -_Touraine's_ arrival. A fast steamer, ordinarily accomplishing the -passage within seven days, she ought to have reached Havre on the 22nd. -She was not reported, however, until Monday, the 24th, being then two -days overdue. - -It was on Friday, the 4th of January, that we at last got a letter. The -envelope was superscribed not in Miriam's band, but in Fairchild's; and -when we tore it open we saw that the letter itself had been written by -the groom, and not by the bride. This struck us as rather odd, and made -us a little uneasy. We hastened to read: - -"Htel de la Grande Bretagne, - -"Havre, December 25. - -"Dear Dr. Benary, - -"Christmas day, and such news as I have to give you! I should put off -writing until we reach Paris, in the hope that when we are there the -face of things may have altered for the better; only I know, if you -don't receive a letter sooner than you would in that case, you will be -alarmed. - -"What I have to tell you is so horrible in itself, it must shock you -dreadfully whatever way I put it. I can't hope to make it any less -painful for you by mincing it, or beating about the bush. Yet it seems -brutal to state the hideous fact downright. Miriam has become blind, -totally blind. - -"Whether incurably so or not, we do not yet know. Of course we hope for -the best, but we can be sure of nothing till we reach Paris, where we -shall consult the best oculists to be found. Meantime, you may imagine -our state of mind. - -"We had a most frightful passage, and that was the cause of it. We ran -into a storm directly we left Cape Thunderhead; and it followed us all -the way across. Bad enough at the outset, it got steadily worse and -worse until we reached port. It had only this mitigation--it was behind -us, and moved in the same direction with us. Therefore we were delayed -but about forty-eight hours. If it had been against us, there's no -telling when we should have got ashore; and twenty-four hours more of it -Miriam could never have survived. - -"For six consecutive days (from the 17th to the 23rd) the hatches were -battened down; no passengers were allowed on deck; and not only were -the port-holes kept permanently closed, but the inner iron shutters were -screwed up, lest the sea should break in and swamp us. The skylights -also were, covered. Thus daylight was excluded, as well as fresh air. -Then the electric-lighting machine got out of order, and we had to fall -back upon candles and petroleum. The atmosphere in the cabins became -something unendurable. Much of the time, owing to the violent motion, it -was impossible to keep even the candles or the petroleum lamps burning; -and we were condemned to total darkness. At last, however, they got the -electric machine into running gear again, so that we had light. From -second to second, day and night, the sea broke over us with a roar -like the discharge of cannon, making every timber of the ship creak and -tremble. It was enough to drive one frantic, that everlasting rhythmic -thunder. - -"And all the while we were tossed up, down, and around, as if that giant -vessel were a cockle-shell. Standing erect or walking was not to be -thought of. I had to creep from place to place on hands and knees. And -then the never-ending motion, and the incessant noise: the howling -of the wind, the pounding of the water, the creaking of timbers, the -snapping of cordage, the clanking of chains, the crashing of loose -things being knocked about, the shouts and tramping of sailors overhead, -the groans of sea-sick people, the shrieks of scared women and children, -the darkness, the loathsome air--I tell you it was frightful; it was -like pandemonium gone mad; the memory of it is like the memory of a -nightmare. - -"Miriam suffered excruciatingly from seasickness. It was the most -heart-rending sight I have ever witnessed, the agony she endured. I had -never dreamed that sea-sickness could be so terrible; and the ship's -surgeon said he had never seen so severe a case. What made it worse, of -course, was the hopelessness of her obtaining any relief until the storm -abated, or until we reached shore. There was nothing anyone could do. -I just sat there beside her, and held her hand, while she either lay -exhausted, or started up and went through the torments of the damned. I -can give you no idea of what she suffered. It was hard work to sit -still there, and watch her sufferings, and realise that I was utterly -powerless to help her in any way. From Monday, the 17th, until last -night, when we had been ashore some hours--precisely one week--she did -not taste food. Once in a while she would drink a little water, with a -drop of brandy in it; but even that distressed her cruelly. On the 20th -she was seized with convulsions, awful beyond description. From then on, -until we left the ship, she simply alternated between terrible paroxysms -and utter prostration. Four days! I thought she was going to die, -her convulsions were so violent, the prostration that ensued was so -death-like. The ship's surgeon himself admitted that there was great -danger--that death might result from exhaustion. For those four -days--from the 20th to the 24th--he kept her almost constantly under the -influence of opiates. On Saturday she seemed a little better--that is, -her convulsions occurred seldomer, and were of shorter duration. When -not in convulsions, she would lie in a stupor, as if asleep, only most -of the time her eyes were half open, and she would groan. But on Sunday -she was worse again; and it was on Sunday night, about ten o'clock, -that, after she had lain perfectly quiet for an hour or so, all at once -she started up, and asked me whether the electric lights had gone -out again. The lights were at that moment burning brightly in our -state-room; and I told her so. Then she cried: 'I can't see you. I can't -see anything. It is all dark. What has happened? I believe I am blind.' - -"Of course, I thought it must be some hallucination caused by her -sickness. I could not believe that she had really become blind. But the -ship's surgeon came and made an examination, and discovered that it was -so. He could attribute it only to a paralysis of the optic nerve, -the consequence of shock and exhaustion. What the danger of its being -permanent was he could not say. - -"Yesterday, thank God, that hellish voyage came to an end. The instant -we reached this hotel, I got her into bed and sent off for the best -medical men this town holds. They simply corroborated the judgment of -the ship's doctor--that she is suffering from shock and exhaustion, and -that her blindness is due to a paralysis of the optic nerve. _They think -it will probably not be permanent_. She must keep her bed until she -is thoroughly rested, which will take several days. Then we must go to -Paris, and put her under the treatment of Dr. Geoffroy Dsessaires, who, -it seems, is the great French specialist in diseases of the eye. - -"She is in bed now, in the next room, sleeping. She sleeps most of the -time--or rather, dozes. Her convulsions are over now, I hope for good. -But all last night they occurred from time to time--very much less -violently, however, than when on ship-board. She has not yet been able -to take much nourishment, but as often as she wakes, I give her a little -beef-tea. - -"That is about all there is to tell down to the present moment. You will -understand that I am in no condition of mind to write at greater length -than is necessary, having gone without sleep for the greater part of a -week, to say nothing of anxiety and distress. When she wakes she talks -of you and bids me say how she loves you. And of course you always means -yourself and Miss Josephine. - -"I pray God that in my next letter I may have more cheering news to -write. - -"Always yours, - -"Henry Fairchild." - - -The dismay which the foregoing epistle occasioned Josephine and myself -the sympathetic reader will conceive without my telling. But it was -as nothing to that which we experienced when we read the next, and -considered its purport:-- - -"Htel de la Bourdonnaye, - -"Paris, January 1, 1889. - -"Dear Dr. Benary, - -"Miriam improved rapidly after I posted my letter of Christmas day. -Rest, quiet, and nourishment were what she needed--and those she had. -The doctors gave us permission to leave Havre yesterday; and we arrived -here in the afternoon. She is pale and weak, and wasted to the merest -shadow of herself, having lost _twenty-six pounds_ in weight. But she -does not suffer any more bodily pain; though what her agony of mind must -be it is not difficult for those who love her to imagine. However, that -will soon be over. - -"I telegraphed in advance to Dr. Dsessaires, requesting him to call -upon us here at our hotel last evening. He came at eight o'clock, and -put Miriam through a thorough examination. He confirmed what all the -other doctors had said--that it was a paralysis of the optic nerve. He -enquired all about her health in the past, and particularly whether she -had ever had any trouble of the brain or spine. Then, of course, we told -him of that accident which she met with in 1884, which had deprived -her of her memory, 'Ah! said he, 'that gives me the key to the whole -difficulty.' He proceeded very carefully to examine her head, and when -he had finished he said there was a depression of the bone at the point -where she had been hurt at that time, and a consequent pressure upon the -brain; and it was that pressure upon the brain which accounted for the -extraordinary violence of her sea-sickness and the resultant blindness. -Finally, he said that an operation to relieve that pressure would, if -made at once, restore her sight; but that, unless such an operation was -performed, she must remain permanently blind. He assured me that the -operation was not a dangerous one; that it would consist in the removal -of a minute fragment of the bone--what is called trephining. Of course, -there was nothing for us to do but consent to having the operation -performed; and thereupon he went away, saying he would return this -morning. - -"At eleven o'clock this morning he arrived, accompanied by four other -physicians--Dr. Cidolt, also an oculist; Dr. Gouet, the famous alienist; -Dr. Marsac, a general practitioner of very high standing; and Dr. -Larquot, said to be the most skilful surgeon in France. They made a long -examination, and then withdrew to consult together. At the end of -nearly two hours they came to me with their report, which was simply -a repetition of what Dr. Dsessaires had already said--that trephining -would be necessary, that it would be effective, and that it would be as -free from danger as such an operation ever is. It must be performed as -soon as possible, so that atrophy of the optic nerve may not have time -to set in; but before they can safely undertake it, Miriam must be -perfectly recovered in general health. They have set upon this day -fortnight--the 14th--as probably a favourable time. Meanwhile she is -under the care of Dr. Marsac. Dr. Larquot is to conduct the operation. - -"The brave little woman! She supports her calamity so patiently! And -she looks forward to that dreadful ordeal with an amount of nerve and -courage that a man might be proud of. God grant that all may go well. - -"There is nothing more for me to write at present. - -"Always Yours, - -"Henry Fairchild." - -At the close of Fairchild's letter this postscript was added, in a hand -that we recognised as Miriam's, though it was cramped and irregular, as -if she had written with her eyes shut:-- - -"Dear Ones,--I cannot see to write to you; but I love you and love you, -with all my heart. - -"Miriam." - -When my sister Josephine read that, she burst out crying like a child. - -I waited till she had dried her tears, Then, "Well, my dear sister," I -questioned, "do you realise what that letter means?" - -"What it means? Why, that her blindness is only temporary, and can be -cured. That she will recover her sight." - -"Nothing else?" - -"What else?" - -"What else! This else--and I am surprised that you do not see it for -yourself--it means that the same operation which will restore her sight -will also restore her memory. Do you understand? She will become -Louise Massarte again. She will begin at the precise point where Louise -Massarte left off. She will forget everything that has occurred during -the past four years, and will recall what occurred before. It is that -same pressure of the bone upon the brain to which they rightly or -wrongly attribute her blindness--it is that same pressure of the bone -upon the brain which keeps Louise Massarte in quiescence, and makes -Miriam Benary possible. Relieve that pressure, remove that point of -bone, and instantly Louise Massarte will spring into life again, while -at the same moment Miriam Benary will cease to exist. That is what -Fairchild's letter means." - -"Good Heavens!" gasped Josephine, holding up her hands in helpless -dismay. "But--but surely---- but what--what is to be done?" - -"Which, in your opinion, would be the lesser of the two evils--to have -her remain permanently blind, or to have her regain her memory? She -would recollect all that she is happiest in forgetting, she would forget -all that she is happiest in remembering. The four years during which -she has lived here with us as our niece would be utterly obliterated and -undone. She would rise from that operation in mind and spirit exactly -where she was, and exactly what she was, just before you and I put her -under the influence of ether on the 14th day of June, 1884. Which, I -want you to tell me--which would be the lesser evil: the blindness of -Miriam Benary, or the resurrection of Louise Massarte?" - -"Oh, there is no room for question about that. Better a thousand times -that she should never see the light of day again, than that she should -cease to be herself, and return to her dead personality. Why, it is--it -is Miriam's very life, her very existence, which is at stake." - -"Precisely. It is, so far as she is concerned, a choice between -blindness and death. Nay, something worse than death: a hideous -transformation of her identity, from that of a pure and innocent young -bride, to that of a weary, heart-sick, sinful woman-convict. To cure her -blindness by the means which they propose, would simply be to kill her; -to abolish Miriam Benary and to substitute for her Louise Massarte. It -is infinitely better that she should remain blind. Therefore, I am going -to prevent that operation if I can." - -"If you can indeed! But how can you? They are three thousand miles away. -How can you?" - -"Well, let us see. To-day--to-day is the 12th, is it not?" - -"Yes, to-day is Saturday the 12th. Well?" - -"Well, the day set for the operation is the 14th--that is, the day after -to-morrow, Monday." - -"Yes." - -"Well, I shall go at once and cable to Fairchild, imploring him, -commanding him, no matter at what cost, to postpone the operation until -I arrive in Paris. Then I shall engage passage aboard the first swift -steamer that sails. The South German Clyde steamers sail on Mondays. -They make the passage in seven days, and touch at Cherbourg. Do -you, meanwhile, prepare my things, so that I may take ship day after -tomorrow. Once arrived in Paris, I will persuade Fairchild to relinquish -the idea of the operation for good and all. I will convince him that -Miriam's life will be imperilled. Or, failing in that, I may find myself -compelled to tell him the truth about Louise Massarte. Anything will be -better than to have her regain her memory." - -"Yes, anything. God grant that he may not disobey your telegram. But -you must engage passage for me as well as for yourself. I cannot stay -at home here idle. You must let me go with you. I should die of anxiety -alone here at home." - -I went to the nearest telegraph office, and sent the following cable -despatch:-- - -"Fairchild, Htel Bourdonnaye, Paris. - -"At all costs postpone operation till I arrive. Miriam's life -endangered. Sail Monday, vi Cherbourg. - -"Benary." - -Then I hastened to the steamship company's office in Bowling Slip, and -engaged staterooms for my sister and myself aboard the _Egmont_ which -was to sail promptly at noon on Monday the 14th. - -Yet, despite these precautionary measures, a heavy load of anxiety lay -upon my heart. What if Fairchild should suffer the operation to proceed, -notwithstanding my protest? I could not banish that contingency from my -mind, nor its ghastly _corollaries_ from my imagination. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV.--ALTER EGO. - -|Though by no means so stormy as that described by Fairchild, our voyage -was an unconscionably long one. To say nothing of fogs and head winds, -an accident befell our machinery, whereby we were compelled to lie to -for sixteen precious hours, while the damage was repaired. We did not -make Cherbourg till the afternoon of Friday, January 25. - -Ashore, my first act was to enquire when a train would leave for Paris. -A train would leave at midnight, due at the capital at half past nine -in the morning. My next act was to telegraph Fairchild, informing him of -our arrival, and warning him to expect us on the morrow. - -At half past nine to the minute, Saturday, we drew into the Gare St. -Lazare. We were a little surprised not to find Fairchild there to meet -us, and perhaps also a little disturbed. Was Miriam so ill that he dared -not leave her? After seeing our luggage through the Customs House, we -got into a cab, and were driven to the Htel de la Bourdonnaye. - -I inquired for Mr. Fairchild. - -"Monsieur Fairchild is in his room, Monsieur." - -"Show us thither at once," said I. - -"Pardon, Monsieur. If Monsieur will have the goodness to send up his -card---" - -"Josephine," I exclaimed, "how do you account for this? Apparently we -are not expected. He does not meet us at the railway station; and here -at his hotel we are required to send up our card." - -"Well, send it up. We shall soon have an explanation," Josephine said; -and I acted upon her advice. - -In two minutes Fairchild appeared. - -"What! Arrived!" he cried, seizing each of us by a band. "Your -steamer was overdue; when did you get in? Why didn't you telegraph from -Cherbourg?" - -"Why _didn't_ I telegraph? But I did. Do you mean to say you haven't -received my despatch?" - -"Not the ghost of one. If I'd known you were coming this morning---- But -wait." - -He stepped into the office of the hotel. Issuing thence in a moment, -"There!" he cried, exhibiting a blue envelope, "here's your telegram. -In America I should have received it twelve hours ago. But they manage -these things better in France. It came last night, after I'd gone to bed -and the authorities of this hostelery were too considerate to wake me. -Then this morning, they say, they thought I was so much occupied that, -they would do best to wait about delivering it till I was at leisure. -That's French courtesy with a vengeance. However, you're safely arrived -at last, and that's the important thing." - -"And Miriam? Miriam?" I demanded impatiently. - -"The doctors are with her even now," he answered. - -"You got my cable despatch, of course, and put off the operation?" - -"Yes, I got your despatch; and we put off the operation until all the -physicians insisted that it must not be put off longer--that, if put off -longer, it would be ineffective." - -Panic-stricken, "You don't mean to say," I gasped, "you can't mean to -say that it has been performed!" - -"As I just told you, they're with her now. They are performing it at -this moment?" - -"Heavens and earth, man! Didn't I say in my telegram that it would -imperil her life? Didn't I entreat you at all costs to postpone it until -I arrived?" - -"You did, certainly. But these other medical men, who were on the spot, -and could examine her for themselves, were of one mind in declaring that -her life would not be imperilled, but that the longer the operation was -delayed, the greater would be the danger of atrophy of the optic nerve. -Finally, on Wednesday of this week, they fixed upon this morning as -the furthest date to which they could consent to postpone it. It was a -choice between going on without your presence, and taking the risk of -permanent blindness. So I had to let them proceed." - -"You don't know what you have done! You have done that which you will -repent to your dying day!!" I groaned, wringing my hands. "You might -have known that I never should have telegraphed as I did--that I -never should have packed up and taken ship for Europe at two days -notice--unless it was a matter of life and death But where are they? -Take me to them. Perhaps it is not yet too late. Perhaps I am still in -time to prevent it. Take me to them at once. - -"I doubt whether they will admit you. They would not allow me to be -present, and I am her husband. I have had to walk up and down the -corridor, waiting." - -"Not admit me! They will admit me, if have to break down the door. Take -me to them this instant." - -"Very well," he assented. "This way." - -He led me up a flight of stairs, and halted before a door, upon which he -gently rapped. - -The door was immediately opened by an elderly man, in professional -broad-cloth, who said in French: "You may enter now. It is finished." - -My heart turned to ice. For a breathing-space I could neither move nor -speak. - -At last, with the stolidity that is born of despair, "Finished!" I -repeated. "You have then trephined?" - -"We have." - -"And the patient----?" - -"She is not yet recovered from the anaesthetic." - -We entered the room. Miriam, pale and beautiful, lay unconscious upon -a sofa near the windows. Two other professional-looking gentlemen stood -over her, one of whom was fanning her face. - -Fairchild presented me: "The English physician, Dr. Benary, the uncle of -my wife." - -I was in no mood to be courteous or ceremonious. Having bowed, -"Gentlemen, I must beg you to leave me alone with the patient," I began, -addressing the company at large. - -My remark created a sensation. The French physicians exchanged perplexed -and astonished glances; and a chorus of indignant "Mais, monsieurs," -rose about my ears. - -"Fairchild, I am in earnest," I said. "I insist upon these gentlemen -leaving me alone with my niece. I look to you to see that they do so. -I have neither the leisure nor the inclination to discuss the matter. -Every second is precious." Somehow or other Fairchild prevailed upon -them to withdraw. I suspect they saw that I was in no frame of mind to -bear trifling with. - -"I may remain?" Fairchild queried. - -"No, not even you. I must be quite alone with her for the present." - -"But-----" - -"Nay, do not waste time is controversy. Leave me at once." - -Fairchild reluctantly went off. - -I sat down at the side of Miriam's couch, and fanned her. - -By-and-by she opened her eyes, and they rested upon my face. - -From their expression, it was obvious that she saw me. Her blindness had -been cured. - -Almost at once, however, she closed her eyes again; and then for a -little while she lay still, like one half asleep. - -Suddenly she drew a deep quick breath, sat up, and looking me intently -in the face, "Well, is it over?" she asked. - -"Yes, dear; it is over," I replied. "Well, then, it is a failure--a -total, abject failure! I remember everything. My memory was never -clearer or more circumstantial. And you--you said there was no chance of -failure! Oh, I was a fool to believe you. But what were you, to tell me -such monstrous lies?" - -With these words, she sighed, and fell back upon her pillow, while I, -with a deadly sickness at the heart, realised that the worst which I had -feared had come to pass. - -She was Louise Massarte now. Where was Miriam Benary? She was Louise -Massarte. She had taken up her former life at the exact point where -Louise Massarte had dropped it. She had begun anew at the exact point -where Louise Massarte had left off. And the operation which she had in -her mind when she asked, "Is it over?" was the operation which I had -performed upon her nearly five years before. Those intervening years -were as perfectly erased from her consciousness as if they had been -passed in dreamless sleep. - -Where was Miriam Benary? What had become of that sweet and winning -personality? And of the innocent pure love with which she had blessed -our lives? Oh, it was a hideous transformation. Miriam was gone into the -infinite void of Nothingness, leaving this changeling in her place. It -was more unbelievable, it was more horribly impossible, than any wild -nightmare phantasy, than any ancient grisly tale of necromancy; and -yet it was true, it was undeniable, it was irremediable. It was worse, -incomparably worse, than it would have been if she had died. For had she -died, we could at least have hoped that her soul still lived, good and -true and beautiful as ever. But now her soul had simply changed its -form, and become the corrupt and sinful essence of Louise Massarte--just -as in books of the Black Art we read of the fair virgin Princess being -changed at a touch into a wicked grinning ape. - -"Yes, you have failed, you have failed," she said again. - -Then, all at once, starting up, and speaking passionately: "Oh, why did -you interfere with me last night? Why did you cross my path and thwart -my will? Why did you not let me die then, when it would have been so -easy? Why did you bring me here to your house, to fill me and intoxicate -me with hopes that were doomed to be disappointed? Oh, it was cruel, it -was cruel of you. I was insane to listen to you. I was mad to place any -sort of credence in what you said. It was so obvious a fairy-tale. I -ought to have known that you promised the impossible, that you were -either a liar or a lunatic.--But it is not yet too late. Leave me. Leave -the room. Let me get up and dress myself, and go away. Where is your -sister? She put away my clothes. Send her to me. I will not be detained -here longer. Give me my clothes. I will get up, and go away, and throw -myself into the river, before they have a chance to retake me, and send -me back to prison." - -What could I do? What could I say? "Oh, Miriam, Miriam," I faltered -helplessly. "Calm yourself. For Heaven's sake, lie quiet. You will work -yourself into a fever, into delirium. Your agitation may cost you your -life. Lie quiet and let me think. My poor wits are distracted." - -She caught at the name Miriam. - -"Miriam? Miriam! Who is Miriam? Have I not told you my name? My name is -Louise Massarte. Why do you call me by another? Miriam!--Miriam! Am I in -a madhouse? _Oh, oh! my head!_" she screamed sharply, putting her hand -to her head. "What have you done to my head? What have you done to me? -Oh, I had such a pain! It shot through my head. Oh! fool, imbecile, that -I was, ever to enter your house." - -At this juncture the door opened, and Fair-child came into the room. - -"I could wait outside no longer," he explained. "I heard her scream. I -cannot stay away from her." - -To my unspeakable amazement, she, at the sight of her husband (whom, -I had every reason to suppose, she would not recognise), started -violently, and, catching her breath, exclaimed-- - -"What! You! Henry Fairchild! Henry Fairchild! Here! Good God!" - -"Yes, dear Miriam," Fairchild answered, coming forward, and putting out -his hand to take hold of hers. - -But she drew quickly away from him. - -"Miriam again! Miriam! What farce is this? Am I really in a mad-house? -Or have I gone mad? I believe you are both maniacs, that you call me -Miriam. Or is it some charade that you are acting for my bewilderment? -And you, Henry Fairchild! What are you doing here? You, of all men! -Oh! this is some frightful trick that has been played upon me! This -glib-tongued old man, with his innocent face and his protestations of -benevolence, has trapped me here to send me back across the river. But -why so much ceremony about it. Call your officers at once, and give me -up to them. One thing I'll promise you: they'll never get me back -there alive. Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! And so, Mr. Fairchild, your friend, Roger -Beecham, is dead. I came to town last night for the especial purpose of -calling upon him, and settling our accounts; and then I learned that he -had died from natural causes. Well, there is one consolation: unless the -dogma of hell be a pure invention, he is roasting there now. I daresay I -shall join him there presently, and then we will roast together! What a -blow his death must have been to you, his faithful Achates!" During -the first part of her speech, it was plain that poor Fairchild simply -fancied her to be raving in delirium; but when she mentioned that name, -Roger Beecham, an expression of terrified amazement, mingled with blank -incomprehension, fell upon his face, and he stood staring at her, with -knitted brows and parted lips, like a man dumbfoundered and aghast. - -"Oh, I hope he died hard!" she cried. "I hope his mortal agony was -excruciating and long-drawn out. I hope his death-bed was haunted and -surrounded by twenty thousand hateful memories!" Fairchild found his -tongue. - -"Roger Beecham," he repeated, as if dazed. "What do you know of Roger -Beecham?" - -"That's good! That's exquisite!" cried she. "What do I know of Roger -Beecham? You play your comedy very well, though I confess I don't see -the point of it. What does Louise Massarte know of Roger Beecham? What -does she _not_ know of him?" - -Fairchild became rigid. - -"Louise Massarte!" he gasped. "What have you to do with Louise -Massarte?--the murderess of Beecham's wife! Was she--for God's sake, was -she related to you? Long ago I noticed a certain resemblance--a certain -remote resemblance--such a resemblance as might exist between an angel -and a devil. But why do you speak to me of her? What can you know of -her? Louise Massarte!---- Dr. Benary, what has happened to my wife? She -is delirious. Yet how comes she to know these names? What can be done?" - -"I am not delirious, Mr. Fairchild," she put in, hastily. "But either -you are, or you are a most clever actor, and have missed your vocation -in failing to go upon the stage. As I said before, I cannot see the -point of your mummery; but you do it uncommonly well. Why do you pretend -not to recognise me? Surely, I can't have changed beyond recognition in -two years." - -"Not recognise you? Not recognise you, Miriam, my wife! Oh, what -dreadful insanity has come upon her?" - -"I? Miriam? Your wife?" She laughed. "Come, Mr. Fairchild, a truce to -this mystery." - -Fairchild sank upon a chair, and pressed his brow between his hands. -"She is out of her senses. But how comes she to know those names?" he -said, as if speaking to himself. Then, turning to me: "Perhaps you, Dr. -Benary, can clear this puzzle up?" - -"This is hardly a fitting time or place for attempting to," I replied. -"If you had only respected my desires, there would have been no such -occasion." - -"Will you answer me this one question? Do you understand what she means -by her reference to Louise Massarte?" - -"Yes. I do." - -"Explain that meaning to me." - -"Not now, Fairchild. Not now. Later I will tell you everything. I have -not the heart nor the wit to explain anything just now." - -"But the relation, the connection, between that woman and my wife? Were -they sisters?" - -"No, not sisters." - -"What then?" - -"Fairchild, I implore you----" I began, but I got no further. - -From the couch upon which Miriam lay came a low peal of sarcastic -laughter. Then suddenly it expired in a most piteous moan. She gave a -sharp cry, and swooned. - -Fairchild was at her side in a twinkling. He knelt there, seizing her -hands, and gazing with wild eyes into her face. - -"She is dead! She is dead!" he groaned frantically. - -"No, she has only fainted, from pain and exhaustion. But the -consequences of a fainting fit in her condition may be terrible," -said I. - -"Oh, my darling! my darling!" he sobbed, bending over till his cheek -swept her breast. - -* * * * * - -She never regained consciousness. - -I have not the heart to dwell upon what followed. - -This paragraph, cut from _Galignant's Messenger_ of February 1, tells -its own story:-- - -"_Fairchild.--On Wednesday morning, January 30, at the Htel de la -Bourdonnaye, of _phrenitis_, Miriam Benary, wife of Henry Fairchild, of -Adironda._" - - -THE END. - - - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Two Women or One?, by Henry Harland - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TWO WOMEN OR ONE? *** - -***** This file should be named 51986-8.txt or 51986-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/1/9/8/51986/ - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by Google Books - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: Two Women or One? - From the Mss. of Dr. Leonard Benary - -Author: Henry Harland - -Release Date: May 3, 2016 [EBook #51986] -Last Updated: March 13, 2018 - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TWO WOMEN OR ONE? *** - - - - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by Google Books - - - - - - -</pre> - - <div style="height: 8em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h1> - TWO WOMEN OR ONE? - </h1> - <h3> - From The Mss. Of Dr. Leonard Benary - </h3> - <h2> - By Henry Harland - </h2> - <h4> - New York - </h4> - <h3> - 1890 - </h3> - <p> - <br /> <br /> - </p> - <h3> - <i>DEDICATION</i> - </h3> - <h3> - TO ———— ————, ESQUIRE. - </h3> - <p class="indent15"> - “I'll link my waggon to a star;” - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - I'll dedicate this tale to you: - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Wit, poet, scholar, that you are, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - And skilful story-teller too, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - And theologue, and critic true, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - And main-stay of the———-Review. - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - I'll link my waggon to a star, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Does not the Yankee sage advise it? - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - And yet I dare not name your name, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Lest the wide lustre of its fame - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Eclipse my humble candle-flame: - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - But you'll surmise it. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - January 1890. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - <b>CONTENTS</b> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> TWO WOMEN OR ONE? </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I.—THE FIRST NIGHT. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II.—AT THE RIVER SIDE. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III.—WHENCE SHE CAME. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV.—THE DOCTOR SPEAKS. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V.—THE DOCTOR ACTS. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI.—MIRIAM BENARY. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII.—WITHIN AN ACE. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII.—A CHANCE ACQUAINTANCE. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX.—JOSEPHINE WRITES. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X.—JOSEPHINE EXPLAINS. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI.—REASSURANCE. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII.—THE DOCTOR'S DILEMMA. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII.—NATURE BEGINS REPRISALS. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV.—ALTER EGO. </a> - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h1> - TWO WOMEN OR ONE? - </h1> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER I.—THE FIRST NIGHT. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>y name is Leonard - Benary—rather a foreign-sounding name, though I am a pure-blooded - Englishman. I reside at No. 63, Riverview Road, in the American city of - Adironda, though I was born in Devonshire. And I am a physician and - surgeon, though retired from active practice. My age can be computed when - I say that I came into the world on the 21st day of July, in the year - 1818. - </p> - <p> - I must at the outset crave the reader's indulgence for two things. First, - my style. I am not a literary man; and my style will therefore be - ungraceful. Secondly, my provincialisms. I have lived in Adironda for very - nearly half a century, and I have therefore fallen into divers local - peculiarities of speech. But I have a singular, and I believe an - interesting and significant, story to tell, and I think it had better be - ill told than not told at all. - </p> - <p> - It begins with the night of Friday, June 13th, 1884. - </p> - <p> - Towards twelve o'clock on that night I was walking in an easterly - direction along the south side of Washington Street, between Myrtle Avenue - and Riverview Road, on my way home from a concert which I had attended at - the Academy of Music. Moving in the same direction, on the same side of - the street, and leading me by something like a hundred feet, I could make - out the figure of a woman. Except for us two, the neighbourhood appeared - to be deserted. - </p> - <p> - Anything about my fellow pedestrian, beyond her sex, which was proclaimed - by the outline of her gown as she passed under a street-lamp—whether - she was young or old, white or black, a lady or a beggar—I was - unable, owing to the darkness of the night, and to the distance that - separated us, to distinguish. Indeed, I should most likely have paid no - attention whatever to her, for I was busy with my own thoughts, had I not - happened to notice that when she readied the corner of Riverview Road, - instead of turning into that thoroughfare, she proceeded to the terrace at - the foot of Washington Street, and immediately disappeared down the stone - staircase which leads thence to the water's edge. - </p> - <p> - This action at once struck me as odd, and put an end to my pre-occupation. - </p> - <p> - What could a solitary woman want at the brink of the Yellow Snake River at - twelve o'clock midnight? - </p> - <p> - Her errand could scarcely be a benign one; and the conjecture that suicide - might possibly be its object, instantly, of course, arose in my mind. - </p> - <p> - My duty under the circumstances, anyhow, seemed plain—to keep an eye - upon her, and hold myself in readiness to interfere, if needful. - </p> - <p> - After a moment's deliberation, I, too, descended the stone stairs. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER II.—AT THE RIVER SIDE. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">Y</span>et to keep an eye - upon her was more easily said than done. At the bottom of the terrace it - was impenetrably dark. Not a star shone from the clouded sky. The points - of light along the opposite shore—and here and there, upon the bosom - of the stream, the red or green lantern of a vessel—punctured the - darkness without relieving it. Strain my eyesight as I might, I could see - nothing beyond the length of my arm. - </p> - <p> - But the lapping of the waves upon the strand, and about the piles of the - little T-shaped landing-stage that extends into the river at this point, - was distinctly audible, and served to guide me. Towards the landing-stage - I cautiously advanced; and when I felt the planking of it beneath my feet, - I halted. The whereabouts of the woman I had no means of determining. - “However,” thought I, “if her business be self-destruction, she has not - yet transacted it, for I have heard no splash.” - </p> - <p> - Ah! Suddenly a flare of heat-lightning on the eastern horizon illuminated - the land and the water. It was very brief, but it lasted long enough for - me to take my bearings, and to discern the object of my quest. - </p> - <p> - She was standing, a mass of shadow, at the very verge of the little wharf, - distant not more than three yards in front of me. A moment later I had - silently gained her side, stretched out my hand, and laid firm hold upon - her by the arm. - </p> - <p> - In great and entirely natural terror, she started back: as luck would have - it, not in the direction of the water, for else she had certainly tumbled - in, perhaps dragging me with her. And though she uttered no articulate - sound, she caught her breath in a sharp spasmodic gasp, and I could feel - her tremble violently under my touch. - </p> - <p> - I sought to reassure her. - </p> - <p> - “Do not be alarmed,” I said, speaking as gently as I could; “I mean you no - manner of evil. I saw you come down here from the street above; and it - struck me as hardly a safe place for a person of your sex to visit alone - at such an hour.” - </p> - <p> - She made no answer. A prolonged shudder swept over her, and she drew a - deep long sigh. - </p> - <p> - “You have no reason to fear me,” I continued. “I have only come to you for - the purpose of protecting you, of being of service to you, if I can. Look—ah! - no; it's too dark for you to see me. But I am a white-haired old man, the - last person in the world you need be afraid of. You would not tremble and - draw away like that, if you could know how far I am from wishing you - anything but good.” - </p> - <p> - She spoke. “Then release my arm.” - </p> - <p> - Her tone was haughty and indignant. She enunciated each syllable with - frigid preciseness. From the correctness of her accent and the cultivated - quality of her voice, I learned that I had to do with a woman of education - and refinement. - </p> - <p> - “Then release my arm.” - </p> - <p> - “No,” I said, “I dare not release your arm.” - </p> - <p> - “Dare not!” echoed she, in the same indignant tone, to which now was added - an inflection of perplexity. Sightless as the darkness rendered me, I - could have wagered that she raised her eyebrows and curled her lip. - </p> - <p> - “I dare not,” I repeated. - </p> - <p> - “Possibly you will be good enough to explain what it is you fear.” - </p> - <p> - “Frankly, I fear that you mean to do yourself a mischief. I dare not let - go my hold upon you, lest you might take advantage of your liberty to - throw yourself into the water.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, and if I should?” - </p> - <p> - “That would be a very foolish thing to do.” - </p> - <p> - “But what concern is it of yours? What right have you to molest me? My - life is my own, is it not, to dispose of as I please?” - </p> - <p> - “That is a very difficult and subtle question, involving the first - principles of theology and ethics. I do not think we can profitably enter - into a discussion of it just now, and here. But this much I will promise - you,” said I, “I shall not let go my hold upon your arm until I am - persuaded that you have renounced your suicidal purpose.” - </p> - <p> - She gave a <i>tchk</i> of exasperation. Then, after a momentary silence— - </p> - <p> - “You are insolent and intrusive, sir. You presume upon the fact that I am - a woman and alone, to take a shameful and unmanly advantage of me.” - </p> - <p> - “I am sorry if such is your opinion of me,” I returned. “I do only what I - must.” - </p> - <p> - “You tell me you are an old man. I am not old, and I am strong. I warn you - now to let me go. I assure you, you are unwise to trifle with me. I am a - very desperate woman, and shall not mind consequences. If you try me - beyond endurance—if we should come to a struggle——” - </p> - <p> - “Ah! but we will not,” I hastily interposed. “You will not improve your - superior strength against one who is moved by no other feeling than - goodwill toward you. And besides,” I added, “though it is true that I am - close upon sixty-six years of age, my muscles have still some iron in - them. I fancy I should be able to hold my own.” - </p> - <p> - This, I must acknowledge, was sheer braggadocio. I weigh but nine stone, - measure but five feet four in my boots, and am anything rather than an - athlete. - </p> - <p> - “You are a meddler, sir. Good or bad, your motives do not interest me. Let - me go. My patience is exhausted. I will brook no further interference. - Release my arm. Your conduct is an outrage.” - </p> - <p> - She spoke in genuine anger, stamping her foot, and tugging to escape my - grasp. - </p> - <p> - “What I do, madam, be it outrageous or otherwise, I am in common humanity - bound to do. I should be virtually your murderer if I did less. It is my - bounden duty to restrain you, to do what I may to help you.” - </p> - <p> - “Help me, sir? You are in no position to help me. I have not asked your - help. There is no help for me. You are meddlesome and officious. I will - not dispute with you further. <i>Let me go!</i>” - </p> - <p> - She spoke the last three words with threatening emphasis. I could hear her - teeth come together with a decisive click after them. Again she tugged to - break loose from me. - </p> - <p> - “You require of me the impossible,” was my reply. “It is impossible for me - to let you go. I implore you to control your anger, and to listen to me - for one moment. You are labouring under great excitement, you are not - accountable, you are not yourself. How can I let you go? I should never - know another instant of peace if I stood by and suffered you to do - yourself the injury that you contemplate. I should be a brute, a craven, a - criminal, if I did that. I should be answerable for your death. As a human - being, I am compelled to restrain you if I can. You must see that it is - impossible for me to let you go.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, have you finished?” she demanded, as I paused. - </p> - <p> - “Not quite,” I answered, “for now I must ask you to let me take you to - your home. Tomorrow morning you will feel differently, you will see all - things by a different light. You will thank me then for what you now call - an outrage. Think of your friends, your family. No matter what anguish you - may be suffering, no matter to what desperate straits your affairs may be - arrived, you have no right to attempt your life. Besides, you say you are - young. Therefore you have the future before you; you have hope. I am older - than you, and wiser. Be advised and guided by me. Come, let me take you to - your home.” - </p> - <p> - “Home!” she repeated bitterly. “Home, friends, family! Ha-ha-ha!” She - laughed; but her laughter was dry and sardonic, horrid to hear. “What you - say would be cruel, sir, if it were not so highly humorous. You speak and - act in ignorance. You are very far from comprehending the situation. I - have no home. I have no family, no friends, and, worst of all, no money. - There is not a roof in this city—no, nor in the whole world, for - that matter—under which I can seek a welcome; not a friend, - acquaintance, relation, not a human being, in short, to miss me, or even - to enquire after me, if I disappear. Except, indeed, enemies; except those - who would wish to find me for my further hurt: of them there are plenty. - Now will you let me go? I am in extreme misery, sir. There is no help for - me, no hope. My life is a wreck, a horror. I can't bear it, I can't endure - it any longer. Let me go. If you understood the circumstances, you would - not detain me. If you knew what I am, what I have done, and what I should - have to look forward to if I lived; if you knew what it is to reach that - pass where life means nothing for you but fire in the heart: you would not - refuse to let me go. You could condemn me to no agony, sir, worse than to - have to live. To live is to remember; and so long as I remember I shall be - in torment. Even to sleep brings me no relief, for when I sleep I dream. - Oh, for mercy's sake, let me go! Go yourself. Go away, and leave me here. - You will not repent it. You may always recall it as an act of kindness. I - believe you mean to be kind. Be really kind, and do not interfere with me - longer.” - </p> - <p> - She had begun to speak with a recklessness and a savage irony that were - shocking and repulsive; but in the end she spoke with a pathos and a - passion that were irresistible. I was stirred to the bottom of my heart. - </p> - <p> - “I wish, dear lady,” I said, “I wish you could know how deeply and - sincerely I feel for you, how genuine and earnest my desire is to help - you. Pray, pray give me at least a chance to do so. Look; I live in one of - those houses, above there, on the terrace—where you see the lights. - Come with me to my house. You say you have no roof under which you can - seek a welcome: I will promise you a welcome there. You say you are - friendless: let me be your friend. Come with me to my house. I believe—nay, - I am sure—I shall be able in some way to help you. Anyhow, give me a - chance to try. I am an old man, a physician. Come with me, and let us talk - together. Between us we shall discover some better solution of your - difficulties than the drastic one that you are looking to. But I will make - a bargain with you. Come with me to my house, and remain there for one - hour. If, at the expiration of that hour, I shall not have persuaded you - to think better of your present purpose—if then you are still of - your present mind—I will promise to let you depart unattended, - without further hindrance, to go wherever and to do whatever you see fit. - No harm can come to you from accompanying me to my house—no harm by - any hazard, but possibly much good. Try it. Try me. Trust me. Come. Within - an hour, if you still wish it, you may go your way alone. I give you my - word of honour. Will you come?” - </p> - <p> - “You leave me no free choice, sir. It will be my only means of deliverance - from you. I run a great risk, a great peril, greater than you can think, - in doing so. But it is agreed that at the end of one hour I shall be my - own mistress again? After that—hands off?” - </p> - <p> - “At the end of one hour you may go or stay, according to your own - pleasure.” - </p> - <p> - “Very well; I am ready.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER III.—WHENCE SHE CAME. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> led her into my - back drawing-room—which apartment I use as a library and study—and - turned up the drop-light on my writing-table. - </p> - <p> - Then I looked at her, and she looked at me. - </p> - <p> - She had said that she was young. I was not surprised to see that she was - beautiful as well. I do not know that I can explain just what had prepared - me for this discovery. Perhaps, in part, her voice, which was exquisitely - sweet and melodious. Perhaps simply the tragical and romantic - circumstances under which I had found her. However that may be, beautiful - she indubitably was. - </p> - <p> - She wore no bonnet. Her hair, dark brown, curling, and abundant, was cut - short like a boy's. - </p> - <p> - Her skin was fine in texture, and deathly pale. Her eyes, large, dark, - liquid, were emotional and intelligent. Her mouth was generous in size, - sensitive in form, and in colour perfect. But over her whole countenance - was written legibly the signature of hard and fierce despair. - </p> - <p> - From throat to foot she was wrapped in a black waterproof cloak. - </p> - <p> - “Be seated,” I began. “Put yourself at ease in mind and body. And first of - all, let me offer you a glass of wine.” - </p> - <p> - “You may spare yourself that trouble, sir,” she replied. “I have no - appetite for wine.” - </p> - <p> - “But it will do you good. A single glass?” - </p> - <p> - “I will not drink a single drop.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, then, a composing draught. You are my patient for the time being, - remember. You must let me prescribe for you. You are in a state of - excessive nervous excitement, bordering upon hysteria. Drink this.” - </p> - <p> - “I assure you, sir, my disorder is not of the body,” she said wearily. “No - medicine can relieve it.” - </p> - <p> - “Nevertheless, I will beg of you to give this a trial. It is but a - thimbleful. It can't hurt you, even if it should fail to benefit you.” - </p> - <p> - “For aught I know it may contain a drug.” - </p> - <p> - “It certainly does contain a drug. I should not offer you <i>aqua pura</i>.” - </p> - <p> - “You juggle words, sir. I mean a poison.” - </p> - <p> - “Come; that is good. Do you think I would have been at such pains to - dissuade you from suicide, immediately thereafter to seek to poison you?” - </p> - <p> - “I don't mean a deadly poison. You could do me no greater kindness than to - offer me a deadly poison. I mean—it may contain some opiate, some - narcotic, to deprive me of power over myself, so that I shall be unable to - leave your house when the time is up.” - </p> - <p> - “Madam, look at me. Have I the appearance of a man who would attempt to - get the better of you by an underhand trick like that?” - </p> - <p> - “No, you do not look deceitful,” she answered, after a moment's scrutiny - of my face. - </p> - <p> - “Then trust me enough to drink this.” - </p> - <p> - Without further protest she took the glass I proffered, and emptied it. - </p> - <p> - “Now, if you are willing, we may talk,” said I. - </p> - <p> - “What is there to talk about? I, at any rate, have nothing to say. But I - am at your mercy for the term of one hour. You, of course, may talk as - much as you desire. But at the end of one hour—— Please look - at your watch. What o'clock is it now?” - </p> - <p> - “It is twenty minutes after midnight.” - </p> - <p> - “Thank you. Five minutes have already passed. At a quarter after one I - shall be free to leave.” Therewith she let her head fall back upon the - cushion of the easy-chair in which she was seated, and closed her eyes. - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” said I, “you will then be free to leave, if you still wish it. But - I doubt if you will.” - </p> - <p> - “Your doubt is groundless, sir. However, if it pleases you to cherish it, - you may do so till the hour is finished.” - </p> - <p> - “No, I cannot think my doubt is groundless. I told you I believed I should - be able to show you a better way out of your troubles than the desperate - one that you were purposing to take; and now I will make good my promise.” - </p> - <p> - “Being more fully acquainted with my own affairs than you are, I assure - you that your promise is one which cannot by any possibility be made - good.” - </p> - <p> - “Time will prove or disprove the truth of that assertion. To begin with, - may I ask you a question or two?” - </p> - <p> - “You may ask me twenty questions. I do not pledge myself to answer them.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, will you answer this one? Am I right in having understood you to - say, when we were below there, on the wharf, that you have no friends or - kindred whose feelings you are bound to consider in determining your - conduct, and no worldly ties or associations which you are bound to - respect?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, you are right in that.” - </p> - <p> - “I am right in having understood you to say that; but is what you said - true?” - </p> - <p> - “Which would imply that you suspect me of having lied,” she returned, with - an unlovely smile. “Well, I don't blame you. I am a skilful and habitual - liar, and I daresay it shows in my face. But in that case I broke my rule, - and told the truth.” - </p> - <p> - “My dear madam, I intended no such imputation. But you were agitated and - excited; and sometimes under the stress of our excitement we unwittingly - exaggerate.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, I did not exaggerate. What I told you was literally true.” - </p> - <p> - “And the rest that you said? That also you re-affirm? That you are - penniless, homeless, wretchedly unhappy, and weary of life? It seems - brutal for me to state it thus; but I must understand clearly, for a - purpose which you will presently see.” - </p> - <p> - “You need not apologise, sir. This is no occasion for mincing matters. - Yes, I am penniless, homeless, wretchedly unhappy, and weary of life. But - I am worse than that. I am bad. I am utterly base and degraded. Look at - me,” she added, fixing her eyes boldly, even defiantly, upon mine. - “Examine me. I am a rare specimen. Very probably you have never seen my - like before, and never will again. I am an example of—” she paused - and laughed; and there was something in her laughter that made me shudder—“of - total depravity,” she concluded. Then suddenly her manner changed, and she - became very grave. “Would you entertain a leper in your house, sir? Yet I - have been told that I am a moral leper. I have been told that the - corruption-spot upon me reaches in to the core. And I think my informant - put it very moderately. If you suspected the crimes I have been guilty of, - the worse crimes that I have meditated, and only failed to commit because - of material obstacles that I could not overcome, you would not harbour me - in your house for a single minute. You would feel that my presence was a - contamination: that I polluted the chair I sit in, the floor under my - feet. The glass I just drank from—you would shatter it into bits, - that no innocent man or woman might ever put lips to it again. There! - can't you see now that I am beyond help, beyond hope? What have I to live - for? I am an incumbrance upon the face of the earth, and hateful to myself - into the bargain. Why keep me here an hour? Let us rescind our - compromise.* Let me go at once.” - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * It is possible that here and elsewhere Dr. Benary, in - reporting conversations from memory, puts into the mouths of - his interlocutors words and phrases from his own vocabulary, - at the same time, without doubt, giving the substance and - the spirit of their remarks correctly. “Let us rescind our - compromise,” at any rate, falling from the lips of a woman, - has, to say the least, an unrealistic sound.—-Editor. -</pre> - <p> - She rose, and stood restive, as if expecting a dismissal. - </p> - <p> - “No, no; you must stay out your hour, at all events,” I insisted. “Sit - down again. I am sure you are not so black as you paint yourself; and in - any case, guilt confessed and repented of is more than half atoned for.” - </p> - <p> - “That is not so, to begin with,” she retorted; “that is the shallowest, - hollowest sort of cant. It may pass with people who know guilt only by - hearsay, but is ridiculous to those who, like myself, have a knowledge of - the subject at first hand. - </p> - <p> - “Guilt, crime, is atoned for only when it is undone, and all its - consequences are obliterated. And now, speaking from my first-hand - knowledge of the subject, I will tell you two things—first, all the - confession and repentance in the world cannot undo a crime once done, nor - obliterate its consequences; secondly, nothing can. You are a physician; I - take it, therefore, you are familiar with the first principles of science: - with what they call, I think, the Law of the Persistence of Force, the Law - of the Conservation of Energy. If you understand that law, you will not - dispute this simple application of it: a crime once done can never be - undone; its consequences are ineradicable and eternal. Well and good. It - is a puerility, in the face of the Law of the Persistence of Force, to - talk of atonement. Atonement could come to pass only by means of a miracle—a - suspension of Nature, and the interposition of a Supernatural Power. And - that is where the Christians, with their dogma of vicarious atonement, are - more rational than all the Rationalists from <i>a to zed</i>. So much for - atonement. And now, as to repentance—who said that I repented? - Repentance! Remorse! I will give you another piece of information, also - speaking from firsthand knowledge. Repentance and Remorse are unmeaning - sounds. There are no realities, no <i>things</i>, to correspond with them. - I do not repent. No man or woman, from the beginning of time, has ever yet - repented, in your sense of the word. We regret the losses that our crimes - entail upon us: yes. We suffer because our crimes find us out, because - retribution overtakes us: yes. But repent? We do not repent. Most of us - pretend to. But I will be frank; I will not pretend. - </p> - <p> - “I suffer because the punishment which, by my crimes, I have brought down - upon myself, is greater than I can bear; I suffer, too, because the last - purpose I had left to live for, which was also a criminal purpose, has - been defeated. But I do not repent. I will not pretend to repent.” - </p> - <p> - “Be all which as it may, I will repeat what I said before: I do not - believe that you are so black as you paint yourself. You, young, - beautiful, intelligent—no, no. But even if you were ten times - blacker, it would make no difference to me. For, look you, since you have - introduced a question of science, and favoured me with a scientific - generalisation, I will pursue the question a little further, and cap your - generalisation with another: namely, good, bad, or indifferent, we are not - our own creators; we do not make ourselves; we are the resultants of our - Heredity and our Environment; and our actions, whether criminal or the - reverse, are determined not by free-will, but by necessity. I will not - enlarge upon that generalisation; I will leave its corollaries for your - own imagination to perceive. But in view of it, I will say again: even if - you were ten times blacker, it would make no difference to me. You are no - more to blame for the colour of your soul than for the colour of your - hair.” - </p> - <p> - “You are very magnanimous,” she said bitterly, “and your doctrine would - sound well in a criminal court.” - </p> - <p> - “Think of me as scornfully as you will,” I returned, “I am very sincerely - anxious to befriend you.” - </p> - <p> - “If that is true, you have it in your power to do so with marvellous - ease.” - </p> - <p> - “How so?” I queried. - </p> - <p> - “Absolve me from my agreement to stay here an hour. Sit still there in - your chair, and let me go about my business unmolested and at once.” - </p> - <p> - “No; to that agreement I must hold you, for your own sake. I have much to - say to you, if you would only let me once get started.” - </p> - <p> - “Good God, sir!” she cried, springing up in passion. “You drive me to - extremes. Do you know that you are violating the laws of the State in - harbouring me here?—that you are exposing yourself to the risk of - prosecution?” - </p> - <p> - “I know that I should be violating the laws of humanity if I suffered you - to lay violent hands upon yourself so long as I have it in my power to - restrain you. As for the laws of the State, do you mean that you can bring - an action against me for damages in interfering with your personal - liberty? I doubt if you will do so. And I am sure no jury, apprised of the - circumstances, would find against me.” - </p> - <p> - “You are still in ignorance of the situation.” said she. “Now open your - eyes.” - </p> - <p> - With that she threw off the waterproof cloak in which she was enveloped, - and stood before me in the blue and white striped uniform of a Deadlock - Island convict. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER IV.—THE DOCTOR SPEAKS. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> confess my heart - leapt into my throat, and I gasped for breath. She, witnessing my - stupefaction, laughed, as if in cynical enjoyment of it. - </p> - <p> - After a little: “I think now you will permit me to bid you good evening,” - she said with mock ceremoniousness. - </p> - <p> - “You—you have escaped from prison!” I faltered out. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, from the Penitentiary across the river. You see, though we have - never met until to-night, we have been neighbours, living within sight - each of the other's residence, for some time. Two years already I have - spent, somewhat monotonously, upon Deadlock Island; and, to employ - technical language, I was 'in' for a term of which that was but an - insignificant fraction. I had, however, certain business to transact here - in town—a little matter to arrange with the gentleman who was the - principal witness for the prosecution at my trial—and I seized, - therefore, upon the first opportunity that presented itself to come hither - incognito. But when I arrived I found that Fate, with her usual - perversity, had put it out of my power to transact that business, the - party of the second part having died from natural causes. Thus the one - last only purpose I had left to live for had become impossible of - accomplishment. And now I wish for nothing except death. At last even you - must see the absurdity of my staying longer here in your house. Let me <i>go</i>.” - </p> - <p> - “You say,” I rejoined, having by this time recovered somewhat of my - equanimity; “you say that you wish for nothing except death. Say what you - will, I do not believe that you wish for death at all.” - </p> - <p> - “To that I can only answer that you deceive yourself.” - </p> - <p> - “No, it is you who deceive yourself. What you wish for is not death, but - change—a change of condition. No truer words were ever spoken than - those of Tennyson's:— - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Whatever crazy sorrow saith, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - No life that breathes with human breath - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Has ever truly longed for death. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - What you crave under the name of death is forgetfulness. You yourself - compressed the whole truth into five words when you said: 'To live is to - remember.' Your inference was that to die is to forget. It is memory that - agonizes you; it is the past which lives in memory that handicaps you, - that hangs like a mill-stone round your neck, and goads you to despair. If - you could forget, if you could erase the entire past from your - consciousness, you would cease to suffer. Is not that true?” - </p> - <p> - “True enough, perhaps. But without pertinence. A quibble. Forgetfulness is - what I wish for, yes. But there is no forgetfulness except in death—no - Lethe save the Styx.” - </p> - <p> - “No forgetfulness <i>except</i> in death? You assume, then, that there <i>is</i> - forgetfulness in death; a bold assumption. Have you no dread of something - after death, the undiscovered country? Do you ignore the possibility of a - future life? Suppose, beyond the grave, you preserve your identity—that - is to say, your memory: in what respect will you have gained by the - change?” - </p> - <p> - “I must take my risks. This much I know for certain: there is no - forgetfulness in life. In death there may be. I will take my chances. Am I - not in hell now? Any change must be a change for the better. I will take - the risks.” - </p> - <p> - “You say there is no forgetfulness in life. But suppose there were? - Suppose it were possible for you to obtain total and permanent - forgetfulness without dying, without taking those risks, without taking - any risks at all? Suppose some one should come to you and say: 'See! I - have it in my power to bestow upon you total and permanent obliviousness, - so that the entire past, with all its events and circumstances, shall be - perfectly effaced from your mind; so that you shall not even recall your - name, nor your language; but, with unimpaired bodily health and mental - capacities, shall begin life afresh, like the new-born infant, speechless, - innocent, regenerated; another person, and yet the same:—suppose - some one should come to you and offer that?” - </p> - <p> - “It is an idle supposition! The age of miracles has passed.” - </p> - <p> - “An idle supposition? You deem it such? Let us see, let us consider. To - begin with, answer me this: Have you never heard or read—in - conversation, newspaper, medical report, or novel—have you never - heard or read, I say, of a case where, through an accident, a human being - has had befall him exactly the experience which I have just described? A - case where a lesion of the cerebral tissues, caused perhaps by disease, - perhaps by a concussion of the brain, or by a fracture of the skull, has - resulted in the total annihilation of memory, without injury to the other - intellectual faculties, so that the patient, upon recovering health and - consciousness, could remember absolutely nothing of the past—neither - his name, nor his nationality, nor the face of his father or mother, nor - even how to speak, walk, eat—but was literally <i>born anew</i>, and - had to begin life over again from the start? Surely, everybody who has - ears has heard, everybody who can read has read, of cases of that nature?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes; I have read of such cases, certainly.” - </p> - <p> - “Very well. You have read of such cases. So!—Now, then, suppose an - accident of that sort should befall <i>you?</i> Everything you can hope - for from death would come to pass, and yet you would live. What better - could you desire? - </p> - <p> - “And yet <i>I</i> would live? Hardly. My body would live, true. But <i>I</i>, - my personality, my identity, would have vanished. For is not the very pith - and marrow of one's identity, remembrance? Is not memory the birthmark, so - to speak, by which one recognises one's-self? Is it not the cord upon - which one's experiences are strung, which holds them together, and - establishes their unity? My body would live, true enough. But it would be - inhabited and animated by another spirit, another mind.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, even so? It is the extinction of your identity which you seek to - bring about by means of death. But you have no ground for supposing that - death involves any such extinction. Atheist, agnostic, what you will, you - must always acknowledge and allow for that possibility of a future life. - Whereas, the man or woman to whom the accident happens which we have - assumed, obtains for a surety that which he or she can only dubiously hope - for from death.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah, but there is a mighty difference. It is not within my power to cause - such an accident. It <i>is</i> within my power to die.” - </p> - <p> - “Not within your power to cause such an accident? Not within <i>your</i> - power, I grant. But will you say that it is not within human power, not - within any man's power? Imagine whatever human circumstance you like, - which can come to pass by accident. Then, speaking <i>à priori</i>, tell - me of any conclusive reason why that circumstance should not be brought to - pass by design? Why man, investigating the causes of it, enlightened by - his science, employing his cunning, should not be able at will to occasion - it? Take this very case in hand—the total obliteration of a human - being memory of the past. A blow upon the head, the result of an accident, - can occasion it. Why not a blow upon the head, the result of man's - deliberate purpose? Insanity, small-pox, consumption, paralysis, deafness, - blindness—each of these it would be entirely possible for man - voluntarily to induce. Why not oblivion?” - </p> - <p> - “I have never heard of its being done. I once read a novel in which - something of the kind was related—'Dr. Heidenhoff's Process'—but - even in that novel, the author had not the audacity to pretend that his - story was possible; it turned out to be a dream. But then, after all, that - was quite a different thing. It was the obliteration not of the whole - memory, but simply the memory of one particular fact or group of facts. - The memory in respect of other facts remained intact.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah, that indeed! That, of course, it may not as yet be within the power - of science to accomplish. That, as yet, I will grant you, is only the - material for a romancer's fancy. I cannot cause you to forget any one fact - or train of facts, while leaving your memory unaffected regarding other - facts. But the obliteration of the whole memory is a very different - matter. It has happened frequently by accident. You have never heard of - its being effected by design, though you will acknowledge the theoretical - possibility of its being so effected. Well and good. Now the truth is - this: not only is it theoretically possible, but it is practically - feasible.. It can be done; and I, even I, can do it. That same - obliviousness which, as the case-books of physicians bear abundant - testimony, Nature often produces through the medium of disease or - violence, I—I who speak to you—I can produce by means of a - surgical operation.” - </p> - <p> - “It is incredible,” said she. - </p> - <p> - “Incredible or not, it is a fact,” said I. “What a stone striking you upon - the head may accomplish, I can accomplish with my instruments. I can cause - a depression of one of the bones of your skull, at a certain point upon - the tissues of the brain, so that, when you recover from the influence of - the anaesthetic which I administer, you are returned to the mental and - moral condition of infancy. You remember nothing. You know nothing. Your - mind is as a blank sheet of paper. The past is abolished. The future is - before you.” - </p> - <p> - “If what you say is true, you possess a terrible power. Are surgeons - generally able to do this?” - </p> - <p> - “Every intelligent surgeon must recognise the antecedent possibility of - the operation. But when you ask me whether surgeons generally know how to - perform it, I suppose that they do not. It is a discovery which I have - made, by the examination of a large number of skulls, and the dissection - of a large number of brains. I have never communicated it to anybody else. - Others, for all I know, may have made the same discovery independently.” - </p> - <p> - “But why have you kept it a secret? It would have made you famous.” - </p> - <p> - “I have had many reasons for keeping it a secret. You yourself have named - one of them: it is a terrible power. I have not thought it prudent as yet - to put it into the hands of the faculty at large; but it will be published - after, if not before, my death.” - </p> - <p> - “You say you <i>can</i> do this. <i>Have</i> you ever done it?” - </p> - <p> - “Upon a human being—no. Upon animals—upon dogs, monkeys, and - horses—yes; often, and with unvarying success.” - </p> - <p> - “Animals, indeed!” She smiled. “But never upon a human being. It is a - descent from the sublime to the grotesque. You are anxious to obtain a - subject?” - </p> - <p> - “I will not deny that I should be glad to obtain a subject, if it pleases - you to put it in that downright way. I have never performed the operation - upon a human being; but I can predict with absolute assurance just what - its consequences upon a human being would be.” - </p> - <p> - “Let me hear your prediction.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, to begin with, let me tell you the circumstances of an actual case, - which came under my observation, where the thing happened accidentally. - The patient was a Frenchman, thirty-two years old, in robust health. I - think, from the point of view of morals, he was the most depraved wretch - it was ever my bad fortune to encounter. He was a brute, a sot, a liar, a - thief—a bad lot all round. I chanced to know a good deal about him, - because he was the husband of a servant in my family. The affair occurred - more than thirty years ago. I say he was a depraved wretch. What does that - mean? It means that, like every mother's son of us, he came into this - world a bundle of potentialities, of latent spiritual potentialities, - inherited from his million or more of ancestors, some of these - potentialities being for good, others of them for evil; and it means that - his environment had been such, and had so acted upon him, as to develop - those that were for evil, and to leave dormant those that were for good. - That wants to be borne in mind. Very well. He was the husband of a servant - in my family, a most respectable and virtuous woman, also French, who - would have nothing to do with him; but whom it was his pleasantest - amusement to torment by hanging around our house, seeking to waylay her - when she went abroad, striving to gain admittance when she was within - doors. Late one evening we above stairs were surprised by the noise of a - disturbance in the kitchen: a man's voice, a woman's voice, loud in - altercation. I hurried down to learn the occasion of it. Halfway there, my - ears were startled by the sudden short sound of a pistol-shot, followed by - dead silence. I entered the kitchen, but arrived a moment too late. Our - woman servant stood in the centre of the floor, holding a smoking revolver - in her hand. Her husband lay prostrate, unconscious, perhaps dead, at her - feet. I demanded an explanation. It appeared that he had stolen into the - kitchen, where his wife sat alone, and, coming upon her suddenly, had - attempted to abduct and carry her off by main force. The foolish woman - confessed that some days before she had bought herself a pistol, with a - view to just such an emergency as this; and now she had used it. Well, I - examined the man, and I found, to my great relief, that he was not dead, - and that, she being but an indifferent marks-woman, the ball had not even - entered his body. It had struck him on the head at an oblique angle, and - had glanced off. However, it had injured him quite seriously enough, - having, indeed, fractured his skull at a certain point. We carried him - upstairs, and put him to bed. For upwards of sixty hours—nearly - three days—he lay in total unconsciousness. For six weeks he lay in - a stupor just a hair's breadth removed from total unconsciousness; but - by-and-by his wound had healed, and he was convalescent. Now, however, - what was his mental condition? Precisely that of a new-born baby! His - memory had been utterly destroyed. He had forgotten the simplest primary - functions of life: how to speak, how to eat, how to walk, how to use his - fingers. He could not remember his name; he could not recognise his wife. - He had all the lessons of experience to learn anew. But you must recollect - that, being an adult, his brain, as an organ, was full-grown, was mature. - Therefore, he acquired knowledge with astonishing rapidity—learning - almost as much in a fortnight as a child learns in a year. At the end of - one month after we began his education, he could walk, feed himself, dress - himself, and was beginning to talk. At the end of six months he spoke as - fluently as I do—English, mind you, not French, which had been his - mother-tongue. At the end of a year he read without difficulty, and wrote - a good hand. What was most remarkable, however, though entirely natural, - his moral nature had undergone a complete transformation. In a new - environment, treated with kindness, surrounded by wholesome influences, - 'trained up in the way he should go,' and absolutely oblivious of every - fact, event, circumstance, and association of his past, he became a new, - another, an entirely different man. Now, of the million spiritual - potentialities, predispositions, that heredity had implanted in him, those - that made for good were vivified, those that made for bad left dormant. He - was as decent and as honest a fellow as one could wish to meet, and he had - plenty of intelligence and common sense. I kept him in my service, as a - sort of general factotum, for more than twenty years; then he died. Before - his death he made a will, bequeathing to me the only thing of especial - value that he had to leave behind him. Here it is.” - </p> - <p> - I unlocked a cabinet, and produced from it a skull. - </p> - <p> - “Let me see it,” she said eagerly. - </p> - <p> - She took it in her hands, without the faintest show of repugnance, and - studied it intently. - </p> - <p> - “It is like a fairy-tale. It is marvellous,” she said at last. - </p> - <p> - “Science abounds in marvels no less stupendous,” said I. “It was my - observation of that man's case, and of the beneficent results of it, that - suggested to me the possibility of bringing such things to pass of a set, - purpose.” - </p> - <p> - “For years I have made the brain and the skull a study, with that - possibility in view. I am able to say now that I can perform the operation - with perfect certainty of success.” - </p> - <p> - “But,” she went on, after a pause, “it is scarcely inspiring to think that - the character, the morality, of a human being, can be influenced, can be - radically altered, by a mere physical condition like that—to think - that the character of the soul can be changed by a change in the structure - of the body. It is enough to establish materialism pure and simple; the - only logical consequences of which are cynicism and pessimism.” - </p> - <p> - “It is certainly one of the many psychological facts which go to prove - that while it is the tenant of the body the soul must adapt itself to its - habitation.” - </p> - <p> - “It would seem to prove that the soul is not simply the tenant of the - body, but its slave, its victim, its creature. As the materialists express - it, that mind, thought, emotion, are but functions of the brain.” - </p> - <p> - “It would perhaps lend colour to that hypothesis; but it does not prove - it. Nothing can be proved relative to the human soul. Like all elemental - things, it is in its very essence an insoluble mystery. All elemental - things? Nay, it is <i>the</i> elemental thing, the ultimate thing, the - only thing we know at first hand. All other things we know only as they - are mirrored in it; we know them only by the impressions they produce upon - our souls. Ten thousand hypotheses concerning it—concerning its - origin, its nature, its meaning, its destiny—are equally plausible, - equally inadequate. It cannot by seeking be found out.” - </p> - <p> - She was silent now for a long while. At last, “Will you describe your - operation to me?” she inquired. - </p> - <p> - “You would need a medical education to follow such a description.” - </p> - <p> - “Is it anything like what they call trepanning, or trephining?” - </p> - <p> - “But very remotely. A partial fracture, and a depression, of the bone are - caused; but no particle of it is removed.” - </p> - <p> - “What is the worst that could happen, in case of the operation - miscarrying? What would be the chances of the subject's losing not only - his memory, but his reason—becoming an imbecile or a maniac?” - </p> - <p> - “There is no chance of that. The worst that could happen would be death. - It is as safe an operation as any in which the knife is employed. But, of - course, in all operations which involve the use of the knife there is some - danger. There is always the possibility of inflammation. But that - possibility is by no means a probability. The chances are largely against - it.” - </p> - <p> - “So that you are sure one of two things would happen either the operation - would prove a success, or the patient would die?” - </p> - <p> - “Exactly so.” - </p> - <p> - “How much time would have to elapse after the operation, before the - patient would be able to take care of himself again—before he would - have regained sufficient knowledge to act as a responsible and competent - human being?” - </p> - <p> - “I should say a year. Perhaps more, perhaps less. But I will say a year.” - </p> - <p> - “And during that year? Suppose, for example, that I should offer myself to - you as a subject—how should I be provided for during the period of - my incompetence? And what education should I receive?” - </p> - <p> - “You would be provided for by me. You would be lodged and taken care of - here in this house. My sister, ten years younger than I, the kindest and - the gentlest of women, would be your nurse, your companion, and your - teacher. We would give you the same education that we would give a child - of our own.” - </p> - <p> - “I beg your pardon, but you have not told me your name.” - </p> - <p> - “My name is Benary—Leonard Benary.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, Dr. Benary, I am willing to submit to your operation. I make no - professions of gratitude, for—though, whether it kills me or - regenerates me, I shall be equally your debtor—I take it you are not - sorry to find a subject to experiment upon; and therefore it will be a - fair exchange, and no robbery. Will you proceed with the operation here, - now, to-night?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, dear me, no. You must have some sleep first. I will call my sister. - She will show you to a room. Then, perhaps, to-morrow, after a good - night's rest, you will be in a favourable condition.” - </p> - <p> - “But your sister—what will she say to this?” She pointed to her - prison-garb. - </p> - <p> - “If you will wait here while I go to summon her, I can promise you a - kindly welcome from her. I shall explain all the circumstances to her; and - she will not mind your costume.” - </p> - <p> - And I went upstairs to rouse my sister, Miss Josephine Benary. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER V.—THE DOCTOR ACTS. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">N</span>ext morning, at - about eleven o'clock, my good sister Josephine came to me in my study, and - said, “She is awake now and wishes to see you.” - </p> - <p> - “I am at her service,” I replied. “Will she join me here?” - </p> - <p> - “She is eager to have you operate. She asked me where you would do so. I - told her I supposed there, in her bed. Then she said she would not waste - time by getting up, and wished me to tell you that she is waiting to have - it done. I suspect that she is partly influenced by a reluctance to put on - her prison uniform again. I should have offered her the use of my - wardrobe, but she is so much taller and larger than I, that that would be - absurd.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, to be sure, so it would. Very well. I will go to her directly. If - she is in a favourable condition of mind and body, it will, perhaps, be as - well not to delay. But first tell me—you have held some conversation - with her?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, a little.” - </p> - <p> - “And what impression do you form of her character?” - </p> - <p> - “She is very pretty. She is even beautiful.” - </p> - <p> - I laughed. “What has that to do with her character?99 - </p> - <p> - “I infer her character as much from her appearance as from her behaviour, - as much from her physiognomy as from her speech.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I see. And your inference is?” - </p> - <p> - “I cannot be quite sure. There is a certain hardness in her face, a - certain cynical listlessness in her manner, which may indicate a vice of - character, but which may, on the other hand, result simply from hardship - and suffering. She is undoubtedly clever. She has received a good - education; she expresses herself well; she has a marvellously musical - voice. Yet, on the whole, I cannot say that I find her likeable or - agreeable. She seems to proceed upon the assumption that nobody is moved - by any but selfish motives; that everybody has an axe to grind; and that - she must be constantly on her guard lest we take some advantage of her. - She is horribly suspicious.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, go on.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, I do not know that I can say anything more. I cannot quite fathom - her—quite make her out. It is a question in my mind whether she is - naturally a young woman of good instincts, whose passions have betrayed - her into the commission of some crime, or whether she is inherently and - intrinsically corrupt.” - </p> - <p> - “Towards which alternative do you incline?” - </p> - <p> - “I do not like to express a final opinion; but I am afraid, from what - little I have seen of her, I am afraid that I incline towards the latter.” - </p> - <p> - “That she is intrinsically bad. Well, it will be interesting, after our - operation, to see whether, in a new environment, under new conditions, the - good that is latent in her—as good is latent in every human soul—will - be developed. And now will you come with me to her room?” - </p> - <p> - “Will she not prefer to see you alone?” - </p> - <p> - “Why should she? Come, let us go.” - </p> - <p> - We found her sitting up in bed, waiting for us. By daylight she seemed to - me even more beautiful than she had seemed by gaslight. Her features were - strongly yet finely modelled; her skin was exquisitely delicate, both in - texture and in colour; and her eyes were wonderfully liquid and - translucent. But an expression of deep melancholy brooded over her whole - countenance; while underlying that again, was certainly visible the - cynical hardness that Josephine had complained of. - </p> - <p> - Having wished her good-morning, I proceeded at once to my business as a - physician; ascertained her pulse and her temperature, and inquired how she - had slept. - </p> - <p> - “I have not had such a night's sleep for I know not how long,” she - answered. “Heaven knows I had enough to think about to keep me awake, yet - I must have lain in total unconsciousness for fully nine hours. What was - most grateful, I did not dream. All which leads me to suspect that, - despite your protestations to the contrary, the medicine you made me drink - last evening contained an opiate.” - </p> - <p> - “The medicine I prevailed upon you to drink last evening,” I explained, - “was the mildest composing-draught known to the Pharmacopoeia—a most - harmless mixture of orange-flower water, bromide, and sugar. If it had the - effect of a sleeping-potion, I am very glad to learn it, for it indicates - the degree of your nervous susceptibility—a point upon which it is - highly desirable that I should be informed. And are you still of the same - mind in which I left you? You have not reconsidered your determination?” - </p> - <p> - “No. I am still ready to be killed or regenerated—I am really quite - indifferent which. When I awoke this morning, I could not help fancying - that the conversation which I seemed to recall had never really taken - place—that I had dreamed it. But this lady, your sister, assures me - that my doubt is groundless. Now I can only request you to begin and get - over with it as soon as possible.” - </p> - <p> - “My beginning must be in the nature of an interrogatory. I must ask you - for certain information.” - </p> - <p> - “Very well. Ask.” - </p> - <p> - “My questions shall be few: only those formal ones which, as a physician, - I should put to any patient whom I was about to treat. First, then, what - is your name?” - </p> - <p> - “My name is Louise Massarte, spelt M-a-s-s-a-r-t-e.” - </p> - <p> - I opened my case-book, prepared my fountain-pen for action, and wrote - “Louise Massarte.” - </p> - <p> - “It is a foreign name, is it not?” I inquired “Were you born in this - country?” - </p> - <p> - “Like the other hopeful subject of whom you told me last night, I was born - in France—at the city of Tours.” - </p> - <p> - “Native of France,” I wrote. Then aloud s “Of French parents?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I am French by descent and by place of birth. But I have lived in - America all my life. I was brought here when I was two years old.” - </p> - <p> - “But you speak French, I take it?” - </p> - <p> - “I speak French and English with equal ease.” - </p> - <p> - “Any other language?” - </p> - <p> - “No other.” - </p> - <p> - “How old are you, if you will forgive my asking?” - </p> - <p> - “I shall be six-and-twenty on the eighth of August.” - </p> - <p> - “Are your parents living?” - </p> - <p> - “Both my father and mother are long since dead.” - </p> - <p> - “Have you any brothers or sisters?” - </p> - <p> - “I was an only child.” - </p> - <p> - “Are you married or single?” - </p> - <p> - “I have never been married.” - </p> - <p> - “And now, finally, is there any fact or circumstance which you would like - to mention and have recorded? For, you must bear in mind, you will shortly - have forgotten everything connected with your past; and if there is - anything you will wish to remember, you had better tell it to me now, and - I will make a memorandum of it.” - </p> - <p> - “There is nothing that I shall wish to remember,” she replied. “Nothing - but what I shall be glad to forget. However, I fancy what you say is but a - hint to the effect that you are curious to know my history. I have no - objection in telling it to you. It is not an edifying history. Most women, - I daresay, would be ashamed to tell it; but I have got beyond even - pretending to feel ashamed of anything; and if you desire to hear it, you - have only to say so.” - </p> - <p> - “On the contrary,” I rejoined, “you must not think of telling it. It would - excite you and fatigue you; whereas it is of the highest importance for - the success of our operation that you should be at rest in mind as well as - in body. Besides, and irrespective of that consideration, it is better - that neither my sister, nor I, nor indeed any living person, should hear - it. You yourself will in a little while have forgotten it. What right has - anybody else to remember it?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, well, you will doubtless find the gist of it in the morning paper. It - will in all likelihood be printed with an account of my escape from the - Penitentiary,” she returned. - </p> - <p> - At which insinuation my sister Josephine cried out, “You little know my - brother. There is indeed something about your escape in the morning paper; - but the instant he discovered the headlines of the article, he said, 'This - is something, Josephine, that neither you nor I must read.' And he threw - the paper into the fireplace, and applied a match to it.” - </p> - <p> - The woman made no answer. - </p> - <p> - I left the room and descended to my study, where I procured my instruments - and the requisite anæsthetic. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER VI.—MIRIAM BENARY. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> watched her - carefully as she recovered from the effects of the ether. An uncommonly - small quantity of that drug had sufficed to deprive her of her senses; and - now her recovery was unusually speedy. - </p> - <p> - Having taken her respiration, her temperature, and her pulse, and having - found each to be nearly normal, I looked her straight in the eyes, and - demanded, making every syllable clear and emphatic, “Louise Massarte, do - you know me?” - </p> - <p> - Had I addressed my inquiry to a month-old infant, the result would have - been the same. - </p> - <p> - I repeated the question in French: “Louise Massarte, <i>me reconnaissez - vous?</i>”—with precisely the same negative result. - </p> - <p> - I then wrote the question both in French and English upon a slip of paper, - and held it before her eyes. - </p> - <p> - No sign of intelligence. - </p> - <p> - In the end I applied tests to each of her five senses, and satisfied - myself that each was unimpaired. - </p> - <p> - After which, “Well, Josephine,” I said, “unless all signs fail, we have - succeeded to admiration. None of her senses have sustained the slightest - injury, yet she has lost the knowledge of language, both spoken and - written. Louise Massarte is dead, annihilated, abolished from the face of - creation. This is a new-born infant, this apparently full-grown woman - lying here. Her soul is still to develop and unfold itself. It will be for - us to shape it, to colour it, to direct it towards good or evil. Heredity - has furnished the capacities, the propensities, which her environment will - quicken, stimulate, cause to grow and to ripen. And it is for us to - provide and to regulate that environment. May Heaven guide our labours.” - </p> - <p> - “Amen, heartily. It is an awful responsibility. And yet———-” - </p> - <p> - “And yet?” - </p> - <p> - “And yet I cannot help hoping for the best. Look at her, brother. See how - beautiful she is. Surely, such a beautiful face must be meant to go with a - beautiful spirit. Already the expression of bitterness, of hardness, of - suspicion, seems to have faded from it. It is as if it had been washed in - some element infinitely cleansing. I never saw a more innocent face than - hers has become already. Yes, I am sure we may hope for the best.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, for the present, we need concern ourselves only for the welfare of - her body. We must darken the room. Inflammation is the only ill - consequence we have to fear; and that can be averted, if we keep her in - darkness and in silence until the wound has healed.” - </p> - <p> - The wound healed quickly. Not an unpleasant symptom of any kind manifested - itself. And, as I had foreseen she would do, our patient relearned the - primary lessons of life with an ease and a rapidity that seemed almost - incredible. I had anticipated this because she was an adult; because, that - is to say, her brain, as an organ, was of mature development. - </p> - <p> - She began to speak as soon as ever we allowed ourselves to speak in her - presence, at first simply imitating the sounds we made, but very speedily - coming to employ words with understanding. A single lesson taught her how - to walk. After my sister had dressed her twice, she was perfectly well - able to dress herself—no trivial achievement when the intricacy of - the feminine toilet is borne in mind. At the end of an incredibly short - period of time she could read and write as easily as I can. Of the former - capability she made good use, devouring eagerly all such books as we - thought wise to give her. Her progress, in a word, precisely corresponded - to that made by a bright child, only it was infinitely more rapid; and - what a fascinating thing it was to observe, I need not stop to tell. It - was like watching the growth and blossoming of some most wonderful and - beautiful flower. We were permitted, so to speak, to be eye-witnesses of a - miracle. If you had met her at the expiration of one year, and had - conversed with her, you would have put her down for a singularly - intelligent and well-informed, yet at the same time singularly innocent - and unsophisticated, girl of eighteen. Yes, I mean it—a girl of - eighteen. For the most astonishing result of my operation—most - astonishing because least expected—was this: that in body as well as - in mind she seemed to have been rejuvenated. With the obliteration of her - memory, every trace of experience faded from her face. You would have laid - a wager that it was the face of a young maiden not yet out of her teens. - She had said that she was all but six-and-twenty. It was unbelievable when - you looked at her now. To the desperate-eyed woman whom I had dissuaded - from self-destruction on that clouded Bummer's night a year gone by, she - bore only such a resemblance as a younger sister might have borne. To - Josephine I remarked, “Is it possible that we have builded better than we - knew? That we have stumbled upon the discovery which the alchemists sought - in vain—the Elixir of Youth?” - </p> - <p> - “Indeed,” Josephine assented, “she has grown many years younger. She has - the appearance and the manner of seventeen.” - </p> - <p> - “It only proves,” said I, “the truth of the oft-repeated commonplace: that - it is experience and not time which ages one; time being simply the - receptacle and measure of experience. Could we double the rate of our - experience—experiencing as much in one year as we are now able to - experience in two—we should grow old just twice as quickly, reaching - at thirty-five the limit which we now reach at threescore-and-ten. - Contrariwise, could we halve the rate of our experience—requiring - two years to experience what we can now experience in one—we should - grow old just twice as slowly, being mere boys at forty, and at seventy in - the very prime of early manhood. Our consciousness of time, in other - words, is simply the consciousness of so much experience. Well and good. - Now, in this case, her experience has been undone. That is to say, her - memory, the storehouse of her experience, has been destroyed. Past time, - so far as it affects her mind, has been neutralised, has been cancelled - out of her equation. Hence this return to adolescence. Her bodily - structure—the size and shape of her bones, and all that—of - course remains as it was. But her spirit returns to the condition of - youth; and, since it is the spirit which animates the body, it gives to - her body the expression and the activity of its own age.” - </p> - <p> - Then I offered to perform my operation upon Josephine herself, to the end - that she also might enjoy a restored youth: which offer Josephine - haughtily declined. - </p> - <p> - “It is very fortunate,” she added, “that this alteration in her appearance - has taken place, for now it will be impossible for anybody who may have - known her in former days to identify her: a danger which otherwise we - should have had to fear.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” I acquiesced, “that is very true.” - </p> - <p> - The disposition which our visitor developed, furthermore, better than - answered to our most sanguine anticipations. Her new environment vivified - the best of those propensities which heredity had implanted in her, and - left dormant those that were for evil. Her quality was so sweet and - winning, that in a little while she had taken our old hearts captive, and - become the delight and the treasure of our home. We loved her like a - daughter; and the notion that we might some time have to part with her was - intolerable. Therefore, we put our heads together, and entered into a - pious conspiracy, agreeing to represent to her that she was our niece, the - child of our brother, an orphan, eighteen years old, by name Miriam, who, - on the 14th day of June, 1884, had sustained an accident which had - destroyed her recollection of the past. As our niece, recently arrived - from England, we introduced her to our friends. She reciprocated our - affection in the tenderest manner, called us aunt and uncle, and was in - every respect a blessing to our lives—so beautiful, so gentle, so - merry, so devoted. - </p> - <p> - This mysterious and impressive circumstance I must not for one moment - allow to be lost sight of:—That, of all living human beings, she who - least suspected that such a woman as Louise Massarte had ever lived, - sinned, suffered, was Miriam Benary. She upon whom Louise Massarte's life, - sins, and sufferings had least effect or influence, was Miriam Benary. Her - identity was in every respect as separate, and as distinct from that of - Louise Massarte, as mine is from my reader's. Louise Massarte was dead, - dead utterly. Into her tenement of clay a new soul had entered It was a - fearful and wonderful metamorphosis, rich in suggestiveness; a <i>datum</i>, - it seems to me, bearing importantly upon three sciences: Psychology, - Divinity, and Ethics. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - Thus nearly four years elapsed, and it was Monday, the 12th day of March, - 1888, the day of the memorable snowstorm, called the Blizzard. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER VII.—WITHIN AN ACE. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>n that day certain - imperative business demanded my presence in the lawyer's quarter of the - town. I had been summoned, in short, to appear as a witness in a - litigation that was pending in the Court of Common Pleas—a summons - which I felt myself the more disposed to obey inasmuch as a penalty of two - hundred and fifty dollars attached to contempt of it. Therefore, despite - the unprecedented brutality of the weather, and against the earnest - remonstrances of Josephine and Miriam, I was foolhardy enough to venture - out. - </p> - <p> - The clock on our drawing-room mantel marked a few minutes before ten when - I left the house, my immediate destination being the Jefferson Street - Station of the Overhead Railway—distant not more than a quarter of a - mile from my own door, and in ordinary circumstances an easy five minutes' - walk. - </p> - <p> - However, it must be remembered, I was at that time within a few months of - completing my seventieth year; and such a storm was raging, and such a - gale blowing, as might have strained the mettle of a youngster one third - my age: a veritable tempest, indeed, the like of which Adironda had never - in the memory of man experienced before. The mercury stood below zero - Fahrenheit; the wind was travelling at the pace of sixty miles an hour; - and the snow was falling in such unheard of quantities as to obscure the - air like fog. I don't mind owning, therefore, that I was pretty badly - exhausted when I arrived at my journey's end, and that I had consumed a - good half-hour in the process of getting there. - </p> - <p> - My path, as it were, had led through one continuous and unbroken drift, - knee-deep at its shallowest, waist-high at its average, and frequently - engulphing me up to my chin. Through this I had dug and ploughed my way, - with the wind cold and furious in my teeth, and under a running fire of - snow-flakes, frozen so hard, and driven with such force, that they stung - my face like bird-shot, and nearly put out my eyes. I can assure the - reader that it was no child's play. My nose and ears, from burning as if - in a bath of scalding water, had become numb and rigid, like features of - wood. The moisture from my breath had congealed in my beard, until that - appendage felt like an iron mask. My legs were stiff and heavy. My - shoulders ached. My respiration had become painful and laborious; my - heart-action so faint as to induce sickness similar to that which one - suffers at sea. - </p> - <p> - And finally, to cap the climax, when I reached the station, I found a - chain stretched across the entrance to the booking-office, and a placard - announcing that no trains were running! So that I had earned my labour for - my pains; and there was nothing for me to do but to turn my face back - toward home, and retrace my steps. - </p> - <p> - Exhausted as I was, then, I set forth at once upon that undertaking. Of - course, it was excessively imprudent for me to do so, without first - seeking shelter in some public house, and resting there until I had got - warmed through, and in a measure recovered my strength. But I suppose I - did not realise at the moment how far gone I was; and the prospect of - regaining the comfort of my own fireside was a deliciously tempting one. - So off I started, down Jefferson Street, towards Myrtle Avenue. - </p> - <p> - Very soon, however, I had reason to repent my rashness. A hundred yards or - thereabouts from the corner, a mountainous drift of snow stretched - diagonally across the road. I was half blinded; my wits were half frozen; - I underestimated both its depth and its width, and plunged boldly into it. - </p> - <p> - Next instant I found myself buried up to my neck. - </p> - <p> - I struggled to push on. My legs were as immovable as if bound with ropes. - </p> - <p> - Then I strove to dig myself free with my hands. My arms, too, I learned, - were pinioned as in a strait-waistcoat. - </p> - <p> - Here was a pleasant predicament, and one that constantly increased in - interest; for, to say nothing of the deadly and aggressive cold, the snow - was pouring down upon me by the bucket-full; and I appreciated very - vividly the fact that unless I speedily effected an escape, I should be - covered over my head. - </p> - <p> - My only hope, it was obvious, lay in calling for assistance. Whether other - human beings were within hearing distance or not, I had no means of - discovering; for, so opaque was the atmosphere rendered by the multitude - of snow-flakes that filled it, I could see nothing beyond a radius of two - or three yards; and even the houses that lined the street were - indistinguishable, except when, by fits and starts, for a second at a - time, the wind rent asunder the veil that hid them. Nevertheless, my only - hope lay in trying the experiment of a cry for help; and that accordingly - I did, with the utmost energy I could command: - </p> - <p> - “Help! help!” - </p> - <p> - But at the sound of my voice, my heart sank. It was the still, small ghost - of itself, to such a degree had the exposure and the hardship of the last - half-hour depleted my physical resources; and besides, dampened by the - blanket of snow in which I was enveloped, and lost in the roar of the - hurricane, the likelihood that it would carry beyond a rod in any - direction seemed infinitesimally slight. - </p> - <p> - “Well, I am lost,” thought I. “Here, not five hundred yards from my own - doorstep, lost as hopelessly as if wrecked in mid-ocean. Ah, well! they - say death by freezing is comparatively painless. Anyhow, it will soon be - over. Yet——” - </p> - <p> - Suddenly, with the desperate unreasonableness of a man in extremities—like - him who, drowning, clutches at a chip—I repeated my feeble signal of - distress: “Help! help!” - </p> - <p> - I waited half a minute, and then repeated it for a third time: “Help!” - </p> - <p> - Conceive my emotions, to hear instantly, and from immediately behind me, - the response, in the lustiest of baritones: “Hello, there!” - </p> - <p> - “Heaven be praised!” I gasped. Then: “Can you help me out of this drift?” - </p> - <p> - “That remains to be tried,” came the reply. “I shouldn't wonder, though.” - </p> - <p> - And therewith I felt myself seized by two strong arms, lifted bodily from - off my feet, and a moment later set down upon a spot of the pavement which - the wind had swept clean, where I had a chance to see and to thank mv - rescuer. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER VIII.—A CHANCE ACQUAINTANCE. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">H</span>e was a tall and - athletic-looking man, perhaps thirty years old, with a ruddy, - good-humoured face, an honest pair of blue eyes, and a curling yellow - beard. He wore a sealskin cap which came down over his ears, sealskin - gloves which reached up above his coat-sleeves nearly to his elbows, a - pea-jacket, and rubber top-boots. His beard, his eyebrows, and so much of - his hair as was exposed, were dense with frozen snow, and from his - moustache depended a series of icicles, like tusks, where his breath had - condensed and congealed. - </p> - <p> - “I believe I have to thank you for saving my life,” I began, in such voice - as I could muster, and I noticed that my utterance was thick, like that of - a drunken man. “A very little more and I had been done for.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, you were in rather a nasty box,” he admitted. “But all's well that - ends well; and you're safe enough now. When I heard you calling, I thought - it was a child, your voice was so thin and faint.” - </p> - <p> - “It's highly fortunate for me that you heard me at all. I had given myself - up for lost. What a storm this is!” - </p> - <p> - “Yes; glorious, isn't it? It's the grandest spectacle I've ever seen. I - tell you, sir, it's well for us that Nature should occasionally show us - her sharp claw; otherwise we'd get to considering her a quite tame - domestic pet, which she's not by any means. She's man's hereditary foe; - there stands a perpetual feud between her and us, a <i>vendetta</i> handed - down from father to son, from generation to generation. It's only by the - exercise of an eternal vigilance and industry that we manage to subsist in - spite of her. She's constantly striving, one way or another, to - exterminate us: freeze us out, roast us out, starve us out—I know - not what all. Here we are, huddled together upon this bleak, mysterious - planet, parasites upon its surface, like mould on cheese, sheltering - ourselves in fortresses of straw—wondering whence we came, why we're - here, whither we're bound, and what the fun of the whole thing is—while - she whirls us through her dark immensities, and seeks hourly to shake us - off; which is rather unmannerly of her, seeing it was she herself who - brought us here. Life which she gives us with one hand, she withholds with - the other. She begrudges what she lavishes. Oh, it is strange, it is - magnificent; it's some grand paradoxical farce, which we haven't wit - enough to see the point of. Still, there's an exhilaration in the - conflict, unequal though it is. She's sure to win in the end; she plays - with us like a cat with a mouse, amused at our desperate antics, but - confident of her power to administer a quietus when they begin to pall; - yet there's a pleasure, somehow, in the struggle. They say, you know, the - fox enjoys being hunted. To-day she's in a particularly frolicsome mood, - and puts vim into her buffets. For my part, I'm grateful to her. She'll - laugh best, because she'll laugh last; but she can't prevent my relishing - my laugh meanwhile. I have not lived in vain, who have lived to experience - this storm. Isn't it stimulating? I vow, it makes a man feel like a boy.” - </p> - <p> - I had stood shivering, teeth chattering, while he delivered himself of - this extraordinary harangue. Now, “That would depend somewhat upon the age - and the physique of the man,” I stammered. - </p> - <p> - “Why, yes, true enough. Your observation is altogether apposite and just. - But for me, I declare, it is like wine. Which way do you go?” - </p> - <p> - “I go east and south—to my home, which is in Riverview Road, if you - know where that is. But to tell you the truth, I doubt my ability to go at - all. <i>I'm</i> pretty badly used up. I think I shall ask to be taken in - at one of these neighbouring houses.” - </p> - <p> - “As you like it. But I know where River-view Road is; in fact I'm bound in - that direction myself, being curious to see how the storm affects the - Yellow Snake. It must be a sight for the gods—the writhing and the - lashing of the reptile river under such a wind. If you please we'll march - together. I suspect, with my assistance, you'll be able to arrive.” - </p> - <p> - “You've already saved my life, and now you offer to see me safely home. I - shall owe you a heavy debt. But I could never consent to take you out of - your way.” - </p> - <p> - “As I've already had the honour to intimate, that's precisely what you - won't do. I was bound for the riverside—upon my word. Come on.” - </p> - <p> - And the next thing I knew, my robust interlocutor had again lifted me from - my feet, and was trudging off towards Myrtle Avenue, bearing me like a - child in his arms—which, of course, was altogether too ignominious a - position for me to occupy without protest. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, this is needless. I beg of you to put me down. Really, I can't submit - to this. Let me walk at your side, and lean upon your arm, and I shall do - very well.” - </p> - <p> - “My dear sir,” he rejoined, “permit me to observe—and I beseech you - not to resent the observation as personal—that if ever a mortal man - was completely tuckered out, you are. You've lost your wind, and your legs - are as shaky as if you had the palsy. Pardon my austere frankness—the - circumstances compel it. You couldn't get as far as the corner yonder to - save your neck. You are, to employ the politest of modern languages, <i>hors - de combat</i>. You are <i>ansgespielt</i>, you are <i>non compos corporis</i>—that - is to say, in pure Americanese, you are <i>busted</i>. Now, so far as I am - concerned, on the contrary, I don't mind carrying you any more than I - would a baby. At the outside you don't weigh ten stone; and what's the - like of that to a fellow of my horse-power? Lie still, and I sha'n't know - you're there. Lie still and rest, recover your breath, and be yourself - again.” - </p> - <p> - “But the thing is too ridiculous. I can't in dignity consent to it, I - entreat you to put me down.” - </p> - <p> - I attempted to release myself, but his arms were like bands of iron. - </p> - <p> - “There, there—resign yourself! I prithee, wriggle not,” he said. “I - shall put you down presently—when the time is ripe. And as for your - dignity, remember the device of Cæsar: <i>Esée quant videri</i>. This, - sir, is an occasion for choosing between appearances and a very grim - reality. I can understand that, other things equal, you wouldn't care to - have the world see us in our present situation; but console yourself with - the reflection that the storm answers every purpose of a dose of - fern-seed, and renders us beautifully invisible. Anyhow, I take it, your - dignity isn't as precious to you as your health; and I will go bail for - this, that if you tried to foot it another hundred yards, you'd pay for - your temerity with a fit of sickness. Consider, furthermore, that I am old - enough to be your son. Let me play a son's part for the nonce, and carry - you home.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, I have no right to quarrel with you,” I answered; “but you place me - under an obligation which I shall never be able to discharge. It will bear - as heavily upon my conscience as I now weigh upon your muscles.” - </p> - <p> - “Then it will cause you mighty slight annoyance. To tell you the truth, - it's a jolly good lark for me. It's an added excitement, a most - interesting adventure; and it will provide a capital chapter for the - winter's tale that I shall have to tell. But a truce to talk. Let's waste - no further breath in that way. You lie still there and meditate. I'll - devote my energies to the business of getting on.” - </p> - <p> - So for a good while we forbore speech. At length, “Now, then,” he - announced, “here's Riverview Road. Our toilsome journey's o'er; and, all - our perils past, in harbour safe at last we rest. What would you more?—What's - your number?” - </p> - <p> - “Sixty-three, the fourth house from the corner.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, here you are on your own doorstep.—There!” - </p> - <p> - He set me upon my feet. - </p> - <p> - “And now, sir,” he concluded, “trusting that you may suffer no ill effects - from your experience, I will wish you farewell. Farewell, a long farewell. - This is a life made up of partings. Again, farewell.” - </p> - <p> - “Farewell by no manner of means,” I hastily retorted. “You must come in. - You must do me the honour of entering my house, and allowing me to offer - you some refreshment. And besides, if, as you said, you are anxious to - watch the play of the storm upon the river, you could possess no better - coigne of vantage than one of my back windows.” - </p> - <p> - “Such an inducement, sir, is superfluous. Your invitation in itself would - be quite irresistible. For, aside from the pleasure I derive from your - society, and the instruction from your conversation, I will confidentially - admit to you that I shall be glad to thaw out my nose.” - </p> - <p> - I opened the door with my latch-key, and preceded him into my study. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER IX.—JOSEPHINE WRITES. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span> beautiful fire - was blazing in the grate. The transition from the cold and uproar of the - street, to the snug quiet and warmth of this cosy book-lined room, was an - agreeable one, I can tell you. I was pretty well rested by this time; and, - except for the tingling of my nose, ears, toes, and fingers, felt very - little the worse for my encounter with the elements. - </p> - <p> - “Now,” said I to my guest, “the tables are turned. But a moment since, I - was your prisoner; now you are mine. Draw up to the fire. Throw off your - over jacket and your rubber-boots. I hope you are not wet through; for, we - are built respectively upon such different patterns, it would be ironical - for me to offer you dry garments from my wardrobe.” - </p> - <p> - “You need give yourself no uneasiness upon that score, sir. Im as dry as a - Greek lexicon.” - </p> - <p> - “In that case, let me at once offer you a drop of something wet,” I said, - producing a decanter and a couple of glasses. - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” he assented, “a toothful of this will do neither of us harm.” - </p> - <p> - We clinked our glasses, and drank. - </p> - <p> - “Ah,” he cried, smacking his lips, “sweet ardent spirit of the rye, may - the shade of Christopher Columbus be fed upon you thrice every day, to - reward him for the discovery of this continent. I've tasted Irish and I've - tasted Scotch, Dutch barley-brandy and Slavonic vodka; but of all - distillations to make glad the inmost heart of man, give me Kentucky rye! - Another glass? Thank you, kind sir, not e'en another drop. 'Twere - desecration worthy only of a widower to take a second after so rare a - first. And now, by-the-bye, since I find myself the beneficiary of your - hospitality, it behoves me to introduce myself. My name is Henry - Fairchild, and by trade I am a sculptor.” - </p> - <p> - “My name is Leonard Benary, physician and surgeon. And I trust, Mr. - Fairchild, that you have no urgent affairs to call you from my house, for - I should never feel easy in my mind if I permitted you to leave it before - this storm has abated; and that doesn't look like an imminent event. My - affairs are not urgent. In fact, as I believe I have already remarked, - when we ran across each other I was abroad for my diversion, pure and - simple. But that is no reason why I should abuse your kindness. If I may - thaw here before your fire for a half-hour, I shall be in perfect - condition to make my way home.” - </p> - <p> - “That would depend upon the distance of your home from mine.” - </p> - <p> - “My home is in my studio. And my studio is in St. Matthew's Park.” - </p> - <p> - “So far! Very well, then. I shall certainly not hear of your leaving me so - long as the storm continues. It would be as much as your life is worth to - attempt such a journey in such circumstances. It's a matter of three, - four, well-nigh five miles. And since all public conveyances are at a - standstill, you'd have to trust yourself for the whole distance to - Shanks's mare. I shall count upon your spending the night here, at least. - There's no prospect of the weather moderating before to-morrow. And now, - if you will excuse me, I will leave you here for a few moments, while I go - to change my clothes.” - </p> - <p> - “That's the wisest thing you could possibly do,” he returned. “I shall - amuse myself excellently looking out of the window; but as for your kind - invitation to remain over night——” - </p> - <p> - “As for that, since you acknowledge that you have no pressing business to - call you elsewhere, I will listen to no refusal.” - </p> - <p> - I went upstairs, my first care being to make known my return to Josephine - and Miriam, who, of course, were thereby greatly surprised and relieved. - They professed they had suffered the acutest anxiety ever since I had left - the house; and as they listened to the account I gave them of my - misadventures, they paled and shuddered for very terror. - </p> - <p> - “Mr. Fairchild, the young man who came to my rescue, is even now below - stairs in the library,” I concluded. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, is he? Then,” cried Miriam, addressing Josephine, “let us go to him - at once, and tell him how we thank him. To think that, except for him, my - uncle might——” She completed her sentence by putting her arms - around my neck, and giving me three of the sweetest kisses that were ever - given in this world: one on either cheek and one full on the lips. “Now, - sir,” she went on, shaking the prettiest of fingers at me, “I hope that - you have learned a lesson, and will never do anything again that we two - wise women warn you not to.” - </p> - <p> - “I promise to be a good, obedient, little old man in the future,” I - replied; and was rewarded for my docility with a fourth kiss—this - time imprinted among the wrinkles on my forehead. - </p> - <p> - The two wise women went off downstairs. - </p> - <p> - I joined them as soon as I had got into dry clothing; and we sat down to - luncheon—the young sculptor enlivening and entertaining us with a - flow of droll, high-spirited talk. He and Miriam got on famously together—chatting, - laughing, exchanging bits of repartee, with the vivacity that was becoming - to their age. Josephine and I hearkened and enjoyed. At least, I enjoyed; - and I had no reason to suppose that my sister did not. Luncheon concluded, - we adjourned to the drawing-room. There, observing the piano, Fairchild - demanded of Miriam whether she played. She answered, “Yes.” (We had - procured for her the best musical instruction to be had in Adironda; and - she had mastered the instrument with a facility which proved that Louise - Massarte must have been a talented pianist.) Miriam answered, “Yes,” and - then Fairchild said— - </p> - <p> - “Will you not be persuaded to play for us now?” - </p> - <p> - She played one of Liszt's Hungarian Rhapsodies, and then something of - Chopin's, and then something of Schumann's; after which, leaving the - piano, she said to Fairchild— - </p> - <p> - “Now you must sing for us.” - </p> - <p> - “Why, how do you know I can sing?” cried he. - </p> - <p> - “It is evident from the <i>timbre</i> of your voice,” she answered. - </p> - <p> - “You must not be too sure of that,” he protested. “The speaking voice and - the singing voice are two very different things.” - </p> - <p> - “Nevertheless, please sing for us,” she repeated. - </p> - <p> - “Very good,” said he, taking possession of the key-board, “I will sing for - you; but at your peril. The beauty of the song, however, may perhaps be - allowed to atone for the deficiencies of my execution. It is by the - English composer, Marzials, a man of the rarest genius, too little known - out of his own country. He wrote both words and music, and the song is - entitled 'Never Laugh at Love.'” - </p> - <p> - Therewith, to his own accompaniment, he sang in his sweet baritone one of - the pleasantest and wittiest songs of its kind that I have ever heard. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent10"> - Oh, never laugh at Love, Miss, fancy free, - </p> - <p class="indent10"> - Lest the wanton boy should laugh at thee! - </p> - <p class="indent10"> - Should he but aim in play his tiny dart— - </p> - <p class="indent10"> - Ping! 't will break your heart! - </p> - <p class="indent10"> - I knew a queen with golden hair, - </p> - <p class="indent10"> - Few so proud, and none so fair; - </p> - <p class="indent10"> - Her maids and she, one twilight gray, - </p> - <p class="indent10"> - Went wand'ring down the garden way. - </p> - <p class="indent10"> - A pretty page was standing there; - </p> - <p class="indent10"> - Their eyes just met. Oh, long despair! - </p> - <p class="indent10"> - For both have died of love, they say. - </p> - <p class="indent10"> - So never laugh at Love, Miss, fancy free, - </p> - <p class="indent10"> - Lest the wanton boy should laugh at thee! - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - I cannot forbear quoting that one verse, to give a notion of the quaint - mediæval charm of the words. * I wish I could transcribe the melody as - well, which was delicious with the same quaint flavour. - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * The Editor of this work must disclaim all responsibility - Dr. Benary's opinions upon matters literary and aesthetic. -</pre> - <p> - Fairchild having finished his song, he and Miriam plunged into an animated - conversation about music in the abstract, which I, for one—being, - though an ardent lover of music, no musician—found of dubious - interest. - </p> - <p> - “Wherefore, I think,” I interrupted them to say, “if you will forgive the - breach of ceremony, Mr. Fairchild, I shall retire to my bedroom for a bit, - and take a nap. I feel somewhat fatigued after the exertions of the - forenoon; and, anyhow, I am accustomed to my forty winks at this hour of - the day. I am sure I leave you in good hands when I leave you to my sister - and my niece.” - </p> - <p> - “Indeed, Dr. Benary, the kindest thing you can do for me—you and - your good ladies—will be to let me feel that in no wise do I - interfere with your convenience or your pleasure. Otherwise, I shall be - compelled to take my departure <i>instanter</i>; and I confess that by - this time I am so deeply penetrated by the comfort of your interior that I - should hate mortally to renew close quarters with the storm.” - </p> - <p> - So I withdrew to my bed-chamber, and was sound asleep in no time. Nor did - I wake till the mellow booming of the Japanese gong, which serves as - dinner-bell in our establishment, broke in upon my slumbers. - </p> - <p> - As I rose to my feet, something dropped from the counterpane to the floor. - </p> - <p> - Stooping to pick it up, I discovered that it was a sheet of paper, folded - in the form of a cocked hat, and bearing my name written across it in - Josephine's hand. - </p> - <p> - “What earthly occasion can Josephine have for writing me a note?” I - wondered. - </p> - <p> - Donning my spectacles, I read as follows: - </p> - <p> - “What ever shall we do? I cannot come and say this to you in person, for I - dare not leave them alone together. But he has recognised Miriam!—J.” - </p> - <p> - It took fully a minute for the significance of that sentence: “He has - recognised Miriam,” to percolate my understanding, still thick with the - dregs of sleep. Then I started as if I had been stung; and rushing into - the passage, I called “Josephine! Josephine!” at the top of my lungs. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER X.—JOSEPHINE EXPLAINS. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he passage was - quite dark. From the end of it, directly behind me, came the response, - “Yes, Leonard.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah, you are there?” I questioned. - </p> - <p> - “I have been waiting for you to wake. I did not wish to disturb your - sleep,” she explained. - </p> - <p> - “And they—where are they now?” - </p> - <p> - “Mr. Fairchild is in the guest-chamber, where he is to sleep. Miriam is in - her room. I could not come to you so long as they were together. It would - not do to leave them alone. That is why I wrote the note.” - </p> - <p> - By this time we were between my own four walls, and I had closed the door - behind us. - </p> - <p> - “And now, for Heaven's sake, explain to me what this means,” I said, - holding up the sheet of paper. - </p> - <p> - “It means what it says. He has recognised Miriam.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, it is impossible,” I declared. - </p> - <p> - “I only wish you were right,” sighed Josephine dolefully. - </p> - <p> - “But how—but why—but what—what makes you think so?” - stammered I. - </p> - <p> - “His action when he first saw her—when she and t entered the room - where he was, to greet him, this forenoon.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, it is impossible—impossible!” I repeated, helplessly. “What was - his action? What did he do?” - </p> - <p> - “He caught his breath, he started, he coloured up, and then turned white, - and then red again.” - </p> - <p> - “Merciful Heavens!” I gasped, panic-stricken. - </p> - <p> - “What shall we do? What can we do?” my poor sister groaned. - </p> - <p> - “Did—did Miriam notice his embarrassment?” - </p> - <p> - “I think not. She did not appear to, anyhow.” - </p> - <p> - There befell a pause, during which I tried to collect my wits, and to - reflect upon the situation. - </p> - <p> - “Well,” persisted Josephine, after the silence had continued for a minute - or two, “what shall we do?” - </p> - <p> - “It is impossible, it is absolutely impossible,” I said. “Her own mother - would be unable to recognise her. She is altered beyond recognition. Why, - that dead woman would by this time be nearly thirty years of age; whereas - Miriam doesn't look two-and-twenty. Besides, the whole character and - expression of her face are changed. There remain the same bony structure - and the same general complexion: that is all that remains the same. - Confess that the thing is impossible.” - </p> - <p> - “When he saw her, he started and coloured up.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, even so. What of it. He started and coloured up. What does that - prove? Perhaps it was because of her resemblance to the dead woman, whom - we will suppose him to have known. But as for identifying them as one and - the same, he'd never dream of it. A merry, innocent young girl, of one or - two-and-twenty, and a sad-eyed, sorrow-stricken, sinful woman, eight years - her senior! The thing is on the face of it absurd. Absurd, too, is the - supposition that he ever knew Louise Massarte at all. He started and - coloured up at sight of Miriam, for the very simple reason of her - exceeding beauty. He is a young man, and he is an artist. What - quick-blooded young man, what artist, would not colour up at the sight of - so beautiful a girl? Or else, it is imaginable, he has seen Miriam herself - somewhere before—in the street, in an omnibus, or where not—and - has been impressed by her loveliness; and then he started for surprise and - pleasure at finding himself under the same roof with her. You, my good - Josephine, you have jumped to a most unwarranted conclusion. Your fear was - the father of your thought.—Afterwards, for instance? Did he follow - up his start with such conduct as was calculated to justify you in your - suspicion?” - </p> - <p> - “No. He simply returned our salutations, and behaved toward her as he did - toward me—as if she were a perfectly new acquaintance.” - </p> - <p> - “Good! And then, consider the freedom and the nonchalance with which he - talked to her at luncheon. No, no; it is impossible. Well, I will keep an - eye upon him during dinner. And when you and Miriam leave us to our - cigars, I'll seek to find out what the true explanation of the matter may - be.” - </p> - <p> - And my sister and I descended to the drawing-room. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XI.—REASSURANCE. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>hroughout the meal - that followed, I carefully observed Fairchild's bearing toward my niece; - and great was my satisfaction to see in it only and exactly what under the - circumstances could rightly have been expected. Frank, gay, interested, - attentive, yet undeviatingly courteous, respectful, and even deferential, - it was precisely the bearing due from a young gentleman of good breeding - toward the lady at whose side he found himself, and whose acquaintance he - had but lately made. - </p> - <p> - “So that,” I concluded, “of all conceivable theories adequate to account - for his behaviour at first setting eyes upon her, Josephine's is the - farthest-fetched and the least tenable.” - </p> - <p> - For the matter of that, as I had assured my sister, I was confident that - her own mother, had she been alive, must have failed to identify her, so - essentially was she altered both in expression of countenance and in - apparent age, to say nothing of her totally transformed personality. That - Fair-child did not do so I was certain. His manner exhibited neither - surprise, mystification, curiosity, nor constraint. It would have required - a far cunninger hypocrite than I took him to be, so effectually to have - disguised such emotions, had he really felt them; and he could not have - helped feeling them if, having known the dead woman, Louise Massarte, he - had recognised her in the young and unsophisticated maiden, Miriam Benary. - The right theory by which to explain his conduct at first meeting her, I - purposed discovering, if I could, when he and I were alone. - </p> - <p> - He and Miriam had a deal of fun together making the salad, in which - enterprise they collaborated—not, however, without much laughing - difference as to the best method of procedure. He pretended that, instead - of rubbing the bowl with garlic, one should introduce a <i>chapon</i>—or - crust of bread discreetly tinctured with that herb—and “fatigue” it - with the lettuce: whereas our niece vigorously maintained the contrary. - And finally they drew lots to determine which policy should prevail, - Miriam winning. - </p> - <p> - “I am defeated but not disheartened,” Fair-child declared. “If there is - anything upon which I pride myself, Miss Benary, it is my erudition in the - science, and my dexterity in the art, of gastronomy. You have taken it out - of my power to display my skill in salad-making; but now, if you are a - generous victor, you will give me an opportunity to distinguish myself in - the confection of an omelet. It is an omelet of my own invention, a sort - of cross between the ordinary <i>omelette-au-vin</i> of the French and the - Italian <i>zabaiano</i>, I shall require the use of that chafing dish and - spirit-lamp which I see yonder on the sideboard, the sherry decanter, and - half a dozen eggs. I can promise your palates a delectable experience; and - you, Miss Denary, by watching me, will acquire an invaluable talent.” - </p> - <p> - So, with much merriment, he proceeded with the manufacture of his omelet, - Miriam observing and assisting. When it was complete, we unanimously voted - it the most delicious thing in the way of an omelet that we had ever - tasted. But Miriam sighed, and said, “It is all very simple except the - most important point. The way is toss it up into the air, and make it turn - over, and then catch it again as it descends—I am sure I shall never - be able to do that.” - </p> - <p> - “Never? That is a long word. You must practise it with beans,” said - Fairchild. “A pint of beans—dry beans—the kind Bostonians use - for baking. Three hours daily practice for six months, and you will do it - almost as easily as I do.” - </p> - <p> - After the fruit the ladies left us; and having filled our glasses and - lighted our cigars, we sipped and smoked for a few minutes without - speaking. Fairchild was the first to break the silence. - </p> - <p> - “I can do nothing,” he began, “but congratulate myself upon the happy - chance—if chance it was, and not a kind Providence—that - brought about our encounter this morning. For once in my life I was in - luck.” - </p> - <p> - “It seems to me,” I replied, “that it is I who was in luck, and who have - the best occasion for self-gratulation.” - </p> - <p> - “That would depend upon the dubious question of the value of life,” said - he. “Has it ever struck you that this earth of ours is, after all, only a - huge grave-yard, a colossal burying-ground; and that we living persons are - simply waiting about—standing in a long <i>queue</i>, so to speak—till - our turn comes to be interred? That seems to me a very pleasing fancy, and - one which, considered as an hypothesis, clarifies many obscure things. - Accepting it, we cease to wonder at the phenomenon of death, and regard it - as the chief end, aim, object, and purpose of all human life—the - consummation devoutly to be wished, which we are all attending with - greater or less impatience. Anyhow, I am sceptical whether we confer a - boon or inflict a bane upon the human being whom we bring into existence, - or whose exit therefrom we prevent. It is indeed probable that, except for - our casual meeting this morning, you would at the present hour have been - numbered among the honoured dead. But, very likely—either enjoying - the excitements of the happy hunting-ground or sleeping the deep sleep of - annihilation—very likely, I say, you would have been better off than - you are actually, or can ever hope to be in the flesh. About my good - fortune, contrariwise, debate is inadmissible. Here I am in veritable - clover-smoking a capital cigar after a capital dinner, in capital company, - to the accompaniment of a capital glass of wine, and the richer by the - acquisition of three new friends—for as friends, I trust, I may be - allowed to reckon you and your ladies. Had we not happened to run across - each other in the way we did, on the other hand, I should now have been - seated alone by my bachelor's hearth, with no companions more congenial to - me than my plaster casts, and no voice more jovial to cheer my solitude - than the howling of the gale.” - </p> - <p> - “It is very flattering of you to put the matter as you do,” said I; “but - being modish in no respect, I am least of all so in my metaphysics. - Therefore I cannot share your pessimistic doubt of the value of life; and - I assure you I should have hated bitterly to leave mine behind me in that - ungodly snowbank. It is true, I am perilously close to the Scriptural - limitation of man's age; and I ought perhaps to feel that I have had my - fit and proper share of this world's vanities, and to be prepared for my - inevitable journey to the next. But, I must confess, I am so little of a - philosopher, I should dearly like to tarry here a few years longer; and - hence, I maintain, my obligation to you is indisputably established.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, then, so far as I can see, we may say measure for measure; and - consider ourselves quit.” - </p> - <p> - “Hardly. The balance is still tremendously in your favour.” - </p> - <p> - After that we again smoked for a while without speaking. Then again - Fairchild broke the silence. - </p> - <p> - “I wonder whether you would take it amiss, Dr. Benary, if I should mention - something which has been the object of my delighted admiration almost from - the moment I entered your house?” - </p> - <p> - “Ah! What is that?” I queried. - </p> - <p> - “I fear you will condemn me as overbold if I answer you candidly; but I - shall do so, and accept the consequences. The circumstance that I am an - artist may be pleaded in my behalf, if I seem to transcend the bounds of - the conventional.” - </p> - <p> - “You pique my curiosity. What is it that you allude to? I do not think you - need be apprehensive of my wrath. My extended 'Life of Sir Joshua'? That - is the fruit of ten years' hard labour. Or my Japanese woman by Theodore - Wores? It's a wonderful piece of flesh-painting. It looks as though it - would bleed if you pricked it” * - </p> - <p> - “Yes, it is in Worcs's best vein. But that is not what I have in mind. - Neither is the 'Life of Sir Joshua.' which, by-the-bye, I have not seen.” - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * The Editor of this work must disclaim all responsibility - Dr. Benary's opinions upon matters literary and aesthetic. -</pre> - <p> - “Not seen it? Oh, well, I must show it to you directly we go upstairs. - It's my particular pet and pride. But what, then? I do not know what else - I have worthy of such admiration as you profess.” - </p> - <p> - “You have—if you will tolerate my saying so—you have a niece; - and I allude to her extraordinary beauty.” - </p> - <p> - My pulse quickened. Here had he, of his own accord, broached that very - topic upon which I was anxious to sound him. - </p> - <p> - “Ah, yes; Miriam,” I assented, a trifle nervously, and wondering what - would come next. “Miriam. Yes, Miriam is a very pretty girl.” - </p> - <p> - “Pretty!” echoed he. “Pretty? Why, sir, she's—— why, in all my - life I've not seen so beautiful a woman. And it isn't simply that she is - so beautiful; it's her type. Her type—I believe I am conservative - when I call it the least frequent, the rarest, in the whole range of - womanhood. Forgive my fervour: I speak in my professional capacity—as - an artist, as one to whom the beautiful is the subject-matter of his daily - studies. It is a type of which you occasionally see a perfect specimen in - antique marble, but in flesh and blood not oftener than once in a - lifetime. To say nothing of her colouring, which a painter would go mad - over, consider the sheer planes and lines of her countenance! That - magnificent sweep of profile—brow, nose, lips, chin, and throat, - described by one splendid flowing line! It's unutterable. It's Juno-esque. - It's worth ten years of commonplaceness to have lived to see it in a - veritable breathing woman.'' - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” I admitted, “it's a fine profile—a noble face.” - </p> - <p> - “Her type is so rare,” he went on, “that, as I have said, Nature succeeds - in producing a perfect specimen of it scarcely oftener than once in a - generation. Of faulty specimens—comparable, from a sculptor's point - of view, to flawed castings—she turns out many every year. You have - been in Provence? In the Noonday of France? Arles, Tours, Avignon, teem - with such failures—women who approach, approach, approach, but - always fall short of, the perfection that your niece embodies.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I know the Méridionales, and I see the resemblance that you refer - to. But, as you intimate, they are coarse and crude copies of Miriam. That - expression of high spirituality, which is the dominant note in her face, - is usually quite absent from theirs.” - </p> - <p> - “They compare to her as the pressed terracotta effigies of the Venus of - Milo, which may be bought for a song in the streets, compare to the - chiselled marble in the Louvre. In all my life I have never known but one - woman who could properly be mentioned in the same breath with her. And - even she was a good distance behind. Of her I happened to see just enough - to perceive the divine potentiality of the type. Ever since, I have been - watching for a faultless specimen. And to-day, when Miss Benary came into - the room where you had left me, I declare for a moment my breath was taken - away. I could scarcely believe my eyes. Such beauty seemed beyond reality; - it was like a dream come true. In my admiration I forgot my manners: it - was some seconds before I remembered to make my bow. The point of all - which is that when our friendship is older, you, Dr. Benary, must permit - <i>me</i> to model her portrait.” - </p> - <p> - Thus was my mind set at ease. - </p> - <p> - Presently we rejoined the ladies, and while Fairchild and Miriam chatted - together in the bow window, I drew Josephine aside, and communicated to - her the upshot of our post-prandial conversation. She breathed a mighty - sigh, and professed herself to be enormously relieved. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XII.—THE DOCTOR'S DILEMMA. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">F</span>airchild became a - frequent visitor at our house, and an ever-welcome one. His good looks, - his good sense, his droll humour, his honesty, his high spirits, made him - an extremely pleasant companion. We all liked him cordially; we were - always glad to see him. I told him that if pot-luck had no terrors for - him, he must feel at liberty to drop in and dine with us whenever his - inclination prompted and his leisure would permit. He took me at my word, - as I meant he should; and from that time forth he broke bread with us - never seldomer than one evening out of the seven. - </p> - <p> - At the end of a month, or perhaps six weeks, Josephine said to me, “Do you - think it well, Leonard, that two young people of opposite sexes should be - thrown together as frequently and as closely as Mr. Fairchild and Miriam - are?” - </p> - <p> - “Why not?” questioned I. - </p> - <p> - “The reasons are obvious. How would you be pleased if they should fall in - love?” - </p> - <p> - “The Lord forbid! But I see no danger of their doing so.” - </p> - <p> - “There is always danger when a beautiful young girl and a spirited young - man see too much of each other.” - </p> - <p> - “But Fairchild pays no more attention to Miriam than he does to you or to - me. They are never left alone together. They are simply good friends.” - </p> - <p> - “As yet, perhaps, yes. But time can change friendship into love. He - begins, you must remember, with the liveliest and most profound admiration - for her; she, with the deepest sense of gratitude towards him. True, as - you say, they are never left alone together—not exactly alone, that - is. But are they not virtually alone when you and I are seated here in the - library over our backgammon-board, and he and she are therein the - drawing-room at the piano?” - </p> - <p> - “But, my dear sister, the two rooms are as one. The folding doors are - never closed.” - </p> - <p> - “True again: we are all within sight and hearing of one another. But as a - matter of fact, you and I give no heed to them, nor do they to us. There - are certain laws of nature which should not be ignored.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, what do you want me to do?” I enquired rather testily. “Shall I - forbid Fairchild the house? Forbid my house to the man who saved my life?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, no, of course not. You know I could not wish such a thing as that. - Mr. Fairchild's claims upon our gratitude must never be forgotten. And - besides, I like him, and I enjoy his visits as heartily as you do. Only——” - </p> - <p> - “Only what? If I don't forbid him the house, how can I prevent him and - Miriam meeting? Shall I direct her to keep her room whenever he comes?” - </p> - <p> - “I do think, brother, it would be well if she were not always present when - he comes. If you wish to hear my honest opinion, I believe it is to see - her that he comes so often, and not to see a couple of sober, elderly folk - like you and me. I cannot think that you and I are so irresistibly - attractive as to draw him to our house as frequently as once or twice a - week. However, I only wished to call your attention to the matter. It is - for you now to act as your best judgment dictates.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, then, my good Josephine, I shall not act at all. There is no - occasion for my acting. I should be most unjust and unreasonable to - prevent these two young people getting what innocent pleasure they can - from each other's friendship and society, simply because in the abstract - it is true that they are not incapable of falling in love. I might, as - reasonably enjoin Miriam against ever going out of doors, because it is - possible that in the street she might be run over; against ever drinking a - glass of water, because it is possible that the water might contain a - disease-germ. You have conjured up a chimera. Your fears are those of a - too imaginative woman. When I perceive the first symptom of anything - sentimental existing between them, it will be time enough to act.” - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps then, Leonard, it will be too late,” retorted Josephine, and with - that she dropped the subject. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - Well, of course, as the reader has foreseen, that very complication which - my sister feared and warned me of, and which I refused to consider—of - course that very complication came to pass. Fairchild fell in love with - Miriam, and Miriam reciprocated his unfortunate passion. Otherwise his - name would never have been introduced into this narrative; or, rather, - there would have been no such narrative for me to recite. - </p> - <p> - In June, 1888, Josephine, Miriam, and I went down to the little village of - Ogunquit, on the coast of Wade, there to rusticate until the autumn. - Toward the end of July, Fairchild joined us there, pursuant to an - arrangement made before we left town; and it was on the evening of the - 15th of August that he requested a few minutes' private talk with me, and - then informed me of the condition of affairs. - </p> - <p> - “I love your niece with all my heart and soul, Dr. Benary. Indeed, I have - loved her from the day I first became acquainted with her—the day of - that blessed Blizzard. I should like to know, who could help loving her: - she is so good and so intelligent, to say nothing of her beauty. To-day I - emptied my heart out to her, and she has made me the happiest man in - Christendom by signifying her willingness to become my wife. So, now, it - only remains for you to give us your approval and benediction. I have an - income sufficient to keep the wolf from the door, over and above my - earnings; and for the rest, you know me well enough to judge of my - eligibility for yourself.” - </p> - <p> - What answer could I give him? - </p> - <p> - Putting aside altogether, as I was bound to do, the selfish consideration - that her marriage would deprive us of the treasure and the blessing of our - old age, and leave our home desolate and forsaken—could I in honour, - could I in justice to the man, permit him to make Miriam Benary his wife, - without first imparting to him so much as I myself knew concerning Louise - Massarte? - </p> - <p> - But the latter was a thing which, I was persuaded, I had no manner of - right to do. The secret of her connection with Louise Massarte, Miriam - herself was ignorant of. Surely, no other human being had the shadow of a - claim to learn it Miriam Benary had never even heard of Louise Massarte. - Louise Massarte was dead and abolished utterly. Therefore, to saddle - Miriam, in her youth and her innocence, with that dead woman's name and - history, to put upon her the burden of the dead woman's sin and shame, it - would be to do her not only a most grievous, but a most unwarrantable, - wrong. - </p> - <p> - No, I could not, I would not, I must not, tell Fairchild the story of - Louise Massarte's annihilation, and the consequent existence of Miriam - Benary. Yet how could I say, “Yes, you may marry her,” and keep that story - to myself? What excuse could I invent wherewith to ease my conscience, if - I should practise such deceit upon him in an issue that involved his - dearest and most vital interests? <i>Suppressio veri, suggestio falsi</i>. - I should be as bad as any liar if I gave my consent to their marriage, - while allowing him to remain in error respecting the truth about his bride—truth - which, if made known to him, might radically modify his intentions. - </p> - <p> - But furthermore, and on the other hand, suppose I should say in reply to - his demand, “No, you cannot marry her”—what right had I to say that? - What reason could I allege in justification of my refusal? Not the actual - reason; for that would be to tell him the very story which, I had made up - my mind, I must not and should not tell. And if I alleged a fictitious - reason, I should simply escape the devil to plunge into the deep sea—I - should simply exchange a lie for a falsehood. These young people loved - each other. Therefore, to set up impediments to their union, would be to - impose upon each of them endless unmerited pain. What right had I to do - that? It was a vexed and difficult quandary. There were strong arguments - for and strong arguments against either course out of it. - </p> - <p> - “Well, Dr. Benary, you do not answer me,” Fairchild said. - </p> - <p> - “I can't answer you. You must give me time—time to consider, to - consult my sister, to make up my mind.” - </p> - <p> - We had been strolling together, he and I, up and down the sands. Now we - returned to the inn. Josephine was seated on the verandah, near the - entrance. - </p> - <p> - “Ah, Leonard, at last!” she exclaimed, starting up the moment she caught - sight of me. “I have been waiting for you.” - </p> - <p> - I accompanied her to her room. - </p> - <p> - “Well,” she began, as soon as the door was closed behind us, “the worst - has happened, as I suppose you know. Mr. Fairchild has spoken to you, has - he not?” - </p> - <p> - “Ah! Then you, too, know about it?” queried I. - </p> - <p> - “Miriam has just told me the whole story.” - </p> - <p> - “What does she say?” - </p> - <p> - “That Mr. Fairchild has asked her to be his wife; that she loves him, and - has accepted him—conditionally, that is, upon your approval.” - </p> - <p> - “She says she loves him?” - </p> - <p> - “She says she loves him with all her heart. She says she is as happy as - the day is long. She doesn't dream that you will have any hesitation about - consenting.” - </p> - <p> - For a little while we were silent. At last, “Well, what are you going to - do?” my sister asked. - </p> - <p> - “That is what I wish to advise with you about.” - </p> - <p> - “Have you given any answer to Mr. Fair-child?” - </p> - <p> - “I have said to him that I must take time for reflection, and for - consultation with you.” - </p> - <p> - “Well?” - </p> - <p> - “Well, it is a most difficult dilemma.” - </p> - <p> - “But you have got to make up your mind, one way or the other; and that - speedily. It is cruel to keep them in suspense.” - </p> - <p> - “I know that, my dear sister.” - </p> - <p> - “Do you mean to say yes or no?” - </p> - <p> - “That's just it. That's just the difficulty, isn't it?” - </p> - <p> - “But it is a difficulty which must be solved. You will have to say one of - the two.” - </p> - <p> - “How dare I say yes?” - </p> - <p> - “They love each other.” - </p> - <p> - “What right have I to say no?” - </p> - <p> - “It is their life-happiness which is at stake.” - </p> - <p> - “Exactly, exactly; therefore, if I say no, it will be to condemn them both - to great misery, and misery which they have done nothing to deserve.” - </p> - <p> - “It certainly will—it will break Miriam's heart. And what reason can - you give them for saying no? It will seem all the harder to them, because - it will seem so unreasonable and unnecessary, so unjustifiable and wanton. - They will feel that it is an act of wilful cruelty, on the part of a - selfish, tyrannical old man.” - </p> - <p> - “I know it, I know it,” I groaned. “And yet, on the other hand, if I say - yes——” - </p> - <p> - “If you say yes, you will assure to them the greatest happiness their - hearts can desire.” - </p> - <p> - “But how dare I say yes without sharing with Fairchild the secret of - Miriam's origin? Without telling him the story of Louise Massarte?” - </p> - <p> - “Surely, you cannot purpose doing that! You cannot mean to confide to - another knowledge affecting her which she herself is unaware of!” - </p> - <p> - “No, of course not. But there's just the rub. How, without doing that, how - can I honourably permit him to make her his wife?” - </p> - <p> - “It is a choice of evils: to break their hearts or to suppress certain - facts. You must choose the lesser evil of the two.” - </p> - <p> - “That is very easily said. But the trouble is to determine which of the - two evils <i>is</i> the lesser. Deceit or cruelty?” - </p> - <p> - “Forgive me, my dear brother, for reminding you of it: but if you had - listened to my warning in the first place, this painful alternative would - never have come about.” - </p> - <p> - “What could I do? You yourself agreed with me that I couldn't forbid - Fairchild the house. And so long as he had the run of the house, how could - I prevent him and Miriam meeting? And meeting as frequently as they did, I - suppose it was inevitable that they should come to love each other. - There's no use reproaching me—no use regretting the past. What was - bound to happen has happened. That's the whole truth of it.” - </p> - <p> - “I did not intend to reproach you, Leonard. I merely wished to say that, - since, in a manner, you have been responsible for the state of things - which has come to pass—since, in other words, you neglected to take - such measures as would have prevented that state of things from coming to - pass—it seems as if now you were under a sort of moral obligation - not to stand between them and their happiness. The time for action was the - outset. You did not act then. It seems as if you had thereby forfeited - your right to act. Since you have allowed things to go so far, it seems as - if you had no right to forbid their going farther.” - </p> - <p> - “That is to say, you counsel me to consent.” - </p> - <p> - “<i>I</i> do not see how you can do otherwise now. It is too late for you - to step in and separate them.” - </p> - <p> - “And the point of honour? I am to suppress the truth? I am to stand still - and suffer Fair-child to make Miriam his wife, in ignorance of certain - facts which, if he were aware of them, might totally change his feeling? - How can I do that? It would lie for ever on my conscience.” - </p> - <p> - “So far from totally changing his feeling I do not believe those facts, if - Fairchild knew them, would weigh with him so much as one hair's weight. - They would not, if his love for Miriam is love in any vital sense of the - word. He would agree with us in looking upon her as an entirely different - person from Louise Massarte. However, he must not know, he must not even - dream those facts. Therefore, as I said before, it is a choice of evils. - The negative evil of suppressing the truth does not seem to me so great as - the positive evil of inflicting pain. Besides, after all, is it not - Miriam's prerogative to decide this matter for herself? What right have - you or I to do anything but stand aside, with hands off, and let her - choose her husband without constraint or interference? She is of full age - and sound mind; and our relationship with her, which would give us our - pretence for interfering, is, as you know, only a fiction She could not - wish for a better husband than Mr. Fairchild. No woman could.” - </p> - <p> - “What you say, my dear Josephine, and what you suggest, are Jesuitry, pure - and simple.” - </p> - <p> - “There come emergencies in which Jesuitry is the only feasible policy.” - </p> - <p> - A long silence followed. In the end, “Where is Miriam now?” I asked. - </p> - <p> - “She was in her room when I left her.” - </p> - <p> - “Will you find her, and send her to me? Or rather, bring her. You must be - present, too, to lend me countenance—to give me moral support in the - grossly immoral action which I am going to perpetrate. I feel like a - pickpocket. I need the encouragement of my accomplice.” - </p> - <p> - Josephine went off. In three minutes she returned, leading Miriam by the - hand. - </p> - <p> - Miriam's cheeks and throat turned crimson as she saw me; and she dropped - her eyes, and stood still, waiting. - </p> - <p> - “My dear——” I called, holding out my hands. - </p> - <p> - She came to me, and put her arms around my neck, and buried her face upon - my shoulder. - </p> - <p> - “So this young rascal of a sculptor has asked you to be his wife?” I - began. - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” she murmured, scarcely louder than a whisper. - </p> - <p> - “And so—the double-faced rogue!—it was not, as we had - supposed, because of his great fondness for your aunt and uncle, that he - became a frequenter of our camp, but because he had covetous designs upon - our chief treasure!” - </p> - <p> - “Oh! but he is very fond of my aunt and uncle, too,” she protested. - </p> - <p> - “Is he, indeed! Well, what answer have you given him?” - </p> - <p> - “I said—I said I—I said I liked him.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah! I see. You said you liked him. That was rather irrelevant, wasn't it?—a - little evasive? He asked you to become his wife, and you said you liked - him. Did you give him no more categorical an answer than that?” - </p> - <p> - “I said he must ask you.” - </p> - <p> - “Ask me? Ask me what? It isn't I that he wants to marry. And I wouldn't - have him, anyhow. Why should he ask me?” - </p> - <p> - “You know what I mean. I told him I could not marry without your consent.” - </p> - <p> - “And suppose I should withhold my consent?” - </p> - <p> - “I should be very unhappy.” - </p> - <p> - “But I don't really see what my consent matters. It's for you to decide. - You're of full age. I have no right to forbid you. Now, then, what are you - going to do?” - </p> - <p> - “I said I would be his wife, unless you wished otherwise.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, I suppose you must keep your word. The poor fellow is waiting on - the anxious seat to learn his fate. I really think, instead of tarrying - here, you ought to seek him out, and put an end to his suspense.” - </p> - <p> - She hugged me and kissed me, and said some very jubilant and some very - complimentary things; and then she began to cry, and then she laughed - through her tears; and at last she went off to find her lover, and to - convey to him the joyful tidings. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - They were married on the 15th day of December, and that same afternoon - they set sail for Havre aboard the steamship <i>La Touraine</i>, to pass - six months abroad. Anxiously did Josephine and I count the days that must - elapse before the post would bring us their first letter; and little did - we dream what ominous news that letter would contain. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XIII.—NATURE BEGINS REPRISALS. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>F course, we - watched the newspapers for an announcement of the <i>Touraine's</i> - arrival. A fast steamer, ordinarily accomplishing the passage within seven - days, she ought to have reached Havre on the 22nd. She was not reported, - however, until Monday, the 24th, being then two days overdue. - </p> - <p> - It was on Friday, the 4th of January, that we at last got a letter. The - envelope was superscribed not in Miriam's band, but in Fairchild's; and - when we tore it open we saw that the letter itself had been written by the - groom, and not by the bride. This struck us as rather odd, and made us a - little uneasy. We hastened to read: - </p> - <p> - “Hôtel de la Grande Bretagne, - </p> - <p> - “Havre, December 25. - </p> - <p> - “Dear Dr. Benary, - </p> - <p> - “Christmas day, and such news as I have to give you! I should put off - writing until we reach Paris, in the hope that when we are there the face - of things may have altered for the better; only I know, if you don't - receive a letter sooner than you would in that case, you will be alarmed. - </p> - <p> - “What I have to tell you is so horrible in itself, it must shock you - dreadfully whatever way I put it. I can't hope to make it any less painful - for you by mincing it, or beating about the bush. Yet it seems brutal to - state the hideous fact downright. Miriam has become blind, totally blind. - </p> - <p> - “Whether incurably so or not, we do not yet know. Of course we hope for - the best, but we can be sure of nothing till we reach Paris, where we - shall consult the best oculists to be found. Meantime, you may imagine our - state of mind. - </p> - <p> - “We had a most frightful passage, and that was the cause of it. We ran - into a storm directly we left Cape Thunderhead; and it followed us all the - way across. Bad enough at the outset, it got steadily worse and worse - until we reached port. It had only this mitigation—it was behind us, - and moved in the same direction with us. Therefore we were delayed but - about forty-eight hours. If it had been against us, there's no telling - when we should have got ashore; and twenty-four hours more of it Miriam - could never have survived. - </p> - <p> - “For six consecutive days (from the 17th to the 23rd) the hatches were - battened down; no passengers were allowed on deck; and not only were the - port-holes kept permanently closed, but the inner iron shutters were - screwed up, lest the sea should break in and swamp us. The skylights also - were, covered. Thus daylight was excluded, as well as fresh air. Then the - electric-lighting machine got out of order, and we had to fall back upon - candles and petroleum. The atmosphere in the cabins became something - unendurable. Much of the time, owing to the violent motion, it was - impossible to keep even the candles or the petroleum lamps burning; and we - were condemned to total darkness. At last, however, they got the electric - machine into running gear again, so that we had light. From second to - second, day and night, the sea broke over us with a roar like the - discharge of cannon, making every timber of the ship creak and tremble. It - was enough to drive one frantic, that everlasting rhythmic thunder. - </p> - <p> - “And all the while we were tossed up, down, and around, as if that giant - vessel were a cockle-shell. Standing erect or walking was not to be - thought of. I had to creep from place to place on hands and knees. And - then the never-ending motion, and the incessant noise: the howling of the - wind, the pounding of the water, the creaking of timbers, the snapping of - cordage, the clanking of chains, the crashing of loose things being - knocked about, the shouts and tramping of sailors overhead, the groans of - sea-sick people, the shrieks of scared women and children, the darkness, - the loathsome air—I tell you it was frightful; it was like - pandemonium gone mad; the memory of it is like the memory of a nightmare. - </p> - <p> - “Miriam suffered excruciatingly from seasickness. It was the most - heart-rending sight I have ever witnessed, the agony she endured. I had - never dreamed that sea-sickness could be so terrible; and the ship's - surgeon said he had never seen so severe a case. What made it worse, of - course, was the hopelessness of her obtaining any relief until the storm - abated, or until we reached shore. There was nothing anyone could do. I - just sat there beside her, and held her hand, while she either lay - exhausted, or started up and went through the torments of the damned. I - can give you no idea of what she suffered. It was hard work to sit still - there, and watch her sufferings, and realise that I was utterly powerless - to help her in any way. From Monday, the 17th, until last night, when we - had been ashore some hours—precisely one week—she did not - taste food. Once in a while she would drink a little water, with a drop of - brandy in it; but even that distressed her cruelly. On the 20th she was - seized with convulsions, awful beyond description. From then on, until we - left the ship, she simply alternated between terrible paroxysms and utter - prostration. Four days! I thought she was going to die, her convulsions - were so violent, the prostration that ensued was so death-like. The ship's - surgeon himself admitted that there was great danger—that death - might result from exhaustion. For those four days—from the 20th to - the 24th—he kept her almost constantly under the influence of - opiates. On Saturday she seemed a little better—that is, her - convulsions occurred seldomer, and were of shorter duration. When not in - convulsions, she would lie in a stupor, as if asleep, only most of the - time her eyes were half open, and she would groan. But on Sunday she was - worse again; and it was on Sunday night, about ten o'clock, that, after - she had lain perfectly quiet for an hour or so, all at once she started - up, and asked me whether the electric lights had gone out again. The - lights were at that moment burning brightly in our state-room; and I told - her so. Then she cried: 'I can't see you. I can't see anything. It is all - dark. What has happened? I believe I am blind.' - </p> - <p> - “Of course, I thought it must be some hallucination caused by her - sickness. I could not believe that she had really become blind. But the - ship's surgeon came and made an examination, and discovered that it was - so. He could attribute it only to a paralysis of the optic nerve, the - consequence of shock and exhaustion. What the danger of its being - permanent was he could not say. - </p> - <p> - “Yesterday, thank God, that hellish voyage came to an end. The instant we - reached this hotel, I got her into bed and sent off for the best medical - men this town holds. They simply corroborated the judgment of the ship's - doctor—that she is suffering from shock and exhaustion, and that her - blindness is due to a paralysis of the optic nerve. <i>They think it will - probably not be permanent</i>. She must keep her bed until she is - thoroughly rested, which will take several days. Then we must go to Paris, - and put her under the treatment of Dr. Geoffroy Désessaires, who, it - seems, is the great French specialist in diseases of the eye. - </p> - <p> - “She is in bed now, in the next room, sleeping. She sleeps most of the - time—or rather, dozes. Her convulsions are over now, I hope for - good. But all last night they occurred from time to time—very much - less violently, however, than when on ship-board. She has not yet been - able to take much nourishment, but as often as she wakes, I give her a - little beef-tea. - </p> - <p> - “That is about all there is to tell down to the present moment. You will - understand that I am in no condition of mind to write at greater length - than is necessary, having gone without sleep for the greater part of a - week, to say nothing of anxiety and distress. When she wakes she talks of - you and bids me say how she loves you. And of course you always means - yourself and Miss Josephine. - </p> - <p> - “I pray God that in my next letter I may have more cheering news to write. - </p> - <p> - “Always yours, - </p> - <p> - “Henry Fairchild.” - </p> - <p> - The dismay which the foregoing epistle occasioned Josephine and myself the - sympathetic reader will conceive without my telling. But it was as nothing - to that which we experienced when we read the next, and considered its - purport:— - </p> - <p> - “Hôtel de la Bourdonnaye, - </p> - <p> - “Paris, January 1, 1889. - </p> - <p> - “Dear Dr. Benary, - </p> - <p> - “Miriam improved rapidly after I posted my letter of Christmas day. Rest, - quiet, and nourishment were what she needed—and those she had. The - doctors gave us permission to leave Havre yesterday; and we arrived here - in the afternoon. She is pale and weak, and wasted to the merest shadow of - herself, having lost <i>twenty-six pounds</i> in weight. But she does not - suffer any more bodily pain; though what her agony of mind must be it is - not difficult for those who love her to imagine. However, that will soon - be over. - </p> - <p> - “I telegraphed in advance to Dr. Désessaires, requesting him to call upon - us here at our hotel last evening. He came at eight o'clock, and put - Miriam through a thorough examination. He confirmed what all the other - doctors had said—that it was a paralysis of the optic nerve. He - enquired all about her health in the past, and particularly whether she - had ever had any trouble of the brain or spine. Then, of course, we told - him of that accident which she met with in 1884, which had deprived her of - her memory, 'Ah! said he, 'that gives me the key to the whole difficulty.' - He proceeded very carefully to examine her head, and when he had finished - he said there was a depression of the bone at the point where she had been - hurt at that time, and a consequent pressure upon the brain; and it was - that pressure upon the brain which accounted for the extraordinary - violence of her sea-sickness and the resultant blindness. Finally, he said - that an operation to relieve that pressure would, if made at once, restore - her sight; but that, unless such an operation was performed, she must - remain permanently blind. He assured me that the operation was not a - dangerous one; that it would consist in the removal of a minute fragment - of the bone—what is called trephining. Of course, there was nothing - for us to do but consent to having the operation performed; and thereupon - he went away, saying he would return this morning. - </p> - <p> - “At eleven o'clock this morning he arrived, accompanied by four other - physicians—Dr. Cidolt, also an oculist; Dr. Gouet, the famous - alienist; Dr. Marsac, a general practitioner of very high standing; and - Dr. Larquot, said to be the most skilful surgeon in France. They made a - long examination, and then withdrew to consult together. At the end of - nearly two hours they came to me with their report, which was simply a - repetition of what Dr. Dêsessaires had already said—that trephining - would be necessary, that it would be effective, and that it would be as - free from danger as such an operation ever is. It must be performed as - soon as possible, so that atrophy of the optic nerve may not have time to - set in; but before they can safely undertake it, Miriam must be perfectly - recovered in general health. They have set upon this day fortnight—the - 14th—as probably a favourable time. Meanwhile she is under the care - of Dr. Marsac. Dr. Larquot is to conduct the operation. - </p> - <p> - “The brave little woman! She supports her calamity so patiently! And she - looks forward to that dreadful ordeal with an amount of nerve and courage - that a man might be proud of. God grant that all may go well. - </p> - <p> - “There is nothing more for me to write at present. - </p> - <p> - “Always Yours, - </p> - <p> - “Henry Fairchild.” - </p> - <p> - At the close of Fairchild's letter this postscript was added, in a hand - that we recognised as Miriam's, though it was cramped and irregular, as if - she had written with her eyes shut:— - </p> - <p> - “Dear Ones,—I cannot see to write to you; but I love you and love - you, with all my heart. - </p> - <p> - “Miriam.” - </p> - <p> - When my sister Josephine read that, she burst out crying like a child. - </p> - <p> - I waited till she had dried her tears, Then, “Well, my dear sister,” I - questioned, “do you realise what that letter means?” - </p> - <p> - “What it means? Why, that her blindness is only temporary, and can be - cured. That she will recover her sight.” - </p> - <p> - “Nothing else?” - </p> - <p> - “What else?” - </p> - <p> - “What else! This else—and I am surprised that you do not see it for - yourself—it means that the same operation which will restore her - sight will also restore her memory. Do you understand? She will become - Louise Massarte again. She will begin at the precise point where Louise - Massarte left off. She will forget everything that has occurred during the - past four years, and will recall what occurred before. It is that same - pressure of the bone upon the brain to which they rightly or wrongly - attribute her blindness—it is that same pressure of the bone upon - the brain which keeps Louise Massarte in quiescence, and makes Miriam - Benary possible. Relieve that pressure, remove that point of bone, and - instantly Louise Massarte will spring into life again, while at the same - moment Miriam Benary will cease to exist. That is what Fairchild's letter - means.” - </p> - <p> - “Good Heavens!” gasped Josephine, holding up her hands in helpless dismay. - “But—but surely—— but what—what is to be done?” - </p> - <p> - “Which, in your opinion, would be the lesser of the two evils—to - have her remain permanently blind, or to have her regain her memory? She - would recollect all that she is happiest in forgetting, she would forget - all that she is happiest in remembering. The four years during which she - has lived here with us as our niece would be utterly obliterated and - undone. She would rise from that operation in mind and spirit exactly - where she was, and exactly what she was, just before you and I put her - under the influence of ether on the 14th day of June, 1884. Which, I want - you to tell me—which would be the lesser evil: the blindness of - Miriam Benary, or the resurrection of Louise Massarte?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, there is no room for question about that. Better a thousand times - that she should never see the light of day again, than that she should - cease to be herself, and return to her dead personality. Why, it is—it - is Miriam's very life, her very existence, which is at stake.” - </p> - <p> - “Precisely. It is, so far as she is concerned, a choice between blindness - and death. Nay, something worse than death: a hideous transformation of - her identity, from that of a pure and innocent young bride, to that of a - weary, heart-sick, sinful woman-convict. To cure her blindness by the - means which they propose, would simply be to kill her; to abolish Miriam - Benary and to substitute for her Louise Massarte. It is infinitely better - that she should remain blind. Therefore, I am going to prevent that - operation if I can.” - </p> - <p> - “If you can indeed! But how can you? They are three thousand miles away. - How can you?” - </p> - <p> - “Well, let us see. To-day—to-day is the 12th, is it not?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, to-day is Saturday the 12th. Well?” - </p> - <p> - “Well, the day set for the operation is the 14th—that is, the day - after to-morrow, Monday.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, I shall go at once and cable to Fairchild, imploring him, - commanding him, no matter at what cost, to postpone the operation until I - arrive in Paris. Then I shall engage passage aboard the first swift - steamer that sails. The South German Clyde steamers sail on Mondays. They - make the passage in seven days, and touch at Cherbourg. Do you, meanwhile, - prepare my things, so that I may take ship day after tomorrow. Once - arrived in Paris, I will persuade Fairchild to relinquish the idea of the - operation for good and all. I will convince him that Miriam's life will be - imperilled. Or, failing in that, I may find myself compelled to tell him - the truth about Louise Massarte. Anything will be better than to have her - regain her memory.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, anything. God grant that he may not disobey your telegram. But you - must engage passage for me as well as for yourself. I cannot stay at home - here idle. You must let me go with you. I should die of anxiety alone here - at home.” - </p> - <p> - I went to the nearest telegraph office, and sent the following cable - despatch:— - </p> - <p> - “Fairchild, Hôtel Bourdonnaye, Paris. - </p> - <p> - “At all costs postpone operation till I arrive. Miriam's life endangered. - Sail Monday, viâ Cherbourg. - </p> - <p> - “Benary.” - </p> - <p> - Then I hastened to the steamship company's office in Bowling Slip, and - engaged staterooms for my sister and myself aboard the <i>Egmont</i> which - was to sail promptly at noon on Monday the 14th. - </p> - <p> - Yet, despite these precautionary measures, a heavy load of anxiety lay - upon my heart. What if Fairchild should suffer the operation to proceed, - notwithstanding my protest? I could not banish that contingency from my - mind, nor its ghastly <i>corollaries</i> from my imagination. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XIV.—ALTER EGO. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>hough by no means - so stormy as that described by Fairchild, our voyage was an unconscionably - long one. To say nothing of fogs and head winds, an accident befell our - machinery, whereby we were compelled to lie to for sixteen precious hours, - while the damage was repaired. We did not make Cherbourg till the - afternoon of Friday, January 25. - </p> - <p> - Ashore, my first act was to enquire when a train would leave for Paris. A - train would leave at midnight, due at the capital at half past nine in the - morning. My next act was to telegraph Fairchild, informing him of our - arrival, and warning him to expect us on the morrow. - </p> - <p> - At half past nine to the minute, Saturday, we drew into the Gare St. - Lazare. We were a little surprised not to find Fairchild there to meet us, - and perhaps also a little disturbed. Was Miriam so ill that he dared not - leave her? After seeing our luggage through the Customs House, we got into - a cab, and were driven to the Hôtel de la Bourdonnaye. - </p> - <p> - I inquired for Mr. Fairchild. - </p> - <p> - “Monsieur Fairchild is in his room, Monsieur.” - </p> - <p> - “Show us thither at once,” said I. - </p> - <p> - “Pardon, Monsieur. If Monsieur will have the goodness to send up his card—-” - </p> - <p> - “Josephine,” I exclaimed, “how do you account for this? Apparently we are - not expected. He does not meet us at the railway station; and here at his - hotel we are required to send up our card.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, send it up. We shall soon have an explanation,” Josephine said; and - I acted upon her advice. - </p> - <p> - In two minutes Fairchild appeared. - </p> - <p> - “What! Arrived!” he cried, seizing each of us by a band. “Your steamer was - overdue; when did you get in? Why didn't you telegraph from Cherbourg?” - </p> - <p> - “Why <i>didn't</i> I telegraph? But I did. Do you mean to say you haven't - received my despatch?” - </p> - <p> - “Not the ghost of one. If I'd known you were coming this morning—— - But wait.” - </p> - <p> - He stepped into the office of the hotel. Issuing thence in a moment, - “There!” he cried, exhibiting a blue envelope, “here's your telegram. In - America I should have received it twelve hours ago. But they manage these - things better in France. It came last night, after I'd gone to bed and the - authorities of this hostelery were too considerate to wake me. Then this - morning, they say, they thought I was so much occupied that, they would do - best to wait about delivering it till I was at leisure. That's French - courtesy with a vengeance. However, you're safely arrived at last, and - that's the important thing.” - </p> - <p> - “And Miriam? Miriam?” I demanded impatiently. - </p> - <p> - “The doctors are with her even now,” he answered. - </p> - <p> - “You got my cable despatch, of course, and put off the operation?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I got your despatch; and we put off the operation until all the - physicians insisted that it must not be put off longer—that, if put - off longer, it would be ineffective.” - </p> - <p> - Panic-stricken, “You don't mean to say,” I gasped, “you can't mean to say - that it has been performed!” - </p> - <p> - “As I just told you, they're with her now. They are performing it at this - moment?” - </p> - <p> - “Heavens and earth, man! Didn't I say in my telegram that it would imperil - her life? Didn't I entreat you at all costs to postpone it until I - arrived?” - </p> - <p> - “You did, certainly. But these other medical men, who were on the spot, - and could examine her for themselves, were of one mind in declaring that - her life would not be imperilled, but that the longer the operation was - delayed, the greater would be the danger of atrophy of the optic nerve. - Finally, on Wednesday of this week, they fixed upon this morning as the - furthest date to which they could consent to postpone it. It was a choice - between going on without your presence, and taking the risk of permanent - blindness. So I had to let them proceed.” - </p> - <p> - “You don't know what you have done! You have done that which you will - repent to your dying day!!” I groaned, wringing my hands. “You might have - known that I never should have telegraphed as I did—that I never - should have packed up and taken ship for Europe at two days notice—unless - it was a matter of life and death But where are they? Take me to them. - Perhaps it is not yet too late. Perhaps I am still in time to prevent it. - Take me to them at once. - </p> - <p> - “I doubt whether they will admit you. They would not allow me to be - present, and I am her husband. I have had to walk up and down the - corridor, waiting.” - </p> - <p> - “Not admit me! They will admit me, if have to break down the door. Take me - to them this instant.” - </p> - <p> - “Very well,” he assented. “This way.” - </p> - <p> - He led me up a flight of stairs, and halted before a door, upon which he - gently rapped. - </p> - <p> - The door was immediately opened by an elderly man, in professional - broad-cloth, who said in French: “You may enter now. It is finished.” - </p> - <p> - My heart turned to ice. For a breathing-space I could neither move nor - speak. - </p> - <p> - At last, with the stolidity that is born of despair, “Finished!” I - repeated. “You have then trephined?” - </p> - <p> - “We have.” - </p> - <p> - “And the patient——?” - </p> - <p> - “She is not yet recovered from the anaesthetic.” - </p> - <p> - We entered the room. Miriam, pale and beautiful, lay unconscious upon a - sofa near the windows. Two other professional-looking gentlemen stood over - her, one of whom was fanning her face. - </p> - <p> - Fairchild presented me: “The English physician, Dr. Benary, the uncle of - my wife.” - </p> - <p> - I was in no mood to be courteous or ceremonious. Having bowed, “Gentlemen, - I must beg you to leave me alone with the patient,” I began, addressing - the company at large. - </p> - <p> - My remark created a sensation. The French physicians exchanged perplexed - and astonished glances; and a chorus of indignant “Mais, monsieurs,” rose - about my ears. - </p> - <p> - “Fairchild, I am in earnest,” I said. “I insist upon these gentlemen - leaving me alone with my niece. I look to you to see that they do so. I - have neither the leisure nor the inclination to discuss the matter. Every - second is precious.” Somehow or other Fairchild prevailed upon them to - withdraw. I suspect they saw that I was in no frame of mind to bear - trifling with. - </p> - <p> - “I may remain?” Fairchild queried. - </p> - <p> - “No, not even you. I must be quite alone with her for the present.” - </p> - <p> - “But——-” - </p> - <p> - “Nay, do not waste time is controversy. Leave me at once.” - </p> - <p> - Fairchild reluctantly went off. - </p> - <p> - I sat down at the side of Miriam's couch, and fanned her. - </p> - <p> - By-and-by she opened her eyes, and they rested upon my face. - </p> - <p> - From their expression, it was obvious that she saw me. Her blindness had - been cured. - </p> - <p> - Almost at once, however, she closed her eyes again; and then for a little - while she lay still, like one half asleep. - </p> - <p> - Suddenly she drew a deep quick breath, sat up, and looking me intently in - the face, “Well, is it over?” she asked. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, dear; it is over,” I replied. “Well, then, it is a failure—a - total, abject failure! I remember everything. My memory was never clearer - or more circumstantial. And you—you said there was no chance of - failure! Oh, I was a fool to believe you. But what were you, to tell me - such monstrous lies?” - </p> - <p> - With these words, she sighed, and fell back upon her pillow, while I, with - a deadly sickness at the heart, realised that the worst which I had feared - had come to pass. - </p> - <p> - She was Louise Massarte now. Where was Miriam Benary? She was Louise - Massarte. She had taken up her former life at the exact point where Louise - Massarte had dropped it. She had begun anew at the exact point where - Louise Massarte had left off. And the operation which she had in her mind - when she asked, “Is it over?” was the operation which I had performed upon - her nearly five years before. Those intervening years were as perfectly - erased from her consciousness as if they had been passed in dreamless - sleep. - </p> - <p> - Where was Miriam Benary? What had become of that sweet and winning - personality? And of the innocent pure love with which she had blessed our - lives? Oh, it was a hideous transformation. Miriam was gone into the - infinite void of Nothingness, leaving this changeling in her place. It was - more unbelievable, it was more horribly impossible, than any wild - nightmare phantasy, than any ancient grisly tale of necromancy; and yet it - was true, it was undeniable, it was irremediable. It was worse, - incomparably worse, than it would have been if she had died. For had she - died, we could at least have hoped that her soul still lived, good and - true and beautiful as ever. But now her soul had simply changed its form, - and become the corrupt and sinful essence of Louise Massarte—just as - in books of the Black Art we read of the fair virgin Princess being - changed at a touch into a wicked grinning ape. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, you have failed, you have failed,” she said again. - </p> - <p> - Then, all at once, starting up, and speaking passionately: “Oh, why did - you interfere with me last night? Why did you cross my path and thwart my - will? Why did you not let me die then, when it would have been so easy? - Why did you bring me here to your house, to fill me and intoxicate me with - hopes that were doomed to be disappointed? Oh, it was cruel, it was cruel - of you. I was insane to listen to you. I was mad to place any sort of - credence in what you said. It was so obvious a fairy-tale. I ought to have - known that you promised the impossible, that you were either a liar or a - lunatic.—But it is not yet too late. Leave me. Leave the room. Let - me get up and dress myself, and go away. Where is your sister? She put - away my clothes. Send her to me. I will not be detained here longer. Give - me my clothes. I will get up, and go away, and throw myself into the - river, before they have a chance to retake me, and send me back to - prison.” - </p> - <p> - What could I do? What could I say? “Oh, Miriam, Miriam,” I faltered - helplessly. “Calm yourself. For Heaven's sake, lie quiet. You will work - yourself into a fever, into delirium. Your agitation may cost you your - life. Lie quiet and let me think. My poor wits are distracted.” - </p> - <p> - She caught at the name Miriam. - </p> - <p> - “Miriam? Miriam! Who is Miriam? Have I not told you my name? My name is - Louise Massarte. Why do you call me by another? Miriam!—Miriam! Am I - in a madhouse? <i>Oh, oh! my head!</i>” she screamed sharply, putting her - hand to her head. “What have you done to my head? What have you done to - me? Oh, I had such a pain! It shot through my head. Oh! fool, imbecile, - that I was, ever to enter your house.” - </p> - <p> - At this juncture the door opened, and Fair-child came into the room. - </p> - <p> - “I could wait outside no longer,” he explained. “I heard her scream. I - cannot stay away from her.” - </p> - <p> - To my unspeakable amazement, she, at the sight of her husband (whom, I had - every reason to suppose, she would not recognise), started violently, and, - catching her breath, exclaimed— - </p> - <p> - “What! You! Henry Fairchild! Henry Fairchild! Here! Good God!” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, dear Miriam,” Fairchild answered, coming forward, and putting out - his hand to take hold of hers. - </p> - <p> - But she drew quickly away from him. - </p> - <p> - “Miriam again! Miriam! What farce is this? Am I really in a mad-house? Or - have I gone mad? I believe you are both maniacs, that you call me Miriam. - Or is it some charade that you are acting for my bewilderment? And you, - Henry Fairchild! What are you doing here? You, of all men! Oh! this is - some frightful trick that has been played upon me! This glib-tongued old - man, with his innocent face and his protestations of benevolence, has - trapped me here to send me back across the river. But why so much ceremony - about it. Call your officers at once, and give me up to them. One thing - I'll promise you: they'll never get me back there alive. Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! - And so, Mr. Fairchild, your friend, Roger Beecham, is dead. I came to town - last night for the especial purpose of calling upon him, and settling our - accounts; and then I learned that he had died from natural causes. Well, - there is one consolation: unless the dogma of hell be a pure invention, he - is roasting there now. I daresay I shall join him there presently, and - then we will roast together! What a blow his death must have been to you, - his faithful Achates!” During the first part of her speech, it was plain - that poor Fairchild simply fancied her to be raving in delirium; but when - she mentioned that name, Roger Beecham, an expression of terrified - amazement, mingled with blank incomprehension, fell upon his face, and he - stood staring at her, with knitted brows and parted lips, like a man - dumbfoundered and aghast. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I hope he died hard!” she cried. “I hope his mortal agony was - excruciating and long-drawn out. I hope his death-bed was haunted and - surrounded by twenty thousand hateful memories!” Fairchild found his - tongue. - </p> - <p> - “Roger Beecham,” he repeated, as if dazed. “What do you know of Roger - Beecham?” - </p> - <p> - “That's good! That's exquisite!” cried she. “What do I know of Roger - Beecham? You play your comedy very well, though I confess I don't see the - point of it. What does Louise Massarte know of Roger Beecham? What does - she <i>not</i> know of him?” - </p> - <p> - Fairchild became rigid. - </p> - <p> - “Louise Massarte!” he gasped. “What have you to do with Louise Massarte?—the - murderess of Beecham's wife! Was she—for God's sake, was she related - to you? Long ago I noticed a certain resemblance—a certain remote - resemblance—such a resemblance as might exist between an angel and a - devil. But why do you speak to me of her? What can you know of her? Louise - Massarte!—— Dr. Benary, what has happened to my wife? She is - delirious. Yet how comes she to know these names? What can be done?” - </p> - <p> - “I am not delirious, Mr. Fairchild,” she put in, hastily. “But either you - are, or you are a most clever actor, and have missed your vocation in - failing to go upon the stage. As I said before, I cannot see the point of - your mummery; but you do it uncommonly well. Why do you pretend not to - recognise me? Surely, I can't have changed beyond recognition in two - years.” - </p> - <p> - “Not recognise you? Not recognise you, Miriam, my wife! Oh, what dreadful - insanity has come upon her?” - </p> - <p> - “I? Miriam? Your wife?” She laughed. “Come, Mr. Fairchild, a truce to this - mystery.” - </p> - <p> - Fairchild sank upon a chair, and pressed his brow between his hands. “She - is out of her senses. But how comes she to know those names?” he said, as - if speaking to himself. Then, turning to me: “Perhaps you, Dr. Benary, can - clear this puzzle up?” - </p> - <p> - “This is hardly a fitting time or place for attempting to,” I replied. “If - you had only respected my desires, there would have been no such - occasion.” - </p> - <p> - “Will you answer me this one question? Do you understand what she means by - her reference to Louise Massarte?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes. I do.” - </p> - <p> - “Explain that meaning to me.” - </p> - <p> - “Not now, Fairchild. Not now. Later I will tell you everything. I have not - the heart nor the wit to explain anything just now.” - </p> - <p> - “But the relation, the connection, between that woman and my wife? Were - they sisters?” - </p> - <p> - “No, not sisters.” - </p> - <p> - “What then?” - </p> - <p> - “Fairchild, I implore you——” I began, but I got no further. - </p> - <p> - From the couch upon which Miriam lay came a low peal of sarcastic - laughter. Then suddenly it expired in a most piteous moan. She gave a - sharp cry, and swooned. - </p> - <p> - Fairchild was at her side in a twinkling. He knelt there, seizing her - hands, and gazing with wild eyes into her face. - </p> - <p> - “She is dead! She is dead!” he groaned frantically. - </p> - <p> - “No, she has only fainted, from pain and exhaustion. But the consequences - of a fainting fit in her condition may be terrible,” said I. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, my darling! my darling!” he sobbed, bending over till his cheek swept - her breast. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - She never regained consciousness. - </p> - <p> - I have not the heart to dwell upon what followed. - </p> - <p> - This paragraph, cut from <i>Galignant's Messenger</i> of February 1, tells - its own story:— - </p> - <p> - “<i>Fairchild.—On Wednesday morning, January 30, at the Hôtel de la - Bourdonnaye, of </i>phrenitis<i>, Miriam Benary, wife of Henry Fairchild, - of Adironda.</i>” - </p> - <h3> - THE END. - </h3> - <div style="height: 6em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Two Women or One?, by Henry Harland - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TWO WOMEN OR ONE? *** - -***** This file should be named 51986-h.htm or 51986-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/1/9/8/51986/ - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by Google Books - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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- <title>
- Two Women Or One?, by Henry Harland
- </title>
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-The Project Gutenberg EBook of Two Women or One?, by Henry Harland
-
-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
-other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
-whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of
-the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
-www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have
-to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook.
-
-
-
-Title: Two Women or One?
- From the Mss. of Dr. Leonard Benary
-
-Author: Henry Harland
-
-Release Date: May 3, 2016 [EBook #51986]
-Last Updated: March 13, 2018
-
-Language: English
-
-Character set encoding: UTF-8
-
-*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TWO WOMEN OR ONE? ***
-
-
-
-
-Produced by David Widger from page images generously
-provided by Google Books
-
-
-
-
-
-
-</pre>
-
- <div style="height: 8em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h1>
- TWO WOMEN OR ONE?
- </h1>
- <h3>
- From The Mss. Of Dr. Leonard Benary
- </h3>
- <h2>
- By Henry Harland
- </h2>
- <h4>
- New York
- </h4>
- <h3>
- 1890
- </h3>
- <p>
- <br /> <br />
- </p>
- <h3>
- <i>DEDICATION</i>
- </h3>
- <h3>
- TO ———— ————, ESQUIRE.
- </h3>
- <p class="indent15">
- “I'll link my waggon to a star;”
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- I'll dedicate this tale to you:
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- Wit, poet, scholar, that you are,
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- And skilful story-teller too,
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- And theologue, and critic true,
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- And main-stay of the———-Review.
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- I'll link my waggon to a star,
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- Does not the Yankee sage advise it?
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- And yet I dare not name your name,
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- Lest the wide lustre of its fame
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- Eclipse my humble candle-flame:
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- But you'll surmise it.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p>
- January 1890.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <p>
- <b>CONTENTS</b>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> TWO WOMEN OR ONE? </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I.—THE FIRST NIGHT. </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II.—AT THE RIVER SIDE. </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III.—WHENCE SHE CAME. </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV.—THE DOCTOR SPEAKS. </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V.—THE DOCTOR ACTS. </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI.—MIRIAM BENARY. </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII.—WITHIN AN ACE. </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII.—A CHANCE ACQUAINTANCE. </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX.—JOSEPHINE WRITES. </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X.—JOSEPHINE EXPLAINS. </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI.—REASSURANCE. </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII.—THE DOCTOR'S DILEMMA. </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII.—NATURE BEGINS REPRISALS. </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV.—ALTER EGO. </a>
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h1>
- TWO WOMEN OR ONE?
- </h1>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER I.—THE FIRST NIGHT.
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>y name is Leonard
- Benary—rather a foreign-sounding name, though I am a pure-blooded
- Englishman. I reside at No. 63, Riverview Road, in the American city of
- Adironda, though I was born in Devonshire. And I am a physician and
- surgeon, though retired from active practice. My age can be computed when
- I say that I came into the world on the 21st day of July, in the year
- 1818.
- </p>
- <p>
- I must at the outset crave the reader's indulgence for two things. First,
- my style. I am not a literary man; and my style will therefore be
- ungraceful. Secondly, my provincialisms. I have lived in Adironda for very
- nearly half a century, and I have therefore fallen into divers local
- peculiarities of speech. But I have a singular, and I believe an
- interesting and significant, story to tell, and I think it had better be
- ill told than not told at all.
- </p>
- <p>
- It begins with the night of Friday, June 13th, 1884.
- </p>
- <p>
- Towards twelve o'clock on that night I was walking in an easterly
- direction along the south side of Washington Street, between Myrtle Avenue
- and Riverview Road, on my way home from a concert which I had attended at
- the Academy of Music. Moving in the same direction, on the same side of
- the street, and leading me by something like a hundred feet, I could make
- out the figure of a woman. Except for us two, the neighbourhood appeared
- to be deserted.
- </p>
- <p>
- Anything about my fellow pedestrian, beyond her sex, which was proclaimed
- by the outline of her gown as she passed under a street-lamp—whether
- she was young or old, white or black, a lady or a beggar—I was
- unable, owing to the darkness of the night, and to the distance that
- separated us, to distinguish. Indeed, I should most likely have paid no
- attention whatever to her, for I was busy with my own thoughts, had I not
- happened to notice that when she readied the corner of Riverview Road,
- instead of turning into that thoroughfare, she proceeded to the terrace at
- the foot of Washington Street, and immediately disappeared down the stone
- staircase which leads thence to the water's edge.
- </p>
- <p>
- This action at once struck me as odd, and put an end to my pre-occupation.
- </p>
- <p>
- What could a solitary woman want at the brink of the Yellow Snake River at
- twelve o'clock midnight?
- </p>
- <p>
- Her errand could scarcely be a benign one; and the conjecture that suicide
- might possibly be its object, instantly, of course, arose in my mind.
- </p>
- <p>
- My duty under the circumstances, anyhow, seemed plain—to keep an eye
- upon her, and hold myself in readiness to interfere, if needful.
- </p>
- <p>
- After a moment's deliberation, I, too, descended the stone stairs.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER II.—AT THE RIVER SIDE.
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">Y</span>et to keep an eye
- upon her was more easily said than done. At the bottom of the terrace it
- was impenetrably dark. Not a star shone from the clouded sky. The points
- of light along the opposite shore—and here and there, upon the bosom
- of the stream, the red or green lantern of a vessel—punctured the
- darkness without relieving it. Strain my eyesight as I might, I could see
- nothing beyond the length of my arm.
- </p>
- <p>
- But the lapping of the waves upon the strand, and about the piles of the
- little T-shaped landing-stage that extends into the river at this point,
- was distinctly audible, and served to guide me. Towards the landing-stage
- I cautiously advanced; and when I felt the planking of it beneath my feet,
- I halted. The whereabouts of the woman I had no means of determining.
- “However,” thought I, “if her business be self-destruction, she has not
- yet transacted it, for I have heard no splash.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Ah! Suddenly a flare of heat-lightning on the eastern horizon illuminated
- the land and the water. It was very brief, but it lasted long enough for
- me to take my bearings, and to discern the object of my quest.
- </p>
- <p>
- She was standing, a mass of shadow, at the very verge of the little wharf,
- distant not more than three yards in front of me. A moment later I had
- silently gained her side, stretched out my hand, and laid firm hold upon
- her by the arm.
- </p>
- <p>
- In great and entirely natural terror, she started back: as luck would have
- it, not in the direction of the water, for else she had certainly tumbled
- in, perhaps dragging me with her. And though she uttered no articulate
- sound, she caught her breath in a sharp spasmodic gasp, and I could feel
- her tremble violently under my touch.
- </p>
- <p>
- I sought to reassure her.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Do not be alarmed,” I said, speaking as gently as I could; “I mean you no
- manner of evil. I saw you come down here from the street above; and it
- struck me as hardly a safe place for a person of your sex to visit alone
- at such an hour.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She made no answer. A prolonged shudder swept over her, and she drew a
- deep long sigh.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You have no reason to fear me,” I continued. “I have only come to you for
- the purpose of protecting you, of being of service to you, if I can. Look—ah!
- no; it's too dark for you to see me. But I am a white-haired old man, the
- last person in the world you need be afraid of. You would not tremble and
- draw away like that, if you could know how far I am from wishing you
- anything but good.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She spoke. “Then release my arm.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Her tone was haughty and indignant. She enunciated each syllable with
- frigid preciseness. From the correctness of her accent and the cultivated
- quality of her voice, I learned that I had to do with a woman of education
- and refinement.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Then release my arm.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No,” I said, “I dare not release your arm.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Dare not!” echoed she, in the same indignant tone, to which now was added
- an inflection of perplexity. Sightless as the darkness rendered me, I
- could have wagered that she raised her eyebrows and curled her lip.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I dare not,” I repeated.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Possibly you will be good enough to explain what it is you fear.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Frankly, I fear that you mean to do yourself a mischief. I dare not let
- go my hold upon you, lest you might take advantage of your liberty to
- throw yourself into the water.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, and if I should?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That would be a very foolish thing to do.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But what concern is it of yours? What right have you to molest me? My
- life is my own, is it not, to dispose of as I please?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That is a very difficult and subtle question, involving the first
- principles of theology and ethics. I do not think we can profitably enter
- into a discussion of it just now, and here. But this much I will promise
- you,” said I, “I shall not let go my hold upon your arm until I am
- persuaded that you have renounced your suicidal purpose.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She gave a <i>tchk</i> of exasperation. Then, after a momentary silence—
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are insolent and intrusive, sir. You presume upon the fact that I am
- a woman and alone, to take a shameful and unmanly advantage of me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am sorry if such is your opinion of me,” I returned. “I do only what I
- must.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You tell me you are an old man. I am not old, and I am strong. I warn you
- now to let me go. I assure you, you are unwise to trifle with me. I am a
- very desperate woman, and shall not mind consequences. If you try me
- beyond endurance—if we should come to a struggle——”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah! but we will not,” I hastily interposed. “You will not improve your
- superior strength against one who is moved by no other feeling than
- goodwill toward you. And besides,” I added, “though it is true that I am
- close upon sixty-six years of age, my muscles have still some iron in
- them. I fancy I should be able to hold my own.”
- </p>
- <p>
- This, I must acknowledge, was sheer braggadocio. I weigh but nine stone,
- measure but five feet four in my boots, and am anything rather than an
- athlete.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are a meddler, sir. Good or bad, your motives do not interest me. Let
- me go. My patience is exhausted. I will brook no further interference.
- Release my arm. Your conduct is an outrage.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She spoke in genuine anger, stamping her foot, and tugging to escape my
- grasp.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What I do, madam, be it outrageous or otherwise, I am in common humanity
- bound to do. I should be virtually your murderer if I did less. It is my
- bounden duty to restrain you, to do what I may to help you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Help me, sir? You are in no position to help me. I have not asked your
- help. There is no help for me. You are meddlesome and officious. I will
- not dispute with you further. <i>Let me go!</i>”
- </p>
- <p>
- She spoke the last three words with threatening emphasis. I could hear her
- teeth come together with a decisive click after them. Again she tugged to
- break loose from me.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You require of me the impossible,” was my reply. “It is impossible for me
- to let you go. I implore you to control your anger, and to listen to me
- for one moment. You are labouring under great excitement, you are not
- accountable, you are not yourself. How can I let you go? I should never
- know another instant of peace if I stood by and suffered you to do
- yourself the injury that you contemplate. I should be a brute, a craven, a
- criminal, if I did that. I should be answerable for your death. As a human
- being, I am compelled to restrain you if I can. You must see that it is
- impossible for me to let you go.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, have you finished?” she demanded, as I paused.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Not quite,” I answered, “for now I must ask you to let me take you to
- your home. Tomorrow morning you will feel differently, you will see all
- things by a different light. You will thank me then for what you now call
- an outrage. Think of your friends, your family. No matter what anguish you
- may be suffering, no matter to what desperate straits your affairs may be
- arrived, you have no right to attempt your life. Besides, you say you are
- young. Therefore you have the future before you; you have hope. I am older
- than you, and wiser. Be advised and guided by me. Come, let me take you to
- your home.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Home!” she repeated bitterly. “Home, friends, family! Ha-ha-ha!” She
- laughed; but her laughter was dry and sardonic, horrid to hear. “What you
- say would be cruel, sir, if it were not so highly humorous. You speak and
- act in ignorance. You are very far from comprehending the situation. I
- have no home. I have no family, no friends, and, worst of all, no money.
- There is not a roof in this city—no, nor in the whole world, for
- that matter—under which I can seek a welcome; not a friend,
- acquaintance, relation, not a human being, in short, to miss me, or even
- to enquire after me, if I disappear. Except, indeed, enemies; except those
- who would wish to find me for my further hurt: of them there are plenty.
- Now will you let me go? I am in extreme misery, sir. There is no help for
- me, no hope. My life is a wreck, a horror. I can't bear it, I can't endure
- it any longer. Let me go. If you understood the circumstances, you would
- not detain me. If you knew what I am, what I have done, and what I should
- have to look forward to if I lived; if you knew what it is to reach that
- pass where life means nothing for you but fire in the heart: you would not
- refuse to let me go. You could condemn me to no agony, sir, worse than to
- have to live. To live is to remember; and so long as I remember I shall be
- in torment. Even to sleep brings me no relief, for when I sleep I dream.
- Oh, for mercy's sake, let me go! Go yourself. Go away, and leave me here.
- You will not repent it. You may always recall it as an act of kindness. I
- believe you mean to be kind. Be really kind, and do not interfere with me
- longer.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She had begun to speak with a recklessness and a savage irony that were
- shocking and repulsive; but in the end she spoke with a pathos and a
- passion that were irresistible. I was stirred to the bottom of my heart.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I wish, dear lady,” I said, “I wish you could know how deeply and
- sincerely I feel for you, how genuine and earnest my desire is to help
- you. Pray, pray give me at least a chance to do so. Look; I live in one of
- those houses, above there, on the terrace—where you see the lights.
- Come with me to my house. You say you have no roof under which you can
- seek a welcome: I will promise you a welcome there. You say you are
- friendless: let me be your friend. Come with me to my house. I believe—nay,
- I am sure—I shall be able in some way to help you. Anyhow, give me a
- chance to try. I am an old man, a physician. Come with me, and let us talk
- together. Between us we shall discover some better solution of your
- difficulties than the drastic one that you are looking to. But I will make
- a bargain with you. Come with me to my house, and remain there for one
- hour. If, at the expiration of that hour, I shall not have persuaded you
- to think better of your present purpose—if then you are still of
- your present mind—I will promise to let you depart unattended,
- without further hindrance, to go wherever and to do whatever you see fit.
- No harm can come to you from accompanying me to my house—no harm by
- any hazard, but possibly much good. Try it. Try me. Trust me. Come. Within
- an hour, if you still wish it, you may go your way alone. I give you my
- word of honour. Will you come?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You leave me no free choice, sir. It will be my only means of deliverance
- from you. I run a great risk, a great peril, greater than you can think,
- in doing so. But it is agreed that at the end of one hour I shall be my
- own mistress again? After that—hands off?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “At the end of one hour you may go or stay, according to your own
- pleasure.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Very well; I am ready.”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER III.—WHENCE SHE CAME.
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> led her into my
- back drawing-room—which apartment I use as a library and study—and
- turned up the drop-light on my writing-table.
- </p>
- <p>
- Then I looked at her, and she looked at me.
- </p>
- <p>
- She had said that she was young. I was not surprised to see that she was
- beautiful as well. I do not know that I can explain just what had prepared
- me for this discovery. Perhaps, in part, her voice, which was exquisitely
- sweet and melodious. Perhaps simply the tragical and romantic
- circumstances under which I had found her. However that may be, beautiful
- she indubitably was.
- </p>
- <p>
- She wore no bonnet. Her hair, dark brown, curling, and abundant, was cut
- short like a boy's.
- </p>
- <p>
- Her skin was fine in texture, and deathly pale. Her eyes, large, dark,
- liquid, were emotional and intelligent. Her mouth was generous in size,
- sensitive in form, and in colour perfect. But over her whole countenance
- was written legibly the signature of hard and fierce despair.
- </p>
- <p>
- From throat to foot she was wrapped in a black waterproof cloak.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Be seated,” I began. “Put yourself at ease in mind and body. And first of
- all, let me offer you a glass of wine.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You may spare yourself that trouble, sir,” she replied. “I have no
- appetite for wine.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But it will do you good. A single glass?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I will not drink a single drop.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, then, a composing draught. You are my patient for the time being,
- remember. You must let me prescribe for you. You are in a state of
- excessive nervous excitement, bordering upon hysteria. Drink this.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I assure you, sir, my disorder is not of the body,” she said wearily. “No
- medicine can relieve it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Nevertheless, I will beg of you to give this a trial. It is but a
- thimbleful. It can't hurt you, even if it should fail to benefit you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “For aught I know it may contain a drug.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It certainly does contain a drug. I should not offer you <i>aqua pura</i>.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You juggle words, sir. I mean a poison.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Come; that is good. Do you think I would have been at such pains to
- dissuade you from suicide, immediately thereafter to seek to poison you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don't mean a deadly poison. You could do me no greater kindness than to
- offer me a deadly poison. I mean—it may contain some opiate, some
- narcotic, to deprive me of power over myself, so that I shall be unable to
- leave your house when the time is up.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Madam, look at me. Have I the appearance of a man who would attempt to
- get the better of you by an underhand trick like that?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No, you do not look deceitful,” she answered, after a moment's scrutiny
- of my face.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Then trust me enough to drink this.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Without further protest she took the glass I proffered, and emptied it.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Now, if you are willing, we may talk,” said I.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What is there to talk about? I, at any rate, have nothing to say. But I
- am at your mercy for the term of one hour. You, of course, may talk as
- much as you desire. But at the end of one hour—— Please look
- at your watch. What o'clock is it now?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is twenty minutes after midnight.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Thank you. Five minutes have already passed. At a quarter after one I
- shall be free to leave.” Therewith she let her head fall back upon the
- cushion of the easy-chair in which she was seated, and closed her eyes.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes,” said I, “you will then be free to leave, if you still wish it. But
- I doubt if you will.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Your doubt is groundless, sir. However, if it pleases you to cherish it,
- you may do so till the hour is finished.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No, I cannot think my doubt is groundless. I told you I believed I should
- be able to show you a better way out of your troubles than the desperate
- one that you were purposing to take; and now I will make good my promise.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Being more fully acquainted with my own affairs than you are, I assure
- you that your promise is one which cannot by any possibility be made
- good.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Time will prove or disprove the truth of that assertion. To begin with,
- may I ask you a question or two?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You may ask me twenty questions. I do not pledge myself to answer them.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, will you answer this one? Am I right in having understood you to
- say, when we were below there, on the wharf, that you have no friends or
- kindred whose feelings you are bound to consider in determining your
- conduct, and no worldly ties or associations which you are bound to
- respect?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, you are right in that.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am right in having understood you to say that; but is what you said
- true?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Which would imply that you suspect me of having lied,” she returned, with
- an unlovely smile. “Well, I don't blame you. I am a skilful and habitual
- liar, and I daresay it shows in my face. But in that case I broke my rule,
- and told the truth.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “My dear madam, I intended no such imputation. But you were agitated and
- excited; and sometimes under the stress of our excitement we unwittingly
- exaggerate.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, I did not exaggerate. What I told you was literally true.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And the rest that you said? That also you re-affirm? That you are
- penniless, homeless, wretchedly unhappy, and weary of life? It seems
- brutal for me to state it thus; but I must understand clearly, for a
- purpose which you will presently see.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You need not apologise, sir. This is no occasion for mincing matters.
- Yes, I am penniless, homeless, wretchedly unhappy, and weary of life. But
- I am worse than that. I am bad. I am utterly base and degraded. Look at
- me,” she added, fixing her eyes boldly, even defiantly, upon mine.
- “Examine me. I am a rare specimen. Very probably you have never seen my
- like before, and never will again. I am an example of—” she paused
- and laughed; and there was something in her laughter that made me shudder—“of
- total depravity,” she concluded. Then suddenly her manner changed, and she
- became very grave. “Would you entertain a leper in your house, sir? Yet I
- have been told that I am a moral leper. I have been told that the
- corruption-spot upon me reaches in to the core. And I think my informant
- put it very moderately. If you suspected the crimes I have been guilty of,
- the worse crimes that I have meditated, and only failed to commit because
- of material obstacles that I could not overcome, you would not harbour me
- in your house for a single minute. You would feel that my presence was a
- contamination: that I polluted the chair I sit in, the floor under my
- feet. The glass I just drank from—you would shatter it into bits,
- that no innocent man or woman might ever put lips to it again. There!
- can't you see now that I am beyond help, beyond hope? What have I to live
- for? I am an incumbrance upon the face of the earth, and hateful to myself
- into the bargain. Why keep me here an hour? Let us rescind our
- compromise.* Let me go at once.”
- </p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
- * It is possible that here and elsewhere Dr. Benary, in
- reporting conversations from memory, puts into the mouths of
- his interlocutors words and phrases from his own vocabulary,
- at the same time, without doubt, giving the substance and
- the spirit of their remarks correctly. “Let us rescind our
- compromise,” at any rate, falling from the lips of a woman,
- has, to say the least, an unrealistic sound.—-Editor.
-</pre>
- <p>
- She rose, and stood restive, as if expecting a dismissal.
- </p>
- <p>
- “No, no; you must stay out your hour, at all events,” I insisted. “Sit
- down again. I am sure you are not so black as you paint yourself; and in
- any case, guilt confessed and repented of is more than half atoned for.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That is not so, to begin with,” she retorted; “that is the shallowest,
- hollowest sort of cant. It may pass with people who know guilt only by
- hearsay, but is ridiculous to those who, like myself, have a knowledge of
- the subject at first hand.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Guilt, crime, is atoned for only when it is undone, and all its
- consequences are obliterated. And now, speaking from my first-hand
- knowledge of the subject, I will tell you two things—first, all the
- confession and repentance in the world cannot undo a crime once done, nor
- obliterate its consequences; secondly, nothing can. You are a physician; I
- take it, therefore, you are familiar with the first principles of science:
- with what they call, I think, the Law of the Persistence of Force, the Law
- of the Conservation of Energy. If you understand that law, you will not
- dispute this simple application of it: a crime once done can never be
- undone; its consequences are ineradicable and eternal. Well and good. It
- is a puerility, in the face of the Law of the Persistence of Force, to
- talk of atonement. Atonement could come to pass only by means of a miracle—a
- suspension of Nature, and the interposition of a Supernatural Power. And
- that is where the Christians, with their dogma of vicarious atonement, are
- more rational than all the Rationalists from <i>a to zed</i>. So much for
- atonement. And now, as to repentance—who said that I repented?
- Repentance! Remorse! I will give you another piece of information, also
- speaking from firsthand knowledge. Repentance and Remorse are unmeaning
- sounds. There are no realities, no <i>things</i>, to correspond with them.
- I do not repent. No man or woman, from the beginning of time, has ever yet
- repented, in your sense of the word. We regret the losses that our crimes
- entail upon us: yes. We suffer because our crimes find us out, because
- retribution overtakes us: yes. But repent? We do not repent. Most of us
- pretend to. But I will be frank; I will not pretend.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I suffer because the punishment which, by my crimes, I have brought down
- upon myself, is greater than I can bear; I suffer, too, because the last
- purpose I had left to live for, which was also a criminal purpose, has
- been defeated. But I do not repent. I will not pretend to repent.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Be all which as it may, I will repeat what I said before: I do not
- believe that you are so black as you paint yourself. You, young,
- beautiful, intelligent—no, no. But even if you were ten times
- blacker, it would make no difference to me. For, look you, since you have
- introduced a question of science, and favoured me with a scientific
- generalisation, I will pursue the question a little further, and cap your
- generalisation with another: namely, good, bad, or indifferent, we are not
- our own creators; we do not make ourselves; we are the resultants of our
- Heredity and our Environment; and our actions, whether criminal or the
- reverse, are determined not by free-will, but by necessity. I will not
- enlarge upon that generalisation; I will leave its corollaries for your
- own imagination to perceive. But in view of it, I will say again: even if
- you were ten times blacker, it would make no difference to me. You are no
- more to blame for the colour of your soul than for the colour of your
- hair.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are very magnanimous,” she said bitterly, “and your doctrine would
- sound well in a criminal court.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Think of me as scornfully as you will,” I returned, “I am very sincerely
- anxious to befriend you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “If that is true, you have it in your power to do so with marvellous
- ease.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “How so?” I queried.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Absolve me from my agreement to stay here an hour. Sit still there in
- your chair, and let me go about my business unmolested and at once.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No; to that agreement I must hold you, for your own sake. I have much to
- say to you, if you would only let me once get started.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Good God, sir!” she cried, springing up in passion. “You drive me to
- extremes. Do you know that you are violating the laws of the State in
- harbouring me here?—that you are exposing yourself to the risk of
- prosecution?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I know that I should be violating the laws of humanity if I suffered you
- to lay violent hands upon yourself so long as I have it in my power to
- restrain you. As for the laws of the State, do you mean that you can bring
- an action against me for damages in interfering with your personal
- liberty? I doubt if you will do so. And I am sure no jury, apprised of the
- circumstances, would find against me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are still in ignorance of the situation.” said she. “Now open your
- eyes.”
- </p>
- <p>
- With that she threw off the waterproof cloak in which she was enveloped,
- and stood before me in the blue and white striped uniform of a Deadlock
- Island convict.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER IV.—THE DOCTOR SPEAKS.
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> confess my heart
- leapt into my throat, and I gasped for breath. She, witnessing my
- stupefaction, laughed, as if in cynical enjoyment of it.
- </p>
- <p>
- After a little: “I think now you will permit me to bid you good evening,”
- she said with mock ceremoniousness.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You—you have escaped from prison!” I faltered out.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, from the Penitentiary across the river. You see, though we have
- never met until to-night, we have been neighbours, living within sight
- each of the other's residence, for some time. Two years already I have
- spent, somewhat monotonously, upon Deadlock Island; and, to employ
- technical language, I was 'in' for a term of which that was but an
- insignificant fraction. I had, however, certain business to transact here
- in town—a little matter to arrange with the gentleman who was the
- principal witness for the prosecution at my trial—and I seized,
- therefore, upon the first opportunity that presented itself to come hither
- incognito. But when I arrived I found that Fate, with her usual
- perversity, had put it out of my power to transact that business, the
- party of the second part having died from natural causes. Thus the one
- last only purpose I had left to live for had become impossible of
- accomplishment. And now I wish for nothing except death. At last even you
- must see the absurdity of my staying longer here in your house. Let me <i>go</i>.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You say,” I rejoined, having by this time recovered somewhat of my
- equanimity; “you say that you wish for nothing except death. Say what you
- will, I do not believe that you wish for death at all.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “To that I can only answer that you deceive yourself.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No, it is you who deceive yourself. What you wish for is not death, but
- change—a change of condition. No truer words were ever spoken than
- those of Tennyson's:—
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- Whatever crazy sorrow saith,
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- No life that breathes with human breath
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- Has ever truly longed for death.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p>
- What you crave under the name of death is forgetfulness. You yourself
- compressed the whole truth into five words when you said: 'To live is to
- remember.' Your inference was that to die is to forget. It is memory that
- agonizes you; it is the past which lives in memory that handicaps you,
- that hangs like a mill-stone round your neck, and goads you to despair. If
- you could forget, if you could erase the entire past from your
- consciousness, you would cease to suffer. Is not that true?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “True enough, perhaps. But without pertinence. A quibble. Forgetfulness is
- what I wish for, yes. But there is no forgetfulness except in death—no
- Lethe save the Styx.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No forgetfulness <i>except</i> in death? You assume, then, that there <i>is</i>
- forgetfulness in death; a bold assumption. Have you no dread of something
- after death, the undiscovered country? Do you ignore the possibility of a
- future life? Suppose, beyond the grave, you preserve your identity—that
- is to say, your memory: in what respect will you have gained by the
- change?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I must take my risks. This much I know for certain: there is no
- forgetfulness in life. In death there may be. I will take my chances. Am I
- not in hell now? Any change must be a change for the better. I will take
- the risks.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You say there is no forgetfulness in life. But suppose there were?
- Suppose it were possible for you to obtain total and permanent
- forgetfulness without dying, without taking those risks, without taking
- any risks at all? Suppose some one should come to you and say: 'See! I
- have it in my power to bestow upon you total and permanent obliviousness,
- so that the entire past, with all its events and circumstances, shall be
- perfectly effaced from your mind; so that you shall not even recall your
- name, nor your language; but, with unimpaired bodily health and mental
- capacities, shall begin life afresh, like the new-born infant, speechless,
- innocent, regenerated; another person, and yet the same:—suppose
- some one should come to you and offer that?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is an idle supposition! The age of miracles has passed.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “An idle supposition? You deem it such? Let us see, let us consider. To
- begin with, answer me this: Have you never heard or read—in
- conversation, newspaper, medical report, or novel—have you never
- heard or read, I say, of a case where, through an accident, a human being
- has had befall him exactly the experience which I have just described? A
- case where a lesion of the cerebral tissues, caused perhaps by disease,
- perhaps by a concussion of the brain, or by a fracture of the skull, has
- resulted in the total annihilation of memory, without injury to the other
- intellectual faculties, so that the patient, upon recovering health and
- consciousness, could remember absolutely nothing of the past—neither
- his name, nor his nationality, nor the face of his father or mother, nor
- even how to speak, walk, eat—but was literally <i>born anew</i>, and
- had to begin life over again from the start? Surely, everybody who has
- ears has heard, everybody who can read has read, of cases of that nature?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, yes; I have read of such cases, certainly.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Very well. You have read of such cases. So!—Now, then, suppose an
- accident of that sort should befall <i>you?</i> Everything you can hope
- for from death would come to pass, and yet you would live. What better
- could you desire?
- </p>
- <p>
- “And yet <i>I</i> would live? Hardly. My body would live, true. But <i>I</i>,
- my personality, my identity, would have vanished. For is not the very pith
- and marrow of one's identity, remembrance? Is not memory the birthmark, so
- to speak, by which one recognises one's-self? Is it not the cord upon
- which one's experiences are strung, which holds them together, and
- establishes their unity? My body would live, true enough. But it would be
- inhabited and animated by another spirit, another mind.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, even so? It is the extinction of your identity which you seek to
- bring about by means of death. But you have no ground for supposing that
- death involves any such extinction. Atheist, agnostic, what you will, you
- must always acknowledge and allow for that possibility of a future life.
- Whereas, the man or woman to whom the accident happens which we have
- assumed, obtains for a surety that which he or she can only dubiously hope
- for from death.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah, but there is a mighty difference. It is not within my power to cause
- such an accident. It <i>is</i> within my power to die.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Not within your power to cause such an accident? Not within <i>your</i>
- power, I grant. But will you say that it is not within human power, not
- within any man's power? Imagine whatever human circumstance you like,
- which can come to pass by accident. Then, speaking <i>à priori</i>, tell
- me of any conclusive reason why that circumstance should not be brought to
- pass by design? Why man, investigating the causes of it, enlightened by
- his science, employing his cunning, should not be able at will to occasion
- it? Take this very case in hand—the total obliteration of a human
- being memory of the past. A blow upon the head, the result of an accident,
- can occasion it. Why not a blow upon the head, the result of man's
- deliberate purpose? Insanity, small-pox, consumption, paralysis, deafness,
- blindness—each of these it would be entirely possible for man
- voluntarily to induce. Why not oblivion?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I have never heard of its being done. I once read a novel in which
- something of the kind was related—'Dr. Heidenhoff's Process'—but
- even in that novel, the author had not the audacity to pretend that his
- story was possible; it turned out to be a dream. But then, after all, that
- was quite a different thing. It was the obliteration not of the whole
- memory, but simply the memory of one particular fact or group of facts.
- The memory in respect of other facts remained intact.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah, that indeed! That, of course, it may not as yet be within the power
- of science to accomplish. That, as yet, I will grant you, is only the
- material for a romancer's fancy. I cannot cause you to forget any one fact
- or train of facts, while leaving your memory unaffected regarding other
- facts. But the obliteration of the whole memory is a very different
- matter. It has happened frequently by accident. You have never heard of
- its being effected by design, though you will acknowledge the theoretical
- possibility of its being so effected. Well and good. Now the truth is
- this: not only is it theoretically possible, but it is practically
- feasible.. It can be done; and I, even I, can do it. That same
- obliviousness which, as the case-books of physicians bear abundant
- testimony, Nature often produces through the medium of disease or
- violence, I—I who speak to you—I can produce by means of a
- surgical operation.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is incredible,” said she.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Incredible or not, it is a fact,” said I. “What a stone striking you upon
- the head may accomplish, I can accomplish with my instruments. I can cause
- a depression of one of the bones of your skull, at a certain point upon
- the tissues of the brain, so that, when you recover from the influence of
- the anaesthetic which I administer, you are returned to the mental and
- moral condition of infancy. You remember nothing. You know nothing. Your
- mind is as a blank sheet of paper. The past is abolished. The future is
- before you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “If what you say is true, you possess a terrible power. Are surgeons
- generally able to do this?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Every intelligent surgeon must recognise the antecedent possibility of
- the operation. But when you ask me whether surgeons generally know how to
- perform it, I suppose that they do not. It is a discovery which I have
- made, by the examination of a large number of skulls, and the dissection
- of a large number of brains. I have never communicated it to anybody else.
- Others, for all I know, may have made the same discovery independently.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But why have you kept it a secret? It would have made you famous.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I have had many reasons for keeping it a secret. You yourself have named
- one of them: it is a terrible power. I have not thought it prudent as yet
- to put it into the hands of the faculty at large; but it will be published
- after, if not before, my death.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You say you <i>can</i> do this. <i>Have</i> you ever done it?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Upon a human being—no. Upon animals—upon dogs, monkeys, and
- horses—yes; often, and with unvarying success.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Animals, indeed!” She smiled. “But never upon a human being. It is a
- descent from the sublime to the grotesque. You are anxious to obtain a
- subject?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I will not deny that I should be glad to obtain a subject, if it pleases
- you to put it in that downright way. I have never performed the operation
- upon a human being; but I can predict with absolute assurance just what
- its consequences upon a human being would be.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Let me hear your prediction.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, to begin with, let me tell you the circumstances of an actual case,
- which came under my observation, where the thing happened accidentally.
- The patient was a Frenchman, thirty-two years old, in robust health. I
- think, from the point of view of morals, he was the most depraved wretch
- it was ever my bad fortune to encounter. He was a brute, a sot, a liar, a
- thief—a bad lot all round. I chanced to know a good deal about him,
- because he was the husband of a servant in my family. The affair occurred
- more than thirty years ago. I say he was a depraved wretch. What does that
- mean? It means that, like every mother's son of us, he came into this
- world a bundle of potentialities, of latent spiritual potentialities,
- inherited from his million or more of ancestors, some of these
- potentialities being for good, others of them for evil; and it means that
- his environment had been such, and had so acted upon him, as to develop
- those that were for evil, and to leave dormant those that were for good.
- That wants to be borne in mind. Very well. He was the husband of a servant
- in my family, a most respectable and virtuous woman, also French, who
- would have nothing to do with him; but whom it was his pleasantest
- amusement to torment by hanging around our house, seeking to waylay her
- when she went abroad, striving to gain admittance when she was within
- doors. Late one evening we above stairs were surprised by the noise of a
- disturbance in the kitchen: a man's voice, a woman's voice, loud in
- altercation. I hurried down to learn the occasion of it. Halfway there, my
- ears were startled by the sudden short sound of a pistol-shot, followed by
- dead silence. I entered the kitchen, but arrived a moment too late. Our
- woman servant stood in the centre of the floor, holding a smoking revolver
- in her hand. Her husband lay prostrate, unconscious, perhaps dead, at her
- feet. I demanded an explanation. It appeared that he had stolen into the
- kitchen, where his wife sat alone, and, coming upon her suddenly, had
- attempted to abduct and carry her off by main force. The foolish woman
- confessed that some days before she had bought herself a pistol, with a
- view to just such an emergency as this; and now she had used it. Well, I
- examined the man, and I found, to my great relief, that he was not dead,
- and that, she being but an indifferent marks-woman, the ball had not even
- entered his body. It had struck him on the head at an oblique angle, and
- had glanced off. However, it had injured him quite seriously enough,
- having, indeed, fractured his skull at a certain point. We carried him
- upstairs, and put him to bed. For upwards of sixty hours—nearly
- three days—he lay in total unconsciousness. For six weeks he lay in
- a stupor just a hair's breadth removed from total unconsciousness; but
- by-and-by his wound had healed, and he was convalescent. Now, however,
- what was his mental condition? Precisely that of a new-born baby! His
- memory had been utterly destroyed. He had forgotten the simplest primary
- functions of life: how to speak, how to eat, how to walk, how to use his
- fingers. He could not remember his name; he could not recognise his wife.
- He had all the lessons of experience to learn anew. But you must recollect
- that, being an adult, his brain, as an organ, was full-grown, was mature.
- Therefore, he acquired knowledge with astonishing rapidity—learning
- almost as much in a fortnight as a child learns in a year. At the end of
- one month after we began his education, he could walk, feed himself, dress
- himself, and was beginning to talk. At the end of six months he spoke as
- fluently as I do—English, mind you, not French, which had been his
- mother-tongue. At the end of a year he read without difficulty, and wrote
- a good hand. What was most remarkable, however, though entirely natural,
- his moral nature had undergone a complete transformation. In a new
- environment, treated with kindness, surrounded by wholesome influences,
- 'trained up in the way he should go,' and absolutely oblivious of every
- fact, event, circumstance, and association of his past, he became a new,
- another, an entirely different man. Now, of the million spiritual
- potentialities, predispositions, that heredity had implanted in him, those
- that made for good were vivified, those that made for bad left dormant. He
- was as decent and as honest a fellow as one could wish to meet, and he had
- plenty of intelligence and common sense. I kept him in my service, as a
- sort of general factotum, for more than twenty years; then he died. Before
- his death he made a will, bequeathing to me the only thing of especial
- value that he had to leave behind him. Here it is.”
- </p>
- <p>
- I unlocked a cabinet, and produced from it a skull.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Let me see it,” she said eagerly.
- </p>
- <p>
- She took it in her hands, without the faintest show of repugnance, and
- studied it intently.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is like a fairy-tale. It is marvellous,” she said at last.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Science abounds in marvels no less stupendous,” said I. “It was my
- observation of that man's case, and of the beneficent results of it, that
- suggested to me the possibility of bringing such things to pass of a set,
- purpose.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “For years I have made the brain and the skull a study, with that
- possibility in view. I am able to say now that I can perform the operation
- with perfect certainty of success.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But,” she went on, after a pause, “it is scarcely inspiring to think that
- the character, the morality, of a human being, can be influenced, can be
- radically altered, by a mere physical condition like that—to think
- that the character of the soul can be changed by a change in the structure
- of the body. It is enough to establish materialism pure and simple; the
- only logical consequences of which are cynicism and pessimism.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is certainly one of the many psychological facts which go to prove
- that while it is the tenant of the body the soul must adapt itself to its
- habitation.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It would seem to prove that the soul is not simply the tenant of the
- body, but its slave, its victim, its creature. As the materialists express
- it, that mind, thought, emotion, are but functions of the brain.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It would perhaps lend colour to that hypothesis; but it does not prove
- it. Nothing can be proved relative to the human soul. Like all elemental
- things, it is in its very essence an insoluble mystery. All elemental
- things? Nay, it is <i>the</i> elemental thing, the ultimate thing, the
- only thing we know at first hand. All other things we know only as they
- are mirrored in it; we know them only by the impressions they produce upon
- our souls. Ten thousand hypotheses concerning it—concerning its
- origin, its nature, its meaning, its destiny—are equally plausible,
- equally inadequate. It cannot by seeking be found out.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She was silent now for a long while. At last, “Will you describe your
- operation to me?” she inquired.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You would need a medical education to follow such a description.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Is it anything like what they call trepanning, or trephining?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But very remotely. A partial fracture, and a depression, of the bone are
- caused; but no particle of it is removed.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What is the worst that could happen, in case of the operation
- miscarrying? What would be the chances of the subject's losing not only
- his memory, but his reason—becoming an imbecile or a maniac?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “There is no chance of that. The worst that could happen would be death.
- It is as safe an operation as any in which the knife is employed. But, of
- course, in all operations which involve the use of the knife there is some
- danger. There is always the possibility of inflammation. But that
- possibility is by no means a probability. The chances are largely against
- it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “So that you are sure one of two things would happen either the operation
- would prove a success, or the patient would die?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Exactly so.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “How much time would have to elapse after the operation, before the
- patient would be able to take care of himself again—before he would
- have regained sufficient knowledge to act as a responsible and competent
- human being?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I should say a year. Perhaps more, perhaps less. But I will say a year.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And during that year? Suppose, for example, that I should offer myself to
- you as a subject—how should I be provided for during the period of
- my incompetence? And what education should I receive?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You would be provided for by me. You would be lodged and taken care of
- here in this house. My sister, ten years younger than I, the kindest and
- the gentlest of women, would be your nurse, your companion, and your
- teacher. We would give you the same education that we would give a child
- of our own.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I beg your pardon, but you have not told me your name.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “My name is Benary—Leonard Benary.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, Dr. Benary, I am willing to submit to your operation. I make no
- professions of gratitude, for—though, whether it kills me or
- regenerates me, I shall be equally your debtor—I take it you are not
- sorry to find a subject to experiment upon; and therefore it will be a
- fair exchange, and no robbery. Will you proceed with the operation here,
- now, to-night?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, dear me, no. You must have some sleep first. I will call my sister.
- She will show you to a room. Then, perhaps, to-morrow, after a good
- night's rest, you will be in a favourable condition.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But your sister—what will she say to this?” She pointed to her
- prison-garb.
- </p>
- <p>
- “If you will wait here while I go to summon her, I can promise you a
- kindly welcome from her. I shall explain all the circumstances to her; and
- she will not mind your costume.”
- </p>
- <p>
- And I went upstairs to rouse my sister, Miss Josephine Benary.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER V.—THE DOCTOR ACTS.
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">N</span>ext morning, at
- about eleven o'clock, my good sister Josephine came to me in my study, and
- said, “She is awake now and wishes to see you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am at her service,” I replied. “Will she join me here?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “She is eager to have you operate. She asked me where you would do so. I
- told her I supposed there, in her bed. Then she said she would not waste
- time by getting up, and wished me to tell you that she is waiting to have
- it done. I suspect that she is partly influenced by a reluctance to put on
- her prison uniform again. I should have offered her the use of my
- wardrobe, but she is so much taller and larger than I, that that would be
- absurd.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, to be sure, so it would. Very well. I will go to her directly. If
- she is in a favourable condition of mind and body, it will, perhaps, be as
- well not to delay. But first tell me—you have held some conversation
- with her?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, a little.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And what impression do you form of her character?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “She is very pretty. She is even beautiful.”
- </p>
- <p>
- I laughed. “What has that to do with her character?99
- </p>
- <p>
- “I infer her character as much from her appearance as from her behaviour,
- as much from her physiognomy as from her speech.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, I see. And your inference is?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I cannot be quite sure. There is a certain hardness in her face, a
- certain cynical listlessness in her manner, which may indicate a vice of
- character, but which may, on the other hand, result simply from hardship
- and suffering. She is undoubtedly clever. She has received a good
- education; she expresses herself well; she has a marvellously musical
- voice. Yet, on the whole, I cannot say that I find her likeable or
- agreeable. She seems to proceed upon the assumption that nobody is moved
- by any but selfish motives; that everybody has an axe to grind; and that
- she must be constantly on her guard lest we take some advantage of her.
- She is horribly suspicious.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, go on.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, I do not know that I can say anything more. I cannot quite fathom
- her—quite make her out. It is a question in my mind whether she is
- naturally a young woman of good instincts, whose passions have betrayed
- her into the commission of some crime, or whether she is inherently and
- intrinsically corrupt.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Towards which alternative do you incline?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I do not like to express a final opinion; but I am afraid, from what
- little I have seen of her, I am afraid that I incline towards the latter.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That she is intrinsically bad. Well, it will be interesting, after our
- operation, to see whether, in a new environment, under new conditions, the
- good that is latent in her—as good is latent in every human soul—will
- be developed. And now will you come with me to her room?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Will she not prefer to see you alone?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why should she? Come, let us go.”
- </p>
- <p>
- We found her sitting up in bed, waiting for us. By daylight she seemed to
- me even more beautiful than she had seemed by gaslight. Her features were
- strongly yet finely modelled; her skin was exquisitely delicate, both in
- texture and in colour; and her eyes were wonderfully liquid and
- translucent. But an expression of deep melancholy brooded over her whole
- countenance; while underlying that again, was certainly visible the
- cynical hardness that Josephine had complained of.
- </p>
- <p>
- Having wished her good-morning, I proceeded at once to my business as a
- physician; ascertained her pulse and her temperature, and inquired how she
- had slept.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I have not had such a night's sleep for I know not how long,” she
- answered. “Heaven knows I had enough to think about to keep me awake, yet
- I must have lain in total unconsciousness for fully nine hours. What was
- most grateful, I did not dream. All which leads me to suspect that,
- despite your protestations to the contrary, the medicine you made me drink
- last evening contained an opiate.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “The medicine I prevailed upon you to drink last evening,” I explained,
- “was the mildest composing-draught known to the Pharmacopoeia—a most
- harmless mixture of orange-flower water, bromide, and sugar. If it had the
- effect of a sleeping-potion, I am very glad to learn it, for it indicates
- the degree of your nervous susceptibility—a point upon which it is
- highly desirable that I should be informed. And are you still of the same
- mind in which I left you? You have not reconsidered your determination?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No. I am still ready to be killed or regenerated—I am really quite
- indifferent which. When I awoke this morning, I could not help fancying
- that the conversation which I seemed to recall had never really taken
- place—that I had dreamed it. But this lady, your sister, assures me
- that my doubt is groundless. Now I can only request you to begin and get
- over with it as soon as possible.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “My beginning must be in the nature of an interrogatory. I must ask you
- for certain information.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Very well. Ask.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “My questions shall be few: only those formal ones which, as a physician,
- I should put to any patient whom I was about to treat. First, then, what
- is your name?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “My name is Louise Massarte, spelt M-a-s-s-a-r-t-e.”
- </p>
- <p>
- I opened my case-book, prepared my fountain-pen for action, and wrote
- “Louise Massarte.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is a foreign name, is it not?” I inquired “Were you born in this
- country?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Like the other hopeful subject of whom you told me last night, I was born
- in France—at the city of Tours.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Native of France,” I wrote. Then aloud s “Of French parents?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, I am French by descent and by place of birth. But I have lived in
- America all my life. I was brought here when I was two years old.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But you speak French, I take it?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I speak French and English with equal ease.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Any other language?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No other.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “How old are you, if you will forgive my asking?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I shall be six-and-twenty on the eighth of August.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Are your parents living?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Both my father and mother are long since dead.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Have you any brothers or sisters?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I was an only child.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Are you married or single?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I have never been married.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And now, finally, is there any fact or circumstance which you would like
- to mention and have recorded? For, you must bear in mind, you will shortly
- have forgotten everything connected with your past; and if there is
- anything you will wish to remember, you had better tell it to me now, and
- I will make a memorandum of it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “There is nothing that I shall wish to remember,” she replied. “Nothing
- but what I shall be glad to forget. However, I fancy what you say is but a
- hint to the effect that you are curious to know my history. I have no
- objection in telling it to you. It is not an edifying history. Most women,
- I daresay, would be ashamed to tell it; but I have got beyond even
- pretending to feel ashamed of anything; and if you desire to hear it, you
- have only to say so.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “On the contrary,” I rejoined, “you must not think of telling it. It would
- excite you and fatigue you; whereas it is of the highest importance for
- the success of our operation that you should be at rest in mind as well as
- in body. Besides, and irrespective of that consideration, it is better
- that neither my sister, nor I, nor indeed any living person, should hear
- it. You yourself will in a little while have forgotten it. What right has
- anybody else to remember it?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, well, you will doubtless find the gist of it in the morning paper. It
- will in all likelihood be printed with an account of my escape from the
- Penitentiary,” she returned.
- </p>
- <p>
- At which insinuation my sister Josephine cried out, “You little know my
- brother. There is indeed something about your escape in the morning paper;
- but the instant he discovered the headlines of the article, he said, 'This
- is something, Josephine, that neither you nor I must read.' And he threw
- the paper into the fireplace, and applied a match to it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The woman made no answer.
- </p>
- <p>
- I left the room and descended to my study, where I procured my instruments
- and the requisite anæsthetic.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER VI.—MIRIAM BENARY.
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> watched her
- carefully as she recovered from the effects of the ether. An uncommonly
- small quantity of that drug had sufficed to deprive her of her senses; and
- now her recovery was unusually speedy.
- </p>
- <p>
- Having taken her respiration, her temperature, and her pulse, and having
- found each to be nearly normal, I looked her straight in the eyes, and
- demanded, making every syllable clear and emphatic, “Louise Massarte, do
- you know me?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Had I addressed my inquiry to a month-old infant, the result would have
- been the same.
- </p>
- <p>
- I repeated the question in French: “Louise Massarte, <i>me reconnaissez
- vous?</i>”—with precisely the same negative result.
- </p>
- <p>
- I then wrote the question both in French and English upon a slip of paper,
- and held it before her eyes.
- </p>
- <p>
- No sign of intelligence.
- </p>
- <p>
- In the end I applied tests to each of her five senses, and satisfied
- myself that each was unimpaired.
- </p>
- <p>
- After which, “Well, Josephine,” I said, “unless all signs fail, we have
- succeeded to admiration. None of her senses have sustained the slightest
- injury, yet she has lost the knowledge of language, both spoken and
- written. Louise Massarte is dead, annihilated, abolished from the face of
- creation. This is a new-born infant, this apparently full-grown woman
- lying here. Her soul is still to develop and unfold itself. It will be for
- us to shape it, to colour it, to direct it towards good or evil. Heredity
- has furnished the capacities, the propensities, which her environment will
- quicken, stimulate, cause to grow and to ripen. And it is for us to
- provide and to regulate that environment. May Heaven guide our labours.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Amen, heartily. It is an awful responsibility. And yet———-”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And yet?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And yet I cannot help hoping for the best. Look at her, brother. See how
- beautiful she is. Surely, such a beautiful face must be meant to go with a
- beautiful spirit. Already the expression of bitterness, of hardness, of
- suspicion, seems to have faded from it. It is as if it had been washed in
- some element infinitely cleansing. I never saw a more innocent face than
- hers has become already. Yes, I am sure we may hope for the best.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, for the present, we need concern ourselves only for the welfare of
- her body. We must darken the room. Inflammation is the only ill
- consequence we have to fear; and that can be averted, if we keep her in
- darkness and in silence until the wound has healed.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The wound healed quickly. Not an unpleasant symptom of any kind manifested
- itself. And, as I had foreseen she would do, our patient relearned the
- primary lessons of life with an ease and a rapidity that seemed almost
- incredible. I had anticipated this because she was an adult; because, that
- is to say, her brain, as an organ, was of mature development.
- </p>
- <p>
- She began to speak as soon as ever we allowed ourselves to speak in her
- presence, at first simply imitating the sounds we made, but very speedily
- coming to employ words with understanding. A single lesson taught her how
- to walk. After my sister had dressed her twice, she was perfectly well
- able to dress herself—no trivial achievement when the intricacy of
- the feminine toilet is borne in mind. At the end of an incredibly short
- period of time she could read and write as easily as I can. Of the former
- capability she made good use, devouring eagerly all such books as we
- thought wise to give her. Her progress, in a word, precisely corresponded
- to that made by a bright child, only it was infinitely more rapid; and
- what a fascinating thing it was to observe, I need not stop to tell. It
- was like watching the growth and blossoming of some most wonderful and
- beautiful flower. We were permitted, so to speak, to be eye-witnesses of a
- miracle. If you had met her at the expiration of one year, and had
- conversed with her, you would have put her down for a singularly
- intelligent and well-informed, yet at the same time singularly innocent
- and unsophisticated, girl of eighteen. Yes, I mean it—a girl of
- eighteen. For the most astonishing result of my operation—most
- astonishing because least expected—was this: that in body as well as
- in mind she seemed to have been rejuvenated. With the obliteration of her
- memory, every trace of experience faded from her face. You would have laid
- a wager that it was the face of a young maiden not yet out of her teens.
- She had said that she was all but six-and-twenty. It was unbelievable when
- you looked at her now. To the desperate-eyed woman whom I had dissuaded
- from self-destruction on that clouded Bummer's night a year gone by, she
- bore only such a resemblance as a younger sister might have borne. To
- Josephine I remarked, “Is it possible that we have builded better than we
- knew? That we have stumbled upon the discovery which the alchemists sought
- in vain—the Elixir of Youth?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Indeed,” Josephine assented, “she has grown many years younger. She has
- the appearance and the manner of seventeen.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It only proves,” said I, “the truth of the oft-repeated commonplace: that
- it is experience and not time which ages one; time being simply the
- receptacle and measure of experience. Could we double the rate of our
- experience—experiencing as much in one year as we are now able to
- experience in two—we should grow old just twice as quickly, reaching
- at thirty-five the limit which we now reach at threescore-and-ten.
- Contrariwise, could we halve the rate of our experience—requiring
- two years to experience what we can now experience in one—we should
- grow old just twice as slowly, being mere boys at forty, and at seventy in
- the very prime of early manhood. Our consciousness of time, in other
- words, is simply the consciousness of so much experience. Well and good.
- Now, in this case, her experience has been undone. That is to say, her
- memory, the storehouse of her experience, has been destroyed. Past time,
- so far as it affects her mind, has been neutralised, has been cancelled
- out of her equation. Hence this return to adolescence. Her bodily
- structure—the size and shape of her bones, and all that—of
- course remains as it was. But her spirit returns to the condition of
- youth; and, since it is the spirit which animates the body, it gives to
- her body the expression and the activity of its own age.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Then I offered to perform my operation upon Josephine herself, to the end
- that she also might enjoy a restored youth: which offer Josephine
- haughtily declined.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is very fortunate,” she added, “that this alteration in her appearance
- has taken place, for now it will be impossible for anybody who may have
- known her in former days to identify her: a danger which otherwise we
- should have had to fear.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes,” I acquiesced, “that is very true.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The disposition which our visitor developed, furthermore, better than
- answered to our most sanguine anticipations. Her new environment vivified
- the best of those propensities which heredity had implanted in her, and
- left dormant those that were for evil. Her quality was so sweet and
- winning, that in a little while she had taken our old hearts captive, and
- become the delight and the treasure of our home. We loved her like a
- daughter; and the notion that we might some time have to part with her was
- intolerable. Therefore, we put our heads together, and entered into a
- pious conspiracy, agreeing to represent to her that she was our niece, the
- child of our brother, an orphan, eighteen years old, by name Miriam, who,
- on the 14th day of June, 1884, had sustained an accident which had
- destroyed her recollection of the past. As our niece, recently arrived
- from England, we introduced her to our friends. She reciprocated our
- affection in the tenderest manner, called us aunt and uncle, and was in
- every respect a blessing to our lives—so beautiful, so gentle, so
- merry, so devoted.
- </p>
- <p>
- This mysterious and impressive circumstance I must not for one moment
- allow to be lost sight of:—That, of all living human beings, she who
- least suspected that such a woman as Louise Massarte had ever lived,
- sinned, suffered, was Miriam Benary. She upon whom Louise Massarte's life,
- sins, and sufferings had least effect or influence, was Miriam Benary. Her
- identity was in every respect as separate, and as distinct from that of
- Louise Massarte, as mine is from my reader's. Louise Massarte was dead,
- dead utterly. Into her tenement of clay a new soul had entered It was a
- fearful and wonderful metamorphosis, rich in suggestiveness; a <i>datum</i>,
- it seems to me, bearing importantly upon three sciences: Psychology,
- Divinity, and Ethics.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <p>
- Thus nearly four years elapsed, and it was Monday, the 12th day of March,
- 1888, the day of the memorable snowstorm, called the Blizzard.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER VII.—WITHIN AN ACE.
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>n that day certain
- imperative business demanded my presence in the lawyer's quarter of the
- town. I had been summoned, in short, to appear as a witness in a
- litigation that was pending in the Court of Common Pleas—a summons
- which I felt myself the more disposed to obey inasmuch as a penalty of two
- hundred and fifty dollars attached to contempt of it. Therefore, despite
- the unprecedented brutality of the weather, and against the earnest
- remonstrances of Josephine and Miriam, I was foolhardy enough to venture
- out.
- </p>
- <p>
- The clock on our drawing-room mantel marked a few minutes before ten when
- I left the house, my immediate destination being the Jefferson Street
- Station of the Overhead Railway—distant not more than a quarter of a
- mile from my own door, and in ordinary circumstances an easy five minutes'
- walk.
- </p>
- <p>
- However, it must be remembered, I was at that time within a few months of
- completing my seventieth year; and such a storm was raging, and such a
- gale blowing, as might have strained the mettle of a youngster one third
- my age: a veritable tempest, indeed, the like of which Adironda had never
- in the memory of man experienced before. The mercury stood below zero
- Fahrenheit; the wind was travelling at the pace of sixty miles an hour;
- and the snow was falling in such unheard of quantities as to obscure the
- air like fog. I don't mind owning, therefore, that I was pretty badly
- exhausted when I arrived at my journey's end, and that I had consumed a
- good half-hour in the process of getting there.
- </p>
- <p>
- My path, as it were, had led through one continuous and unbroken drift,
- knee-deep at its shallowest, waist-high at its average, and frequently
- engulphing me up to my chin. Through this I had dug and ploughed my way,
- with the wind cold and furious in my teeth, and under a running fire of
- snow-flakes, frozen so hard, and driven with such force, that they stung
- my face like bird-shot, and nearly put out my eyes. I can assure the
- reader that it was no child's play. My nose and ears, from burning as if
- in a bath of scalding water, had become numb and rigid, like features of
- wood. The moisture from my breath had congealed in my beard, until that
- appendage felt like an iron mask. My legs were stiff and heavy. My
- shoulders ached. My respiration had become painful and laborious; my
- heart-action so faint as to induce sickness similar to that which one
- suffers at sea.
- </p>
- <p>
- And finally, to cap the climax, when I reached the station, I found a
- chain stretched across the entrance to the booking-office, and a placard
- announcing that no trains were running! So that I had earned my labour for
- my pains; and there was nothing for me to do but to turn my face back
- toward home, and retrace my steps.
- </p>
- <p>
- Exhausted as I was, then, I set forth at once upon that undertaking. Of
- course, it was excessively imprudent for me to do so, without first
- seeking shelter in some public house, and resting there until I had got
- warmed through, and in a measure recovered my strength. But I suppose I
- did not realise at the moment how far gone I was; and the prospect of
- regaining the comfort of my own fireside was a deliciously tempting one.
- So off I started, down Jefferson Street, towards Myrtle Avenue.
- </p>
- <p>
- Very soon, however, I had reason to repent my rashness. A hundred yards or
- thereabouts from the corner, a mountainous drift of snow stretched
- diagonally across the road. I was half blinded; my wits were half frozen;
- I underestimated both its depth and its width, and plunged boldly into it.
- </p>
- <p>
- Next instant I found myself buried up to my neck.
- </p>
- <p>
- I struggled to push on. My legs were as immovable as if bound with ropes.
- </p>
- <p>
- Then I strove to dig myself free with my hands. My arms, too, I learned,
- were pinioned as in a strait-waistcoat.
- </p>
- <p>
- Here was a pleasant predicament, and one that constantly increased in
- interest; for, to say nothing of the deadly and aggressive cold, the snow
- was pouring down upon me by the bucket-full; and I appreciated very
- vividly the fact that unless I speedily effected an escape, I should be
- covered over my head.
- </p>
- <p>
- My only hope, it was obvious, lay in calling for assistance. Whether other
- human beings were within hearing distance or not, I had no means of
- discovering; for, so opaque was the atmosphere rendered by the multitude
- of snow-flakes that filled it, I could see nothing beyond a radius of two
- or three yards; and even the houses that lined the street were
- indistinguishable, except when, by fits and starts, for a second at a
- time, the wind rent asunder the veil that hid them. Nevertheless, my only
- hope lay in trying the experiment of a cry for help; and that accordingly
- I did, with the utmost energy I could command:
- </p>
- <p>
- “Help! help!”
- </p>
- <p>
- But at the sound of my voice, my heart sank. It was the still, small ghost
- of itself, to such a degree had the exposure and the hardship of the last
- half-hour depleted my physical resources; and besides, dampened by the
- blanket of snow in which I was enveloped, and lost in the roar of the
- hurricane, the likelihood that it would carry beyond a rod in any
- direction seemed infinitesimally slight.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, I am lost,” thought I. “Here, not five hundred yards from my own
- doorstep, lost as hopelessly as if wrecked in mid-ocean. Ah, well! they
- say death by freezing is comparatively painless. Anyhow, it will soon be
- over. Yet——”
- </p>
- <p>
- Suddenly, with the desperate unreasonableness of a man in extremities—like
- him who, drowning, clutches at a chip—I repeated my feeble signal of
- distress: “Help! help!”
- </p>
- <p>
- I waited half a minute, and then repeated it for a third time: “Help!”
- </p>
- <p>
- Conceive my emotions, to hear instantly, and from immediately behind me,
- the response, in the lustiest of baritones: “Hello, there!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Heaven be praised!” I gasped. Then: “Can you help me out of this drift?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That remains to be tried,” came the reply. “I shouldn't wonder, though.”
- </p>
- <p>
- And therewith I felt myself seized by two strong arms, lifted bodily from
- off my feet, and a moment later set down upon a spot of the pavement which
- the wind had swept clean, where I had a chance to see and to thank mv
- rescuer.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER VIII.—A CHANCE ACQUAINTANCE.
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">H</span>e was a tall and
- athletic-looking man, perhaps thirty years old, with a ruddy,
- good-humoured face, an honest pair of blue eyes, and a curling yellow
- beard. He wore a sealskin cap which came down over his ears, sealskin
- gloves which reached up above his coat-sleeves nearly to his elbows, a
- pea-jacket, and rubber top-boots. His beard, his eyebrows, and so much of
- his hair as was exposed, were dense with frozen snow, and from his
- moustache depended a series of icicles, like tusks, where his breath had
- condensed and congealed.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I believe I have to thank you for saving my life,” I began, in such voice
- as I could muster, and I noticed that my utterance was thick, like that of
- a drunken man. “A very little more and I had been done for.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, you were in rather a nasty box,” he admitted. “But all's well that
- ends well; and you're safe enough now. When I heard you calling, I thought
- it was a child, your voice was so thin and faint.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It's highly fortunate for me that you heard me at all. I had given myself
- up for lost. What a storm this is!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes; glorious, isn't it? It's the grandest spectacle I've ever seen. I
- tell you, sir, it's well for us that Nature should occasionally show us
- her sharp claw; otherwise we'd get to considering her a quite tame
- domestic pet, which she's not by any means. She's man's hereditary foe;
- there stands a perpetual feud between her and us, a <i>vendetta</i> handed
- down from father to son, from generation to generation. It's only by the
- exercise of an eternal vigilance and industry that we manage to subsist in
- spite of her. She's constantly striving, one way or another, to
- exterminate us: freeze us out, roast us out, starve us out—I know
- not what all. Here we are, huddled together upon this bleak, mysterious
- planet, parasites upon its surface, like mould on cheese, sheltering
- ourselves in fortresses of straw—wondering whence we came, why we're
- here, whither we're bound, and what the fun of the whole thing is—while
- she whirls us through her dark immensities, and seeks hourly to shake us
- off; which is rather unmannerly of her, seeing it was she herself who
- brought us here. Life which she gives us with one hand, she withholds with
- the other. She begrudges what she lavishes. Oh, it is strange, it is
- magnificent; it's some grand paradoxical farce, which we haven't wit
- enough to see the point of. Still, there's an exhilaration in the
- conflict, unequal though it is. She's sure to win in the end; she plays
- with us like a cat with a mouse, amused at our desperate antics, but
- confident of her power to administer a quietus when they begin to pall;
- yet there's a pleasure, somehow, in the struggle. They say, you know, the
- fox enjoys being hunted. To-day she's in a particularly frolicsome mood,
- and puts vim into her buffets. For my part, I'm grateful to her. She'll
- laugh best, because she'll laugh last; but she can't prevent my relishing
- my laugh meanwhile. I have not lived in vain, who have lived to experience
- this storm. Isn't it stimulating? I vow, it makes a man feel like a boy.”
- </p>
- <p>
- I had stood shivering, teeth chattering, while he delivered himself of
- this extraordinary harangue. Now, “That would depend somewhat upon the age
- and the physique of the man,” I stammered.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why, yes, true enough. Your observation is altogether apposite and just.
- But for me, I declare, it is like wine. Which way do you go?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I go east and south—to my home, which is in Riverview Road, if you
- know where that is. But to tell you the truth, I doubt my ability to go at
- all. <i>I'm</i> pretty badly used up. I think I shall ask to be taken in
- at one of these neighbouring houses.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “As you like it. But I know where River-view Road is; in fact I'm bound in
- that direction myself, being curious to see how the storm affects the
- Yellow Snake. It must be a sight for the gods—the writhing and the
- lashing of the reptile river under such a wind. If you please we'll march
- together. I suspect, with my assistance, you'll be able to arrive.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You've already saved my life, and now you offer to see me safely home. I
- shall owe you a heavy debt. But I could never consent to take you out of
- your way.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “As I've already had the honour to intimate, that's precisely what you
- won't do. I was bound for the riverside—upon my word. Come on.”
- </p>
- <p>
- And the next thing I knew, my robust interlocutor had again lifted me from
- my feet, and was trudging off towards Myrtle Avenue, bearing me like a
- child in his arms—which, of course, was altogether too ignominious a
- position for me to occupy without protest.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, this is needless. I beg of you to put me down. Really, I can't submit
- to this. Let me walk at your side, and lean upon your arm, and I shall do
- very well.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “My dear sir,” he rejoined, “permit me to observe—and I beseech you
- not to resent the observation as personal—that if ever a mortal man
- was completely tuckered out, you are. You've lost your wind, and your legs
- are as shaky as if you had the palsy. Pardon my austere frankness—the
- circumstances compel it. You couldn't get as far as the corner yonder to
- save your neck. You are, to employ the politest of modern languages, <i>hors
- de combat</i>. You are <i>ansgespielt</i>, you are <i>non compos corporis</i>—that
- is to say, in pure Americanese, you are <i>busted</i>. Now, so far as I am
- concerned, on the contrary, I don't mind carrying you any more than I
- would a baby. At the outside you don't weigh ten stone; and what's the
- like of that to a fellow of my horse-power? Lie still, and I sha'n't know
- you're there. Lie still and rest, recover your breath, and be yourself
- again.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But the thing is too ridiculous. I can't in dignity consent to it, I
- entreat you to put me down.”
- </p>
- <p>
- I attempted to release myself, but his arms were like bands of iron.
- </p>
- <p>
- “There, there—resign yourself! I prithee, wriggle not,” he said. “I
- shall put you down presently—when the time is ripe. And as for your
- dignity, remember the device of Cæsar: <i>Esée quant videri</i>. This,
- sir, is an occasion for choosing between appearances and a very grim
- reality. I can understand that, other things equal, you wouldn't care to
- have the world see us in our present situation; but console yourself with
- the reflection that the storm answers every purpose of a dose of
- fern-seed, and renders us beautifully invisible. Anyhow, I take it, your
- dignity isn't as precious to you as your health; and I will go bail for
- this, that if you tried to foot it another hundred yards, you'd pay for
- your temerity with a fit of sickness. Consider, furthermore, that I am old
- enough to be your son. Let me play a son's part for the nonce, and carry
- you home.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, I have no right to quarrel with you,” I answered; “but you place me
- under an obligation which I shall never be able to discharge. It will bear
- as heavily upon my conscience as I now weigh upon your muscles.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Then it will cause you mighty slight annoyance. To tell you the truth,
- it's a jolly good lark for me. It's an added excitement, a most
- interesting adventure; and it will provide a capital chapter for the
- winter's tale that I shall have to tell. But a truce to talk. Let's waste
- no further breath in that way. You lie still there and meditate. I'll
- devote my energies to the business of getting on.”
- </p>
- <p>
- So for a good while we forbore speech. At length, “Now, then,” he
- announced, “here's Riverview Road. Our toilsome journey's o'er; and, all
- our perils past, in harbour safe at last we rest. What would you more?—What's
- your number?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Sixty-three, the fourth house from the corner.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, here you are on your own doorstep.—There!”
- </p>
- <p>
- He set me upon my feet.
- </p>
- <p>
- “And now, sir,” he concluded, “trusting that you may suffer no ill effects
- from your experience, I will wish you farewell. Farewell, a long farewell.
- This is a life made up of partings. Again, farewell.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Farewell by no manner of means,” I hastily retorted. “You must come in.
- You must do me the honour of entering my house, and allowing me to offer
- you some refreshment. And besides, if, as you said, you are anxious to
- watch the play of the storm upon the river, you could possess no better
- coigne of vantage than one of my back windows.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Such an inducement, sir, is superfluous. Your invitation in itself would
- be quite irresistible. For, aside from the pleasure I derive from your
- society, and the instruction from your conversation, I will confidentially
- admit to you that I shall be glad to thaw out my nose.”
- </p>
- <p>
- I opened the door with my latch-key, and preceded him into my study.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER IX.—JOSEPHINE WRITES.
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span> beautiful fire
- was blazing in the grate. The transition from the cold and uproar of the
- street, to the snug quiet and warmth of this cosy book-lined room, was an
- agreeable one, I can tell you. I was pretty well rested by this time; and,
- except for the tingling of my nose, ears, toes, and fingers, felt very
- little the worse for my encounter with the elements.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Now,” said I to my guest, “the tables are turned. But a moment since, I
- was your prisoner; now you are mine. Draw up to the fire. Throw off your
- over jacket and your rubber-boots. I hope you are not wet through; for, we
- are built respectively upon such different patterns, it would be ironical
- for me to offer you dry garments from my wardrobe.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You need give yourself no uneasiness upon that score, sir. Im as dry as a
- Greek lexicon.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “In that case, let me at once offer you a drop of something wet,” I said,
- producing a decanter and a couple of glasses.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes,” he assented, “a toothful of this will do neither of us harm.”
- </p>
- <p>
- We clinked our glasses, and drank.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah,” he cried, smacking his lips, “sweet ardent spirit of the rye, may
- the shade of Christopher Columbus be fed upon you thrice every day, to
- reward him for the discovery of this continent. I've tasted Irish and I've
- tasted Scotch, Dutch barley-brandy and Slavonic vodka; but of all
- distillations to make glad the inmost heart of man, give me Kentucky rye!
- Another glass? Thank you, kind sir, not e'en another drop. 'Twere
- desecration worthy only of a widower to take a second after so rare a
- first. And now, by-the-bye, since I find myself the beneficiary of your
- hospitality, it behoves me to introduce myself. My name is Henry
- Fairchild, and by trade I am a sculptor.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “My name is Leonard Benary, physician and surgeon. And I trust, Mr.
- Fairchild, that you have no urgent affairs to call you from my house, for
- I should never feel easy in my mind if I permitted you to leave it before
- this storm has abated; and that doesn't look like an imminent event. My
- affairs are not urgent. In fact, as I believe I have already remarked,
- when we ran across each other I was abroad for my diversion, pure and
- simple. But that is no reason why I should abuse your kindness. If I may
- thaw here before your fire for a half-hour, I shall be in perfect
- condition to make my way home.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That would depend upon the distance of your home from mine.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “My home is in my studio. And my studio is in St. Matthew's Park.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “So far! Very well, then. I shall certainly not hear of your leaving me so
- long as the storm continues. It would be as much as your life is worth to
- attempt such a journey in such circumstances. It's a matter of three,
- four, well-nigh five miles. And since all public conveyances are at a
- standstill, you'd have to trust yourself for the whole distance to
- Shanks's mare. I shall count upon your spending the night here, at least.
- There's no prospect of the weather moderating before to-morrow. And now,
- if you will excuse me, I will leave you here for a few moments, while I go
- to change my clothes.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That's the wisest thing you could possibly do,” he returned. “I shall
- amuse myself excellently looking out of the window; but as for your kind
- invitation to remain over night——”
- </p>
- <p>
- “As for that, since you acknowledge that you have no pressing business to
- call you elsewhere, I will listen to no refusal.”
- </p>
- <p>
- I went upstairs, my first care being to make known my return to Josephine
- and Miriam, who, of course, were thereby greatly surprised and relieved.
- They professed they had suffered the acutest anxiety ever since I had left
- the house; and as they listened to the account I gave them of my
- misadventures, they paled and shuddered for very terror.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Mr. Fairchild, the young man who came to my rescue, is even now below
- stairs in the library,” I concluded.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, is he? Then,” cried Miriam, addressing Josephine, “let us go to him
- at once, and tell him how we thank him. To think that, except for him, my
- uncle might——” She completed her sentence by putting her arms
- around my neck, and giving me three of the sweetest kisses that were ever
- given in this world: one on either cheek and one full on the lips. “Now,
- sir,” she went on, shaking the prettiest of fingers at me, “I hope that
- you have learned a lesson, and will never do anything again that we two
- wise women warn you not to.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I promise to be a good, obedient, little old man in the future,” I
- replied; and was rewarded for my docility with a fourth kiss—this
- time imprinted among the wrinkles on my forehead.
- </p>
- <p>
- The two wise women went off downstairs.
- </p>
- <p>
- I joined them as soon as I had got into dry clothing; and we sat down to
- luncheon—the young sculptor enlivening and entertaining us with a
- flow of droll, high-spirited talk. He and Miriam got on famously together—chatting,
- laughing, exchanging bits of repartee, with the vivacity that was becoming
- to their age. Josephine and I hearkened and enjoyed. At least, I enjoyed;
- and I had no reason to suppose that my sister did not. Luncheon concluded,
- we adjourned to the drawing-room. There, observing the piano, Fairchild
- demanded of Miriam whether she played. She answered, “Yes.” (We had
- procured for her the best musical instruction to be had in Adironda; and
- she had mastered the instrument with a facility which proved that Louise
- Massarte must have been a talented pianist.) Miriam answered, “Yes,” and
- then Fairchild said—
- </p>
- <p>
- “Will you not be persuaded to play for us now?”
- </p>
- <p>
- She played one of Liszt's Hungarian Rhapsodies, and then something of
- Chopin's, and then something of Schumann's; after which, leaving the
- piano, she said to Fairchild—
- </p>
- <p>
- “Now you must sing for us.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why, how do you know I can sing?” cried he.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is evident from the <i>timbre</i> of your voice,” she answered.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You must not be too sure of that,” he protested. “The speaking voice and
- the singing voice are two very different things.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Nevertheless, please sing for us,” she repeated.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Very good,” said he, taking possession of the key-board, “I will sing for
- you; but at your peril. The beauty of the song, however, may perhaps be
- allowed to atone for the deficiencies of my execution. It is by the
- English composer, Marzials, a man of the rarest genius, too little known
- out of his own country. He wrote both words and music, and the song is
- entitled 'Never Laugh at Love.'”
- </p>
- <p>
- Therewith, to his own accompaniment, he sang in his sweet baritone one of
- the pleasantest and wittiest songs of its kind that I have ever heard.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p class="indent10">
- Oh, never laugh at Love, Miss, fancy free,
- </p>
- <p class="indent10">
- Lest the wanton boy should laugh at thee!
- </p>
- <p class="indent10">
- Should he but aim in play his tiny dart—
- </p>
- <p class="indent10">
- Ping! 't will break your heart!
- </p>
- <p class="indent10">
- I knew a queen with golden hair,
- </p>
- <p class="indent10">
- Few so proud, and none so fair;
- </p>
- <p class="indent10">
- Her maids and she, one twilight gray,
- </p>
- <p class="indent10">
- Went wand'ring down the garden way.
- </p>
- <p class="indent10">
- A pretty page was standing there;
- </p>
- <p class="indent10">
- Their eyes just met. Oh, long despair!
- </p>
- <p class="indent10">
- For both have died of love, they say.
- </p>
- <p class="indent10">
- So never laugh at Love, Miss, fancy free,
- </p>
- <p class="indent10">
- Lest the wanton boy should laugh at thee!
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p>
- I cannot forbear quoting that one verse, to give a notion of the quaint
- mediæval charm of the words. * I wish I could transcribe the melody as
- well, which was delicious with the same quaint flavour.
- </p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
- * The Editor of this work must disclaim all responsibility
- Dr. Benary's opinions upon matters literary and aesthetic.
-</pre>
- <p>
- Fairchild having finished his song, he and Miriam plunged into an animated
- conversation about music in the abstract, which I, for one—being,
- though an ardent lover of music, no musician—found of dubious
- interest.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Wherefore, I think,” I interrupted them to say, “if you will forgive the
- breach of ceremony, Mr. Fairchild, I shall retire to my bedroom for a bit,
- and take a nap. I feel somewhat fatigued after the exertions of the
- forenoon; and, anyhow, I am accustomed to my forty winks at this hour of
- the day. I am sure I leave you in good hands when I leave you to my sister
- and my niece.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Indeed, Dr. Benary, the kindest thing you can do for me—you and
- your good ladies—will be to let me feel that in no wise do I
- interfere with your convenience or your pleasure. Otherwise, I shall be
- compelled to take my departure <i>instanter</i>; and I confess that by
- this time I am so deeply penetrated by the comfort of your interior that I
- should hate mortally to renew close quarters with the storm.”
- </p>
- <p>
- So I withdrew to my bed-chamber, and was sound asleep in no time. Nor did
- I wake till the mellow booming of the Japanese gong, which serves as
- dinner-bell in our establishment, broke in upon my slumbers.
- </p>
- <p>
- As I rose to my feet, something dropped from the counterpane to the floor.
- </p>
- <p>
- Stooping to pick it up, I discovered that it was a sheet of paper, folded
- in the form of a cocked hat, and bearing my name written across it in
- Josephine's hand.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What earthly occasion can Josephine have for writing me a note?” I
- wondered.
- </p>
- <p>
- Donning my spectacles, I read as follows:
- </p>
- <p>
- “What ever shall we do? I cannot come and say this to you in person, for I
- dare not leave them alone together. But he has recognised Miriam!—J.”
- </p>
- <p>
- It took fully a minute for the significance of that sentence: “He has
- recognised Miriam,” to percolate my understanding, still thick with the
- dregs of sleep. Then I started as if I had been stung; and rushing into
- the passage, I called “Josephine! Josephine!” at the top of my lungs.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER X.—JOSEPHINE EXPLAINS.
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he passage was
- quite dark. From the end of it, directly behind me, came the response,
- “Yes, Leonard.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah, you are there?” I questioned.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I have been waiting for you to wake. I did not wish to disturb your
- sleep,” she explained.
- </p>
- <p>
- “And they—where are they now?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Mr. Fairchild is in the guest-chamber, where he is to sleep. Miriam is in
- her room. I could not come to you so long as they were together. It would
- not do to leave them alone. That is why I wrote the note.”
- </p>
- <p>
- By this time we were between my own four walls, and I had closed the door
- behind us.
- </p>
- <p>
- “And now, for Heaven's sake, explain to me what this means,” I said,
- holding up the sheet of paper.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It means what it says. He has recognised Miriam.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, it is impossible,” I declared.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I only wish you were right,” sighed Josephine dolefully.
- </p>
- <p>
- “But how—but why—but what—what makes you think so?”
- stammered I.
- </p>
- <p>
- “His action when he first saw her—when she and t entered the room
- where he was, to greet him, this forenoon.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, it is impossible—impossible!” I repeated, helplessly. “What was
- his action? What did he do?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “He caught his breath, he started, he coloured up, and then turned white,
- and then red again.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Merciful Heavens!” I gasped, panic-stricken.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What shall we do? What can we do?” my poor sister groaned.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Did—did Miriam notice his embarrassment?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I think not. She did not appear to, anyhow.”
- </p>
- <p>
- There befell a pause, during which I tried to collect my wits, and to
- reflect upon the situation.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well,” persisted Josephine, after the silence had continued for a minute
- or two, “what shall we do?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is impossible, it is absolutely impossible,” I said. “Her own mother
- would be unable to recognise her. She is altered beyond recognition. Why,
- that dead woman would by this time be nearly thirty years of age; whereas
- Miriam doesn't look two-and-twenty. Besides, the whole character and
- expression of her face are changed. There remain the same bony structure
- and the same general complexion: that is all that remains the same.
- Confess that the thing is impossible.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “When he saw her, he started and coloured up.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, even so. What of it. He started and coloured up. What does that
- prove? Perhaps it was because of her resemblance to the dead woman, whom
- we will suppose him to have known. But as for identifying them as one and
- the same, he'd never dream of it. A merry, innocent young girl, of one or
- two-and-twenty, and a sad-eyed, sorrow-stricken, sinful woman, eight years
- her senior! The thing is on the face of it absurd. Absurd, too, is the
- supposition that he ever knew Louise Massarte at all. He started and
- coloured up at sight of Miriam, for the very simple reason of her
- exceeding beauty. He is a young man, and he is an artist. What
- quick-blooded young man, what artist, would not colour up at the sight of
- so beautiful a girl? Or else, it is imaginable, he has seen Miriam herself
- somewhere before—in the street, in an omnibus, or where not—and
- has been impressed by her loveliness; and then he started for surprise and
- pleasure at finding himself under the same roof with her. You, my good
- Josephine, you have jumped to a most unwarranted conclusion. Your fear was
- the father of your thought.—Afterwards, for instance? Did he follow
- up his start with such conduct as was calculated to justify you in your
- suspicion?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No. He simply returned our salutations, and behaved toward her as he did
- toward me—as if she were a perfectly new acquaintance.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Good! And then, consider the freedom and the nonchalance with which he
- talked to her at luncheon. No, no; it is impossible. Well, I will keep an
- eye upon him during dinner. And when you and Miriam leave us to our
- cigars, I'll seek to find out what the true explanation of the matter may
- be.”
- </p>
- <p>
- And my sister and I descended to the drawing-room.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER XI.—REASSURANCE.
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>hroughout the meal
- that followed, I carefully observed Fairchild's bearing toward my niece;
- and great was my satisfaction to see in it only and exactly what under the
- circumstances could rightly have been expected. Frank, gay, interested,
- attentive, yet undeviatingly courteous, respectful, and even deferential,
- it was precisely the bearing due from a young gentleman of good breeding
- toward the lady at whose side he found himself, and whose acquaintance he
- had but lately made.
- </p>
- <p>
- “So that,” I concluded, “of all conceivable theories adequate to account
- for his behaviour at first setting eyes upon her, Josephine's is the
- farthest-fetched and the least tenable.”
- </p>
- <p>
- For the matter of that, as I had assured my sister, I was confident that
- her own mother, had she been alive, must have failed to identify her, so
- essentially was she altered both in expression of countenance and in
- apparent age, to say nothing of her totally transformed personality. That
- Fair-child did not do so I was certain. His manner exhibited neither
- surprise, mystification, curiosity, nor constraint. It would have required
- a far cunninger hypocrite than I took him to be, so effectually to have
- disguised such emotions, had he really felt them; and he could not have
- helped feeling them if, having known the dead woman, Louise Massarte, he
- had recognised her in the young and unsophisticated maiden, Miriam Benary.
- The right theory by which to explain his conduct at first meeting her, I
- purposed discovering, if I could, when he and I were alone.
- </p>
- <p>
- He and Miriam had a deal of fun together making the salad, in which
- enterprise they collaborated—not, however, without much laughing
- difference as to the best method of procedure. He pretended that, instead
- of rubbing the bowl with garlic, one should introduce a <i>chapon</i>—or
- crust of bread discreetly tinctured with that herb—and “fatigue” it
- with the lettuce: whereas our niece vigorously maintained the contrary.
- And finally they drew lots to determine which policy should prevail,
- Miriam winning.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am defeated but not disheartened,” Fair-child declared. “If there is
- anything upon which I pride myself, Miss Benary, it is my erudition in the
- science, and my dexterity in the art, of gastronomy. You have taken it out
- of my power to display my skill in salad-making; but now, if you are a
- generous victor, you will give me an opportunity to distinguish myself in
- the confection of an omelet. It is an omelet of my own invention, a sort
- of cross between the ordinary <i>omelette-au-vin</i> of the French and the
- Italian <i>zabaiano</i>, I shall require the use of that chafing dish and
- spirit-lamp which I see yonder on the sideboard, the sherry decanter, and
- half a dozen eggs. I can promise your palates a delectable experience; and
- you, Miss Denary, by watching me, will acquire an invaluable talent.”
- </p>
- <p>
- So, with much merriment, he proceeded with the manufacture of his omelet,
- Miriam observing and assisting. When it was complete, we unanimously voted
- it the most delicious thing in the way of an omelet that we had ever
- tasted. But Miriam sighed, and said, “It is all very simple except the
- most important point. The way is toss it up into the air, and make it turn
- over, and then catch it again as it descends—I am sure I shall never
- be able to do that.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Never? That is a long word. You must practise it with beans,” said
- Fairchild. “A pint of beans—dry beans—the kind Bostonians use
- for baking. Three hours daily practice for six months, and you will do it
- almost as easily as I do.”
- </p>
- <p>
- After the fruit the ladies left us; and having filled our glasses and
- lighted our cigars, we sipped and smoked for a few minutes without
- speaking. Fairchild was the first to break the silence.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I can do nothing,” he began, “but congratulate myself upon the happy
- chance—if chance it was, and not a kind Providence—that
- brought about our encounter this morning. For once in my life I was in
- luck.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It seems to me,” I replied, “that it is I who was in luck, and who have
- the best occasion for self-gratulation.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That would depend upon the dubious question of the value of life,” said
- he. “Has it ever struck you that this earth of ours is, after all, only a
- huge grave-yard, a colossal burying-ground; and that we living persons are
- simply waiting about—standing in a long <i>queue</i>, so to speak—till
- our turn comes to be interred? That seems to me a very pleasing fancy, and
- one which, considered as an hypothesis, clarifies many obscure things.
- Accepting it, we cease to wonder at the phenomenon of death, and regard it
- as the chief end, aim, object, and purpose of all human life—the
- consummation devoutly to be wished, which we are all attending with
- greater or less impatience. Anyhow, I am sceptical whether we confer a
- boon or inflict a bane upon the human being whom we bring into existence,
- or whose exit therefrom we prevent. It is indeed probable that, except for
- our casual meeting this morning, you would at the present hour have been
- numbered among the honoured dead. But, very likely—either enjoying
- the excitements of the happy hunting-ground or sleeping the deep sleep of
- annihilation—very likely, I say, you would have been better off than
- you are actually, or can ever hope to be in the flesh. About my good
- fortune, contrariwise, debate is inadmissible. Here I am in veritable
- clover-smoking a capital cigar after a capital dinner, in capital company,
- to the accompaniment of a capital glass of wine, and the richer by the
- acquisition of three new friends—for as friends, I trust, I may be
- allowed to reckon you and your ladies. Had we not happened to run across
- each other in the way we did, on the other hand, I should now have been
- seated alone by my bachelor's hearth, with no companions more congenial to
- me than my plaster casts, and no voice more jovial to cheer my solitude
- than the howling of the gale.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is very flattering of you to put the matter as you do,” said I; “but
- being modish in no respect, I am least of all so in my metaphysics.
- Therefore I cannot share your pessimistic doubt of the value of life; and
- I assure you I should have hated bitterly to leave mine behind me in that
- ungodly snowbank. It is true, I am perilously close to the Scriptural
- limitation of man's age; and I ought perhaps to feel that I have had my
- fit and proper share of this world's vanities, and to be prepared for my
- inevitable journey to the next. But, I must confess, I am so little of a
- philosopher, I should dearly like to tarry here a few years longer; and
- hence, I maintain, my obligation to you is indisputably established.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, then, so far as I can see, we may say measure for measure; and
- consider ourselves quit.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Hardly. The balance is still tremendously in your favour.”
- </p>
- <p>
- After that we again smoked for a while without speaking. Then again
- Fairchild broke the silence.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I wonder whether you would take it amiss, Dr. Benary, if I should mention
- something which has been the object of my delighted admiration almost from
- the moment I entered your house?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah! What is that?” I queried.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I fear you will condemn me as overbold if I answer you candidly; but I
- shall do so, and accept the consequences. The circumstance that I am an
- artist may be pleaded in my behalf, if I seem to transcend the bounds of
- the conventional.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You pique my curiosity. What is it that you allude to? I do not think you
- need be apprehensive of my wrath. My extended 'Life of Sir Joshua'? That
- is the fruit of ten years' hard labour. Or my Japanese woman by Theodore
- Wores? It's a wonderful piece of flesh-painting. It looks as though it
- would bleed if you pricked it” *
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, it is in Worcs's best vein. But that is not what I have in mind.
- Neither is the 'Life of Sir Joshua.' which, by-the-bye, I have not seen.”
- </p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
- * The Editor of this work must disclaim all responsibility
- Dr. Benary's opinions upon matters literary and aesthetic.
-</pre>
- <p>
- “Not seen it? Oh, well, I must show it to you directly we go upstairs.
- It's my particular pet and pride. But what, then? I do not know what else
- I have worthy of such admiration as you profess.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You have—if you will tolerate my saying so—you have a niece;
- and I allude to her extraordinary beauty.”
- </p>
- <p>
- My pulse quickened. Here had he, of his own accord, broached that very
- topic upon which I was anxious to sound him.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah, yes; Miriam,” I assented, a trifle nervously, and wondering what
- would come next. “Miriam. Yes, Miriam is a very pretty girl.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Pretty!” echoed he. “Pretty? Why, sir, she's—— why, in all my
- life I've not seen so beautiful a woman. And it isn't simply that she is
- so beautiful; it's her type. Her type—I believe I am conservative
- when I call it the least frequent, the rarest, in the whole range of
- womanhood. Forgive my fervour: I speak in my professional capacity—as
- an artist, as one to whom the beautiful is the subject-matter of his daily
- studies. It is a type of which you occasionally see a perfect specimen in
- antique marble, but in flesh and blood not oftener than once in a
- lifetime. To say nothing of her colouring, which a painter would go mad
- over, consider the sheer planes and lines of her countenance! That
- magnificent sweep of profile—brow, nose, lips, chin, and throat,
- described by one splendid flowing line! It's unutterable. It's Juno-esque.
- It's worth ten years of commonplaceness to have lived to see it in a
- veritable breathing woman.''
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes,” I admitted, “it's a fine profile—a noble face.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Her type is so rare,” he went on, “that, as I have said, Nature succeeds
- in producing a perfect specimen of it scarcely oftener than once in a
- generation. Of faulty specimens—comparable, from a sculptor's point
- of view, to flawed castings—she turns out many every year. You have
- been in Provence? In the Noonday of France? Arles, Tours, Avignon, teem
- with such failures—women who approach, approach, approach, but
- always fall short of, the perfection that your niece embodies.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, I know the Méridionales, and I see the resemblance that you refer
- to. But, as you intimate, they are coarse and crude copies of Miriam. That
- expression of high spirituality, which is the dominant note in her face,
- is usually quite absent from theirs.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “They compare to her as the pressed terracotta effigies of the Venus of
- Milo, which may be bought for a song in the streets, compare to the
- chiselled marble in the Louvre. In all my life I have never known but one
- woman who could properly be mentioned in the same breath with her. And
- even she was a good distance behind. Of her I happened to see just enough
- to perceive the divine potentiality of the type. Ever since, I have been
- watching for a faultless specimen. And to-day, when Miss Benary came into
- the room where you had left me, I declare for a moment my breath was taken
- away. I could scarcely believe my eyes. Such beauty seemed beyond reality;
- it was like a dream come true. In my admiration I forgot my manners: it
- was some seconds before I remembered to make my bow. The point of all
- which is that when our friendship is older, you, Dr. Benary, must permit
- <i>me</i> to model her portrait.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Thus was my mind set at ease.
- </p>
- <p>
- Presently we rejoined the ladies, and while Fairchild and Miriam chatted
- together in the bow window, I drew Josephine aside, and communicated to
- her the upshot of our post-prandial conversation. She breathed a mighty
- sigh, and professed herself to be enormously relieved.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER XII.—THE DOCTOR'S DILEMMA.
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">F</span>airchild became a
- frequent visitor at our house, and an ever-welcome one. His good looks,
- his good sense, his droll humour, his honesty, his high spirits, made him
- an extremely pleasant companion. We all liked him cordially; we were
- always glad to see him. I told him that if pot-luck had no terrors for
- him, he must feel at liberty to drop in and dine with us whenever his
- inclination prompted and his leisure would permit. He took me at my word,
- as I meant he should; and from that time forth he broke bread with us
- never seldomer than one evening out of the seven.
- </p>
- <p>
- At the end of a month, or perhaps six weeks, Josephine said to me, “Do you
- think it well, Leonard, that two young people of opposite sexes should be
- thrown together as frequently and as closely as Mr. Fairchild and Miriam
- are?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why not?” questioned I.
- </p>
- <p>
- “The reasons are obvious. How would you be pleased if they should fall in
- love?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “The Lord forbid! But I see no danger of their doing so.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “There is always danger when a beautiful young girl and a spirited young
- man see too much of each other.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But Fairchild pays no more attention to Miriam than he does to you or to
- me. They are never left alone together. They are simply good friends.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “As yet, perhaps, yes. But time can change friendship into love. He
- begins, you must remember, with the liveliest and most profound admiration
- for her; she, with the deepest sense of gratitude towards him. True, as
- you say, they are never left alone together—not exactly alone, that
- is. But are they not virtually alone when you and I are seated here in the
- library over our backgammon-board, and he and she are therein the
- drawing-room at the piano?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But, my dear sister, the two rooms are as one. The folding doors are
- never closed.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “True again: we are all within sight and hearing of one another. But as a
- matter of fact, you and I give no heed to them, nor do they to us. There
- are certain laws of nature which should not be ignored.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, what do you want me to do?” I enquired rather testily. “Shall I
- forbid Fairchild the house? Forbid my house to the man who saved my life?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, no, of course not. You know I could not wish such a thing as that.
- Mr. Fairchild's claims upon our gratitude must never be forgotten. And
- besides, I like him, and I enjoy his visits as heartily as you do. Only——”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Only what? If I don't forbid him the house, how can I prevent him and
- Miriam meeting? Shall I direct her to keep her room whenever he comes?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I do think, brother, it would be well if she were not always present when
- he comes. If you wish to hear my honest opinion, I believe it is to see
- her that he comes so often, and not to see a couple of sober, elderly folk
- like you and me. I cannot think that you and I are so irresistibly
- attractive as to draw him to our house as frequently as once or twice a
- week. However, I only wished to call your attention to the matter. It is
- for you now to act as your best judgment dictates.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, then, my good Josephine, I shall not act at all. There is no
- occasion for my acting. I should be most unjust and unreasonable to
- prevent these two young people getting what innocent pleasure they can
- from each other's friendship and society, simply because in the abstract
- it is true that they are not incapable of falling in love. I might, as
- reasonably enjoin Miriam against ever going out of doors, because it is
- possible that in the street she might be run over; against ever drinking a
- glass of water, because it is possible that the water might contain a
- disease-germ. You have conjured up a chimera. Your fears are those of a
- too imaginative woman. When I perceive the first symptom of anything
- sentimental existing between them, it will be time enough to act.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Perhaps then, Leonard, it will be too late,” retorted Josephine, and with
- that she dropped the subject.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <p>
- Well, of course, as the reader has foreseen, that very complication which
- my sister feared and warned me of, and which I refused to consider—of
- course that very complication came to pass. Fairchild fell in love with
- Miriam, and Miriam reciprocated his unfortunate passion. Otherwise his
- name would never have been introduced into this narrative; or, rather,
- there would have been no such narrative for me to recite.
- </p>
- <p>
- In June, 1888, Josephine, Miriam, and I went down to the little village of
- Ogunquit, on the coast of Wade, there to rusticate until the autumn.
- Toward the end of July, Fairchild joined us there, pursuant to an
- arrangement made before we left town; and it was on the evening of the
- 15th of August that he requested a few minutes' private talk with me, and
- then informed me of the condition of affairs.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I love your niece with all my heart and soul, Dr. Benary. Indeed, I have
- loved her from the day I first became acquainted with her—the day of
- that blessed Blizzard. I should like to know, who could help loving her:
- she is so good and so intelligent, to say nothing of her beauty. To-day I
- emptied my heart out to her, and she has made me the happiest man in
- Christendom by signifying her willingness to become my wife. So, now, it
- only remains for you to give us your approval and benediction. I have an
- income sufficient to keep the wolf from the door, over and above my
- earnings; and for the rest, you know me well enough to judge of my
- eligibility for yourself.”
- </p>
- <p>
- What answer could I give him?
- </p>
- <p>
- Putting aside altogether, as I was bound to do, the selfish consideration
- that her marriage would deprive us of the treasure and the blessing of our
- old age, and leave our home desolate and forsaken—could I in honour,
- could I in justice to the man, permit him to make Miriam Benary his wife,
- without first imparting to him so much as I myself knew concerning Louise
- Massarte?
- </p>
- <p>
- But the latter was a thing which, I was persuaded, I had no manner of
- right to do. The secret of her connection with Louise Massarte, Miriam
- herself was ignorant of. Surely, no other human being had the shadow of a
- claim to learn it Miriam Benary had never even heard of Louise Massarte.
- Louise Massarte was dead and abolished utterly. Therefore, to saddle
- Miriam, in her youth and her innocence, with that dead woman's name and
- history, to put upon her the burden of the dead woman's sin and shame, it
- would be to do her not only a most grievous, but a most unwarrantable,
- wrong.
- </p>
- <p>
- No, I could not, I would not, I must not, tell Fairchild the story of
- Louise Massarte's annihilation, and the consequent existence of Miriam
- Benary. Yet how could I say, “Yes, you may marry her,” and keep that story
- to myself? What excuse could I invent wherewith to ease my conscience, if
- I should practise such deceit upon him in an issue that involved his
- dearest and most vital interests? <i>Suppressio veri, suggestio falsi</i>.
- I should be as bad as any liar if I gave my consent to their marriage,
- while allowing him to remain in error respecting the truth about his bride—truth
- which, if made known to him, might radically modify his intentions.
- </p>
- <p>
- But furthermore, and on the other hand, suppose I should say in reply to
- his demand, “No, you cannot marry her”—what right had I to say that?
- What reason could I allege in justification of my refusal? Not the actual
- reason; for that would be to tell him the very story which, I had made up
- my mind, I must not and should not tell. And if I alleged a fictitious
- reason, I should simply escape the devil to plunge into the deep sea—I
- should simply exchange a lie for a falsehood. These young people loved
- each other. Therefore, to set up impediments to their union, would be to
- impose upon each of them endless unmerited pain. What right had I to do
- that? It was a vexed and difficult quandary. There were strong arguments
- for and strong arguments against either course out of it.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, Dr. Benary, you do not answer me,” Fairchild said.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I can't answer you. You must give me time—time to consider, to
- consult my sister, to make up my mind.”
- </p>
- <p>
- We had been strolling together, he and I, up and down the sands. Now we
- returned to the inn. Josephine was seated on the verandah, near the
- entrance.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah, Leonard, at last!” she exclaimed, starting up the moment she caught
- sight of me. “I have been waiting for you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- I accompanied her to her room.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well,” she began, as soon as the door was closed behind us, “the worst
- has happened, as I suppose you know. Mr. Fairchild has spoken to you, has
- he not?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah! Then you, too, know about it?” queried I.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Miriam has just told me the whole story.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What does she say?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That Mr. Fairchild has asked her to be his wife; that she loves him, and
- has accepted him—conditionally, that is, upon your approval.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “She says she loves him?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “She says she loves him with all her heart. She says she is as happy as
- the day is long. She doesn't dream that you will have any hesitation about
- consenting.”
- </p>
- <p>
- For a little while we were silent. At last, “Well, what are you going to
- do?” my sister asked.
- </p>
- <p>
- “That is what I wish to advise with you about.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Have you given any answer to Mr. Fair-child?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I have said to him that I must take time for reflection, and for
- consultation with you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, it is a most difficult dilemma.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But you have got to make up your mind, one way or the other; and that
- speedily. It is cruel to keep them in suspense.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I know that, my dear sister.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Do you mean to say yes or no?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That's just it. That's just the difficulty, isn't it?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But it is a difficulty which must be solved. You will have to say one of
- the two.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “How dare I say yes?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “They love each other.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What right have I to say no?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is their life-happiness which is at stake.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Exactly, exactly; therefore, if I say no, it will be to condemn them both
- to great misery, and misery which they have done nothing to deserve.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It certainly will—it will break Miriam's heart. And what reason can
- you give them for saying no? It will seem all the harder to them, because
- it will seem so unreasonable and unnecessary, so unjustifiable and wanton.
- They will feel that it is an act of wilful cruelty, on the part of a
- selfish, tyrannical old man.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I know it, I know it,” I groaned. “And yet, on the other hand, if I say
- yes——”
- </p>
- <p>
- “If you say yes, you will assure to them the greatest happiness their
- hearts can desire.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But how dare I say yes without sharing with Fairchild the secret of
- Miriam's origin? Without telling him the story of Louise Massarte?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Surely, you cannot purpose doing that! You cannot mean to confide to
- another knowledge affecting her which she herself is unaware of!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No, of course not. But there's just the rub. How, without doing that, how
- can I honourably permit him to make her his wife?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is a choice of evils: to break their hearts or to suppress certain
- facts. You must choose the lesser evil of the two.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That is very easily said. But the trouble is to determine which of the
- two evils <i>is</i> the lesser. Deceit or cruelty?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Forgive me, my dear brother, for reminding you of it: but if you had
- listened to my warning in the first place, this painful alternative would
- never have come about.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What could I do? You yourself agreed with me that I couldn't forbid
- Fairchild the house. And so long as he had the run of the house, how could
- I prevent him and Miriam meeting? And meeting as frequently as they did, I
- suppose it was inevitable that they should come to love each other.
- There's no use reproaching me—no use regretting the past. What was
- bound to happen has happened. That's the whole truth of it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I did not intend to reproach you, Leonard. I merely wished to say that,
- since, in a manner, you have been responsible for the state of things
- which has come to pass—since, in other words, you neglected to take
- such measures as would have prevented that state of things from coming to
- pass—it seems as if now you were under a sort of moral obligation
- not to stand between them and their happiness. The time for action was the
- outset. You did not act then. It seems as if you had thereby forfeited
- your right to act. Since you have allowed things to go so far, it seems as
- if you had no right to forbid their going farther.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That is to say, you counsel me to consent.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “<i>I</i> do not see how you can do otherwise now. It is too late for you
- to step in and separate them.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And the point of honour? I am to suppress the truth? I am to stand still
- and suffer Fair-child to make Miriam his wife, in ignorance of certain
- facts which, if he were aware of them, might totally change his feeling?
- How can I do that? It would lie for ever on my conscience.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “So far from totally changing his feeling I do not believe those facts, if
- Fairchild knew them, would weigh with him so much as one hair's weight.
- They would not, if his love for Miriam is love in any vital sense of the
- word. He would agree with us in looking upon her as an entirely different
- person from Louise Massarte. However, he must not know, he must not even
- dream those facts. Therefore, as I said before, it is a choice of evils.
- The negative evil of suppressing the truth does not seem to me so great as
- the positive evil of inflicting pain. Besides, after all, is it not
- Miriam's prerogative to decide this matter for herself? What right have
- you or I to do anything but stand aside, with hands off, and let her
- choose her husband without constraint or interference? She is of full age
- and sound mind; and our relationship with her, which would give us our
- pretence for interfering, is, as you know, only a fiction She could not
- wish for a better husband than Mr. Fairchild. No woman could.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What you say, my dear Josephine, and what you suggest, are Jesuitry, pure
- and simple.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “There come emergencies in which Jesuitry is the only feasible policy.”
- </p>
- <p>
- A long silence followed. In the end, “Where is Miriam now?” I asked.
- </p>
- <p>
- “She was in her room when I left her.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Will you find her, and send her to me? Or rather, bring her. You must be
- present, too, to lend me countenance—to give me moral support in the
- grossly immoral action which I am going to perpetrate. I feel like a
- pickpocket. I need the encouragement of my accomplice.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Josephine went off. In three minutes she returned, leading Miriam by the
- hand.
- </p>
- <p>
- Miriam's cheeks and throat turned crimson as she saw me; and she dropped
- her eyes, and stood still, waiting.
- </p>
- <p>
- “My dear——” I called, holding out my hands.
- </p>
- <p>
- She came to me, and put her arms around my neck, and buried her face upon
- my shoulder.
- </p>
- <p>
- “So this young rascal of a sculptor has asked you to be his wife?” I
- began.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes,” she murmured, scarcely louder than a whisper.
- </p>
- <p>
- “And so—the double-faced rogue!—it was not, as we had
- supposed, because of his great fondness for your aunt and uncle, that he
- became a frequenter of our camp, but because he had covetous designs upon
- our chief treasure!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh! but he is very fond of my aunt and uncle, too,” she protested.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Is he, indeed! Well, what answer have you given him?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I said—I said I—I said I liked him.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah! I see. You said you liked him. That was rather irrelevant, wasn't it?—a
- little evasive? He asked you to become his wife, and you said you liked
- him. Did you give him no more categorical an answer than that?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I said he must ask you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ask me? Ask me what? It isn't I that he wants to marry. And I wouldn't
- have him, anyhow. Why should he ask me?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You know what I mean. I told him I could not marry without your consent.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And suppose I should withhold my consent?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I should be very unhappy.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But I don't really see what my consent matters. It's for you to decide.
- You're of full age. I have no right to forbid you. Now, then, what are you
- going to do?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I said I would be his wife, unless you wished otherwise.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, I suppose you must keep your word. The poor fellow is waiting on
- the anxious seat to learn his fate. I really think, instead of tarrying
- here, you ought to seek him out, and put an end to his suspense.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She hugged me and kissed me, and said some very jubilant and some very
- complimentary things; and then she began to cry, and then she laughed
- through her tears; and at last she went off to find her lover, and to
- convey to him the joyful tidings.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <p>
- They were married on the 15th day of December, and that same afternoon
- they set sail for Havre aboard the steamship <i>La Touraine</i>, to pass
- six months abroad. Anxiously did Josephine and I count the days that must
- elapse before the post would bring us their first letter; and little did
- we dream what ominous news that letter would contain.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER XIII.—NATURE BEGINS REPRISALS.
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>F course, we
- watched the newspapers for an announcement of the <i>Touraine's</i>
- arrival. A fast steamer, ordinarily accomplishing the passage within seven
- days, she ought to have reached Havre on the 22nd. She was not reported,
- however, until Monday, the 24th, being then two days overdue.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was on Friday, the 4th of January, that we at last got a letter. The
- envelope was superscribed not in Miriam's band, but in Fairchild's; and
- when we tore it open we saw that the letter itself had been written by the
- groom, and not by the bride. This struck us as rather odd, and made us a
- little uneasy. We hastened to read:
- </p>
- <p>
- “Hôtel de la Grande Bretagne,
- </p>
- <p>
- “Havre, December 25.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Dear Dr. Benary,
- </p>
- <p>
- “Christmas day, and such news as I have to give you! I should put off
- writing until we reach Paris, in the hope that when we are there the face
- of things may have altered for the better; only I know, if you don't
- receive a letter sooner than you would in that case, you will be alarmed.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What I have to tell you is so horrible in itself, it must shock you
- dreadfully whatever way I put it. I can't hope to make it any less painful
- for you by mincing it, or beating about the bush. Yet it seems brutal to
- state the hideous fact downright. Miriam has become blind, totally blind.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Whether incurably so or not, we do not yet know. Of course we hope for
- the best, but we can be sure of nothing till we reach Paris, where we
- shall consult the best oculists to be found. Meantime, you may imagine our
- state of mind.
- </p>
- <p>
- “We had a most frightful passage, and that was the cause of it. We ran
- into a storm directly we left Cape Thunderhead; and it followed us all the
- way across. Bad enough at the outset, it got steadily worse and worse
- until we reached port. It had only this mitigation—it was behind us,
- and moved in the same direction with us. Therefore we were delayed but
- about forty-eight hours. If it had been against us, there's no telling
- when we should have got ashore; and twenty-four hours more of it Miriam
- could never have survived.
- </p>
- <p>
- “For six consecutive days (from the 17th to the 23rd) the hatches were
- battened down; no passengers were allowed on deck; and not only were the
- port-holes kept permanently closed, but the inner iron shutters were
- screwed up, lest the sea should break in and swamp us. The skylights also
- were, covered. Thus daylight was excluded, as well as fresh air. Then the
- electric-lighting machine got out of order, and we had to fall back upon
- candles and petroleum. The atmosphere in the cabins became something
- unendurable. Much of the time, owing to the violent motion, it was
- impossible to keep even the candles or the petroleum lamps burning; and we
- were condemned to total darkness. At last, however, they got the electric
- machine into running gear again, so that we had light. From second to
- second, day and night, the sea broke over us with a roar like the
- discharge of cannon, making every timber of the ship creak and tremble. It
- was enough to drive one frantic, that everlasting rhythmic thunder.
- </p>
- <p>
- “And all the while we were tossed up, down, and around, as if that giant
- vessel were a cockle-shell. Standing erect or walking was not to be
- thought of. I had to creep from place to place on hands and knees. And
- then the never-ending motion, and the incessant noise: the howling of the
- wind, the pounding of the water, the creaking of timbers, the snapping of
- cordage, the clanking of chains, the crashing of loose things being
- knocked about, the shouts and tramping of sailors overhead, the groans of
- sea-sick people, the shrieks of scared women and children, the darkness,
- the loathsome air—I tell you it was frightful; it was like
- pandemonium gone mad; the memory of it is like the memory of a nightmare.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Miriam suffered excruciatingly from seasickness. It was the most
- heart-rending sight I have ever witnessed, the agony she endured. I had
- never dreamed that sea-sickness could be so terrible; and the ship's
- surgeon said he had never seen so severe a case. What made it worse, of
- course, was the hopelessness of her obtaining any relief until the storm
- abated, or until we reached shore. There was nothing anyone could do. I
- just sat there beside her, and held her hand, while she either lay
- exhausted, or started up and went through the torments of the damned. I
- can give you no idea of what she suffered. It was hard work to sit still
- there, and watch her sufferings, and realise that I was utterly powerless
- to help her in any way. From Monday, the 17th, until last night, when we
- had been ashore some hours—precisely one week—she did not
- taste food. Once in a while she would drink a little water, with a drop of
- brandy in it; but even that distressed her cruelly. On the 20th she was
- seized with convulsions, awful beyond description. From then on, until we
- left the ship, she simply alternated between terrible paroxysms and utter
- prostration. Four days! I thought she was going to die, her convulsions
- were so violent, the prostration that ensued was so death-like. The ship's
- surgeon himself admitted that there was great danger—that death
- might result from exhaustion. For those four days—from the 20th to
- the 24th—he kept her almost constantly under the influence of
- opiates. On Saturday she seemed a little better—that is, her
- convulsions occurred seldomer, and were of shorter duration. When not in
- convulsions, she would lie in a stupor, as if asleep, only most of the
- time her eyes were half open, and she would groan. But on Sunday she was
- worse again; and it was on Sunday night, about ten o'clock, that, after
- she had lain perfectly quiet for an hour or so, all at once she started
- up, and asked me whether the electric lights had gone out again. The
- lights were at that moment burning brightly in our state-room; and I told
- her so. Then she cried: 'I can't see you. I can't see anything. It is all
- dark. What has happened? I believe I am blind.'
- </p>
- <p>
- “Of course, I thought it must be some hallucination caused by her
- sickness. I could not believe that she had really become blind. But the
- ship's surgeon came and made an examination, and discovered that it was
- so. He could attribute it only to a paralysis of the optic nerve, the
- consequence of shock and exhaustion. What the danger of its being
- permanent was he could not say.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yesterday, thank God, that hellish voyage came to an end. The instant we
- reached this hotel, I got her into bed and sent off for the best medical
- men this town holds. They simply corroborated the judgment of the ship's
- doctor—that she is suffering from shock and exhaustion, and that her
- blindness is due to a paralysis of the optic nerve. <i>They think it will
- probably not be permanent</i>. She must keep her bed until she is
- thoroughly rested, which will take several days. Then we must go to Paris,
- and put her under the treatment of Dr. Geoffroy Désessaires, who, it
- seems, is the great French specialist in diseases of the eye.
- </p>
- <p>
- “She is in bed now, in the next room, sleeping. She sleeps most of the
- time—or rather, dozes. Her convulsions are over now, I hope for
- good. But all last night they occurred from time to time—very much
- less violently, however, than when on ship-board. She has not yet been
- able to take much nourishment, but as often as she wakes, I give her a
- little beef-tea.
- </p>
- <p>
- “That is about all there is to tell down to the present moment. You will
- understand that I am in no condition of mind to write at greater length
- than is necessary, having gone without sleep for the greater part of a
- week, to say nothing of anxiety and distress. When she wakes she talks of
- you and bids me say how she loves you. And of course you always means
- yourself and Miss Josephine.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I pray God that in my next letter I may have more cheering news to write.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Always yours,
- </p>
- <p>
- “Henry Fairchild.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The dismay which the foregoing epistle occasioned Josephine and myself the
- sympathetic reader will conceive without my telling. But it was as nothing
- to that which we experienced when we read the next, and considered its
- purport:—
- </p>
- <p>
- “Hôtel de la Bourdonnaye,
- </p>
- <p>
- “Paris, January 1, 1889.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Dear Dr. Benary,
- </p>
- <p>
- “Miriam improved rapidly after I posted my letter of Christmas day. Rest,
- quiet, and nourishment were what she needed—and those she had. The
- doctors gave us permission to leave Havre yesterday; and we arrived here
- in the afternoon. She is pale and weak, and wasted to the merest shadow of
- herself, having lost <i>twenty-six pounds</i> in weight. But she does not
- suffer any more bodily pain; though what her agony of mind must be it is
- not difficult for those who love her to imagine. However, that will soon
- be over.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I telegraphed in advance to Dr. Désessaires, requesting him to call upon
- us here at our hotel last evening. He came at eight o'clock, and put
- Miriam through a thorough examination. He confirmed what all the other
- doctors had said—that it was a paralysis of the optic nerve. He
- enquired all about her health in the past, and particularly whether she
- had ever had any trouble of the brain or spine. Then, of course, we told
- him of that accident which she met with in 1884, which had deprived her of
- her memory, 'Ah! said he, 'that gives me the key to the whole difficulty.'
- He proceeded very carefully to examine her head, and when he had finished
- he said there was a depression of the bone at the point where she had been
- hurt at that time, and a consequent pressure upon the brain; and it was
- that pressure upon the brain which accounted for the extraordinary
- violence of her sea-sickness and the resultant blindness. Finally, he said
- that an operation to relieve that pressure would, if made at once, restore
- her sight; but that, unless such an operation was performed, she must
- remain permanently blind. He assured me that the operation was not a
- dangerous one; that it would consist in the removal of a minute fragment
- of the bone—what is called trephining. Of course, there was nothing
- for us to do but consent to having the operation performed; and thereupon
- he went away, saying he would return this morning.
- </p>
- <p>
- “At eleven o'clock this morning he arrived, accompanied by four other
- physicians—Dr. Cidolt, also an oculist; Dr. Gouet, the famous
- alienist; Dr. Marsac, a general practitioner of very high standing; and
- Dr. Larquot, said to be the most skilful surgeon in France. They made a
- long examination, and then withdrew to consult together. At the end of
- nearly two hours they came to me with their report, which was simply a
- repetition of what Dr. Dêsessaires had already said—that trephining
- would be necessary, that it would be effective, and that it would be as
- free from danger as such an operation ever is. It must be performed as
- soon as possible, so that atrophy of the optic nerve may not have time to
- set in; but before they can safely undertake it, Miriam must be perfectly
- recovered in general health. They have set upon this day fortnight—the
- 14th—as probably a favourable time. Meanwhile she is under the care
- of Dr. Marsac. Dr. Larquot is to conduct the operation.
- </p>
- <p>
- “The brave little woman! She supports her calamity so patiently! And she
- looks forward to that dreadful ordeal with an amount of nerve and courage
- that a man might be proud of. God grant that all may go well.
- </p>
- <p>
- “There is nothing more for me to write at present.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Always Yours,
- </p>
- <p>
- “Henry Fairchild.”
- </p>
- <p>
- At the close of Fairchild's letter this postscript was added, in a hand
- that we recognised as Miriam's, though it was cramped and irregular, as if
- she had written with her eyes shut:—
- </p>
- <p>
- “Dear Ones,—I cannot see to write to you; but I love you and love
- you, with all my heart.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Miriam.”
- </p>
- <p>
- When my sister Josephine read that, she burst out crying like a child.
- </p>
- <p>
- I waited till she had dried her tears, Then, “Well, my dear sister,” I
- questioned, “do you realise what that letter means?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What it means? Why, that her blindness is only temporary, and can be
- cured. That she will recover her sight.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Nothing else?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What else?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What else! This else—and I am surprised that you do not see it for
- yourself—it means that the same operation which will restore her
- sight will also restore her memory. Do you understand? She will become
- Louise Massarte again. She will begin at the precise point where Louise
- Massarte left off. She will forget everything that has occurred during the
- past four years, and will recall what occurred before. It is that same
- pressure of the bone upon the brain to which they rightly or wrongly
- attribute her blindness—it is that same pressure of the bone upon
- the brain which keeps Louise Massarte in quiescence, and makes Miriam
- Benary possible. Relieve that pressure, remove that point of bone, and
- instantly Louise Massarte will spring into life again, while at the same
- moment Miriam Benary will cease to exist. That is what Fairchild's letter
- means.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Good Heavens!” gasped Josephine, holding up her hands in helpless dismay.
- “But—but surely—— but what—what is to be done?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Which, in your opinion, would be the lesser of the two evils—to
- have her remain permanently blind, or to have her regain her memory? She
- would recollect all that she is happiest in forgetting, she would forget
- all that she is happiest in remembering. The four years during which she
- has lived here with us as our niece would be utterly obliterated and
- undone. She would rise from that operation in mind and spirit exactly
- where she was, and exactly what she was, just before you and I put her
- under the influence of ether on the 14th day of June, 1884. Which, I want
- you to tell me—which would be the lesser evil: the blindness of
- Miriam Benary, or the resurrection of Louise Massarte?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, there is no room for question about that. Better a thousand times
- that she should never see the light of day again, than that she should
- cease to be herself, and return to her dead personality. Why, it is—it
- is Miriam's very life, her very existence, which is at stake.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Precisely. It is, so far as she is concerned, a choice between blindness
- and death. Nay, something worse than death: a hideous transformation of
- her identity, from that of a pure and innocent young bride, to that of a
- weary, heart-sick, sinful woman-convict. To cure her blindness by the
- means which they propose, would simply be to kill her; to abolish Miriam
- Benary and to substitute for her Louise Massarte. It is infinitely better
- that she should remain blind. Therefore, I am going to prevent that
- operation if I can.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “If you can indeed! But how can you? They are three thousand miles away.
- How can you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, let us see. To-day—to-day is the 12th, is it not?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, to-day is Saturday the 12th. Well?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, the day set for the operation is the 14th—that is, the day
- after to-morrow, Monday.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, I shall go at once and cable to Fairchild, imploring him,
- commanding him, no matter at what cost, to postpone the operation until I
- arrive in Paris. Then I shall engage passage aboard the first swift
- steamer that sails. The South German Clyde steamers sail on Mondays. They
- make the passage in seven days, and touch at Cherbourg. Do you, meanwhile,
- prepare my things, so that I may take ship day after tomorrow. Once
- arrived in Paris, I will persuade Fairchild to relinquish the idea of the
- operation for good and all. I will convince him that Miriam's life will be
- imperilled. Or, failing in that, I may find myself compelled to tell him
- the truth about Louise Massarte. Anything will be better than to have her
- regain her memory.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, anything. God grant that he may not disobey your telegram. But you
- must engage passage for me as well as for yourself. I cannot stay at home
- here idle. You must let me go with you. I should die of anxiety alone here
- at home.”
- </p>
- <p>
- I went to the nearest telegraph office, and sent the following cable
- despatch:—
- </p>
- <p>
- “Fairchild, Hôtel Bourdonnaye, Paris.
- </p>
- <p>
- “At all costs postpone operation till I arrive. Miriam's life endangered.
- Sail Monday, viâ Cherbourg.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Benary.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Then I hastened to the steamship company's office in Bowling Slip, and
- engaged staterooms for my sister and myself aboard the <i>Egmont</i> which
- was to sail promptly at noon on Monday the 14th.
- </p>
- <p>
- Yet, despite these precautionary measures, a heavy load of anxiety lay
- upon my heart. What if Fairchild should suffer the operation to proceed,
- notwithstanding my protest? I could not banish that contingency from my
- mind, nor its ghastly <i>corollaries</i> from my imagination.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER XIV.—ALTER EGO.
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>hough by no means
- so stormy as that described by Fairchild, our voyage was an unconscionably
- long one. To say nothing of fogs and head winds, an accident befell our
- machinery, whereby we were compelled to lie to for sixteen precious hours,
- while the damage was repaired. We did not make Cherbourg till the
- afternoon of Friday, January 25.
- </p>
- <p>
- Ashore, my first act was to enquire when a train would leave for Paris. A
- train would leave at midnight, due at the capital at half past nine in the
- morning. My next act was to telegraph Fairchild, informing him of our
- arrival, and warning him to expect us on the morrow.
- </p>
- <p>
- At half past nine to the minute, Saturday, we drew into the Gare St.
- Lazare. We were a little surprised not to find Fairchild there to meet us,
- and perhaps also a little disturbed. Was Miriam so ill that he dared not
- leave her? After seeing our luggage through the Customs House, we got into
- a cab, and were driven to the Hôtel de la Bourdonnaye.
- </p>
- <p>
- I inquired for Mr. Fairchild.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Monsieur Fairchild is in his room, Monsieur.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Show us thither at once,” said I.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Pardon, Monsieur. If Monsieur will have the goodness to send up his card—-”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Josephine,” I exclaimed, “how do you account for this? Apparently we are
- not expected. He does not meet us at the railway station; and here at his
- hotel we are required to send up our card.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, send it up. We shall soon have an explanation,” Josephine said; and
- I acted upon her advice.
- </p>
- <p>
- In two minutes Fairchild appeared.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What! Arrived!” he cried, seizing each of us by a band. “Your steamer was
- overdue; when did you get in? Why didn't you telegraph from Cherbourg?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why <i>didn't</i> I telegraph? But I did. Do you mean to say you haven't
- received my despatch?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Not the ghost of one. If I'd known you were coming this morning——
- But wait.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He stepped into the office of the hotel. Issuing thence in a moment,
- “There!” he cried, exhibiting a blue envelope, “here's your telegram. In
- America I should have received it twelve hours ago. But they manage these
- things better in France. It came last night, after I'd gone to bed and the
- authorities of this hostelery were too considerate to wake me. Then this
- morning, they say, they thought I was so much occupied that, they would do
- best to wait about delivering it till I was at leisure. That's French
- courtesy with a vengeance. However, you're safely arrived at last, and
- that's the important thing.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And Miriam? Miriam?” I demanded impatiently.
- </p>
- <p>
- “The doctors are with her even now,” he answered.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You got my cable despatch, of course, and put off the operation?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, I got your despatch; and we put off the operation until all the
- physicians insisted that it must not be put off longer—that, if put
- off longer, it would be ineffective.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Panic-stricken, “You don't mean to say,” I gasped, “you can't mean to say
- that it has been performed!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “As I just told you, they're with her now. They are performing it at this
- moment?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Heavens and earth, man! Didn't I say in my telegram that it would imperil
- her life? Didn't I entreat you at all costs to postpone it until I
- arrived?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You did, certainly. But these other medical men, who were on the spot,
- and could examine her for themselves, were of one mind in declaring that
- her life would not be imperilled, but that the longer the operation was
- delayed, the greater would be the danger of atrophy of the optic nerve.
- Finally, on Wednesday of this week, they fixed upon this morning as the
- furthest date to which they could consent to postpone it. It was a choice
- between going on without your presence, and taking the risk of permanent
- blindness. So I had to let them proceed.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You don't know what you have done! You have done that which you will
- repent to your dying day!!” I groaned, wringing my hands. “You might have
- known that I never should have telegraphed as I did—that I never
- should have packed up and taken ship for Europe at two days notice—unless
- it was a matter of life and death But where are they? Take me to them.
- Perhaps it is not yet too late. Perhaps I am still in time to prevent it.
- Take me to them at once.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I doubt whether they will admit you. They would not allow me to be
- present, and I am her husband. I have had to walk up and down the
- corridor, waiting.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Not admit me! They will admit me, if have to break down the door. Take me
- to them this instant.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Very well,” he assented. “This way.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He led me up a flight of stairs, and halted before a door, upon which he
- gently rapped.
- </p>
- <p>
- The door was immediately opened by an elderly man, in professional
- broad-cloth, who said in French: “You may enter now. It is finished.”
- </p>
- <p>
- My heart turned to ice. For a breathing-space I could neither move nor
- speak.
- </p>
- <p>
- At last, with the stolidity that is born of despair, “Finished!” I
- repeated. “You have then trephined?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “We have.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And the patient——?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “She is not yet recovered from the anaesthetic.”
- </p>
- <p>
- We entered the room. Miriam, pale and beautiful, lay unconscious upon a
- sofa near the windows. Two other professional-looking gentlemen stood over
- her, one of whom was fanning her face.
- </p>
- <p>
- Fairchild presented me: “The English physician, Dr. Benary, the uncle of
- my wife.”
- </p>
- <p>
- I was in no mood to be courteous or ceremonious. Having bowed, “Gentlemen,
- I must beg you to leave me alone with the patient,” I began, addressing
- the company at large.
- </p>
- <p>
- My remark created a sensation. The French physicians exchanged perplexed
- and astonished glances; and a chorus of indignant “Mais, monsieurs,” rose
- about my ears.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Fairchild, I am in earnest,” I said. “I insist upon these gentlemen
- leaving me alone with my niece. I look to you to see that they do so. I
- have neither the leisure nor the inclination to discuss the matter. Every
- second is precious.” Somehow or other Fairchild prevailed upon them to
- withdraw. I suspect they saw that I was in no frame of mind to bear
- trifling with.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I may remain?” Fairchild queried.
- </p>
- <p>
- “No, not even you. I must be quite alone with her for the present.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But——-”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Nay, do not waste time is controversy. Leave me at once.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Fairchild reluctantly went off.
- </p>
- <p>
- I sat down at the side of Miriam's couch, and fanned her.
- </p>
- <p>
- By-and-by she opened her eyes, and they rested upon my face.
- </p>
- <p>
- From their expression, it was obvious that she saw me. Her blindness had
- been cured.
- </p>
- <p>
- Almost at once, however, she closed her eyes again; and then for a little
- while she lay still, like one half asleep.
- </p>
- <p>
- Suddenly she drew a deep quick breath, sat up, and looking me intently in
- the face, “Well, is it over?” she asked.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, dear; it is over,” I replied. “Well, then, it is a failure—a
- total, abject failure! I remember everything. My memory was never clearer
- or more circumstantial. And you—you said there was no chance of
- failure! Oh, I was a fool to believe you. But what were you, to tell me
- such monstrous lies?”
- </p>
- <p>
- With these words, she sighed, and fell back upon her pillow, while I, with
- a deadly sickness at the heart, realised that the worst which I had feared
- had come to pass.
- </p>
- <p>
- She was Louise Massarte now. Where was Miriam Benary? She was Louise
- Massarte. She had taken up her former life at the exact point where Louise
- Massarte had dropped it. She had begun anew at the exact point where
- Louise Massarte had left off. And the operation which she had in her mind
- when she asked, “Is it over?” was the operation which I had performed upon
- her nearly five years before. Those intervening years were as perfectly
- erased from her consciousness as if they had been passed in dreamless
- sleep.
- </p>
- <p>
- Where was Miriam Benary? What had become of that sweet and winning
- personality? And of the innocent pure love with which she had blessed our
- lives? Oh, it was a hideous transformation. Miriam was gone into the
- infinite void of Nothingness, leaving this changeling in her place. It was
- more unbelievable, it was more horribly impossible, than any wild
- nightmare phantasy, than any ancient grisly tale of necromancy; and yet it
- was true, it was undeniable, it was irremediable. It was worse,
- incomparably worse, than it would have been if she had died. For had she
- died, we could at least have hoped that her soul still lived, good and
- true and beautiful as ever. But now her soul had simply changed its form,
- and become the corrupt and sinful essence of Louise Massarte—just as
- in books of the Black Art we read of the fair virgin Princess being
- changed at a touch into a wicked grinning ape.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, you have failed, you have failed,” she said again.
- </p>
- <p>
- Then, all at once, starting up, and speaking passionately: “Oh, why did
- you interfere with me last night? Why did you cross my path and thwart my
- will? Why did you not let me die then, when it would have been so easy?
- Why did you bring me here to your house, to fill me and intoxicate me with
- hopes that were doomed to be disappointed? Oh, it was cruel, it was cruel
- of you. I was insane to listen to you. I was mad to place any sort of
- credence in what you said. It was so obvious a fairy-tale. I ought to have
- known that you promised the impossible, that you were either a liar or a
- lunatic.—But it is not yet too late. Leave me. Leave the room. Let
- me get up and dress myself, and go away. Where is your sister? She put
- away my clothes. Send her to me. I will not be detained here longer. Give
- me my clothes. I will get up, and go away, and throw myself into the
- river, before they have a chance to retake me, and send me back to
- prison.”
- </p>
- <p>
- What could I do? What could I say? “Oh, Miriam, Miriam,” I faltered
- helplessly. “Calm yourself. For Heaven's sake, lie quiet. You will work
- yourself into a fever, into delirium. Your agitation may cost you your
- life. Lie quiet and let me think. My poor wits are distracted.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She caught at the name Miriam.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Miriam? Miriam! Who is Miriam? Have I not told you my name? My name is
- Louise Massarte. Why do you call me by another? Miriam!—Miriam! Am I
- in a madhouse? <i>Oh, oh! my head!</i>” she screamed sharply, putting her
- hand to her head. “What have you done to my head? What have you done to
- me? Oh, I had such a pain! It shot through my head. Oh! fool, imbecile,
- that I was, ever to enter your house.”
- </p>
- <p>
- At this juncture the door opened, and Fair-child came into the room.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I could wait outside no longer,” he explained. “I heard her scream. I
- cannot stay away from her.”
- </p>
- <p>
- To my unspeakable amazement, she, at the sight of her husband (whom, I had
- every reason to suppose, she would not recognise), started violently, and,
- catching her breath, exclaimed—
- </p>
- <p>
- “What! You! Henry Fairchild! Henry Fairchild! Here! Good God!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, dear Miriam,” Fairchild answered, coming forward, and putting out
- his hand to take hold of hers.
- </p>
- <p>
- But she drew quickly away from him.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Miriam again! Miriam! What farce is this? Am I really in a mad-house? Or
- have I gone mad? I believe you are both maniacs, that you call me Miriam.
- Or is it some charade that you are acting for my bewilderment? And you,
- Henry Fairchild! What are you doing here? You, of all men! Oh! this is
- some frightful trick that has been played upon me! This glib-tongued old
- man, with his innocent face and his protestations of benevolence, has
- trapped me here to send me back across the river. But why so much ceremony
- about it. Call your officers at once, and give me up to them. One thing
- I'll promise you: they'll never get me back there alive. Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!
- And so, Mr. Fairchild, your friend, Roger Beecham, is dead. I came to town
- last night for the especial purpose of calling upon him, and settling our
- accounts; and then I learned that he had died from natural causes. Well,
- there is one consolation: unless the dogma of hell be a pure invention, he
- is roasting there now. I daresay I shall join him there presently, and
- then we will roast together! What a blow his death must have been to you,
- his faithful Achates!” During the first part of her speech, it was plain
- that poor Fairchild simply fancied her to be raving in delirium; but when
- she mentioned that name, Roger Beecham, an expression of terrified
- amazement, mingled with blank incomprehension, fell upon his face, and he
- stood staring at her, with knitted brows and parted lips, like a man
- dumbfoundered and aghast.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, I hope he died hard!” she cried. “I hope his mortal agony was
- excruciating and long-drawn out. I hope his death-bed was haunted and
- surrounded by twenty thousand hateful memories!” Fairchild found his
- tongue.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Roger Beecham,” he repeated, as if dazed. “What do you know of Roger
- Beecham?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That's good! That's exquisite!” cried she. “What do I know of Roger
- Beecham? You play your comedy very well, though I confess I don't see the
- point of it. What does Louise Massarte know of Roger Beecham? What does
- she <i>not</i> know of him?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Fairchild became rigid.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Louise Massarte!” he gasped. “What have you to do with Louise Massarte?—the
- murderess of Beecham's wife! Was she—for God's sake, was she related
- to you? Long ago I noticed a certain resemblance—a certain remote
- resemblance—such a resemblance as might exist between an angel and a
- devil. But why do you speak to me of her? What can you know of her? Louise
- Massarte!—— Dr. Benary, what has happened to my wife? She is
- delirious. Yet how comes she to know these names? What can be done?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am not delirious, Mr. Fairchild,” she put in, hastily. “But either you
- are, or you are a most clever actor, and have missed your vocation in
- failing to go upon the stage. As I said before, I cannot see the point of
- your mummery; but you do it uncommonly well. Why do you pretend not to
- recognise me? Surely, I can't have changed beyond recognition in two
- years.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Not recognise you? Not recognise you, Miriam, my wife! Oh, what dreadful
- insanity has come upon her?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I? Miriam? Your wife?” She laughed. “Come, Mr. Fairchild, a truce to this
- mystery.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Fairchild sank upon a chair, and pressed his brow between his hands. “She
- is out of her senses. But how comes she to know those names?” he said, as
- if speaking to himself. Then, turning to me: “Perhaps you, Dr. Benary, can
- clear this puzzle up?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “This is hardly a fitting time or place for attempting to,” I replied. “If
- you had only respected my desires, there would have been no such
- occasion.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Will you answer me this one question? Do you understand what she means by
- her reference to Louise Massarte?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes. I do.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Explain that meaning to me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Not now, Fairchild. Not now. Later I will tell you everything. I have not
- the heart nor the wit to explain anything just now.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But the relation, the connection, between that woman and my wife? Were
- they sisters?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No, not sisters.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What then?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Fairchild, I implore you——” I began, but I got no further.
- </p>
- <p>
- From the couch upon which Miriam lay came a low peal of sarcastic
- laughter. Then suddenly it expired in a most piteous moan. She gave a
- sharp cry, and swooned.
- </p>
- <p>
- Fairchild was at her side in a twinkling. He knelt there, seizing her
- hands, and gazing with wild eyes into her face.
- </p>
- <p>
- “She is dead! She is dead!” he groaned frantically.
- </p>
- <p>
- “No, she has only fainted, from pain and exhaustion. But the consequences
- of a fainting fit in her condition may be terrible,” said I.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, my darling! my darling!” he sobbed, bending over till his cheek swept
- her breast.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <p>
- She never regained consciousness.
- </p>
- <p>
- I have not the heart to dwell upon what followed.
- </p>
- <p>
- This paragraph, cut from <i>Galignant's Messenger</i> of February 1, tells
- its own story:—
- </p>
- <p>
- “<i>Fairchild.—On Wednesday morning, January 30, at the Hôtel de la
- Bourdonnaye, of </i>phrenitis<i>, Miriam Benary, wife of Henry Fairchild,
- of Adironda.</i>”
- </p>
- <h3>
- THE END.
- </h3>
- <div style="height: 6em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-<pre>
-
-
-
-
-
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