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diff --git a/old/52702-0.txt b/old/52702-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index b88bb00..0000000 --- a/old/52702-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,9136 +0,0 @@ -Project Gutenberg's Mrs Peixada, by Henry Harland, AKA Sidney Luska - -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: Mrs Peixada - -Author: Henry Harland, AKA Sidney Luska - -Release Date: August 2, 2016 [EBook #52702] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MRS PEIXADA *** - - - - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by the Internet Archive - - - - - - - -MRS PEIXADA - -By Henry Harland (AKA Sidney Luska) - -Author of “As It Was Written,” etc., etc. - -Cassell & Company, Limited, 739 & 741 Broadway, New York. - -1886 - - - - -CONTENTS - -MRS. PEIXADA. - -CHAPTER I—A CASE IS STATED. - -CHAPTER II.—“A VOICE, A MYSTERY.” - -CHAPTER III.—STATISTICAL. - -CHAPTER IV.—“THAT NOT IMPOSSIBLE SHE.” - -CHAPTER V.—“A NOTHING STARTS THE SPRING.” - -CHAPTER VI.—“THE WOMAN WHO HESITATES.” - -CHAPTER VII.—ENTER MRS. PEIXADA. - -CHAPTER VIII.—“WHAT REST TO-NIGHT?” - -CHAPTER IX.—AN ORDEAL. - -CHAPTER X.—“SICK OF A FEVER.” - -CHAPTER XI.—“HOW SHE ENDEAVORED TO EXPLAIN HER LIFE.” - -CHAPTER XII.—“THE FINAL STATE O’ THE STORY.” - - - - -MRS. PEIXADA. - - - - -CHAPTER I—A CASE IS STATED. - -ON more than one account the 25th of April will always be a notable -anniversary in the calendar of Mr. Arthur Ripley. To begin with, on that -day he pocketed his first serious retainer as a lawyer. - -He got down-town a little late that morning. The weather was -superb—blue sky and summer temperature. Central Park was within easy -walking distance. His own engagements, alas, were not pressing. So he -had treated himself to an afterbreakfast ramble across the common. - -On entering his office, toward eleven o’clock, he was surprised to -find the usually empty chairs already tenanted. Mr. Mendel, the brewer, -was established there, in company with two other gentlemen whom Arthur -did not recognize. The sight of these visitors caused the young man a -palpitation. Could it be—? He dared not complete the thought. That a -client had at last sought him out, was too agreeable an hypothesis to be -entertained. - -Mr. Mendel greeted him with the effusiveness for which he is -distinguished, and introduced his companions respectively as Mr. Peixada -and Mr. Rimo. Of old time, when Arthur’s father was still alive, -and when Arthur himself had trotted about in knee-breeches and short -jackets, Mr. Mendel had been their next door neighbor. Now he made -the lawyer feel undignified by asking a string of personal questions: -“Vail, how iss mamma?” and “Not married yet, eh?” and “Lieber -Gott! You must be five-and-twenty—so tall, and with dot long -mustache—yes?” And so forth; smiling the while with such benevolence -that Arthur could not help answering politely, though he did hope that -a desire for family statistics was not the sole motive of the brewer’s -visit. - -But by and by Mendel cleared his throat, and assumed a look of -importance. His voice modulated into a graver key, as he announced, -“The fact is that we—or rather, my friends, Mr. Peixada and Mr. -Rimo—want to consult you about a little matter of business.” He -leaned back in his chair, drawing a deep breath, as though the speech -had exhausted him; mopped his brow with his handkerchief, and flourished -his thumb toward Peixada. - -“Ah,” replied Arthur, bowing to the latter, “I am happy to be at -your service, sir.” - -“Yes,” said Peixada, in a voice several sizes larger than the -situation required, “Mr. Mendel recommends you to us as a young man -who is smart, and who, at the same time, is not so busy but that he can -bestow upon our affairs the attention we wish them to have.” - -Notwithstanding Arthur’s delight at the prospect of something to -do, Peixada’s tone, a mixture as it was of condescension and -imperiousness, jarred a little. Arthur did not like the gratuitous -assumption that he was “not so busy,” etc., true though it might -be; nor did he like the critical way in which Peixada eyed him. -“Indeed,” he said, speaking of it afterward, “it gave me very much -such a sensation as a fellow must experience when put up for sale in the -Turkish slave market—a feeling that my ’points’ were being noted, -and my money value computed. I half expected him to continue, ’Open -your mouth, show your teeth!’.rdquo; Peixada was a tall, portly -individual of fifty-odd, with a swarthy skin, brown, beady eyes, a black -coat upon his back, and a fat gold ring around his middle finger. The -top of his head was as bald as a Capuchin’s, and shone like a disk of -varnished box-wood. It was surrounded by a circlet of crisp, dark, -curly hair. He had a solemn manner that proclaimed him to be a person -of consequence. It turned out that he was president of a one-horse -insurance company. Mr. Rimo appeared to be but slightly in advance -of Arthur’s own age—a tiny strip of a body, wearing a resplendent -cravat, a dotted waistcoat, pointed patent-leather gaiters, and -finger-nails trimmed talon-shape—a thoroughbred New York dandy, of the -least effeminate type. - -“I suppose the name, Peixada,” the elder of the pair went on, “is -not wholly unfamiliar to you.” - -“Oh, no—by no means,” Arthur assented, wondering whether he had -ever heard it before. - -“I suppose the circumstances of my brother’s death are still fresh -in your mind.” - -Arthur put on an intelligent expression, and inwardly deplored his -ignorance. Yet—Peixada? - -Peixada? the name did have a familiar ring, of a truth. But where and in -what connection had he heard it? - -“Let me see,” he ventured, “that was in—?” - -“In July, ’seventy-nine—recollect?” - -Ah, yes; to be sure; he recollected. So this man was a brother of the -Peixada who, rather less than half a dozen years ago, had been murdered, -and whose murder had set New York agog. In a general way Arthur recalled -the glaring accounts of the matter that had appeared in the newspapers -at the time. “Yes,” he said, feeling that it behooved him to say -something, “it was very sad.” - -“Fearful!” put in Mr. Mendel. - -“Of course,” Peixada resumed, in his pompous style, “of course you -followed the trial as it was reported in the public prints; but perhaps -you have forgotten the particulars. Had I better refresh your memory?” - -“That would be a good idea,” said Arthur.—To what was the way -being paved? - -With the air of performing a ceremony, Peixada rose, unbuttoned his -coat, extracted a bulky envelope from the inner pocket, re-seated -himself, and handed the envelope to Arthur. It proved to contain -newspaper clippings. “Please glance them through,” said Peixada. - -The Peixada murder had been a sensational and peculiarly revolting -affair. One July night, 1879, Mr. Bernard Peixada, “a retired Jewish -merchant,” had died at the hands of his wife. Edward Bolen, coachman, -in the attempt to protect his employer, had sustained a death-wound for -himself. Mrs. Peixada, “the perpetrator of these atrocities,” as -Arthur gathered from the records now beneath his eye, “was a young -and handsome woman, of a respectable Hebrew family, who must have been -actuated by a depraved desire to possess herself of her husband’s -wealth.” They had “surprised her all but red-handed in the -commission of the crime,” though “too late to avert its dire -results.” Eventually she was tried in the Court of General Sessions, -and acquitted on the plea of insanity. Arthur remembered—as, perhaps, -the reader does—that her acquittal had been the subject of much -popular indignation. “She is no more insane than you or I,” every -body had said; “she is simply lacking in the moral sense. Another -evidence that you can’t get a jury to be impartial when a pretty woman -is concerned.” - -“She was bad,” continued Peixada, as Arthur returned the papers, -“bad through and through. I warned my brother against her before his -marriage. - -“‘What,’ said I, ’what do you suppose she would marry an old man -like you for, except your money?’ He said, ’Never mind.’ She was -young and showy, and Bernard lost his head.” - -“She was doocedly handsome, a sooperb creature to look at, you -know,” cried Mr. Rimo, with the accent of a connoisseur. - -“Hainsome is as hainsome does,” quoth Mr. Mendel, sententiously. - -“She was as cold as ice, as hard as alabaster,” said Peixada, -perhaps meaning adamant. “The point is that after her release from -prison she took out letters of administration upon my brother’s -estate.” - -“Why, I thought she was insane,” said Arthur. “A mad woman would -not be a competent administratrix.” - -“Exactly. I interposed objections on that ground. But she answered -that she had recovered; that although insane a few months before—at -the time of the murder—she was all right again now. The surrogate -decided in her favor. A convenient form of insanity, eh?” - -“Were there children?” Arthur inquired. - -“No—none. My nephew, Mr. Rimo, son of my sister who is dead, and I -myself, were the only next of kin. She paid us our shares right away.” -Then what could he be driving at now? Arthur waited for enlightenment. - -“But now,” Peixada presently went on, “now I have discovered that -my brother left a will.” - -“Ah, I understand. You wish to have it admitted to probate?” - -“Precisely. But first I wish to find Mrs. Peixada. The will isn’t -worth the paper it’s written on, unless we can get hold of her. You -see, she has about half the property in her possession.” - -“There was no real estate?” - -“Not an acre; but the personalty amounted to a good many thousands of -dollars.” - -“And you don’t know where she is?” - -“I haven’t an idea.” - -“Have you made any efforts to find out?” - -“Well, I should say I had—made every effort in my power. That’s -what brings me here. I want you to carry on the search.” - -“I shouldn’t imagine it would be hard work. A woman—a widow—of -wealth is always a conspicuous object—trebly so, when she is handsome -too, and has been tried for murder. But tell me, what, have you done?” - -“You’ll be surprised when you hear. I myself supposed it would -be plain sailing. But listen.” Peixada donned a pair of gold-rimmed -spectacles, opened a red leather memorandum-book, and read aloud from -its pages. The substance of what he read was this. He had begun by -visiting Mrs. Peixada’s attorneys, Messrs. Short and Sondheim, the -firm that had defended her at her trial. With them he got his labor -for his pains. They had held no communication with the lady in question -since early in January, 1881, at which date they had settled her -accounts before the surrogate. She was then traveling from place to -place in Europe. Her last letter, postmarked Vienna, had said that for -the next two months her address would be poste restante at the same -city. From the office of Short and Sondheim Mr. Peixada went to the -office of his sister-in-law’s surety, the Eagle and Phoenix Trust -Company, No.—Broadway. There he was referred to the secretary, Mr. -Oxford. Mr. Oxford told him that the Company had never had any personal -dealings with the administratrix, she having acted throughout by her -attorneys. The Company had required the entire assets of the estate to -be deposited in its vaults, and had honored drafts only on the advice -of counsel. Thus protected, the Company had had no object in keeping -the administratrix in view. Our inquirer next bethought him of Mrs. -Peixada’s personal friends—people who would be likely still to -maintain relations with her—and saw such of these as he could get at. -One and all professed ignorance of her whereabouts—had not heard of -her or from her since the winter of ’80—’81. Finally it occurred -to him that as his brother’s estate had consisted solely of stocks and -bonds, he could by properly directed investigations learn to what corner -of the world Mrs. Peixada’s dividends were sent. But this last -resort also proved a failure. The stocks and bonds, specified in the -surrogate’s inventory, had been sold out. He could find no clew to the -reinvestments made of the money realized. - -Peixada closed his note-book with a snap. - -“You see,” he said, “I’ve been pretty thorough and pretty -unsuccessful. Can you think of any stone that I have left unturned?” - -“How about relatives? Have you questioned her relatives?” asked -Arthur. - -“Of relatives—in America, at least—Mrs. P. has none. Her father -died shortly after her marriage. Her mother died during the trial.” - -“But uncles, aunts, sister, brothers?” - -“None to my knowledge. She was an only child.” - -“Her maiden-name was—?” - -“Karon—Judith Karon. Her father, Michael Karon, used to keep a -jewelry store on Second Avenue.” - -“About what is her age?” - -“She was twenty-one at the time of the murder. That would make her -twenty-five or six now.” - -“So young, indeed? Have you a photograph of her?” - -“A photograph? No. I don’t know that she ever sat for one. But I -have these.” - -Peixada produced a couple of rough wood-engravings, apparently cuttings -from illustrated papers, and submitted them for examination. - -“They don’t look any thing like each other,” said Arthur. “Does -either of them look like her?” - -“Not much,” Peixada answered. “In fact, the resemblance is so -slight that they wouldn’t assist at all in identifying her. On the -contrary, I think they’d lead you quite astray.” - -Said Mr. Rimo, “Bah! They give you no more idea of her than they do of -Queen Victoria. They’d answer for any other woman just as well.” - -Arthur said, “That’s too bad. But I suppose you have brought a copy -of the will?” - -“Oh, yes, here’s the original. It is in my brother’s handwriting, -dated a month before his death, and witnessed by two gentlemen of -high standing. I have spoken to each of them. They acknowledge their -signatures, and remember the circumstances. I made a search for a will -right after Bernard died, but could find none. This I unearthed most -unexpectedly. I was turning over the leaves of my poor brother’s -prayer-book, when, there it was, lying between the pages.” - -The will was brief and vigorous. In the name of God, amen, (on a -half-sheet of legal-cap), it devised and bequeathed all the property, -real or personal, of which testator should die seized or possessed, to -his dearly beloved brother, Benjamin Peixada, and his dearly beloved -nephew, Maurice Rimo, for them to hold and enjoy the same, in fee -simple, share and share alike, absolutely and forever, provided that -they should pay annually to testator’s widow, (until such time as she -should re-marry, or depart this life), the sum of three hundred dollars. -It was attested by a well-known Jewish physician and by a well-known -Jewish banker. - -“It would seem from this,” said Arthur, “that your brother got -bravely over his illusions concerning his wife. It’s lucky he had no -real estate. She would be entitled to her dower, you know, as a matter -of course.” - -“Yes, I know; and I guess that was the reason why my brother converted -all his real estate into personalty shortly after his marriage—so that -he could dispose of it as he chose. The reference to real estate here in -the will is doubtless an inadvertence. He was probably following a form. -He couldn’t trust his wife. She made his life wretched.” - -“Well,” Arthur began—but Peixada interrupted. - -“I want you,” he said in his dictatorial way, “to name a sum for -which you will undertake to continue this investigation and bring it -to a successful issue; that is, find Mrs. P., have the will proved, -and compel her to refund the property—upwards of one hundred thousand -dollars, unless she has squandered it—that remains subject to her -control.” - -“Oh, I can’t name a lump sum off-hand,” replied Arthur, “neither -can I guarantee success. I would of course do my utmost to succeed, but -there is always the chance of failure. The amount of my compensation -would be determined by the time I should have to spend, and the -difficulties I should have to encounter.” - -“That sounds reasonable. Then suppose I should agree to defray all -expenses by the way, pay a fee, as you suggest, proportionate to your -service at the end, and now at the outset give you a retainer of—say -two hundred and fifty dollars; would you be satisfied?” - -Arthur’s heart leaped. But to exhibit his true emotions would be -unprofessional. He constrained himself to answer quietly, “Yes, -I should be satisfied.” It was, however, with a glow of genuine -enthusiasm for his client that he folded up a check for the tidy sum of -two hundred and fifty dollars, and tucked it into his pocket. - -Said Peixada, “I shall trust the entire management of this business -to your discretion. Only one thing I shall suggest. I think an adroitly -worded advertisement in the principal newspapers of this country and -Europe—an advertisement that would lead the reader to suppose that we -felt friendly toward Mrs. P.—would be a wise measure. For instance, a -notice to the effect that she could learn something to her advantage by -communicating with you.” - -“Oh, that would be scarcely honorable, would it?” - -“Honorable? In dealing with a murderess—with a woman, moreover, who -is enjoying wealth not rightly hers—talk about honorable! All means -are fair by which to catch a thief.” - -“But even so, she would be too shrewd to take the bait. An -advertisement would merely put her on her guard. Mustn’t bell the cat, -you know.” - -“That’s one way of considering it. On the other hand—However, I -simply offer the suggestion; you’re the pilot and can take whatever -course you please.” - -“Well, then, we’ll reserve our advertisement till other expedients -have failed. The first thing to do is—” But Arthur stopped himself. -He did not clearly know what the first thing to do was. “I’ll think -about it,” he added. - -“Good,” said Peixada, rising; “there’s nothing further for me to -detain you with to-day.” - -“Give my regards to mamma, when you write, Arthur,” said Mr. Mendel. - -“I leave you my memoranda,” said Peixada, laying his note-book upon -Arthur’s desk. - -“Take care of yourself,” enjoined Mr. Rimo, smiling and waving his -hand. - -The three gentlemen filed out. Arthur remained seated in his arm-chair -a long while after their departure, his eyes fixed upon the wall, -his fingers busily twirling his mustache. For three years he had been -enrolled among the members of the bar. This was the first case he had -received that seemed really worthy of his talents. - - - - -CHAPTER II.—“A VOICE, A MYSTERY.” - -ARTHUR RIPLEY—good-natured, impressionable, unpractical Arthur Ripley, -as his familiars called him—dwelt in Beekman Place. Beek-man Place, -as the reader may not know, is a short, chocolate-colored, unpretentious -thoroughfare, perched on the eastern brink of Manhattan Island, and -commanding a fine view of the river, of the penitentiary, and of the oil -factories at Hunter’s Point. Arthur and a friend of his, Mr. Julian -Hetzel, kept house in the two upper stories of No. 43, an old German -woman named Josephine acting as their maid-of-all-work. They had a -kitchen, a dining-room, a parlor, two airy dormitories, a light closet -which did duty for a guest-chamber; and over and above all, they had -the roof. Upon the roof Hetzel had swung a hammock, and in earthen pots -round about had ranged an assortment of flowering shrubs; so that by -courtesy the roof was commonly styled the loggia. Here, toward sundown -on that summery April day mentioned in the last chapter, the chums were -seated, sipping their after-dinner coffee and smoking their after-dinner -cigarettes. They could not have wished for a pleasanter spot for their -pleasant occupation. By fits and starts a sweet breeze puffed up from -the south. Westward the sun was sinking into a crimson fury. Eastward -the horizon glowed with a delicate pink light. Below them, on one side, -stretched the river—tinted like mother-o’-pearl by the ruddy sky -overhead—-up which a procession of Sound steamboats was sweeping in -stately single file. On the other side lay the street, clamorous with -the voices of many children at sport. Around the corner, an itinerant -band was playing selections from Trovatore. Blatant and faulty though -the music was, softened by distance, it had a quite agreeable effect. Of -course, the topic of conversation was Arthur’s case. - -Hetzel said, “It will be slow work, and tedious.” - -“On the contrary,” retorted Arthur, “it seems to me to furnish -an opportunity for brilliant strategy. I must get a clew, you know, and -then clinch the business with a few quick strokes.” - -“Just so; after the manner of Monsieur Lecoq. Well, where do you -propose to strike your clew?” - -“Oh, I haven’t started in yet. I suppose I shall hit upon one soon -enough.” - -“I doubt it. In my opinion you’re booked for a sequence of wearisome -details. The quality you’ll require most of, is patience. Besides, -if the lady should sniff danger, she’ll be able to elude you at every -turn. You want to make it a still hunt.” - -“I am aware of that.” - -“What’s the first step you mean to take?” - -“I haven’t made up my mind. I need time for deliberation.” - -“There’s only a single thing to do, and that’s not the least -Lecoq-like. Write to the place where she was last known to be—Vienna, -did you say?—to the consul or postmaster or prefect of police, or -better yet all three, and ask whither she went when she left there. -Then, provided you get an answer, write to the next place, and so on -down. This will take about a hundred years. So, practically, you see, -Peixada has supplied you with permanent employment. The likelihood -that it will ultimately succeed is extremely slim. There is danger of a -slip-up at every point. However, far be it from me to discourage you.” - -“What do you think of Peixada’s plan—an advertisement?” - -“Gammon! You don’t fancy she would march with open eyes into a -palpable trap like that, do you? I suspect the matter will end by your -making a trip to Europe. If Peixada knows what’s what, he’ll bundle -you off next week. You could trace her much more effectively in person -than by letters.” - -“Wouldn’t that be jolly? Only it would involve my neglecting the -other business that might turn up if I should stick here.” - -“What of it? What other business? What ground have you for believing -that any other business will turn up? Has the past been so prolific? -Besides, isn’t the summer coming? And isn’t the summer a lawyer’s -dull season? You might lose a couple of two-penny district-court -cases; but suppose you did. See of what advantage it would be to your -reputation. Somebody calls at your office. ’Is Mr. Ripley in?’ -’No,’ replies your clerk, ’Mr. Ripley is abroad on important -business.’ ’Ah,’ thinks the caller, ’this Ripley is a -flourishing young practitioner.’ And mark my words, nothing hastens -success like a reputation for success.” - -“Such a picture sends the blood to my head. I mustn’t look at it. It -would make me discontented with the reality.” - -“If you’re diplomatic,” Hetzel went on, “you can get a liberal -education out of this Peixada case. Just fancy jaunting from town -to town in Europe, and having your expenses paid. In your moments of -leisure you can study art and languages and the manners, costumes, and -superstitions of the hoary east.” - -“And all the while, Mrs. Peixada may be living quietly here in New -York! Isn’t it exasperating to realize the difficulty of putting your -finger upon a given human being, when antecedently it would seem -so easy? Nevermind; up-hill work though it be, it’s sure to get -interesting. A woman, young, beautiful, totally depraved, a murderess at -the age of twenty-one—I wonder what she is like.” - -“Oh, probably vulgar to the last degree. Don’t form a sentimental -conception of her. Keep your head cool, or else your imagination will -get the better of your common sense.” - -“No fear of that. But I shall go at the case with all the more zest, -because I am anxious to view this novel specimen of womankind.” - -“You’ll find she’s a loud, flashy vixen—snapping eyes, strident -voice, bediamonded person. Women who resort to powder and shot to get -rid of their husbands in this peaceable epoch of divorce, are scarcely -worth a respectable man’s curiosity.” - -“Hello!” cried Arthur, abruptly. “What’s that?” - -“Oh, that,” answered Hetzel, “that’s the corner house—No. -46.” - -Hetzel spoke metonymically. “That” was a descending musical -scale—fa, mi, re, do, si, la, sol, fa,—which rang out all at once -in a clear soprano voice, from someplace near at hand; a wonderfully -powerful voice, with a superb bugle-like quality. - -“Fa, sol, la, si, do, re, mi, fa,” continued the songstress. . - -“By Jove,” exclaimed Arthur, “that’s something like.” Then -for a moment he was all ears, and did not speak. At last, “The corner -house?” he queried. “Has some one moved in?” - -“Yes,” was Hetzel’s answer; “they moved in yesterday. I had this -all the morning.” - -“This singing?” - -“Exactly, and a piano to boot. Scales and exercises till I was nearly -mad.” - -“But this—this is magnificent. You were to be envied.” - -“Oh, yes, it’s very fine. But when a man is trying to prepare an -examination paper in the integral calculus, it distracts and interferes. -She quite broke up my morning’s work.” Hetzel was a tutor of -mathematics in a college not a hundred miles from New York. - -“Have you seen her?” Arthur asked. - -“No, they only took possession yesterday. A singular thing about it -is that they appear to confine themselves to one floor. The blinds are -closed every where except in the third story, and last night there was -no light except in the third story windows. Queer, eh?” - -Arthur approached the verge of the roof, and looked over at the corner -house across the street. The third story windows were open wide, and -out of them proceeded that beautiful soprano voice, now practicing -intervals—fa-si, sol-do, and so forth. “Well,” he affirmed, -“this is a regular romance. Of course a woman with such a voice is -young and beautiful and every thing else that’s lovely. And then, -living cooped up on the third floor of that dismal corner house—she -must be in needy circumstances; which adds another element of charm and -mystery. I suppose she’s in training to become a prima donna. But who -are they? Who lives with her?” - -“How should I know? I haven’t seen any of them. I take it for -granted that she doesn’t live alone, that’s all.” - -“Hush-sh!” cried Arthur, motioning with his hand. - -The invisible musician had now abandoned her exercises, and was fairly -launched upon a song, accompanying herself with a piano. Neither Arthur -nor Hetzel recognized the tune, but they greatly enjoyed listening to -it, because it was rendered with so much intelligence and delicacy of -expression. They could not make out the words, either, but from the -languid, sensuous swing of the melody, it was easy to infer that the -theme was love. There were several verses; and after each of them, -occurred a brilliant interlude upon the piano, in which the refrain -was caught up and repeated with variations. Arthur thought he had never -heard sweeter music in his life; and very likely he never had. “That -woman,” he declared, when silence was restored, “that woman, -whoever she is, has a soul—a rare enough piece of property in this -materialistic age. Such power of making music betokens a corresponding -power of deep feeling, clear thinking, noble acting. I’d give my right -hand for a glimpse of her. Why doesn’t some mesmeric influence bring -her to the window? Oh, for an Asmodeus to unroof her dwelling, and -let me peep in at her—observe her, as she sits before her key-board, -unconscious of observation!” Even Hetzel, who was not prone to -enthusiasms, who, indeed, derived an expert’s satisfaction from -applying the wet blanket, admitted that she sang “like an angel.” - -Arthur went on, “Opera? Talk about opera? Why, this beats the opera -all hollow. Can you conceive a more exquisite mise en scene? Twilight! -Lingering in the west—over there behind the cathedral—a pale, rosy -flush! Above, a star or two, twinkling diamond-like on the breast of the -coming night! In our faces, the fragrance of the south wind! Below -us, the darkling river, alive with multitudinous craft! Can your Opera -House, can your Academy of Music boast any thing equal to it? And then, -as the flower and perfection of this loveliness, sounding like a clarion -from heaven, that glorious woman’s voice. I tell you, man, -it’s poetry—it’s Rossetti, Alfred de Musset, Heinrich -Heine—it’s—Hello! there she goes again.” - -This time her selection was the familiar but ever beautiful Erl Konig, -which she sang with such dramatic spirit that Hetzel himself exclaimed, -when she had finished, “It actually made my heart stand still.” - -“‘Du liebes Kind, komm geh mit mir!’” hummed Arthur. “Ah, how -persuasively she murmured it! And then, ’Mein Vater, mein Vater, und -horest du nicht?’.—wasn’t it blood-curdling? Didn’t it convey -the entire horror of the situation? the agony of terror that bound the -child’s heart? Beekman Place has had an invaluable acquisition. I’ll -wager, she’s as good and as beautiful as St. Cecilia, her patroness. -What do you guess, is she dark or fair, big or little?” - -“The odds are that she’s old and ugly. Patti herself, you know, is -upwards of forty. It isn’t probable that with her marvelous musical -accomplishments, this lady is endowed with youth and beauty also. I -wouldn’t cherish great expectations of her, if I were you; because -then, if you should ever chance to see her, you’ll be so much -disappointed. Better make up your mind that her attractions begin -and end with her voice. Complexion? Did you ask my opinion of her -complexion? Oh, she’s blonde—that goes without saying.” - -“Wrong again! She’s a brunette of the first water; dusky skin, red -mouth, black, lustrous eyes. You can tell that from the fire she puts -into her music. As for her age, you’re doubly mistaken. If you had the -least faculty for adding two and two together—arithmetician that you -are—you’d know at once that a voice of such freshness, such compass, -and such volume, could not pertain to a woman far beyond twenty. On -the other hand, no mere school-girl could sing with such intelligent -expression. Wherefore, striking an average, I’ll venture she’s in -the immediate vicinity of twenty-five. However, conjectures are -neither here nor there. Where’s Josephine? Let’s have her up, and -interrogate her.” - -With this speech, Arthur began to pound his heel upon the roof—the -method which these young bachelors employed to make known to their -domestic that her attendance was wanted. When the venerable Josephine -had emerged waist-high from the scuttle-door, “Josephine,” demanded -Arthur, “who is the new tenant of the corner house?” - -But Josephine could not tell. Indeed, she was not even aware that the -corner house had been taken. Arthur set her right on this score, and, -“Now,” he continued, “I wish you would gossip with the divers and -sundry servants of the neighborhood until you have found out the most -you can about these new-comers, and then report to me. For this purpose, -you are allowed an evening’s outing. But as you prize my good-will, be -both diligent and discreet.” - -As the twilight deepened into darkness, Arthur remained posted at the -roof’s edge, looking wistfully over toward the third-story windows of -the corner house. By and by a light flashed up behind them; but the -next instant an unseen hand drew the shades; and a few moments later the -light was extinguished. - -“They retire early,” he grumbled. - -“By the way, don’t you think it’s getting a little chilly up -here?” asked Hetzel. - -“Decidedly,” he assented, shivering. “Shall we go below?” - -They descended into their sitting-room—a cozy, book-lined apartment, -with a permanent savor of tobacco smoke upon its breath—and chatted -together till a late hour. The Peixada matter and the mysterious -songstress of No. 46 pretty equally divided their attention. - -Next morning Hetzel—whose bed-chamber, at the front of the house, -overlooked the street; whereas Arthur’s, at the rear, overlooked the -river—Hetzel was awakened by a loud rap at his door. - -“Eh—er—what? Who is it?” he cried, starting up in bed. - -“Can I come in?” Arthur’s voice demanded. - -Without waiting for a reply, Arthur entered. - -Hetzel’s wits getting out of tangle, “What unheard-of event brings -you abroad so early?” he inquired. - -“Early? You don’t call this early? It’s halfpast seven.” - -“Well, that’s a round half hour earlier than I ever knew you to rise -before. ’Is any thing the matter? Are you ill?” - -“Bosh! I’m always up at half-past seven,” averred Arthur, with -brazen indifference to the truth. - -He crossed the floor, and sent the curtains screeching aloft; having -done which, he established himself in a rocking-chair, facing the -window, and rocked to and fro. - -“Ah, I—I understand,” said Hetzel. - -“Understand what?” - -“The motive that impelled you to rise with the lark.” - -“You’re making much ado about nothing,” said Arthur. But he -blushed and fidgeted uncomfortably. “Any body would suppose I was an -inveterate sluggard. Grant that I am up a little in advance of my usual -hour—is that an occasion for so much talk?” - -“The question is, rather,” rejoined Hetzel, with apparent -irrelevancy, “are you rewarded?” - -For a moment Arthur tried to appear puzzled; but as his eyes met those -of his comrade, the corners of his mouth twitched convulsively; and -thereupon, with a shrug of the shoulders, he laughed outright. - -“Well, I’m not ashamed, anyhow,” he said. - -“I’d give a good deal for a glimpse of her; and if I can catch one -before I go down-town, why shouldn’t I?” - -“Of course,” replied Hetzel, sympathetically. - -“But don’t be secretive. Let’s have the results of your -observation.” - -“Oh, as yet the results are scanty. The household seems to be -asleep—blinds down, and every thing as still as a mouse.—No, there, -the blinds are raised—but whoever raises them knows how to keep out of -sight. Not even a hand comes in view.—Now, all’s quiet again.—Ah, -speaking of mice, they have a cat. A black cat sallies forth upon the -stone ledge outside the window, and performs its ablutions with tongue -and paw.—Another! Two cats. This one is of the tiger sort, striped -black and gray. Isn’t it odd—two cats? What on earth, do you -suppose, possesses them to keep two cats?—One of them, the black one, -returns indoors. Number two whets his claws upon the wood of the -window frame—gazes hungrily at the sparrows flitting round -about—yawns—curls himself up—prepares for a nap there on the stone -in the sun.—Why doesn’t she come to the window? She ought to want a -breath of the morning air. This is exasperating.” - -The above monologue had been delivered piecemeal, at intervals of a -minute or so in duration. At its finish, Hetzel got out of bed. - -“Well,” he cried, stretching himself, “maintain your vigil, -while I go for a bath. Perhaps on my return you may have something more -salient to communicate.” - -But when he came back, Arthur said, “Not a sign of life since you -left, except that in response to a summons from within the tiger-cat -has reentered the house; probably is discussing his breakfast at this -moment. Hurry up—dress—and let us do likewise.” - -At the breakfast table, “Well, Josephine,” said Arthur, “tell us -of the night.” - -Josephine replied that she had subjected all the available maid-servants -of the block to a pumping process, but that the most she had been able -to extract from them was—what her employers already knew. On Thursday, -the 24th, some person or persons to the deponents unknown, had moved -into No. 46. But two cart-loads of furniture, besides a piano, had been -delivered there; and the new occupants appeared to have taken only one -floor: whence it was generally assumed that they were not people of very -great consequence. Arthur directed her to keep her eyes and ears open, -and to inform him from time to time of any further particulars that she -might glean. This she promised to do. Then he lingered about the front -of the house till Hetzel began to twit him, demanding sarcastically -whether he wasn’t going downtown at all that morning. “Oh, well, I -suppose I must,” he sighed, and reluctantly took himself off. - -Down-town he stopped at the surrogate’s office, and verified the -statements Peixada had made about the administration of his brother’s -estate. Mrs. Peixada had taken the oath to her accounting before the -United States consul at Vienna, January 11, 1881, Short and Sondheim -appearing for her here. It was decidedly against the woman—added, if -any thing could add, to the blackness of her offense—the fact that she -was represented by such disreputable attorneys as Short and Sondheim. - -From the court house, Arthur proceeded to Peixada’s establishment in -Reade Street near Broadway. He had concluded that the search for Mrs. -Peixada would have to be very much such an inch by inch process as -Hetzel had predicted. He could not rid his mind of a feeling that -on general principles it ought to be no hard task to determine the -whereabouts of a rich, handsome, and notorious widow: but when he came -down to the circumstances of this particular case, he had to acknowledge -that it was an undertaking fraught with difficulties and with -uncertainties. He wanted to consult his client, and tell him the upshot -of his own deliberations. The more he considered it, the more persuaded -he became that he had better cross the ocean and follow in person the -trail that Mrs. Peixada had doubtless left behind her. Probably the wish -fostered the thought. As Hetzel had said, he would not run the risk -of losing much by his absence. A summer in Europe had been the fondest -dream of his youth. The very occupation of itself, moreover, was -inviting. He would be a huntsman—his game, a beautiful woman! And -then, to conduct the enterprise by letters would not merely consume an -eternity of time, but ten chances to one, it would end in failure. It -did not strike him that this was properly a detective’s employment, -rather than a lawyer’s; and even had it done so, I don’t know that -it would have dampened his ardor.—Meanwhile, he had turned into Reade -Street, and reached Peixada’s place. He was surprised to find it -closed, until he remembered that to-day was Saturday and that Peixada -was an orthodox Jew. So he saw nothing for it but to remain inactive -till Monday. He returned to his office, and spent the remainder of -the day reading a small, canary-colored volume in the French -language—presumably a treatise upon French jurisprudence. - -He dined with a couple of professional brethren at a restaurant that -evening, and did not get home till after dark. Ascending his stoop, he -stopped to glance over at the corner house. A light shone at the edges -of the curtains in the third story; but even as he stood there, looking -toward it, and wishing that by some necromancy his gaze might be -empowered to penetrate beyond, the light went out. Immediately -afterward, however, he heard the shades fly clattering upward; and then, -all at once, the silence was cloven by the same beautiful soprano voice -that had interested him so much the night before. At first it was very -low and soft, a mere liquid murmur; but gradually it waxed stronger and -more resonant; and Arthur recognized the melody as that of Schubert’s -Wohin. The dreamy, plaintive phrases, tremulous with doubt and tense -with yearning, gushed in a mellow stream from out the darkness. No -wonder they set Arthur’s curiosity on edge. The exquisite quality -of the voice, and the perfect understanding with which the song -was interpreted, were enough to prompt a myriad visions of feminine -loveliness in any man’s brain. That a woman could sing in this -wise, and yet not be pure and bright and beautiful, seemed a -self-contradictory proposition. Arthur seated himself comfortably upon -the broad stone balustrade of his door-step, and made up his mind that -he would retain that posture until the musical entertainment across the -way should be concluded. - -“I wonder,” he soliloquized, “why she chooses to sing in the dark. -I hope, for reasons of sentiment—because it is in darkness that the -effect of music is strongest and most subtle. I wonder whether she is -alone, or whether she is singing to somebody—perhaps her lover. I -wonder—ah, with what precision she caught that high note! How firmly -she held it! How daintily she executed the cadenza! A woman who can -sing like this, how she could love! Or rather, how she must have loved -already! For such a comprehension of passion as her music reveals, could -never have come to be, except through love. I wonder whether I shall -ever know her. Heaven help me, if she should turn out, as Hetzel -suspects, old and ugly. But that’s not possible. Whatever the style -of her features may be, whatever the number of her years, a young and -ardent spirit stirs within her. Isn’t it from the spirit that true -beauty springs? I mean by the spirit, the capability of inspiring and of -experiencing noble emotions. This woman is human. Her music proves that. -And just in so far as a woman is deeply, genuinely human, is she lovely -and lovable.” - -In this platitudinous vein Arthur went on. Meanwhile the lady had -wandered away from Schubert’s Wohin, and after a brief excursion up -and down the keyboard, had begun a magically sweet and thrilling melody, -which her auditor presently identified as Chopin’s Berceuse, so -arranged that the performer could re-enforce certain periods with her -voice. He listened, captivated, to the supple modulations of the music: -and it was with a sensation very like a pang of physical pain that -suddenly he heard it come to an abrupt termination-break sharply off in -the middle of a bar, as though interrupted by some second person. “If -it is her lover to whom she is singing,” he said, “I don’t blame -him for stopping her. He could no longer hold himself back—resist the -impulse to kiss the lips from which such beautiful sounds take wing.” -Then, immediately, he reproached himself for harboring such impertinent -fancies. And then he waited on the alert, hoping that the music would -recommence. But he waited and hoped in vain. At last, “Well, I suppose -there’ll be no more to-night,” he muttered, and turned to enter the -house. As he was inserting his latch-key into the lock, somebody below -on the sidewalk pronounced a hoarse “G’d evening, Mr. Ripley.” - -“Ah, good evening, William,” returned Arthur, affably, looking -down at a burly figure at the bottom of the steps.—William was the -night-watchman of Beekman Place. - -“Oh, I say—by the way—William—” called Arthur, as the watchman -was proceeding up the street. - -“Yassir?” queried William, facing about. - -Arthur ran down the stoop and joined his interlocutor at the foot. - -“I say, William, I see No. 46 has found a tenant. You don’t happen -to know who it is?” - -“Yes,” responded William; “moved in Thursday—old party of the -name of Hart.” - -“Old party? Indeed! Then I suppose he has a daughter—eh? It was the -daughter who was singing a little while ago?” - -“I dunno if she’s got a darter. Party’s a woman. I hain’t seen -no darter. Mebbe it was the lady herself.” - -“Oh, no; that’s not possible.—Hart, do you say the name is?” - -“Mrs. G. Hart.” - -“What does G. stand for?” - -“I dunno. Might be John.” - -“Who is Mr. G. Hart?” - -“I guess there ain’t none. Folks say she’s a I widder.—Well, -Wiggins ought to thank his stars to have that house taken at last. -It’s going on four years now, it’s lain there empty.” - -Mused Arthur, absently, “An old lady named Hart; and he doesn’t know -whether the musician is her daughter or not.” - -“Fact is,” put in William, “I dunno much about ’em—only what -I’ve heerd. But we’ll know all about them before long. Every body -knows every body in this neighborhood.” - -“Yes, that’s so.—Well, good night.” - -“Good night, sir,” said William, touching his cap. - -Upstairs in the sitting-room, Arthur threw himself upon a sofa. Hetzel -was away. By and by Arthur picked up a book from the table, and tried to -read. He made no great headway, however: indeed, an hour elapsed, and he -had not yet turned the page. His thoughts were busy with the fair one of -the corner house. He had spun out quite a history for her before he had -done. He devoutly trusted that ere long Fate would arrange a meeting -between her and himself. He whistled over the melody of Wohin, imitating -as nearly as he could the manner in which she had sung it. When his -mind reverted to the Peixada business, as it did presently, lo! the -prospective trip to Europe had lost half its charm. He felt that there -was plenty to keep one interested here in New York. - -All day Sunday, despite the fun at his expense in which Hetzel liberally -indulged, Arthur haunted the front of the house. But when he went to bed -Sunday night, he was no wiser respecting his musical neighbor than he -had been four-and-twenty hours before. - - - - -CHAPTER III.—STATISTICAL. - -MONDAY morning Arthur entered Peixada’s warehouse promptly as the -clock struck ten. Peixada had not yet got down. - -Arthur was conducted by a dapper little salesman to an inclosure fenced -off at the rear of the showroom, and bidden to “make himself at -home.” By and by, to kill time, he picked up a directory—the only -literature in sight—and extracted what amusement he could from it, by -hunting out the names of famous people—statesmen, financiers, etc. -The celebrities exhausted, he turned to his own name and to those of -his friends. Among others, he looked for Hart. Of Harts there were -a multitude, but of G. Harts only three—a Gustav, a Gerson, and a -George. George was written down a laborer, Gerson a peddler, Gustav a -barber; none, it was obvious, could be the G. Hart of Beekman Place. In -about half an hour Peixada arrived. - -“Ah, good morning,” he said briskly. “Well?” - -“I am sorry to bother you so soon again, Mr. Peixada,” said Arthur, -stiffly; “but——” - -“Oh, that’s all right,” Peixada interrupted. “Glad to see you. -Sit down. Smoke a cigar.” - -“Then,” pursued Arthur, his cigar afire, “having thought the -matter well over——” - -“You have concluded—?” - -“That your view of the case was correct—that we’re in for a long, -expensive, and delicate piece of business.” - -“Not a doubt of it.” - -“You see, beforehand it would strike one as the simplest thing in -the world to locate a woman like your sister-in-law. But this case is -peculiar. It’s going on four years that nobody has heard from her. -Clear back in January, 1881, she was somewhere in Vienna. But since then -she’s had the leisure to travel around the world a dozen times. She -may be in Australia, California, Brazil—or not a mile away from us, -here in New York. She may have changed her name. She may have married -again. She may have died.—The point I’m driving at is that you -mustn’t attribute it to a lack of diligence on my part, if we -shouldn’t obtain any satisfactory results for a long while.” - -“Oh, certainly not, certainly not,” protested Peixada, making the -words very large, and waving his hand deprecatingly. “I’m a man -of common sense, a business man. I don’t need to be told that it’s -going to be slow work. I knew that. Otherwise I shouldn’t have hired -you. I could have managed it by myself, except that I hadn’t the time -to spare.” - -“Well, then,” said Arthur, undismayed by Peixada’s frankness, -“my idea of the tactics to be pursued is to begin with Vienna, -January, ’81, and proceed inch by inch down to the present time. There -are two methods of doing this.” - -“Which are——?” - -“One is to enlist the services of the United States consuls. I can -write to Vienna, to our consul, and ask him to find out where Mrs. -Peixada went when she left there; then to the consul at the next -place—and so on to the end. But this method is cumbrous and uncertain. -The trail is liable to be lost at any point. At the best, it would -take a long, long time. Besides, the consuls would expect a large -remuneration.” - -“Well, the other method?” - -“I propose it reluctantly. It is one which, so far as my personal -inclinations are concerned, I should prefer not to take. I—I might -myself go to Vienna and conduct the investigation on the spot.” - -“Hum,” reflected Peixada.—After a pause, “That would be still -more expensive,” he said. - -“Perhaps.” - -“Sure.—It seems to me that there is a third method which you -haven’t thought of.” - -“Indeed? What is it?” - -“Why not engage the services of an attorney in Vienna, instead of the -consul’s? You can easily get the name of some reliable attorney there. -Then write on, stating the case, and offering a sum in consideration of -which he is to furnish us with the information we want.” - -“Yes, I might do that,” Arthur answered, with a mortifying sense -that Peixada’s plan was at once more practical and more promising than -either of those which he had proposed. - -“Better try it, anyhow,” his client went on. “Attorney’s fees, -as I chance to know, are low in Austria. Fifty dollars ought to be ample -for a starter. I’ll give you a check for that amount now. You can -exchange it for a draft, after you’ve decided on your man.” - -Peixada filled out a check. Arthur took up his hat. - -“Oh, àpropos,” said Peixada, without explaining what it was -àpropos of, “I showed you some newspaper clippings about Mrs. P.’. -trial the other day—recollect? Well, I’ve got a scrapbook full of -them in my safe. Suppose you’d find it useful?” - -“I don’t know. It could do no harm for me to run it over.” - -Peixada touched a bell, gave the requisite orders to the underling who -responded, and said to Arthur, “He’ll fetch it.” - -Presently the man returned, bearing a large, square volume, bound in -bluish black leather. Arthur bowed himself out, with the volume under -his arm. - -The remainder of the day he passed in procuring the name of a -trustworthy Viennese attorney, drafting a letter to him in English, -and having it translated into German. The attorney’s name was Ulrich. -Arthur inclosed the amount of Peixada’s check in the form of an order -upon an Americo-Austrian banking house. At last, weary, and with his -zeal in Peixada’s cause somewhat abated, he went home. - -In the course of the evening he dropped into a concert garden on -Fifty-eighth Street. He had not been seated there a great while before -somebody greeted him with a familiar tap upon the shoulder and an easy -“How are you?” Looking up, he saw Mr. Rimo. - -“Ah,” said Arthur, offering his hand, “how do you do? Sit down.” - -Mr. Rimo had an odoriferous jonquil in his buttonhole, and carried a -silver-headed Malacca cane. He drew up to the table, lit a cigar with a -wax match, and called for Vichy water. - -“Well, Mr. Ripley,” he questioned solicitously, “how are you -getting on?” - -“Oh, very well, thanks. I saw your uncle this morning.” - -“That so? Any news?” - -“You mean about the case? Nothing decisive as yet. It’s hardly time -to expect anything.” - -“Oh, no; of course not. I’ll tell you one thing. You’ve got a nice -job before you.” - -“Yes, and an odd one.” - -“What I was thinking of especially was the lady. She’s a specimen. -Not many like her.” - -“It’s to be hoped not. You of course knew her very well?” - -“No, I can’t say as I did. I can’t say as I knew her very well. -She wasn’t an easy woman to know. But I’d seen a great deal of her. -It was a mere chance that I didn’t marry her myself. Lucky, wasn’t -I?” - -“Why, how was that?” - -“Well, it was this way. You see, one evening while she was still Miss -Karon, I called on her. Who should sail in five minutes later but -Uncle Barney? She was right up to the top notch that evening—devilish -handsome, with her black eyes and high color, and as sharp as an IXL -blade. When we left—we left together, the old man and I—when we -left, I was saying to myself, ’By gad, I couldn’t do better. I’ll -propose for her to-morrow.’ Just then he pipes up. ’What is your -opinion of that young lady?’ he asks. ’My opinion?’ says I. ’My -opinion is that she’s a mighty fine gal.’ ’Well, you bet she -is,’ says he; ’and I’m glad you think so, because she’s apt to -be your auntie before a great while.’ ’The devil!’ says I. ’Yes, -sir, says he. ’I’ve made up my mind to marry her. I’m going to -speak to her father about it in the morning.’ Well, of course that -settled my hash. I wasn’t going to gamble against my uncle. Narrow -escape, hey?” - -Having concluded this picturesque narrative, Mr. Rimo emptied a bumper -of sparkling Vichy water, with the remark, “Well, here’s to you,” -and applied a second wax match to his cigar, which had gone out while he -was speaking. - -“Who were her people?” asked Arthur. “What sort of a family did -she come from?” - -“Oh, her family was correct enough. Name was Karon, as you know -already. Her old man was a watch-maker by trade, and kept a shop on -Second Avenue. I guess he did a pretty comfortable business till he got -struck on electricity. He invented some sort of an electric clock, and -sent it to the Centennial at Philadelphia. It took the cake; and -after that Michael Karon was a ruined man. Why? Because after that he -neglected his business, and spent all his time and all the money he -had saved, in fooling around and trying to improve what the Centennial -judges had thought was good enough. He couldn’t let well alone. Result -was he spoiled the clock, and went all to pieces. He was in a desperate -bad way when Uncle Barney stepped up and married his daughter. Hang a -man who’s got an itch for improvement. What I say is, lay on to a good -thing, and then stick to it for all you’re worth.” - -“He died shortly after the marriage, didn’t he?” - -“Yes—handed in his checks that fall. She had had a tip-top -education; used to give lessons in music, and this, that, and the other -’ology. She was the most knowing creature I ever saw—had no end -of chochmah. Don’t know what chochmah is? Well, that means Jewish -shrewdness; and she held a corner in it, too. But such a temper! Lord, -when she got excited, her eyes were terrible. I can just imagine her -downing the old man. I’ll never forget the way she looked at me one -time.” - -“Tell me about it.” - -“Oh, there ain’t much to tell—only this. Of course, you know, -it’s the fashion to kiss the bride at her wedding. But I happened to -be on the road at the date of their wedding, and couldn’t get back in -time. I didn’t mean to lose that kiss, just the same. So when I called -on them, after my return, ’Aunt Judith,’ says I, ’when are you -going to liquidate that little debt you owe me?’ ’Owe you?’ says -she, looking surprised. ’I didn’t know I owed you any thing.’ -’Why, certainly,’ says I; ’you owe me a kiss:’ She laughed and -shied off and tried to change the subject. ’Come,’ says I, ’stepup -to the captain’s office and settle.’ ’Yes,’ says Uncle Barney, -’kiss your nephew, Judith.’ ’But I don’t want to kiss him,’ -says she, beginning to look dark. ’You kiss him,’ says Uncle Barney, -looking darker. And she—she kissed me. But, gad, the way she glared! -Her eyes were just swimming in fire. I swear, it frightened me; and -I’m pretty tough. I don’t want any more kisses of that sort, thank -you. It stung my lips like a hornet.” Mr. Rimo drew a deep breath, and -caressed the knob of his cane with the apple of his chin. “It was an -awful moment,” as they say on the stage, he added. - -“Who was that—what was his name?—the second of her victims,” -inquired Arthur. - -“Oh, Bolen—Edward Bolen. He was Uncle Barney’s coachman. After -the old boy got married and retired from business, he set up a team, and -undertook to be aristocratic. The theory was that when he and she began -rowing that night, Bolen attempted to step in between them, and that she -just reminded him of his proper place with an ounce of lead. She never -was tried for his murder. I suppose her acquittal in the case of Uncle -Barney made the authorities think it wouldn’t pay to try her again. -Every body said it was an infernal outrage for her to go free; but -between you and me—and mum’s the word—I was real glad of it. Not -that she hadn’t ought to have been punished for shooting her husband. -But to have locked up her confoundedly pretty face out of sight in a -prison—that would have been an infernal outrage, and no mistake. As -for hanging her, they’d never have hanged her, anyhow—not even if -the jury had convicted. But I don’t mean to say that she was innocent. -Sane? Well, you never saw a saner woman. She knew what she was about -better than you and I do now.” - -“How do you account for the murder? What motive do you assign?” - -“Most everybody said ’money’—claimed that she went deliberately -to work and killed the old man for his money. Some few thought there -must be another man at the bottom of it—that she had a paramour who -put her up to it. But they didn’t know her. She had a hot temper; but -as far as men were concerned, she was as cool as a Roman punch. My own -notion is that she did it in a fit of passion. He irritated her somehow, -and she got mad, and let fire. You see, I recollect the way she glared -at me that time. Savage was no word for it. If she’d had a gun in her -hand, my life wouldn’t have been worth that”—and Mr. Rimo snapped -his fingers. - -“I must say, you have contrived to interest me in her. I shall be glad -when I have an opportunity of seeing her with my own eyes.” - -“Well, you take my advice. When you’ve found out her whereabouts, -don’t go too close, as they tell the boys at the menagerie. She’s -as vicious as they make them, I don’t deny it. But she’s got a -wonderful fascination about her, notwithstanding, and if she thought it -worth her while, she could wind you around her finger like a hair, and -never know she’d done it. I wish you the best possible luck.” - -Mr. Rimo rose, shook hands, moved off. - -Arthur’s dreams that night were haunted by a wild, fierce, Medusa-like -woman’s face. - -At his office, next morning, the first object that caught his eye was -the black, leather-bound scrapbook that Peixada had given him yesterday. -It lay where he had left it, on his desk. Beginning by listlessly -turning the pages, he gradually became interested in their contents. -I shall have to beg the reader’s attention to an abstract of Mrs. -Peix-ada’s trial, before my story can be completed; and I may as well -do so now. - -The prosecution set out logically by establishing the fact of death. A -surgeon testified to all that was essential in this regard. The second -witness was one ’Patrick Martin. I copy his testimony word for word -from the columns of the New York Daily Gazette. - -“Mr. Martin,” began the district-attorney, “what is your -business?” - -“I am a merchant, sir.” - -“And the commodities in which you deal are? - -“Ales, wines, and liquors, your honor. - -“At retail or wholesale?” - -“Both, sir; but mostly retail.” - -“Where is your store situated, Mr. Martin?” - -“On the southwest corner of Eighty-fifth Street and Ninth Avenue.” - -“Was the residence of the deceased, Mr. Bernard Peixada, near to your -place of business?” - -“It was, sir—on the next block.” - -“What block? How is the block bounded?” - -“The block, sir, is bounded by Eighty-fifth and Eighty-sixth Streets, -and Ninth and Tenth Avenues, your honor.” - -“Many houses on that block? - -“None, your honor; only the house of the deceased. That stands on the -top of a hill, back from the street, with big grounds around it.” - -“Had Mr. Peixada lived there long? - -“Since the 1st of May, this year.” - -“Now, Mr. Martin, do you remember the night of July 30th?” - -“Faith, I do, sir; and I’ll not soon forget it.” - -“Good. Will you, then, as clearly and as fully as you can, tell the -court and jury all the circumstances that combine to fix the night of -July 30th in your memory? Take your time, speak up loudly, and look -straight at the twelfth juryman.” - -“Well, sir, on that night, toward two o’clock the next morning—” - -(Laughter among the auditors; speedily repressed by the court -attendants.) - -“Don’t be disconcerted, Mr. Martin. On the morning of July 31st?” - -“The same, sir. On that morning, at about two o’clock, I was outside -in the street, putting the shutters over the windows of my store. While -I was doing it, your honor, it seemed to me that I heard a noise—very -weak and far away—like as if some one—a woman, or it might be a -child—was crying out. I stopped for a moment, sir, and listened. Sure -enough, I heard a voice—so faint you’d never have known it from the -wind, except by sharpening your ears—I heard a voice, coming down -the hill from the Jew’s house over the way. I couldn’t make out no -words, but it was that thin and screechy that, ’Certain,’ says I to -myself, ’that old felley there is up to some mischief, or my name’s -not Patsy Martin.’ Well, after I had got done with the shutters, -I went into the house by the family entrance, and says I to my wife, -’There’s a woman yelling in the house on the hill,’ says I. -’What of that?’ says she. ’Maybe I’d better go up,’ says I. -’You’d better be after coming to bed and minding your business,’ -says she. ’It’s most likely a way them heathen have of amusing -themselves,’ says she. But, ’No,’ says I. ’Some one’s in -distress,’ says I; ’and I guess the best thing I can do will be to -light a lantern and go along up,’ says I. So my wife, your honor, she -lights the lantern for me, and, ’Damminus take ’em,’ says she, -to wish me good luck; and off I started, across the street, through the -gate, and up the wagon-road that leads to Peixada’s house. Meanwhile, -your honor, the screaming had stopped. Never a whisper more did I -hear; and thinks I to myself, ’It was only my imagination,’ thinks -I—when whist! All of a sudden, not two feet away from me, there in the -road, a voice calls out ’Help, help.’ The devil take me, I thought -I’d jump out of my skin for fright, it came so unexpected. But I -raised my lantern all the same, and cast a look around; and there before -me on the ground, I seen an object which, as true as gospel, I took to -be a ghost until I recognized it for Mrs. Peixada—the lady that’s -sitting behind you, sir—the Jew’s wife, herself. There she lay, -kneeling in front of me and when she seen who I was, ’Help, for -God’s sake, help,’ says she, for all the world like a Christian. I -knew right away that something wrong had happened, from her scared face -and big, staring eyes; and besides, her bare feet and the white rag she -wore in the place of a decent dress—” - -At this point considerable sensation was created among the audience by -the prosecuting attorney, who, interrupting the witness and addressing -the court, remarked, “Your honor will observe that the prisoner has -covered her face with a veil. This is a piece of theatricalism against -which I must emphatically protest. It is, moreover, the jury’s -prerogative to watch the prisoner’s physiognomy, as the story of her -crime is told.” - -Recorder Hewitt ordered the prisoner to remove her veil. - -“Go on, Mr. Martin,” said the prosecutor to the witness. - -“Well, sir, as I was saying, there I seen Mrs. Peix-ada, half -crouching and half sitting there in the road. And when I got over the -start she gave me, ’Excuse me, ma’am,’ says I, ’but didn’t -I hear you hollering out for help?’ ’Faith, you did,’ says she. -’Well, here I am, ma’am,’ says I; ’and now, will you be kind -enough to inform me what’s the trouble?’ says I. ’The trouble?’ -says she. ’The trouble is that there’s two men kilt up at the house, -that’s what’s the trouble,’ says she. ’Kilt?’ says I. ’Yes, -shot,’ says she. ’And who shot them?’ says I. ’Myself,’ says -she. ’Mother o’ God!’ says I. ’Well,’ says she, ’wont you -be after going up to the house and trying to help the poor wretches?’ -says she. ’I don’t know but I will,’ says I. And on up the road to -the house I went. The front door, your honor, was open wide, and the -gas blazing at full head within. I ran up the steps and through the -vestibil, and there in the hall I seen that what Mrs. Peixada had said -was the truest word she ever spoke in her life. Old Peixada, he lay -there on one side, as dead as sour beer, with blood all around him; and -on the other side lay Mr. Bolen—whom I knew well, for he was a good -customer of my own, your honor—more dead than the Jew, if one might -say so. I, sir, I just remained long enough to cross myself and whisper, -’God have mercy on them and then off I went to call an officer. On the -way down the hill, I passed Mrs. Peixada again; and this time she was -laying out stiff in the road, with her eyes closed and her mouth open, -like she was in a fit. She had nothing on but that white gown I spoke -of before; and very elegant she looked, your honor, flat there, like a -corpse.” - -Again the district-attorney stopped the witness. - -“Your honor,” he said, “I must again direct your attention to the -irregular conduct of the prisoner. She has now turned her back to the -jury, and covered her face with her hands. This is merely a method of -evading the injunction which your honor saw fit to impose upon her with -respect to her veil. I must insist upon her displaying her full face to -the jury.” - -Mr. Sondheim, of counsel for the defendant: “If the Court please, it -strikes me that my learned brother is really a trifle too exacting. I -can certainly see no objection to my client’s holding her hands to her -face. Considering the painfulness of her situation, it is no more than -natural that she should desire to shield her face. I must beg the Court -to remember that this prisoner is no ordinary criminal, but a lady of -refined and sensitive instincts. A little indulgence, it seems to me, is -due to her on account of her sex.” - -The district-attorney: “The prisoner had better understand once for -all that her sex isn’t going to protect her in this prosecution. The -law is no respecter of sex. As for her refined and sensitive instincts, -if she has any, I advise her to put them into her pocket. This jury has -too much good sense to be affected by any exhibition that she may -make for their benefit. I submit the matter to the Court’s good -judgment.” - -The recorder: “Madam, you will turn your chair toward the jury, and -keep your face uncovered.” - -The district-attorney: “Well, Mr. Martin, what next?” - -The witness: “Weil, sir, I hurried along down as fast as ever I could, -and stopped at my own place just long enough to tell my wife what had -happened, and to send her up to Mrs. Peixada with a bottle of spirits -to bring her around. Then I went to the station-house, and informed -the gentleman at the desk of the state of affairs. Him and a couple of -officers came back with me; and they, your honor, took charge of the -premises, and—and that’s all I know about it.” - -Martin was not cross-examined. Police Sergeant Riley, succeeding -him, gave an account of the prisoner’s arrest and of her subsequent -demeanor at the station-house. “The lady,” said he, “appeared -to be unable to walk—leastwise, she limped all the way with great -difficulty. We thought she was shamming, and treated her accordingly. -But afterwards it turned out that she had a sprained ankle.” She had -answered the formal questions—name? age? residence?—in full; and to -the inquiry whether she desired to make any statement or remark relative -to the charge preferred against her, had replied, “Nothing, except -that I shot them both—Bernard Peixada and Edward Bolen.” They had -locked her up in the captain’s private room for the rest of the night; -and the following morning she had been transferred to the Tombs. - -The next witness was Miss Ann Doyle. - -“Miss Doyle, what is your occupation?” asked the district-attorney. - -“I am a cook, sir.” - -“Have you a situation, at present?” - -“I have not, sir.” - -“How long have you been idle?” - -“Since the 31st of July, sir.” - -“Prior to that date where were you employed?” - -“In the family of Mr. Peixada, sir.” - -“Were you present at Mr. Peixada’s house on the night of July -30th?” - -“I was not, sir.” - -“Tell us, please, how you came to be absent?” - -“Well, sir, just after dinner, along about seven o’clock, Mrs. -Peixada, who was laying abed with a sore foot, she called me to her, -sir, and, ’Ann,’ says she, ’you can have the evening out, and you -needn’t come home till to-morrow morning,’ sir, says she.” - -“And you availed yourself of this privilege?” - -“Sure, I did, sir. I came home the next morning, sir, in time to get -breakfast, having passed the night at my sister’s; and when I got -there, sir—” - -“Never mind about that, Miss Doyle. Now, tell us, was it a customary -thing for Mrs. Peixada to let you go away for the entire night?” - -“She never did it before, sir. Of course I had my regular Thursday and -Sunday, but I was always expected to be in the house by ten o’clock, -sir.” - -“That will do, Miss Doyle. Miss Katharine Mahoney, take the stand.” - -Miss Mahoney described herself as an “upstairs girl,” and said -that she, too, until the date of the murder, had been employed in Mr. -Peixada’s household. To her also, on the evening of July 30th, Mrs. -Peixada had accorded leave of absence for the night. - -“So that,” reasoned the district-attorney, “all the servants -were away, by the prisoner’s prearrangement, at the hour of the -perpetration of the crime?” - -“Yes, sir; since me and Ann were the only servants they kept. Mr. -Bolen staid behind, to his sorrow.” - -In the case of each of these witnesses, the prisoner’s counsel waived -cross-examination, saying, “If the court please, we shall not take -issue on the allegations of fact.” - -The prosecution rested, reserving, however, the right to call witnesses -in rebuttal, if need should be. The defense started with a physician, -Dr. Leopold Jetz, of Lexington Avenue, near Fifty-ninth Street. - -“Dr. Jetz, how long have you known Mrs. Peix-ada, the prisoner at the -bar?” - -“Ever since she was born. I helped to bring her into the world.” - -“When did you last attend her professionally?” - -“I paid her my last professional visit on the 1st of August, 1878; -eight days before she was married.” - -“What was her trouble at that time?” - -“General depression of the nervous system. To speak technically, -cerebral anemia, or insufficient nourishment of the brain, complicated -by sacral neuralgia—neuralgia at the base of the spine.” - -“Were these ailments of long standing?” - -“I was called in on the 29th of May. I treated her consecutively till -August 1st. That would make two months. But she had been suffering -for some time before I was summoned. The troubles had crept upon her -gradually. On the 8th of August she was married. She had just completed -her nineteenth year.” - -“Now, doctor, was the condition of Mrs. Peixada’s health, at the -time your treatment was discontinued, such as to predispose her to -insanity?” (Question objected to, on the ground that the witness had -not been produced as an expert, and that his competence to give expert -testimony was not established. Objection overruled.) - -“In my opinion,” said Dr. Jetz, “at the time I last saw her -professionally, Mrs. Peixada was in an exceedingly critical condition. -Although evincing no symptoms of insanity proper, her brain was highly -irritated, and her whole nervous system deranged; so that an additional -strain of any kind put upon her, might easily have precipitated acute -mania. I told her father that she was in no wise fit to get married; -but he chose to disregard my advice. I think I may answer your question -affirmatively, and say that her health was such as to predispose her to -insanity.” - -By the district attorney: “Doctor, are your sentiments—your personal -sentiments—for the prisoner of a friendly or an unfriendly nature?” - -“Decidedly, sir, of a friendly nature.” - -“You would be sorry to see her hanged?” - -The doctor replied by a gesture. - -“Or sent to State Prison?” - -“I could not bear to think of it.” - -“You would do your utmost—would you not?—to save her from such a -fate?” - -“Eagerly, sir, eagerly.” - -“That’s sufficient, doctor.” - -An alienist of some distinction followed Dr. Jetz. He said that he had -listened attentively to the evidence so far adduced in court, had -read the depositions taken before the magistrate and the coroner, had -conferred at length with the preceding witness, and finally had made a -diagnosis of Mrs. Peixada’s case in her cell at the Tombs. He -believed that, though perfectly sane and responsible at present, she -had “within a brief period suffered from a disturbance of cerebral -function.” There were “indications which led him to infer that -at the time of the homicide she was organically a lunatic.” The -district-attorney took him in hand. - -“Doctor, are you the author of a work entitled, ’Pathology of Mind -Popularly Expounded’—published, as I see by the title page, in -1873?” - -“I am, sir, yes.” - -“Does that book express with tolerable accuracy your views on the -subject of insanity?’ - -“It does—certainly.” - -“Very well. Now, doctor, I will read aloud from Chapter III., page -75. Be good enough to follow.—’It is then a fact that there exists -a borderland between pronounced dementia, or mania, and sound mental -health, in which it is impossible to apply the terms, sane and insane, -with any approach to scientific nicety. Nor is it to be disputed that a -person may have entered this borderland may have departed from the realm -of unimpaired intelligence, and not yet have attained the pandemonium -of complete madness—and withal, retain the faculty of distinguishing -between right and wrong, together with the control of will necessary -to the selection and employment of either. This borderland is a sort of -twilight region in which, though blurred in outline, objects have -not become invisible. Crimes committed by subject? in the state thus -described, can not philosophically be extenuated on the ground of mental -aberration.’—I suppose, doctor, you acknowledge the authorship of -this passage?” - -“Yes, sir.” - -“And subscribe to its correctness?” - -“It expresses the opinion which prevails among the authorities.” - -“Well and good. Now, to return to the case at bar, are you willing -to swear that on the night of July 30th, the ’disturbance of cerebral -function’ which, you have told us, Mrs. Peixada was perhaps suffering -from—are you willing to swear that it had progressed beyond this -borderland which you have so clearly elucidated in your book?” - -“I am not willing to swear positively. It is my opinion that it -had.” - -“You are not willing to swear positively. Then, you are not willing to -swear positively, I take it, that Mrs. Peixada’s crime did not belong -to that category which ’can not philosophically be extenuated on the -ground of mental aberration?’.rdquo; - -“Not positively—no, sir.” - -“It is your opinion?” - -“It is my opinion.” - -“How firm?” - -“Very firm.” - -“So firm, doctor, that if you were on this jury, you would feel bound, -under any and all circumstances, to acquit the prisoner?” - -“So firm that I should feel bound to acquit her, unless evidence of a -highly damaging character was forthcoming.” - -“Well, suppose that evidence of a highly damaging character was -forthcoming, would you convict?” - -“I might.” - -“Thanks, doctor. You can go.” - -Having thus sought to prove the prisoner’s irresponsibility, the -defense endeavored to establish her fair name. Half-a-dozen ladies and -two or three gentleman attested that they had known her for many -years, and had always found her to be of a peculiarly sweet and gentle -temperament. Not one of them would believe her capable of an act of -violence, unless, at the time of committing it, she was out of her right -mind. As the last of these persons left the stand, Mr. Sondheim said, -“Your honor, our case is in.” - -“And a pretty lame case it is,” commented the district-attorney. -“I beg leave to remind the court that it is Friday, and to move for -an adjournment until Monday, in order that the People may have an -opportunity to produce witnesses in rebuttal.” The motion was granted. - -On Monday a second alienist, one whose renown quite equaled that of the -first, declared it as his opinion, based upon a personal examination of -the accused, that she was not and never had been in the slightest degree -insane. - -“Is Dr. Julius Gunther in court?” called out the district-attorney. - -Dr. Gunther elbowed his way to the front, and was sworn. - -“Dr. Gunther,” the prosecutor inquired, “you are a physician in -general practice—yes?” - -“Yes, sir, I am.” - -“You were also, I believe, up to the time of his death, physician to -the family of Mr. Bernard Peixada?” - -The doctor nodded affirmatively. - -“Did you ever attend the decedent’s wife—Mrs. Peixada—this woman -here—the prisoner at the bar?” - -“On the 20th of July last I began to treat her for a sprained ankle. I -called on her every day or two, up to the 30th.” - -“You were treating her for a sprained ankle. Did you make any -observation of her general health?” - -“Naturally.” - -“And you found it?” - -“Excellent.” - -“How about her mental faculties? Any symptoms of derangement?” - -“Not one. I have seldom known a smarter woman. She had an -exceptionally well-balanced mind.” - -“That’ll do, doctor,” said the district-attorney. To the other -side, “Want to cross-examine?” - -“Is a well-balanced mind, doctor,” asked Mr. Sondheim, “proof -positive of sanity? Is it not possible for one to be perfectly rational -on ordinary topics, and yet liable to attacks of mama when irritated by -some special circumstances?” - -“Oh, speaking broadly, I suppose so. But in this particular instance, -no. That woman is no more crazy than you are.” - -“Now,” said the prosecutor, “now, as to my lady’s alleged good -character?” - -A score of witnesses proceeded to demolish it. Miss Emily Millard had -acted as music teacher to the prisoner when she was a little girl. -Miss Millard related a dozen anecdotes illustrative of the prisoner’s -ungovernable temper. Misses Sophie Dedold, Florentine Worch, and Esther -Steinbaum had gone to school with the prisoner. If their accounts -were to be believed, she was a “flirt,” and a “doubleface.” At -length, Mrs. George Washington Shapiro took the stand. - -“Mrs. Shapiro, were you acquainted with Mr. Bernard Peixada, the -decedent?” - -“Well acquainted with him—an old friend of his family.” - -“And with his wife, the prisoner? - -“I made her acquaintance shortly before Mr. Peixada married her. After -that I saw her as often as once a week.” - -“Will you please give us your estimate of her character?” - -“Bad, very bad. She is false, she is treacherous, but above all, she -is spiteful and ill-humored.” - -“For example?” - -“Oh, I could give twenty examples.” - -“Give one, please.” - -“Well, one day I called upon her and found her in tears. ’My -dear,’ said I, ’what are you crying about?’ ’Oh,’ she -answered, ’I wish Bernard Peixada’—she always spoke of her husband -as Bernard Peixada—’I wish Bernard Peixada was dead.’ ’What!’ -I remonstrated. ’You wish your husband was dead? You ought not to say -such a thing. What can you mean?’ ’I mean that I hate him,’ she -replied. ’But if you hate him,’ said I, ’if you are unhappy -with him, why don’t you wish that you yourself were dead, instead of -wishing it of him?’ ’Oh,’ she explained, ’I am young. I have -much to live for. He is an old, bad man. It would a good thing all -around, if he were dead.’.rdquo; - -“Can you give us the date of this extraordinary conversation?” - -“It was some time, I think, in last June; a little more than a month -before she murdered him.” - -The efforts of the prisoner’s counsel to break down Mrs. Shapiro’s -testimony were unavailing. - -“Mr. Short,” says the Gazette, “now summed up in his most -effective style, dwelling at length upon the prisoner’s youth and -previous good character, and arguing that she could never have committed -the crime in question, except under the sway of an uncontrollable -impulse induced by mental disease. He wept copiously, and succeeded -in bringing tears to the eyes of several jurymen. He was followed by -Assistant-district-attorney Sardick, for the People, who carefully -analyzed the evidence, and showed that it placed the guilt of the -accused beyond the reach of a reasonable doubt. Recorder Hewitt charged -dead against the fair defendant, consuming an hour and a quarter. The -jury thereupon retired; but at the expiration of seventeen minutes -they returned to the court-room, and, much to the surprise of every one -present, announced that they had agreed upon a verdict. The prisoner -was directed to stand up. She was deathly pale; her teeth chattered; her -hands clutched at the railing in front of the clerk’s desk. The formal -questions were put in their due order and with becoming solemnity. A -profound sensation was created among the spectators when the foreman -pronounced the two decisive words, ’Not guilty.’ A vivid crimson -suffused the prisoner’s throat and cheeks, but otherwise her -appearance did not alter. Recorder Hewitt seemed for a moment to -discredit his senses. Then, suddenly straightening up and scowling at -the jury-box, ’You have rendered an outrageous verdict; a verdict -grossly at variance with the evidence,’ he said. ’You are one and -all excused from further service in this tribunal.’ Turning to -Mrs. Peixada, ’As for you, madam,’ he continued, ’you have been -unrighteously acquitted of as heinous a crime as ever woman was guilty -of. Your defense was a sham and a perjury. The ends of justice have been -defeated, because, forsooth, you have a pretty face. You can go free. -But let me counsel you to beware, in the future, how you tamper with -the lives of human beings, better and worthier in every respect than -yourself. I had hoped that it would be my duty and my privilege to -sentence you to a life of hard labor in the prison at Sing Sing, if not -to expiation of your sin upon the gallows. Unfortunately for the public -welfare, and much to my personal regret, I have no alternative but to -commit you to the keeping of your own guilty conscience, trusting that -in time you may, by its action, and by the just horror with which your -fellow-beings will shun your touch, be chastised and chastened. You are -discharged.’ Mrs. Peixada bowed to the court, and left the room on the -arm of her counsel.” - -Undramatic and matter-of-fact though it was, Arthur got deeply absorbed -in the perusal of this newspaper report of Mrs. Peixada’s trial. -When the jury returned from their deliberations, it was with breathless -interest that he learned the result; he had forgotten that he already -knew it. As the words “Not guilty” took shape before him, he drew a -genuine sigh of relief. Then, at once recollecting himself, “Bah!” -he cried. “I was actually rejoicing at a miscarriage of justice. I am -weak-minded.” By and by he added, “I wish, though, that I could get -at the true inwardness of the matter—the secret motives that nobody -but the murderess herself could reveal.” For the sake of local color, -he put on his hat and went over to the General Sessions court-room—now -empty and in charge of a single melancholy officer—and tried to -reconstruct the scene, with the aid of his imagination. The recorder -had sat there, on the bench; the jury there; the prisoner there, at the -counsel table. The atmosphere of the court-room was depressing. The four -walls, that had listened to so many tales of sin and unhappiness, -seemed to exude a deadly miasma. This room was reserved for the trial of -criminal causes. How many hearts had here stood still for suspense! -How many wretched secrets had here been uncovered! How many mothers and -wives had wept here! How many guilt-burdened souls had here seen their -last ray of light go out, and the shadows of the prison settle over -them! The very tick-tack of the clock opposite the door sounded -strangely ominous. Looking around him, Arthur felt his own heart grow -cold, as if it had been touched with ice. - - - - -CHAPTER IV.—“THAT NOT IMPOSSIBLE SHE.” - -AT home that evening, on the loggia, Hetzel said, “I have news for -you.” - -“Ah?” queried Arthur. - -“Yes—about your mystery across the way.” - -“Well?” - -“She’s no longer a mystery. The ambiguity surrounding her has been -dispelled.” - -“Well, go on.” - -“To start with, after you went down-town this morning, carts laden -with furniture began to rattle into the street, and the furniture was -carried into No. 46. It appears that they have taken the whole house, -after all. They were merely camping out in the third story, while -waiting for the advent of their goods and chattels. So we were jumping -to a conclusion, when we put them down as poverty-stricken. The -furniture was quite comfortable looking. It included, by the way, a -second piano. Confess that you are disappointed.” - -“Why should I be disappointed? The divine voice remains, doesn’t it? -Go ahead.” - -“Well, I have learned their names.—The lady of the house is an -elderly widow—Mrs. Gabrielle Hart. She has been living till -recently in an apartment-house on Fifty-ninth Street, facing Central -Park—’The Modena’.” - -“But the songstress?” - -“The songstress is Mrs. Hart’s companion. She is also a Mrs.—Mrs. -Lehmyl—L-e-h-m-y-l—picturesque name, isn’t it?” - -“And Mr. Lehmyl—who is he?” - -“Perhaps Mrs. Lehmyl is a widow, too. She dresses in black.” - -“Ah, you have seen her? Describe her to me.” - -“No, I haven’t seen her. But Josephine has. It is to Josephine that -I owe the information so far communicated.” - -“What does Josephine say she looks like?” - -“Josephine doesn’t say. She caught but a meteoric glimpse of her, as -she stood for a moment this afternoon at her front door. Like the woman -she is, she paid more attention to her costume than she did to her -features.” - -“Well, any thing further?” - -“Nothing.” - -“Has she sung for you since I left?” - -“Not a bar. Probably she has been busy, helping to put the house to -rights.” - -“Let us hope she will sing for us to-night.” - -“Let us hope so.” - -But bed-time stole upon them, and their hopes had not yet been rewarded. - -The week wound away. Nothing new transpired concerning the occupants of -No. 46. Mrs. Lehmyl sang almost every evening. But neither Arthur -nor Hetzel nor Josephine succeeded in getting sight of her; which, of -course, merely aggravated our hero’s curiosity. Sunday afternoon he -stood at the front window, gazing toward the corner house. The two cats, -heretofore mentioned, were disporting themselves upon the window-ledge. - -Hetzel, who was seated in the back part of the room, noticed that -Arthur’s attitude changed all at once from that of languid interest -to that of sharp attention. His backbone became rigid, his neck craned -forward; it was evident that something had happened. Presently he turned -around, and remarked, with ill-disguised excitement, “If—if you’re -anxious to make the acquaintance of that Mrs. Lehmyl, here’s your -chance.” - -It struck Hetzel that this was pretty good. “If I am anxious to make -her acquaintance!” he said to himself. Aloud, “Why, how is that?” -he asked. - -“Oh,” said Arthur, “two ladies—she and Mrs. Hart, I -suppose—have just left the corner house, and crossed the street, and -entered our front door—to call on Mrs. Berle, doubtless.” - -Mrs. Berle was the down-stairs neighbor of our friends—a middle-aged -Jewish lady, whose husband, a commercial traveler, was commonly away -from home. - -“Well?” questioned Hetzel. - -“Well, you ought to call on Mrs. Berle, anyway, you know. She has been -so polite and kind, and has asked you to so often, that really it’s no -more than right that you should show her some little attention. Why not -improve this occasion?” - -“Oh,” said Hetzel, yawning, “I’m tired. I prefer to stay home -this afternoon.” - -“Nonsense. You’re simply lazy. It’s—it’s positively a matter -of duty, Hetz.” - -“Well, you have so frequently asserted that I have no sense of duty, -I’m trying to live up to your conception of me.” - -After a minute of silence, “The fact of the matter is,” ventured -Arthur, “that I too owe Mrs. Berle a visit, and—and won’t you go -down with me, as a favor?” - -“Oh, if you put it on that ground, it’s another question. As a favor -to you, I consent to be dragged out.” - -“Hurrah!” cried Arthur, casting off the mask of indifference that he -had thus far clumsily worn. “I’ll go change my coat, and come back -in an instant. Wasn’t I lucky to be posted there by the window at the -moment of their exit? At last we shall see her with our own eyes.” - -Ere a great while, Mrs. Berle’s maid-servant ushered them into Mrs. -Berle’s drawing-room. - -Mrs. Lehmyl was at the piano—playing, not singing. Arthur enjoyed a -fine view of her back. My meaning is literal, when I say “enjoyed.” -Impatient though he was to see her face, he took an indescribable -pleasure in watching her back sway to and fro, as her fingers raced -up and down the keyboard. Its contour was refined and symmetrical. Its -undulations lent stress to the music, and denoted fervor on the part -of the executant. Arthur can’t tell what she was playing. It was -something of Rubenstein’s, the title of which escapes him—something, -he says, as vigorous as a whirlwind—a bewitching melody sounding -above a tempest of harmony—it was the restless, tumultuous, barbaric -Rubenstein at his best. - -At its termination, the audience applauded vehemently, and demanded -more. The result was a Scherzo by Chopin. Afterward, Mrs. Lehmyl rose -from the piano and fanned herself. Every body began simultaneously to -talk. - -Mrs. Berle presented Hetzel and Arthur in turn to the two ladies. Of -the latter she was kind enough to remark, “Dot is a young lawyer -down-town, and such a goot young man”—which made him blush profusely -and wish his hostess a dozen apoplexies. - -Mrs. Hart was tall and spare, a severe looking woman of sixty, or -thereabouts. She wore a gray poplin dress, and had stiff gray hair, and -a network of gray veins across the backs of her hands. A penumbra upon -her upper lip proved, when inspected, to be due to the presence of an -incipient mustache. Her eyes were blue and good-natured. - -Mrs. Lehmyl’s manner was at once dignified and gracious. Arthur -made bold to declare, “Your playing is equal to your singing, Mrs. -Lehmyl—which is saying a vast deal.” - -“It is saying what is kind and pleasant,” she answered, “but I -fear, not strictly accurate. My playing is very faulty, I have so little -time to practice.” - -“If it is faulty, a premium ought to be placed upon such faults,” he -gushed. - -Mrs. Lehmyl laughed, but vouchsafed no reply. “And as for your -singing,” he continued, “I hope you won’t mind my telling you how -much I have enjoyed it. You can’t conceive the pleasure it has given -me, when I have come home, fagged out, from a day down-town, to hear you -sing.” - -“I am very glad if it is so. I was afraid my musical pursuits might -be a nuisance to the neighbors. I take for granted that you are a -neighbor?” - -“Oh, yes. Hetzel and I inhabit the upper portion of this house.” - -“Ah, then you are the young men whom we have noticed on the roof. It -is a brilliant idea, your roof. You dine up there, do you not?” - -“Let’s go into the back room,” cried Mrs. Berle; and she led the -way. - -In the back room wine and cakes were distributed by a German Madchen in -a French cap. The gentlemen—there were two or three present besides -Arthur and Hetzel—lit their cigars. The ladies, of whom there were -an equal number, with the exception of Mrs. Lehmyl, gathered in a knot -around the center-table. Mrs. Lehmyl went to the bay-window and admired -the view. It was, indeed, admirable. A crystalline atmosphere permitted -one to see as far down the river as the Brooklyn Navy Yard; and -leagues to the eastward, on Long Island, the marble of I know not what -burying-ground glittered in the sun. An occasional schooner slipped past -almost within stone’s throw. On the wharf under the terrace, fifty odd -yards away, an aged man placidly supported a fishing pole, and watched a -cork that floated immobile upon the surface of the water. Over all bent -the sky, intensely blue, and softened by a few white, fleecy clouds. But -Arthur’s faculties for admiration were engrossed by Mrs. Lehmyl’s -face. - -I think the first impression created by her face was one of power, -rather than one of beauty. Not that it was in the slightest degree -masculine, not that it was too strong to be intensely womanly. But at -first sight, especially if it chanced then to be in repose, it seemed -to embody the pride and the solemnity of womanhood, rather than its -gentleness and flexibility. It was the face of a woman who could purpose -and perform, who could suffer and be silent, who could command and be -inexorable. The brow, crowned by black, waving hair, was low and broad, -and as white as marble. The nose and chin were modeled on the pattern -of the Ludovici Juno’s. Your first notion was: “This woman is calm, -reserved, thoughtful, persistent. Her emotions are subordinated to -her intellect. She has a tremendous will. She was cut out to be an -empress.” But the next instant you noticed her eyes and her mouth: and -your conception had accordingly to be reframed. Her eyes, in color dark, -translucent brown, were of the sort that your gaze can delve deep into, -and discern a light shimmering at the bottom: eyes that send an electric -spark into the heart of the man who looks upon them; eyes that are -eloquent of pathos and passion and mystery. Her lips were full and -ruddy, and indicated equal capacities for womanly tenderness and for -girlish mirth. It was easy to fancy them curling in derisive laughter: -it was quite as easy to fancy them quivering with intense emotion, -or becoming compressed in pain. Insensibly, you added: “No—not an -empress: a heroine, a martyr to some noble human cause. It was like this -that the Mother of Sorrows must have looked.” - -She was beautiful: on that score there could be no difference of -opinion. Her appearance justified the expectations that her voice -aroused. She was beautiful not in a pronounced, aggressive way, but in -a quiet, subtle, and all the more potent way. Her beauty was of the sort -that grows upon one, the longer one studies it; rather than of the sort -that, bullet-like, produces its greatest effect at once. Join to this -that she was manifestly young, at the utmost five-and-twenty, and the -reader will not wonder that Arthur’s antecedent interest in her had -mounted several degrees. I must not forget to mention her hands. These -were a trifle larger than it is the fashion for a lady’s hands to -be; but they were shaped and colored to perfection, and they had an -unconscious habit of toying with each other, as their owner talked -or listened, that made it a charm to watch them. They were suggestive -hands. Arthur felt that, had he understood the language of hands, he -could, by observing these, have divined a number of Mrs. Lehmyl’s -secrets; and he bethought him of an old treatise on palmistry that lay -gathering dust in his book-case up-stairs. Around her wrist she wore a -bracelet of amber beads. She was dressed entirely in black, and had a -sprig of mignonette pinned in her button-hole. - -As has been said, she admired the view. “I am so glad we have come -to live in Beekman Place,” she added; “it is such a contrast to the -rest of dusty, noisy, hot New York.” - -“To hear this woman utter small talk,” says Arthur, “was like -seeing a giant lift straws. I half wished that she would not speak at -all, unless to proclaim mighty truths in hexameters. Still, had she kept -silence, I am sure I should have been disappointed.” - -She was much amused by the old fisherman down on the wharf; wondered -whether he had met with any luck; and thought that such patient devotion -as he displayed, merited recognition on the part of the fishes. She was -curious to know what the granite buildings were on Blackwell’s Island. -Arthur undertook the office of cicerone. - -“Prison and hospital and graveyard constantly in sight,” was her -comment; “I should think they would make one gloomy.” - -“A memento mori, as one’s eyes feast on sky and water. On moonlight -nights in summer, it is superb here—quite Venetian. Every now and -then some dark, mysterious craft, slowly drifting by, reminds one of -Elaine’s barge.” - -“It must be very beautiful,” she said, simply. - -At this juncture an excursion steamboat made its appearance upon the -river, and conversation was suspended till it had passed. It was gay -with bunting and black with humanity. It strove its best to render day -hideous by dispensing a staccato version of “Home, Sweet Home” from -the blatant throat of a Calliope—an instrument consisting of a series -of steam whistles graduated in chromatic scale. - -“How uncomfortable those poor people must be,” said Mrs. Lehmyl. -“Is—is this one of the dark, mysterious craft?” - -“It is a product of our glorious American civilization. None but -an alchemist with true American instincts, would ever have thought of -transmuting steam to music.” - -“Music?” queried Mrs. Lehmyl, dubiously. - -Arthur was about to qualify his use of the term when the door opened and -admitted a procession of Mrs. Berle’s daughters and sons-in-law. -An uproar of greetings and presentations followed. The men exchanged -remarks about the weather and the state of trade; the women, kisses and -inquiries concerning health. Bits of news were circulated. “Lester -Bar is engaged to Emma Frankenstiel,” “Mrs. Seitel’s baby was -born yesterday—another girl,” “Du lieber Gott!” “Ist’s -moglich?” and so on; a breezy mingling of German with English, of -statement with expletive; the whole emphasized by an endless swaying of -heads and lifting of eyebrows. The wine and cakes made a second tour of -the room. Fresh cigars were lighted. The ladies fell to comparing notes -about their respective offspring. One of the gentlemen volunteered a -circumstantial account of a Wagner concert he had attended the night -previous. It was a long while before any thing resembling quiet was -restored. Arthur seized the first opportunity that presented itself to -edge back to Mrs. Lehmyl’s side. - -“All this talk about music,” he said, “has whetted my appetite. -You are going to sing for us, aren’t you?” - -“Oh, I shouldn’t dare to, in this assemblage of Wagnerites. The sort -of music that I can sing would seem heresy from their point of view. -I can’t sing Wagner, and I shouldn’t venture upon any thing so -retrograde as Schumann or Schubert. Besides, I’m rather tired to-day, -and—so please don’t introduce the subject. Mrs. Berle might follow -it up; and if she asked me, I couldn’t very well refuse.” - -Mrs. Lehmyl’s tone showed that she meant what she said. - -“This is a great disappointment,” Arthur rejoined. - -“You don’t know how anxious I am to hear you sing at close quarters. -But as for your music being retrograde, why, only the other night I -was admiring your fine taste in making selections. Wohin, for instance. -Isn’t Wohin abreast of the times?” - -“The Wagnerites wouldn’t think so. It is melody. Therefore it -is—good enough for the uninitiated, perhaps—but not to be put up -with by people of serious musical cultivation. The only passages in -Wagner’s own work that his disciples take exception to, are those -where, in a fit of artistic obliquity, he has become truly melodious. -Here, they think, he has been guilty of backsliding. His melodies were -the short-comings of genius—pardonable, in consideration of their -infrequency, but in no wise to be commended. The further he gets away -from the old standards of excellence—the more perplexing, complicated, -artificial, soporific, he becomes—the better are his enthusiasts -pleased. The other day I was talking with one of them, and in the -desire to say something pleasant, I spoke of how supremely beautiful -the Pilgrim’s Chorus is in Tannhâuser. A look of sadness fell upon -my friend’s face, and I saw that I had blundered. ’Ah,’ she cried, -’don’t speak of that. It makes my heart ache to think that the -master could have let himself down to any thing so trivial.’ That’s -their pet word—trivial. Whenever a theme is comprehensible, they -dispose of it as trivial.” - -Arthur laughed and said, “It is evident to what school you belong. -For my part, I always suspect that when a composer disdains to write -melodies, it is a case of sour grapes.” - -“Yes, he lacks the inventive faculty, and then affects to despise -it,” said Mrs. Lehmyl. “My taste is very old-fashioned. Of course -every body must recognize Wagner’s greatness, and must appreciate him -in his best moods. But when he cuts loose from all the established laws -of composition—well, I heard my sentiments neatly expressed once by -Signor Zacchinelli, the maestro. ’It is ze music of ze future?’ he -inquired. ’Zen I am glad I shall be dead.’ Smiting his breast he -went on, ’I want somezing to make me feel good here.’ That’s the -trouble. Except when Wagner abides by the old traditions, he never makes -one feel good here. The pleasure he affords is intellectual rather than -emotional. He amazes you by the intricate harmonies he constructs, but -he doesn’t touch your heart. Now and then he forgets himself—is -borne away from his theories on the wings of an inspiration—and then -he is superb.” - -“I wonder,” Arthur asked, by and by, “whether you can tell me what -it was that you sang the evening I first heard you. It was more than a -week ago—a week ago Friday. At about sunset time, we were out on our -roof, and you sang something that I had never heard before,—something -soft and plaintive, with a refrain that went like this——” humming -a bar or two of the refrain. “Oh, that? Did you like that?” - -“I did, indeed. I thought it was exquisite.” - -“I am glad, because it is a favorite of my own. It’s an old -French folk-song, arranged by Bizet. The title is Le Voile d’une -Religieuse.” - -“I wish I could hear it again. I can’t tell you how charming it was -to sit there in the open air, and watch the sunset, and listen to that -song. Only, it was so exasperating not to be able to see the songstress. -Won’t you be persuaded to sing it now? I’m sure you are not too -tired to sing that.” - -“What? Here? I should never be absolved. The auditors—I dare not -fancy what the effect upon them might be. That song, of all things! Why, -it is worse than Schubert.—But seriously,” she added, gravely, “I -could not bear to expose any thing so dear to me as my music is, to the -ridicule it would provoke from the Wagnerites. It hurts me keenly to -hear a song that I love, picked to pieces, and made light of, and -tossed to the winds. It hurts me just as keenly to hear it praised -insincerely—merely for politeness’ sake. Music—true music—is -like prayer. It is too sacred to—you know what I mean—to be laid -bare to the contempt of unbelievers.” - -“Yes, indeed, like prayer. It is the most perfect vehicle of -expression for one’s deepest, most solemn feelings—that and——” - -“And poetry.” - -“How did you guess that I was going to say poetry?” - -“It was obvious. The two go together.” - -“So they do. Do you know, Mrs. Lehmyl, if I were to try my hand at -guesswork, I think I could name your favorite poet.” - -“Indeed; who is he?” - -“Robert Browning.” - -Mrs. Lehmyl cast a half surprised, half startled glance at Arthur. -“Are you a mind-reader? Or was it simply a chance hit?” she asked. - -“Then I was right?” - -“Yes, you were right, though I ought not to tell you so. You ought not -to know your power, if power it was, and not mere random’ guesswork. -One with that faculty of penetrating another’s mind must be a -dangerous associate. But tell me, what hint did I let fall, that made -you suspect I should be fond of Browning?” - -“If I should answer that question, I am afraid you might deem me -presumptuous. I could not do so, without paying you a compliment.” - -“Then, leave it unanswered,” she said, coldly. - -At this moment Mrs. Hart rose and bade good-by to Mrs. Berle; then -called across to Mrs. Lehmyl, “Come, Ruth;” and the latter wished -Arthur good afternoon. - -He and Hetzel left soon after. Mrs. Berle said, “If you young -gentlemen have no other engagement, won’t you take tea here a week -from to-night?” - -“You are very kind,” Hetzel answered; “and we shall do so with -great pleasure.” - -Upstairs, “Well, how did you like her?” inquired Arthur. - -“Like whom? Mrs. Berle?” - -“No—Mrs. Lehmyl, of course, stupid.” - -“That’s a pretty question for you to ask; as though you’d given me -a chance to find out. How did you like her?” - -“Oh, she’s above the average.” - -“Is that all? Then you were disappointed? She didn’t come up to your -anticipations?” - -“Oh, I don’t say that. Yes, she’s# a fine woman.” - -“But her friend, Mrs. Hart, is a trump.” - -“So? Nobody would suspect it from her looks. Her austere coloring -inspires a certain kind of awe.” - -“She’s no longer young. But she’s very agreeable, all the same. We -talked a good deal together. She asked me to call. You weren’t a bit -clever.” - -“No?” - -“No, sir. If you had been, you would have devoted yourself to Mrs. -Hart. Then she would have invited you to call, too. So you could have -cultivated Mrs. Lehmyl at your leisure.” - -“But you and I are one. You can take me to call with you, can’t -you?” - -“I don’t know about that. She asked me to drop in informally any -afternoon. You’re never home in the afternoon. Besides, you’re old -enough to receive an invitation for yourself.” - -“Nonsense! You can arrange it easily enough. Ask permission to bring -your Fidus Achates.” - -“I’ll see about it. If you behave yourself for the next week or two, -perhaps I’ll exert my influence. By the way, how did you like Mrs. -Lehmyl’s playing?” - -“She played uncommonly well—didn’t you think so?” - -“Indeed, I did. Execution and expression were both fine. She has -studied in Europe, Mrs. Hart says.” - -“Did you learn who her husband is?” - -“I learned that he isn’t. I was right in my conjecture. She is a -widow.” - -“That’s a relief. I am glad she is not-encumbered with a husband.” - -“Fie upon you, man! You ought to be ashamed to say it. He has been -dead quite a number of years.” - -“Quite a number of years? Why, she can’t be more than twenty-four or -five years old—and besides, she’s still in mourning.” - -“I guess that’s about her age. But the mourning doesn’t signify, -because it’s becoming to her; and so she would naturally keep it up as -long as possible.” - -“That introduces the point of chief importance. What did you think of -her appearance?” - -“Oh, she has magnificent eyes, and looks refined and -interesting—looks as though she knew what sorrow meant, too—only, -perhaps the least bit cold. No, cold isn’t the word. Say dignified, -serious, a woman with whom one could never be familiar—in whose -presence one would always feel a little—a little constrained. That -isn’t exactly what I mean, either. You understand—one would always -have to be on one’s guard not to say any thing flippant or trivial.” - -“You mean she looks as though she were deficient in levity?” - -“Well, as though she wouldn’t tolerate any thing petty—a dialogue -such as ours now, for example.” - -“I don’t know whether you have formed a correct notion of her, or -not. Cold she certainly isn’t. She’s an enthusiast on the subject -of music. And when we were talking about Wagner, she—wasn’t exactly -flippant—but she showed that she could be jocose. There’s something -about her that’s exceedingly impressive, I don’t know what it is. -But I know that she made me feel, somehow, very small. She made me feel -that underneath her quiet manner—hidden away somewhere in her frail -woman’s body—there was the capability of immense power. She reminded -me of the women in Robert Browning’s poetry—of the heroine of the -’Inn Album’ especially. Yet she said nothing remarkable—nothing to -justify such an estimate.” - -“You were affected by her personal magnetism. A woman with eyes like -hers—and mighty scarce they are—always gives you the idea of power. -Young as she is, I suspect she’s been through a good deal. She has had -her experiences. That seems to be written on her face. Yet she didn’t -strike me as having the peach-bloom rubbed off—though, of course, I -had no chance to examine her closely.” - -“Oh, no; the peach-bloom is there in abundance. Well, at all events, -she’s a problem which it will be interesting to solve. By the way, -what possessed you to accept Mrs. Berle’s invitation to tea?” - -“What possessed me? Why should I have done otherwise?” - -“It will be an insufferable bore.” - -“Who was it that somewhat earlier in the afternoon preached me a -sermon on the duties we owe that identical Mrs. Berle?” - -Arthur spent the evening reading. Hetzel, peeping over his shoulder, saw -that the book of his choice was “The Inn Album” by Robert Browning. - - - - -CHAPTER V.—“A NOTHING STARTS THE SPRING.” - -ANOTHER week slipped away. The weather changed. There was rain almost -every day, and a persistent wind blew from the north-east. So the loggia -of No. 43 Beekman Place was not much patronized. Nevertheless, Arthur -heard Mrs. Lehmyl sing from time to time. When he would reach home at -night, he generally ensconced himself near to a window at the front of -the house; and now and then his vigilance was encouraged by the sound of -her voice. - -Hetzel, of course, ran him a good deal. He took the running very -philosophically. “I admit,” he said, “that she piques my -curiosity, and I don’t know any reason why she shouldn’t. Such -a voice, joined to such beauty and intelligence, is it not enough to -interest any body with the least spark of imagination? When are you -going to call upon them?” But Hetzel was busy. “Examinations are now -in full blast,” he pleaded. “I have no leisure for calling on any -one.” - -“‘It sometimes make a body sour to see how things are -shared,’.rdquo; complained Arthur. “To him who appreciates it not, -the privilege is given; whereas, from him who would appreciate it to its -full, the privilege is withheld. I only wish I had your opportunity.” - -Hetzel smiled complacently. - -“And then,” Arthur went on, “not even an occasional encounter in -the street. Every day, coming and going, I cherish the hope that we may -meet each other, she and I. Living so close together, it would be but -natural if we should. But I’m down in my luck. We might as well dwell -at the antipodes, for all we gain by being near neighbors. Concede that -Fate is deucedly unkind.” - -“I don’t know about that,” said Hetzel, reflectively. “Perhaps -Fate is acting for the best. My private opinion is that the less you see -of that woman, the better for you. You’re a pretty susceptible -young man; and those eyes of hers might play sad havoc with your -affections.” - -“That’s just the way with you worldly, practical, materialistic -fellows. You can’t conceive that a man may be interested in a woman, -without making a fool of himself, and getting spoony over her. You -haven’t enough spiritualism in your composition to realize that a -woman may appeal to a man purely on abstract principles.” - -Hetzel laughed. - -“You’re a cynic,” Arthur informed him. - -“I don’t believe in playing with fire,” he retorted. - -Thereafter their conversation drifted to other themes. - -Well, the week glided by, and it was Sunday again; and with Sunday there -occurred another change in the weather. The mercury shot up among the -eighties, and the sky grew to an immense dome of blue. Sunday morning -Hetzel said, “I suppose you haven’t forgotten that we are engaged to -sup with Mrs. Berle this evening?” To which Arthur responded, yawning, -“Oh, no; it has weighed upon my consciousness ever since you accepted -her invitation.” - -“I wouldn’t let it distress me so much, if I were you. And, by the -way, don’t you think it would be well for us to take some flowers?” - -“I suppose it would be a polite thing to do.” - -“Then why don’t you make an excursion over to the florist’s on -Third Avenue, and lay in an assortment?” - -“You’re the horticulturist of this establishment. Go yourself.” - -“No. Your taste is superior to mine. Go along. Get a goodly number of -cut flowers, and then two or three nosegays for the ladies.” - -“Ladies? What ladies?” demanded Arthur, brightening up. “Who is to -be there, besides us and Mrs. Berle?” - -“Oh, I don’t say that any body is. I thought perhaps one of her -daughters, or a friend, or—” - -“Well, maybe I’ll go over this afternoon. For the present—” - -“This afternoon will be too late. The shops close early, you know, on -Sunday.” - -Arthur issued forth upon his quest for flowers. - -What was it that prompted him, after the main purchase had been made, to -ask the tradesman, “Now, have you something especially nice, something -unique, that would do for a lady’s corsage?” The shopkeeper replied, -“Yes, sir, I have something very rare in the line of jasmine. Only a -handful in the market. This way, sir.”—Arthur was conducted to the -conservatory behind the shop; and there he devoted a full quarter hour -of his valuable time to the construction of a very pretty and fragrant -bunch of jasmine. What was it that induced this action? - -When he got back home and displayed his spoils to Hetzel, the latter -said, “And this jasmine—I suppose you intend it for Mrs. Berle to -wear, yes?” To which Arthur vouchsafed no response. - -They went down stairs at six o’clock. Mrs. Berle was alone in her -parlor. They had scarcely more than made their obeisance, however, when -the door-bell rang; and presently the rustle of ladies’ gowns became -audible in the hallway. Next moment the door opened—and Arthur’s -heart began to beat at break-neck speed. Entered, Mrs. Hart and Mrs. -Lehmyl. - -“I surmised as much, and you knew it all the while,” Arthur gasped -in a whisper to Hetzel. - -His friend shrugged his shoulders. - -The first clamor of greetings being over with, Arthur, his bunch of -jasmine held fast in his hand, began, “Mrs. Lehmyl, may I beg of you -to accept these little——” - -“Oh, aren’t they delicious!” she cried, impulsively. - -Her eyes brightened, and she bent over the flowers to breathe in their -incense. - -“But I mustn’t keep them all for myself,” she added. - -“Oh, we are equally well treated,” said Mrs. Hart, flourishing a -knot of Jacqueminot roses. - -“Yes, indeed,” Mrs. Berle joined in, pointing to a table, the marble -top of which was hidden beneath a wealth of variegated blossoms. - -“Nevertheless,” said Mrs. Lehmyl. And she went on picking her -bouquet to pieces. Mrs. Hart and Mrs. Berle received their shares; -Hetzel his; and then, turning to Arthur, “Maintenant, monsieur” -she said, with a touch of coquetry, “maintenant à votre tour.” She -fastened a spray of jasmine to the lappel of his coat. In doing so, a -delicate whiff of perfume was wafted upward from her hair. Whether it -possessed some peculiar elixir-like quality, or not, I can not tell; but -at that instant Arthur felt a thrill pierce to the very innermost of his -heart. - -“It is so warm,” said Mrs. Berle, “I thought it would be pleasant -to take supper out of doors. If you are agreeable, we will go down to -the backyard.” - -In the back-yard the table was set beneath a blossoming peach-tree. The -grass plot made an unexceptionable carpet. Honeysuckle vines clambered -over the fence. The river glowed warmly in the light of the declining -sun. The country beyond on Long Island lay smiling at the first -persuasive touch of summer—of the summer that, ere long waxing -fiercely ardent, was to scorch and consume it. - -Mrs. Lehmyl looked around, with child-like happiness shining in her -eyes. Arthur looked at her. - -“Permit me to make you acquainted with my brother, Mr. Lipman,” said -the hostess. - -Mr. Lipman had a head that the Wandering Jew might have been proud of; -snow-white hair and beard, olive skin, regular features of the finest -Oriental type, and deep-set, coal-black eyes, with an expression in -them—an anxious, eager, hopelessly hopeful expression—that told the -whole story of the travail and sorrow of his race. He kissed the hands -of the ladies and shook those of the gentlemen. - -“Now, to the table!” cried Mrs. Berle. - -The table was of appetizing aspect; an immaculate cloth, garnished by -divers German dishes, and beautified by the flowers our friends had -brought. Arthur’s chair was placed at the right of Mrs. Lehmyl’s. -Conversation, however, was general from first to last. Hetzel -contributed an anecdote in the Irish dialect, at which he was an adept. -Arthur told of a comic incident that had happened in court the other -day. Mrs. Lehmyl said she could not fancy any thing being comic in a -courtroom—the atmosphere of a court-room sent such a chill to the -heart, she should think it would operate as an anaesthetic upon the -humorous side of a person. Mr. Lipman gave a few reminiscences of the -Hungarian revolt of ’49, in which he had been a participant, wielding -a brace of empty seltzer bottles, so he said, in default of nobler -weapons. This led the talk up to the superiority of America over -the effete monarchies of Europe. After a good deal of patriotism had -asserted itself, a little criticism began to crop out. By and by the -Goddess of Liberty had had her character thoroughly dissected. With -the coffee, Mrs. Berle, who had heretofore shone chiefly as a listener, -said, “Now, you young gentlemen may smoke, just as if you were three -flights higher up.” So they lit their cigars—in which pastime Mr. -Lipman joined them—and sat smoking and chatting over the table till it -had grown quite dark. At last it was moved that the party should adjourn -to the parlor and have some music. There being no Wagnerites present, -Mrs. Lehmyl sang Jensen’s Lehn deine Wang, with so much fervor that -two big tears gathered in Mr. Lipman’s eyes and rolled down his -cheeks. Then, to restore gayety, she sang La Paloma, in the merriest way -imaginable; and finally, to bring the pendulum of emotion back to its -mean position, Voi chi Sapete from the “Marriage of Figaro.” After -this there was an interim during which every body found occasion to -say his say; and then Mrs. Berle announced, “My brother plays the -’cello. Now he must also play a little, yes?” - -Mrs. Lehmyl was delighted by the prospect of hearing the ’cello -played; and Mr. Lipman performed a courtly old bow, and said it would -be a veritable inspiration to play to her accompaniment. Thereupon they -consulted together until they had agreed upon a selection. It proved to -be nothing less antiquated than Boccherini’s minuet. The quaint and -graceful measures, wrung out from the deep-voiced ’cello, brought -smiles of enjoyment to every face. “But,” says Arthur, “what -pleased me quite as much as the music was to keep my eyes fixed on the -picture that the two musicians presented; that old man’s wonderful -countenance, peering out from behind the neck of his instrument, intent, -almost fierce in its earnestness; and hers, pale, luminous, passionate, -varying with every modulation of the tune. And all the while the scent -of the jasmine bud haunted my nostrils, and recalled vividly the moment -she had pinned it into my buttonhole.”—In deference to the demand -for an encore, they played Handel’s Largo. Then Mrs. Berle’s maid -appeared, bearing the inevitable wine and cakes. By and by Mrs. Hart -began to make her adieux. At this, Arthur slipped quietly out of the -room. When he returned, half a minute later, he had his hat in his hand. -Mrs. Hart protested that it was quite unnecessary for him to trouble -himself to see them home. “Why, it is only straight across the -street,” she submitted. But Arthur was obstinate. - -On her door-step, Mrs. Hart said, “We should be pleased to have you -call upon us, Mr. Ripley.” - -He and Hetzel sat up till past midnight, talking. The latter volunteered -a good many favorable observations anent Mrs. Lehmyl. Arthur could have -listened to him till daybreak.—In bed he had difficulty getting to -sleep. Among other things, he kept thinking how fortunate it was that -Peixada had disapproved of the trip to Europe. “Why, New York,” -he soliloquized, “is by all means the most interesting city in the -world.” - -He took advantage of Mrs. Hart’s permission to call, as soon as -he reasonably could. While he was waiting for somebody to appear, he -admired the decorations of Mrs. Hart’s parlor. Neat gauze curtains at -the windows, a rosy-hued paper on the wall, a soft carpet under foot, -pretty pictures, pleasant chairs and tables, lamps and porcelains, and -a book-case filled with interesting looking books, combined to lend the -room an attractive, homelike aspect; for all of which, without cause, -Arthur assumed that Mrs. Lehmyl was answerable. An upright piano -occupied a corner; a sheet of music lay open on the rack. He was bending -over it, to spell out the composer’s name, when he heard a rustling of -silk, and, turning around, he made his bow to—Mrs. Hart. - -Mrs. Hart was accompanied by her cats. - -Arthur’s spirits sank. - -“Ah, how do you do?” said Mrs. Hart. “I’m so glad to see you.” - -She shook his hand cordially and bade him be seated. He sat down and -looked at the ceiling. - -“Why didn’t you bring your comrade, Mr. Hetzel?” she asked. - -“Oh, Hetzel, he’s got an examination on his hands, you know, and has -perforce become a recluse—obliged to spend his evenings wading through -the students’ papers,” explained Arthur, in a tone of sepulchral -melancholy. - -Mrs. Hart tried to manufacture conversation. Arthur responded -absent-mindedly. Neither alluded to Mrs. Lehmyl. Arthur, fearing to -appear discourteous, endeavored to behave as though it was to profit -by Mrs. Hart’s society alone that he had called. His voice, -notwithstanding, kept acquiring a more and more lugubrious quality. -But, by and by, when the flame of hope had dwindled to a spark, a second -rustling of silk became audible. With a heart-leap that for a moment -rendered him dumb, he heard a sweet voice say, “Good evening, Mr. -Ripley.” He lifted his eyes, and saw Mrs. Lehmyl standing before him, -smiling and proffering her hand. Silently cursing his embarrassment, -he possessed himself of the hand, and stammered out some sort of a -greeting. There was a magic about that hand of hers. As he touched it, -an electric tingle shot up his arm. - -All three found chairs. Mrs. Hart produced a bag of knitting. One of the -cats established himself in Mrs. Lehmyl’s lap, and went to sleep. The -other rubbed up against Arthur’s knee, purring confidentially. Arthur -cudgeled his wits for an apt theme. At last he got bravely started. - -“What a fine-looking old fellow that Mr. Lipman was,” he said. “It -isn’t often that one sees a face like his in America.” - -“No—not among the Americans of English blood; they haven’t enough -temperamental richness,” acquiesced Mrs. Lehmyl. - -“Yes, that’s so. The most interesting faces one encounters here -belong to foreigners—especially to the Jews. Mr. Lipman, you know, is -a Jew.” - -“Naturally, being Mrs. Berle’s brother.” - -“It’s rather odd, Mrs. Lehmyl, but the more I see of the Jews, the -better I like them. Aside from the interest they possess as a phenomenon -in history, they’re very agreeable to me as individuals. I can’t at -all comprehend the prejudice that some people harbor against them.” - -“How very liberal,” If there was a shade of irony in her tone, it -failed of its effect upon Arthur, who, inspired by his subject, went -gallantly on: - -“Their past, you know, is so poetic. They have the warmth of old wine -in their blood. I’ve seen a great deal of them. This neighborhood is -a regular ghetto. Then down-town I rub elbows with them constantly. -Indeed, my best client is a Jew. And my friend, Hetzel, he’s of -Jewish extraction, though he doesn’t keep up with the religion. On the -average, I think the Jews are the kindest-hearted and clearest-minded -people one meets hereabouts. That Mr. Lipman was a specimen of the -highest type. It was delightful to watch his face, when you and he were -playing—so fervent, so unselfconscious.” - -“And he played capitally, too—caught the true spirit of the -music.” - -“So it seemed to me, though of course, I’m not competent to -criticise. Speaking of faces, Mrs. Lehmyl, I hope you won’t mind me -saying that your face does not look to me like and American—I mean -English-American.” - -“There is no reason why it should. I’m not’ English-American.” - -“Ah, I felt sure of it. I felt sure you had Italian blood in your -veins.” - -“No—nor Italian either.” - -“Well, Spanish, then?” - -“Why, I supposed you knew. I—I am a Jewess.” - -“Mercy!” gasped Arthur, blushing to the roots of his hair. “I -hope—I hope you—” He broke off, and squirmed uncomfortably in his -chair. - -“Why, is it possible you didn’t know it?” asked Mrs. Lehmyl. - -“Indeed, I did not. If I had, I assure you, I shouldn’t have put my -foot in it as I did—shouldn’t have made bold to patronize your race -as I was doing. I meant every word I spoke, though. The Jews are a noble -and beautiful people, with a record that we Gentiles might well envy.” - -“You said nothing that was not perfectly proper. Don’t imagine for -an instant that you touched a sensitive spot. I am a Jewess by birth, -though, like your friend, Mr. Hetzel, I don’t go to the temple. Modern -ceremonial Judaism is not to me especially satisfying as a religion.” - -“You are not orthodox?” - -“I am quite otherwise.” - -“I am glad to hear it. I am glad that there is this tendency amoung -the better educated Jews to cast loose from their Judaism. I want to see -them intermarry with the Christians—amalgamate, and help to form the -American people of the future. That of course is their destiny.” - -“I suppose it is.” - -“You speak as though you regretted it.” - -“No; I don’t regret it. I am too good an American to regret it. -But it is a little melancholy, to say the least, to see one of the most -cherished of Jewish ideals being abandoned before the first step is made -toward realizing it.” - -“What ideal is that?” - -“Why, the hope that cheered the Jews through the many centuries of -their persecution—the hope that a time would come when they could -compel recognition from their persecutors, when, as a united people, -they could stand forth before the world, pure and strong and upright, -and exact credit for their due. The Jew has been for so long a time the -despised and rejected of men, that now, when he has the opportunity, it -seems as though he ought to improve it—show the stuff he is made of, -prove that Shylock is a libel upon him, justify his past, achieve great -results, demonstrate that he only needed light and liberty to -develop into a leader of progress. The Jew has eternally been -complaining—crying, ’You think I am such an inferior style of -personage; give me a chance, and I will convince you of your error.’ -Now that the chance is given him, it seems a pity for him quietly to -efface himself, become indistinguishable in the mass of mankind. I -should like him to retain the name of Jew until it has grown to be -a term of honor, instead of one of reproach. However, his destiny is -otherwise; and he must make the best of it. It is the destiny of the -dew-drop to slip into the shining sea.’ Probably it is better that it -should be so.” - -“But how many Jews are there who would subscribe to your view of the -case—who would admit that amalgamation is inevitable?” - -“Doubtless, very few. Most of them have no views at all on the -subject. The majority of the wealthier Jews here in America are -epicureans. Eat, drink, be merry, and lay up a competence for the rainy -day, is about their philosophy. But among the older people the prejudice -against intermarriage is wonderfully strong. We shall have to wait for -a generation or two, before it can become common. But it is a prejudice -pure and simple, the offspring of superstition, and not the result of -allegiance to that ideal I was speaking of. The average Jew of a certain -age may not care a fig for his religion, but if he hears of an instance -of intermarriage, he will hold up his hands in horror, and wag his head, -and predict some dire calamity for the bride and bridegroom. The same -man will not enter a synagogue from year’s end to year’s end, and -should you happen to discuss theology with him, you’d put him down for -an out-and-out rationalist at once. But then, plenty of people who -pride themselves on being freethinkers, are profoundly -superstitious—Gentiles as well as Jews.” - -“No doubt about that. In fact, I think that every body has a trace -of superstition in his makeup, no matter how emancipated he may fancy -himself. Now I, for example, can’t help attributing some uncanny -potency to the number seven. There are more things in heaven and earth -than are dreamed of by modern science; and perhaps superstition is -a crude way of acknowledging this truth. It is the reaction of the -imagination, when confronted with the unknowable.” - -“It seems to me that much which passes for superstition in the world, -ought not to be so called. It is, rather, a super-sense. There is a -subtle something that broods over human life—as the aroma broods over -a goblet of old wine—a something of such fine, impalpable texture, -that many men and women are never able to perceive it, but which -others of more sensitive organization, feel all the time—are forever -conscious of. This is the material which the imagination seizes hold of, -and out of which it spins those fantastic, cobweb shapes that practical -persons scoff at as superstitions. I can’t understand, however, how -any body can specialize it to the extent of linking it to arithmetic, as -you do, and as those do who are afraid of thirteen.” - -“What you have reference to falls, rather, under the head of -mysticism, does it not? And mysticism is one form of poetry. You come -rightfully by your ideas on this subject. A strain of mysticism is your -birthright, a portion of your inheritance as a Jewess. It’s one of the -benefits you derive from being something more than an American.” - -“Oh, but I am an American, besides. It is a privilege to be one.” - -“I meant American of English ancestry. We are all Americans—or more -precisely, we are all immigrants or the descendants of immigrants. But -those of us that have an infusion of warmer blood than the English in -our veins, are to be congratulated.” - -“It seems to me that Ripley is an English name.” - -“So it is. But my father’s mother was a Frenchwoman.” - -“A ruddy drop of Gallic blood outweighs a world of gold,” parodied -Mrs. Lehmyl. - -“Oh, you may make fun of me, if you like,” cried Arthur; “but -my comfort in thinking of that French grandmother of mine will remain -undiminished. I wonder,” he added, more gravely, “I wonder whether -you have ever suffered from any of the indignities that your people are -sometimes put to, Mrs. Lehmyl. I declare I have been tempted to wring -the necks of my fellow Gentiles, now and then.” - -“Suffered? I have occasionally been amused. I should not have much -self-respect, if any thing like that could cause me suffering. Last -summer, for instance, Mrs. Hart and I were in the mountains, at a hotel. -Every body, to begin with, was disposed to be very sociable. Then, -innocently enough, one day I said we were Jewesses. After that we were -left severely alone. I remember, we got into an omnibus one afternoon to -drive to the village. A young man and a couple of young ladies—guests -at the same house—were already in it. They glared at us quite -savagely, and whispered, ’Jews!’ and signaled the driver to stop and -let them out. So we had the conveyance to ourselves, for which we were -not sorry.” - -“I wish I had been there!” cried Arthur, with astonishing energy. - -“Why?” asked Mrs. Lehmyl. - -“Oh, that young man and I would have had an interview alone,” he -answered, in a blood-curdling key. - -“He means that he would have given that young man a piece of his -mind,” put in Mrs. Hart. - -The sound of her voice occasioned Arthur a veritable start. He had -forgotten that she was present. - -“I hope not,” said Mrs. Lehmyl. “To resent such conduct would lend -undue importance to it.” - -“All the same it makes my blood boil—the thought that those young -animals dared to be rude to you.” - -The pronoun “you” was spoken with a significant emphasis. A -student of human nature could have inferred volumes from it. Mrs. Hart -straightway proceeded to demolish her own claims to be called a student -of human nature, if she had any, by construing the syllable in the -plural number. - -“I’m sure we appreciate your sympathy,” she said. “Ruth, play a -little for Mr. Ripley.” - -Was this intended as a reward of merit? Contrariwise to the gentleman in -Punch, Arthur would so much rather have heard her talk than play. - -“Shall I?” she asked. - -“Oh, I should be delighted,” he assented. - -She played the Pathetic Sonata. Before she had got beyond the first -dozen bars, Arthur had been caught up and borne away on the strong -current of the music. She played with wonderful execution and perfect -feeling. I suppose Arthur had heard the Pathetic Sonata a score of times -before. He had never begun to appreciate it till now. It seemed to him -that in a language of superhuman clearness and directness, the subtlest -and most sacred mysteries of the soul were being explained to him. -Every emotion, every passion, that the heart can feel, he seemed to -hear expressed by the miraculous voice that Mrs. Lehmyl was calling into -being; and his own heart vibrated in unison. Deep melancholy, breathless -terror, keen, quivering anguish, blank despair; flashes of short-lived -joy, instants of hope speedily ingulfed in an eternity of despond; -tremulous desire, the delirium of enjoyment, the bitter awakening to -a sense of satiety and self-deception; intervals of quiet reflection, -broken in upon by the turbulent cries of a hundred malicious spirits; -weird glimpses into a world of phantom shapes, exaltation into the -seventh heaven of delight, descent into the bottom pit of darkness; -these were a few of the strange and vague, but none the less intense, -emotional experiences through which Mrs. Lehmyl led him. When she -returned to her chair, opposite his own, he could only look upon her -face and wonder; he could not speak. A delicate flush had overspread -her cheeks, and her eyes shone even more brightly than their wont. She -evidently misunderstood his silence. - -“Ah,” she said, with frank disappointment, “it did not please -you.” - -“Please me?” he cried. “No, indeed, it did not please me. It was -like Dante’s journey through the three realms of the dead. It was -like seeing a miracle performed. It overpowered me. I suppose I am -too susceptible—weak, if you will, and womanish. But such music as -that—I could no more have withstood its spell, than I could withstand -the influence of strong wine.” - -“Speaking of strong wine,” said Mrs. Hart, “what if you should try -a little mild wine?” And she pointed to a servant who had crossed the -threshold in the midst of Arthur’s rhapsody, and who bore a tray with -glasses and a decanter. - -“In spite of this anti-climax,” he said, sipping his wine, “what I -said was the truth.” - -“It is the fault, no doubt, of your French blood, Monsieur,” said -Mrs. Lehmyl. “But I confess that, perhaps in a moderated degree, music -has much the same effect upon me. When I first heard La Damnation de -Faust, I had to hold on to the arms of my chair, to keep from -being carried bodily away. You remember that dreadful ride into -perdition—toward the end? I really felt that if I let go my anchorage, -I should be swept off along with Faust and Mephistopheles.” - -“I remember. But that did not affect me so. I never was so affected -till I heard you play just now.” - -“I don’t know whether I ought to feel complimented, or the -reverse.” - -“What is the feeling we naturally have at perceiving our power over -another human being?” Mrs. Lehmyl changed the subject. - -“That was an exceedingly clever guess you made the other day,” -she said, “that I was a lover of Browning. I can’t understand what -suggested it.” - -“I told you then that I dared not enlighten you, lest I might be -deemed presumptuous. If you will promise me absolution, beforehand—” - -“But you, too, I take for granted, share my sentiments.” - -“What I have read is unsurpassed. ’The Inn Album,’ for example.” - -“And ’The Ring and the Book.’.rdquo; - -“I haven’t read ’The Ring and the Book.’.rdquo; - -“Oh, then you must read it at once. Then you don’t half know -Browning. Will you read it, if I lend it to you?” - -“You are very kind. I should like nothing better.” - -Mrs. Lehmyl begged to be excused and left the room. Arthur followed the -sound of her light, quick footsteps up the stairs. - -“Browning is her patron saint,” volunteered Mrs. Hart. “She spends -her time about equally between him and her piano.” - -Mrs. Lehmyl came back. - -“There,” she said, giving him the volume, and smiling, “there is -my vade mecum. I love it almost as dearly as I could if it were a human -being. You must be sure to like it.” - -“I am sure you honor me very highly by entrusting it to me,” he -replied. - -At home he opened it, thinking to read for an hour or two before going -to bed. What interested him, however, even more than the strong, virile, -sympathetic poetry, and, indeed, ere long, quite absorbed his attention, -were the traces of Mrs. Lehmyl’s ownership that he came across every -here and there—a corner dog-eared, a passage inclosed by pencil -lines, a fragment of rose-petal stuck between the pages. It gave him a -delicious sense of intimacy with her to hold this book in his hands. Had -not her hand warmed it? her hair shadowed it? her very breath touched -it? Had it not been her companion in solitary moments? a witness to the -life she led when no human eye was upon her? What precious secrets -it might have whispered, if it had had a tongue! There was a slight -discoloration of the paper, where Pompilia tells of her miseries as -Guido’s bride. Who could say but that it had been caused by Mrs. -Lehmyl’s tears? That she had loaned him the book seemed somehow like -a mark of confidence. On the flyleaf something had been written in ink, -and subsequently scratched out—probably her name. He wondered why she -had erased it. Toward the close of Caponsacchi’s version, one of the -pages had been torn clear across, and then neatly pasted together with -tissue paper braces. He wondered what the circumstances were under which -the mischief had been done, and whether the repair was her handiwork. A -faint, sweet perfume clung to the pages. It had the power of calling her -up vividly before him, and sending an exquisite tremor into his heart. -And, withal, had any body suggested that he was at the verge of falling -in love with her, he would have denied it stoutly—so little was he -disposed to self-analysis. - -But ere a great while, the scales fell from his eyes. - -By dint of much self-discipline, he managed to let a week and a day -elapse before paying his second call. While he stood in the vestibule, -waiting for the opening of the door, sundry bursts of sound escaping -from within, informed him that a duet was being played upon the piano. -Intuitively he concluded that the treble part was Mrs. Lehmyl’s; -instinctively he asked, “But who is carrying the bass?” On entering -the parlor, it was with a sharp and significant pang that he beheld, -seated at Mrs. Lehmyl’s left, no less redoubtable a creature than a -Man. He took a chair, and sat down, and suffered untold wretchedness -until that duet was finished. He could not see the man’s face, but the -back of his head indicated youth. The vicissitudes of the composition -they were playing brought the two performers painfully close together. -This was bad enough; but to poor Arthur’s jealous mind it seemed as -if from time to time, even when the music furnished no excuse, they -voluntarily approached each other. Every now and then they hurriedly -exchanged a whispered sentence. He felt that he would eagerly have -bartered his ten fingers for the right to know what it was they said. -How much satisfaction would he have obtained if he had been stationed -near enough to overhear? All they said was, “One, two, three, four, -five, six.” Perhaps in his suspicious mood he would have magnified -this innocent remark into a confidence conveyed by means of a secret -code. - -When the musicians rose Arthur experienced a slight relief. Mrs. Lehmyl -greeted him with marked kindness, and shook hands warmly. She introduced -her co-executant as Mr. Spencer. And Mr. Spencer was tall, lean, gawky -and bilious-looking. - -But Arthur’s relief was of short duration. Mr. Spencer forthwith -proceeded to exhibit great familiarity with both of the ladies—a -familiarity which they did not appear to resent. Mrs. Hart, indeed, -reciprocated to the extent of addressing him as Dick. His conversation -made it manifest that he had traveled with them in Europe. He was -constantly referring to people and places and events about which Arthur -was altogether ignorant. His every other sentence began: “Do you -remember?” Arthur was excessively uneasy; but he had determined to sit -Mr. Spencer out, though he should, peradventure, remain until sunrise. - -Mr. Spencer did indeed remain till the night had got on its last legs. -It lacked but a quarter of midnight when, finally, he accomplished his -exit. - -Said Mrs. Hart, after he had gone: “A Boston man.” - -“We met him,” said Mrs. Lehmyl, “at Aix-les-Bains. He’s a -remarkably well-informed musician—writes criticisms for one of the -Boston papers.” - -“He came this evening,” went on Mrs. Hart, “to tell us of the -happy termination of a love affair in which he was involved when we last -saw him. He’s going to be married.” - -At these words Arthur’s spirits shot up far above their customary -level. So! There was no occasion for jealousy in the quarter of Mr. -Spencer, at any rate. The reaction was so great that had Mr. Spencer -still been present, I think our hero would have felt like hugging him. - -“A very fine fellow, I should judge,” he said. “I have outstaid -him because I wanted to tell you that Hetzel and I have devised a jolly -little plan for Sunday, in which we are anxious to have you join us. Our -idea is to spend the afternoon in the Metropolitan Art Museum. You know, -the pictures are well worth an inspection; and on Sunday there is no -crowd. Hetz has procured a Sunday ticket through the courtesy of -the director. Then, afterward, you are to come back with us and take -dinner—if the weather permits, out on our roof. Mrs. Berle will be at -the dinner, though she doesn’t care to go with us to see the pictures. -We may count upon you, may we not?” - -“Oh, certainly; that will be delightful,” said Mrs. Hart. - -“Then we will call for you at about three o’clock?” - -“Yes.” - -“Good-night.” - -His hand was hot and trembling as it clasped Mrs. Lehmyl’s; a state -of things which she, however, did not appear to notice. She gazed calmly -into his eyes, and returned a quiet good-night. He stood a long while -in the doorway of his house, looking across at No. 46. He saw the light -quenched in the parlor, and other lights break out in the floors -above. Then these in their turn were extinguished; and he knew that the -occupants were on their way to the land of Nod. “Good angels guard her -slumbers,” he said, half aloud, and climbed the stairs that led to his -own bedchamber. There he lay awake hour after hour. He could hear the -waters of the river lapping the shore, and discern the street lamps -gleaming like stars along the opposite embankment. Now and again a -tug-boat puffed importantly up stream—a steam whistle shrieked—a -schooner glided mysteriously past. I don’t know how many times he -confessed to his pillow, “I love her—I love her—I love her!” - -The next day—Saturday—he passed in a fever of impatience. It seemed -as though to-morrow never would arrive. At night he scarcely slept two -hours. And on Sunday morning he was up by six o’clock. Then, how the -hours and minutes did prolong themselves, until the hands of his watch -marked three! - -“What’s the matter with you?” Hetzel asked more than once. -“Why are you so restless? You roam around like a cat who has lost her -kittens. Any thing worrying you? Feeling unwell? Or what?” - -“Oh, I’m a little nervous—guess I drank more coffee for breakfast -than was good for me,” he replied. - -He tried to read. The print blurred before his eyes. He tried to write a -letter. He proceeded famously thus far: “New York, May 24, 1884.—My -dearest mother.—” But at this point his pen stuck. Strive as he -might, he could get no further. - -He tore the paper up, in a pet. He smoked thrice his usual allowance of -tobacco. Every other minute he had out his watch. He half believed that -Time had slackened its pace for the especial purpose of adding fuel -to the fires that were burning in his breast. Such is the preposterous -egotism of a man in love. - -When at length the clock struck half after two, his pulse quickened. -This last half hour was as long as the entire forepart of the day had -been. With each moment, his agitation increased. Finally he and Hetzel -crossed the street. He had to bite his lips and press his finger-nails -deep into the flesh of his hands, in order to command a tolerably -self-possessed exterior. - -Arthur says that he remembers the rest of that Sunday as one remembers a -bewildering dream. He remembers, to begin with, how Mrs. Lehmyl met him -in Mrs. Hart’s drawing-room, and gave him a warm, soft hand, and spoke -a few pleasant words of welcome. He remembers how his heart fluttered, -and how he had to catch for breath, as he gazed into her unfathomable -eyes, and inhaled that daintiest of perfumes which clung to her apparel. -He remembers how he marched at her side through Fiftieth Street to -Madison Avenue, in a state of delirious intoxication, and how they -mounted a celestial chariot—Hetzel says it was a Madison Avenue horse -car—in which he sat next to her, and heard her voice mingle with the -tinkling of silver bells, like a strain of heavenly music. He -remembers how they sauntered through the galleries, chatting together -about—oddly enough, he can not remember what. Oddly enough, also, he -can not remember the pictures that they looked at. He can remember only -“the angelic radiance of her face and the wonderful witchery of her -presence.” Then he remembers how they walked home together through the -Park, green and fragrant in the gentle May weather, and took places -side by side at the table on the roof. “What is strangest,” he says, -“is this, that I do not remember any thing at all about the other -people who were present—Hetzel and Mrs. Berle and Mrs. Hart. As I look -back, it seems as though she and I had been alone with each other the -whole time.” “But we were there, nevertheless,” Hetzel assures -me; “and one of us enjoyed hugely witnessing his young friend’s -infatuation. It was delightful to see the big, stalwart, imperious -Arthur Ripley, helpless as a baby in the power of that little woman. One -not well acquainted with him might not have perceived his condition; but -to me it was as plain as the nose on his face.”—“There was a full -moon that evening,” Arthur continues, “and I wish you could have -seen her eyes in the moonlight. I kept thinking of the old song, - - -’In thy dark eyes splendor, - -Where the warm light loves to dwell.’.rdquo; - - -“I dare say you’ll think me sentimental, but I can’t help it. -The fact is that those eyes of hers glowed with all the tenderness and -pathos and mystery of a martyr’s. Pale, ethereal fires burned deep -down in them, and showed where her soul dwelt. They haunted me for days -afterward. Days? No—months. They haunt me now. My heart thrills at -this moment, thinking of them, just as it did then, when I was looking -into them. I tell you it hurt here”—thumping his chest—“when I -had to part with her. It was like—yes, sir; you needn’t smile—it -was like having my heart wrenched out. My senses were in confusion. I -walked up and down my floor pretty much all night. You never saw such a -wretched fellow. At least I fancied I was wretched. The thought of how -hopeless my case was—of how unlikely it was that she would ever care -a farthing for me—drove me about frantic. All the same, I wouldn’t -have exchanged that wretchedness for all the other treasures of the -world.” In this exaggerated vein, he would gladly babble on for the -next twenty pages; but to what profit, since it is already clear that he -was head-over-ears in love? - -Of course Arthur had no idea of making a declaration. That she should -cherish for him a feeling at all of the nature of his for her, seemed -the most improbable of contingencies. So long as he could retain the -privilege of seeing her frequently, he would be contented; he would not -run the risk of having it withdrawn by revealing to her a condition -of affairs which, very likely, she would not sanction. His supremest -aspiration, he derived a certain dismal satisfaction from fancying, -would be realized if he could in some way become useful and helpful to -her, no matter after how lowly a fashion. Henceforward he spent at least -one evening a week in her company. ’She never received him alone; -but Mrs. Hart’s presence was not objectionable, because she had the -sensible custom of knitting in silence, and leaving the two younger -folks to do the talking. Their talk was generally about music and -literature and other edifying themes; rarely about matters personal. -Arthur got pretty well acquainted with Mrs. Lehmyl’s views and tastes -and habits of thought; but when he stopped to reckon up how much he had -gathered concerning herself, her family connections, her life in the -past, he acknowledged that it could all be represented by a solitary -nought. Not that she was conspicuously reserved with him. She made it -unmistakably evident that she liked him cordially. Only, the pronouns, I -and thou, played a decidedly minor part in her ordinary conversation. - -He experienced all the pains and pleasures of first love, and all the -strange hallucinations that it produces. The man who looks at the world -through a lover’s eyes, is as badly off as he who looks at it through -a distorting lens—objects are thrown out of their proper relations; -proportion and perspective go mad; big things become little, and vice -versa. Especially is it remarkable how completely his notions of time -will get perverted. For instance, the hours flew by with a rapidity -positively astounding when Arthur was in Mrs. Lehmyl’s presence. He -would sit down opposite her at eight o clock; they would converse for a -few moments; she would sing a song or two; and then, to his unutterable -stupefaction, the clock would strike eleven! On the other hand, when he -was away from her, time lagged in an equally perplexing manner. He -and Hetzel, to illustrate, would finish their dinner at half past -seven—only a half hour before he would be at liberty to cross the -street. But that half hour! It stretched out like an eternity, beyond -the reach of Arthur’s imagination. Life had changed to a dream or to -a delirium—it would be hard to say which. The laws of cause and effect -had ceased to operate. The universe had lost its equilibrium. Arthur’s -heart would swing from hot to cold, from cold to hot, without a pretense -of physiological rhyme or reason. He became moody and capricious. A -fiber in his composition, the existence of which he had never hitherto -suspected, acquired an alarming prominence. That was an almost womanish -sensitiveness. It was as if he had been stripped of his armor. Small -things, trifling events, that had in the past left him entirely -unimpressed, now smote his consciousness like sharpened arrows. Sights -of distress in the streets, stories of suffering in the newspapers, -moved him keenly and profoundly. He had been reading Wilhelm Meisler. He -could not finish it. The emotions it occasioned him were poignant enough -to border upon physical pain. The long and short of it is that Love -had turned his rose-tinted calcium light upon the world in which Arthur -moved, and so made visible a myriad beauties and blemishes that had -lain hidden in the darkness heretofore. Among other things that Arthur -remarked as curious, was the frequency with which he saw her name, -Lehmyl, or other names resembling it, Lemyhl, Lehmil, etc., on -sign-boards, as he was being whirled through the streets on the elevated -railway. He was sure that he had never seen it or heard it till she had -come to dwell in Beekman Place. Now he was seeing it all the time. He -was disposed to be somewhat superstitious anent this circumstance, to -regard it as an omen of some sort—but whether for good or evil, he -could not tell. Of course its explanation was simple enough. With the -name uppermost in his mind, it was natural that his attention should be -caught by it wherever it occurred; whereas formerly, before he had known -her, it was one of a hundred names that he had passed unnoticed every -day. And yet, emerging from a brown study of which she had been the -subject, it was a little startling to look out of the window, and find -Lehmyl staring him in the face. - -Now and then, if the weather was fine, he would go up-town early and -accompany her for a walk in Central Park. Occasionally he would tuck a -book into his pocket, so that when they sat down to rest he could read -aloud to her. One day the book of his selection chanced to be a volume -of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s shorter tales. They had appropriated unto -themselves a bench in a secluded alley; and now Arthur opened to “The -Snow Image.” - -But before he had proceeded beyond the second sentence, Mrs. Lehmyl -stopped him. “Oh, please—please don’t read that,” she cried, in -a sharp, startled tone. - -Arthur looked up. He saw that her face had turned deathly pale, that her -lips were quivering, and that her eyes had moistened. Thrusting the book -into his pocket, he stammered out a few hasty words of anxiety. She was -not ill? - -“Oh, no,” she said, “not ill. Only, when you began to read that -story—when I realized what it was that you were reading—I—it—it -recalled disagreeable memories. But—shall we walk on?” She was -silent or monosyllabic, and her face wore a grave expression, all the -rest of their time together. At the door of her house she gave him her -hand, and looked straight into his eyes, and said, “You must forgive -me if I have spoiled your afternoon. I could not help it. You know how -it is’ when one is happy—very happy—to be reminded suddenly of -things one would like to forget.” - -Arthur’s heart went out to her in a mighty bound. “When one is -happy—very happy!” The phrase echoed like a peal of gala bells in -his ears. He had a hard struggle to keep from flinging himself at her -feet there in the open street. But all his love burned in the glance he -gave her—an intense, radiant glance, which she met with one that threw -his soul into a transport. She knew now that he loved her! There -could be no doubt about that. And, since her eyes did not quail before -his—since she had sustained unflinchingly the gaze which, more -eloquently than any words, told her of the passion that was consuming -him—might he not conclude—? Ah, no; he would trust himself to -conclude nothing till he had spoken with her by word of mouth. - -“Good-by,” she said. - -“May—may I call upon you to-morrow?” - -“Yes.” - -He relinquished her hand, which he had been clinging to all this time, -and went his way. - -“When one is happy—very happy,” he repeated again and again. “So -she was happy—very happy!—until I opened that ill-fated book. -What can the associations be that darkened her mood so abruptly? But -to-morrow!” - - - - -CHAPTER VI.—“THE WOMAN WHO HESITATES.” - -RIPLEY, attorney, New York: - -“Draft accepted. Begin immediately. - -“Ulrich.” - -Such was the cable dispatch that Arthur got a fortnight after he had -mailed his letter to Counselor Ulrich of Vienna. A fortnight later -still, the post brought him an epistle to the same effect. Then ensued -four weeks of silence. During these four weeks one question had received -a good share of his attention. The substance and the solution of it, -may be gathered from the following conversation held between him and -Peixada. - -Arthur said, “Suppose the residence of your sister-in-law to be -discovered: what next? Suppose we find that she is living in Europe: -how can we induce her to return hither and render herself liable to the -jurisdiction of our courts? Or suppose even that she should turn out to -be established here in New York: what’s to prevent her from packing -her trunks and taking French leave the day after citations to attend the -probate of her husband’s will are served upon her? In other words, -how are we to compel her to stand and deliver? Ignorant as we are of -the nature and location of her properties, we can’t attach them in the -regular way.” - -Peixada said, “Hum! That’s so. I hadn’t thought of that. That’s -a pretty serious question.” - -“At first,” said Arthur, “it struck me as more than serious—as -fatal. But there’s a way out of it—the neatest and simplest way you -can imagine.” - -“Ah,” sighed Peixada, with manifest relief. - -“Now see,” continued Arthur. “Mrs. Peixada shot her husband—was -indicted—tried—acquitted’—yes?” - -“To be sure.” - -“But at the same time she also took the life of a man named Edward -Bolen, her husband’s coachman—eh?” - -“She did—certainly.” - -“Was she indicted for his murder as well as for the other?” - -“She was indicted, yes, but——” - -“But never arraigned for trial. Then the indictment is still in force -against her?” - -“I suppose it is—unless the statute of limitations——” - -“The statute of limitations does not apply after an indictment has -once been found.” - -“Oh.” - -“Well, I was thinking the matter over the other day—confronting that -difficulty I have mentioned, and wondering how the mischief it was to -be surmounted—when it occurred to me that it might be possible to -interest the authorities in our behalf, and so get Mrs. Peixada under -lock and key.” - -“Splendid!” - -“I went over to the district-attorney’s office, and saw Mr. Romer, -the senior assistant, who happens to be a good friend of mine, and told -him the sum and substance of our case. Then I asked him whether for the -sake of justice he wouldn’t lend us the machinery of the law—that -is, upon our finding out her whereabouts, cause her extradition and -imprisonment under the indictment in re Bolen. I promised that you would -assume the entire expense.” - -“And he replied?” - -“That it was a rather irregular proposition, but that he would think -it over and let me know his conclusion.” - -“Well, have you heard from him since?” - -“Yes—yesterday morning I received a note, asking me to call at his -office. When I got there, this is what he said. He said that he had read -the indictment, and consulted his chief, Mr. Orson, and pondered the -matter pretty thoroughly. Extraordinary as the proceeding would be, he -had decided to do as I wished. ’Because,’ he added, ’there’s -a mighty strong case against the woman, and I shouldn’t wonder if it -would be worth our while to try her. At any rate, if you can set us on -her track, we’ll arrest her and take our chances. We’ve made quite -a point, you know, of unearthing indictments that our predecessors -had pigeonholed; and more than once we’ve secured a conviction. It -doesn’t follow that because the jury in the Peixada case stultified -themselves, another jury will. So, you go ahead with your inquiries; -and when she’s firmly pinned down, we’ll take her in custody. Then, -after you’ve recovered your money, we can step in and do our best -to send her up to Sing Sing.’—I declare, I was half sorry to have -prepared new troubles for the poor creature; but, you see, our interests -are now perfectly protected.” - -“A brilliant stroke!” cried Peixada. “Then we shall not merely -rescue my brother’s property, but, indirectly at least, we shall -avenge his death! I am delighted. Now we must redouble our efforts to -ferret her out.” - -“Precisely. And that brings me to another point. I have had a long -letter—sixteen solid pages—from Ulrich, the Austrian lawyer. He has -traced her from Vienna to Paris, from Paris to London. He’s in London -now, working up his clew. The last news of her dates back to May, 1882. -On the 23d of that month she left the hotel she had been stopping at in -London, and went—Ulrich is trying to discover where. I think our best -course now will be to retain an English solicitor, and let him carry the -matter on from the point Ulrich has reached. With your approval, I shall -cable Ulrich to put the affair into the hands of Mr. Reginald Graham, -a London attorney in whom I have the utmost confidence. What do you -think?” - -“Oh, you’re right. No doubt about that. Meantime, here.”—Peixada -handed his legal adviser a check for one hundred dollars. “This is to -keep up your spirits,” he said. - -The above conference had taken place on the forenoon of Wednesday, -the 25th of June. It was on that afternoon that Arthur started to read -“The Snow Image” to Mrs. Lehmyl. - -Next day, after an eternity of impatience, he rang her bell. - -“Mrs. Lehmyl,” said the servant, “is sick in her room with a -headache.” - -“What?” cried Arthur, and stood still, gaping for dismay. - -“Yes,” repeated Bridget; “sick in her room.” - -“Oh, but she will receive me. I call by appointment. Please tell her -that I am here.” - -“She said that she could receive no one; but if you’ll step into the -parlor, I’ll speak to Mrs. Hart.” - -Mrs. Hart appeared and corroborated the maid’s statement. A big lump -gathered in Arthur’s throat. He had looked forward so eagerly to this -moment—had hoped so much from it—and it had been such a long -time coming—that now to have it slip away unused, like this—the -disappointment was bitter. He felt utterly miserable and dejected. As -he dragged himself down the stoop—he had sprung up it, two steps at a -stride, a moment since—he noticed a group of urchins, standing on the -curbstone and grinning from ear to ear. He fancied that they had guessed -his secret, and were laughing at his discomfiture; if he had obeyed his -impulse, he would have wrung their necks on the spot. He crossed the -street, locked himself in his room, and surrendered unresistingly to the -blue devils. - -These vivacious sprites played fast and loose with the poor boy’s -imagination. They conjured up before him a multitude of unlikely -catastrophes. They persuaded him that his case was worse than hopeless. -Mrs. Lehmyl cared not a fig for him. Why, forsooth, should she? Probably -he had a successful rival. That a woman such as she should love -an insignificant young fellow like himself—the bare idea was -preposterous. He was to blame for having allowed the flower of hope to -take root in his bosom. He laughed bitterly, and wondered how he had -contrived to deceive himself even for a moment. - -It was trebly absurd that she should love him after so brief and so -superficial an acquaintance. Life wasn’t worth living; and, but for -his mother and Hetzel, he would put an end to himself forthwith. Yet, -the next instant he was recalling the “Yes” that she had spoken -yesterday, in response to his “May I call to-morrow?” and the -fearless glance with which she had met his eyes. “Ah,” he cries, -“it set my blood afire. It dazzled me with visions of impossible -joy. I could almost hear her murmur—oh, so softly—’I love you, -Arthur!’ You may guess the effect that fancy had upon me.” It is -significant that not once did he pity her for her headache. He took for -granted that it was merely a subterfuge for refusing’ to receive him. -But her motive for refusing to see him— There was the rub! If he could -only have divined it—known it to a certainty—then his suspense -would have been less of an agony, then his mind could have borrowed some -repose, though perhaps the repose of despair. - -Well, he got through the night after a fashion. A streak of cold, gray -light lay along the eastern horizon, and the river had put off the -color of ink for the color of lead, before he fell asleep. His sleep was -troubled. A nightmare played frightful antics upon his breast. It was -broad day when he awoke. The river sparkled gayly in the sunlight, the -sky shimmered with warmth, the sparrows outside quarreled vociferously. -A brief glow of cheerfulness was the result. But memory speedily -asserted itself. Heartsick and weary he began his toilet. “What had I -to look forward to?” he demands. He climbed the staircase, and entered -the breakfast room. Hetzel sat near the window, reading a newspaper. -Hetzel grunted forth a gruff good-morning, without looking up. I doubt -however, whether Arthur knew that Hetzel was there at all. For, as he -crossed the threshold, his eye was caught by something white lying upon -his plate. He can’t tell why—but he guessed at once that it was a -note from Mrs. Lehmyl. His lover’s instinct scented the truth from -afar. - -He snatched the letter up eagerly. But he delayed about opening it. He -scrutinized the direction—written in a frank, firm, woman’s hand. -The paper exhaled never so faint a perfume. Still he did not open it. He -was afraid. He would wait till his agitation had subsided a little. He -could hear his heart going thump, thump, thump, like a hammer against -his side. He had difficulty with his breath. Then a dreadful possibility -loomed up before him! What—what if it should not be from her after -all! This thought endowed him with the courage of desperation. He tore -the missive open. - -He was standing there, one hand grasping the back of his chair, -the other holding the letter to his eyes, when Hetzel, throwing his -newspaper aside, got up, turned about the room, then abruptly came to a -halt, facing Arthur. - -“Mercy upon me, man,” cried Hetzel, “what has happened? Cheeks -burning, fingers trembling! No bad news? Speak—quickly.” - -But Arthur did not speak. - -Hetzel went on: “I’ve noticed lately, there’s been something wrong -with you. You’re nervous, restless, out of kilter. Is there a woman in -the case? Is your feeling for our neighbor something more than a passing -fancy? Are you taking her seriously? Or, are you simply run down-+-in -need of rest and change? Why not make a trip up to Oldbridge, and see -your mother?” - -By the time Hetzel had finished speaking, Arthur had folded his letter -and stowed it away in his pocket. - -“Eh? What were you saying?” he inquired, with a blank look. - -“Oh, I was saying that breakfast is getting cold; coffee spoiling, -biscuit drying up—whatever you choose. Letter from home?” - -“Home? No; not from home,” said Arthur. - -“Well, draw up, anyhow. Is—is—By Jove, what is the matter with -you? Where are you now? Why don’t you pay attention when I speak? What -has come over you the last week or two? You’re worrying me to death. -Out with it! No secrets from the head of the house.” - -“I have no secrets,” Arthur answered, meekly; “only—only, if you -must know it, I’m—” No doubt he was on the point of making a full -confession. He restrained himself, however; added, “There! I won’t -talk about it;” applied himself to his knife and fork, and preserved -a dismal silence till the end of the meal. He went away as soon as -ordinary courtesy would warrant. - -No sooner had he closed the door behind him, than his hand made a dive -into his pocket, and brought out Mrs. Lehmyl’s letter. He read it -through for perhaps the twentieth time. It ran thus: - -“46 Beekman Place, - -“Thursday evening. - -“Dear Mr. Ripley After a sleepless night, my head is aching cruelly. -That is why I was unable to receive you. But, since you had told me that -you were coming, I feel that I must write this note to explain and to -apologize. I should have sent you word not to come, except that until -now I have been too ill to use my eyes. The only help for me when I have -a headache like this, is solitary confinement in a darkened room. I have -braved the gaslight for an instant, to write you this note, and already -I am suffering the consequences. But I felt that I really owed you my -excuses. You will accept them in a lenient spirit, will you not? - -“Sincerely yours, - -“Ruth Lehmyl.” - -I think Arthur’s first sentiment on reading this communication, had -been one of disappointment. It was just such an apology as she might -have written to anybody else under similar circumstances. He had nerved -himself, he thought, for the worst before breaking the seal—for -a decree forbidding him future admittance to her presence, for an -announcement of her betrothal to another man—for what not. But a -quite colorless, polite, and amiable “I beg your pardon,” he had not -contemplated. It produced the effect of a wet blanket. From the high and -mighty heroic mood in which he had torn it open, to the unimpassioned -sentences in which it was couched, was too rapid a transition, too -abrupt a plunge from hot to cold, an anti-climax equally unexpected and -depressing. - -But after a second perusal—and a second perusal followed immediately -upon the first—his pulse quickened. With a lover’s swift faculty for -seizing hold of and interpreting trifles light as air, he discerned what -he believed to be encouraging tokens. Under what obligation had Mrs. -Lehmyl been to write to him so promptly? At the cost of severe pain, she -had hastened to make her excuses for a thing that there was not really -the least hurry about. If she were quite indifferent to him, would she -not have deferred writing until her headache had passed off? To be sure, -it was just such a note as she might have written to Brown, Jones, or -Robinson; but would she have “braved the gaslight” and “suffered -the consequences” for Brown, Jones, or Robinson? Obviously, she had -felt a strong desire to set herself right with him; the recognition of -which fact afforded Arthur no end of pleasure. - -By the time he had committed Mrs. Lehmyl’s note to memory, he was in a -fair way to recover his wonted buoyancy of spirits. - -Of course he rang her door-bell in the afternoon. - -“How is Mrs. Lehmyl to-day?” he inquired of the maid. “I hope her -headache is better.” - -“Oh, she’s all well again to-day—just the same as ever,” was the -reply. - -An idea occurred to him. He had intended merely to inform himself -concerning her health, leave the bunch of flowers he held in his right -hand, and go his way. But if she was up and about, why not ask to see -her? - -“Is—is she in?” he questioned. - -“Oh, yes; she’s in.” - -“Will you please give her my card, then?” - -He walked into the parlor. - -The parlor was darkened—blinds closed to exclude the heat—and -intensely still. The ticking of the clock on the mantel-piece was the -only interruption of the silence, save when at intervals the distant -roar of a train on the elevated railway became audible for a moment. - -Mrs. Lehmyl entered, and gave him her hand, and looked up smiling at -him, all without a word. She wore a white gown, and an amber necklace -and bracelet; and my informant says that she had “a halo of sweetness -and purity all around her.” For a trice Arthur was tongue-tied. - -At length, “I have brought you a few flowers,” he began. - -She took the flowers, and buried her nose in them, and thanked their -donor, and pinned one of the roses at her breast. - -“I hope you are quite well again,” he pursued. - -“Oh, yes,” she said, “quite well.” - -“It was very thoughtful of you to write me that letter—when you were -in such pain.” - -“I owed it to you. I had promised to receive you. It would have been -unfair, if I had not written.” - -“I—I was quite alarmed about you. I was afraid your headache -might—” He faltered. - -“There was no occasion for alarm. I am used to such headaches. I -expect one every now and then.” - -“But—do you know?—at first I did not believe in it—not until -your letter confirmed what Mrs. Hart and the servant had said.” - -“Why?” - -“I thought perhaps—perhaps you did not care to see me, and had -pleaded a headache for politeness’ sake.” - -“You did me an injustice.”—A pause.—“I did care to see you.” - -A longer pause. Arthur’s heart was beating madly. Well it might. She -had pronounced the last sentence with an emphasis calculated to move a -man less deeply in love than he. - -“Do you mean what you have just said?” he asked presently. His voice -quivered. - -“Yes.” - -“I suppose you knew—I—I suppose you knew what it was I wanted to -say to you—what it was I would have said, if I had been admitted.” - -“Yes, I knew,” she answered, in almost a whisper, and bowed her -head. - -Arthur sprang toward her and grasped her hand. “You knew—then, you -know that—that I love you—Ruth!” - -She withdrew her hand, but did not raise her head. He waited for a -moment, breathless; then, “Ah, speak to me—won’t you speak to -me?” he begged, piteously. - -She raised her head now, and gazed into his eyes; but her gaze was not -one of gladness. - -“Yes, alas, alas, I know it,” she said, very slowly. - -Arthur started back. - -“Alas, alas?” he repeated after her. - -“Oh, yes,” she said, in the same slow, grave way; “it is very, -very sad.” - -“Sad?” His eyes were full of mystification. - -“I mean that it is sad that you should care for me. If I had only -foreseen it—but I did not. You knew so little of me, how could I -foresee? But on Wednesday—the way you looked at me—oh, forgive me. -I—I never meant to make you care for me.” - -“I do not understand,” said Arthur, shaking his head. - -“That is why I wanted to see you. After what passed on Wednesday, I -felt that it was best for us both that I should see you and tell you -what a mistake you had made. I wanted to tell you that you must try hard -to forget about it. It would be useless and cruel for me to pretend not -to have understood, when you looked at me so. It was best that we should -meet again, and that I should explain it to you.” - -“But your explanation puts me in the dark.” - -“You would not want to love a woman unless there was hope that some -day you might marry her. Would not that be a great unhappiness?” - -“It is not a question of want. I should love you under any and all -conditions.” - -“But you never, never can marry me.” - -“I will not believe it until—” - -“Wait. Do not say things that you may wish to unsay a moment hence. -You never can marry me, for one sufficient reason—because—” She -hesitated. - -“Because?” There was panic in Arthur’s heart. Was she not a widow, -after all? - -She drew a deep breath, and bit her lip. Her cheek had been pale. Now a -hot blush suffused it. With an air of summoning her utmost strength, -she went on, “You never can marry me, because you never would marry -me—never, unless I should tell you—something—something about -my life—my life in the past—which I can never tell—not even to -you.” - -“Oh!” cried Arthur, with manifest relief. “Is that all?” - -“It is enough—it is final, fatal.” - -“Oh, I thought it might be worse.” - -There befell a silence. Arthur was mustering his forces, to get them -under control.. He dared not speak till he had done this. At last, -struggling hard to be calm, he said, “Do you suppose I care any thing -about your past life? Do you suppose that my love for you is so mean -and so small as that? I know all that it is needful for me to know about -your past. I know you, do I not? I know, then, that every act, every -thought, every breath of your life, has been as pure and as beautiful -as you are yourself. But what I know best, and what it is most essential -for me to know, is this, Ruth, that I love you. I love you! I can not -see that what you have spoken of is a bar to our marriage.” - -“Ah, but I—I would not let you enter blindfold into a union which -some time you might repent. Should I be worthy of your love, if I would? -But, what is worse, were I—were I to tell you this thing—which I can -not tell you—then you—you would not ask me to marry you. Then you -would not love me. The truth—the truth which, if I should become your -wife, I could never share with you—which would remain forever a secret -kept by me from my husband—it is—you would abhor me if you should -find it out. If you should find it out after we were married—if -somebody should come to you and tell you—oh, you would hate me. It is -far more dreadful than you can fancy.” - -“No—no; for I will fancy the worst, and still beg of you to become -my wife. If I loved you less—if I did not know you so well—the hints -you utter might prompt some horrible suspicion in my mind. Will you take -it as a proof of my love, that I dare assert positively, confidently, -this?—Whatever the past may have been, so far as you were concerned in -shaping it, it was good beyond reproach. Whatever your secret may be, it -is not a secret that could show you to be one jot or tittle less noble -than I know you to be. Whatever the truth you speak of is, it is a truth -which, if it were understood in its entirety, would only serve to shed -new luster upon the whiteness of your soul. And should I—should I by -accident ever find it out—and should its form seem, as you have said, -dreadful to me—why, I should say to myself, ’You have not pierced -its substance? You do not understand it. However it may appear to you, -you know that your wife’s part in it was the part of a good angel from -first to last 1’—Now do you think I love you?” - -“But if—if you should find out that I had been guilty of sin—do -you mean to say that—that you would care for me in spite of that?” - -“I mean to say that I love you. I mean to say that no power under -heaven can destroy my love of you. I mean to say that no power under -heaven can prevent my marrying you, if you love me. I mean to say that -my heart and soul—the \ inmost life of me—are already married -to you, and that they will remain inseparably bound to you—to -you!—until I die. More than this I mean to say. You speak of sin. You -sin, forsooth! Well, talk of sin, if you like. Tell me that you have -been guilty of—of what you will—of the blackest crimes in the -calendar. I will not believe it. I will not believe that you were -answerable for it. I will tell you that it was not your fault. I will -tell you that if your hand has ever done any human being wrong, it was -some other will than your own that compelled it. For this I know—I -know it as I know that fire burns, that light illuminates—I know that -you, the true, intrinsic you, have always been as sweet and undefiled -as—as the breath that escapes now from your lips. There are some -things that can not be—that no man could believe, though he beheld -them with his open eyes. Can a circle be square? Can black be white? No -man, knowing you as I know you, could believe that you in your soul were -capable of sin.” - -He had spoken with immense fervor, consuming her the while with his -eyes, and wrenching the hand he held until it must have ached in every -bone. She, again as pale as death, had trembled under his fierce, hot -utterance, like a reed in the wind. But now that he had done, she seemed -to recover herself. She withdrew her hand from his, and moved her chair -away. - -“Mr. Ripley,” she began, “you must not speak to me like this. It -was not to hear you speak like this that I wished to see you to-day. You -make it very hard for me to say what I have to say—what it was hard -enough to say, at the best. But I must say it, and you must listen and -understand. You have not understood yet. Now, please try to.” - -She pressed her hand to her throat, and swallowed convulsively. It -was evident that she was nerving herself to the performance of a most -painful task. Finally she went on, “I have told you frankly that I -understood the other day—understood what you meant when you looked at -me that way. After you were gone, I thought it all over—all that I had -learned. I thought at first that the only thing for me to do would be -never to see you again—to refuse to receive you when you called—to -avoid you as much as I possibly could. That, I thought, would be the -best thing to do. But then I thought further about it, and then it -seemed that that would not be right. To break off in that sudden way -with you, and not to explain it, would be wrong and cruel. So I put -aside that first thought, and said, ’No, I will not refuse to receive -him. I will receive him just as before. Only I will act in such a manner -toward him that he will not say any thing about caring for me. I will -act so as to prevent him from saying any thing about that. Then we will -go on and be friends the same as ever.’ But by and by that did not -seem right either. It would be as cruel as the other, because, if you -really did care for me, it would be a long suspense, a long agony for -you; and perhaps, if nothing were said about it, you might get to caring -still more for me, and might allow yourself to cherish false hopes, -hopes that could never come true. So I decided that this course was -as far from right as the first one. And, besides, I distrusted my own -power—my power to keep you from speaking. It would be a long, long -battle. I doubted whether I should have the strength to carry it -through—always to be on my guard, and prevent you from speaking. -’No,’ I said, ’it is bound to come. Sooner or later, if we go on -seeing each other, he will surely speak. Is it not better that I should -let him know at once—what waiting will make harder for him to hear -and for me to tell him—that I can never become his wife? Then, when he -knows that he has made a mistake in caring for me, then he will go away, -and think of other things, and see other women, and perhaps, by and by, -get over it, and forget about me.’ I knew that if I told you that it -was impossible for us to get married, and why it was impossible, I knew -that you would give up hoping; and I thought that this course was the -best of all. It was very hard. I shrank from the idea of speaking to you -as I have done. Your good opinion is very precious to me. It was hard to -persuade myself to say things to you that would, perhaps, make you -think differently of me. But I felt that it was best. I had no right -to procrastinate—to let you go on caring for me, and hoping for what -could never be. Then I decided that I would see you and tell you about -it right away.” - -She paused and breathed deeply; but before Arthur had had time to put in -a word, she resumed: “I do not believe that you have meant to make -it more difficult for me to-day than it had to be; but it has pained me -very much to hear you speak as you have spoken. You have not understood; -but now you understand—must understand. I never can be your wife. You -must try to get over caring for me. You must go away, now that I have -explained, and never come any more.” - -She had said all this in a low tone, though each syllable had been -fraught with earnestness, and had manifestly cost an effort. Arthur, -during the last few sentences, had been pacing up and down the room. Now -he came to a standstill before her. - -“And do you mean to say,” he demanded, “that that is your -last word, your ultimatum? Do you mean to say that you will send me -away—banish me from your presence—forbid me the happiness of seeing -you and hearing you—all for a mere paltry nothing? If there were a -real impediment to our marriage, I should be the first to -acknowledge it, to bow before it. But this thing that you have -mentioned—this—well, call it a secret, if you will—is this empty -memory to rise up as a barrier between your life and mine? Oh, no, no! -You have spoken of cruelty—you have wished not to be cruel. And yet -this utmost cruelty you seem willing to perpetrate in cold blood. Stop, -think, reflect upon what you are doing! Have you not seen how much I -love you? how my whole life is in my love of you? Do you not know -that what you propose to do—to send me away, all on account of this -miserable secret—is to break my life forever? is to put out the light -forever from my sky, and turn my world to a waste of dust and ashes? Can -you—you who recoil from cruelty—be as wantonly cruel as this? Have -I not told you that I care nothing for your secret, that I shall never -think of your secret, if you will only speak one word? Oh, it is not -possible that you can deliberately break my heart, for a mere dead thing -like that! If it were something actual, something substantial, something -existing now and here, it would be different. Then I, too, should -recognize the size and the weight of it. I should accept the inevitable, -and resign myself as best I could. But a bygone, a thing that is past -and done with, how can you let that stand between us? I can never resign -myself to that. Can’t you imagine the torture of my position? To want -a thing with all my soul, to know that there is no earthly reason why I -should not have it, and yet to know that I can not have it—why, it is -like being defeated by a soap bubble, a vapor. Of what use is all this -talk? We are merely confusing each other, merely beating about the bush. -I have told you what you did not expect to hear. You thought that I -would be swerved from my purpose when you said that you had a secret. -You thought I would go away, satisfied that it was best for us not to -marry. But, you see, you did yourself an injustice. You did not guess -the real depth of the love you had inspired. You see, I love you too -much to care about the past. Confess that you did not consider this, -when, you made up your mind to send me away. But this talk is of no use. -All the talk in the world can not alter the way we stand. Here are the -simple facts: I love you. I love you! I ask you to be my wife. I kneel -down before you, and take your hand in mine, and beg of you not to spurn -my love—not to be guided by a blind, deluded conscience—not to think -of the past—but to think only of the present and the future—to think -only of how much I love you—of how all the happiness of my life is now -at stake, for you to make or to destroy. I ask you to be merciful. I -ask you to look into your heart, and let that prompt you how to act. If -there is one atom of love for me in it—you—” - -He broke off sharply; drew a quick, hard breath. Something—a sudden, -furtive gleam far down in her eyes—a swift coming and going of color -to and from her cheek—caused his heart to throb with an exultant -thrill, that for an instant deprived him of the power of speech. Then, -all at once, “Oh, my God! You do love me. You do love me!” he cried. -He caught her in his arms, and strained her rapturously to his breast. - -For a moment she did not resist. Her face lay for a moment buried upon -his shoulder. It was a supreme moment of silence. Then she broke away. -There were tears in her eyes. She sobbed out, “It is wrong, all -wrong.” - -But Arthur knew that he had gained the day. Her first sign of weakness -was his assurance of success. Protest now as she might, she could no -longer hide her love from him. And if she loved him, what had he to -fear? There was much further talk between them. She tried to regain the -ground she had lost. Failing in this, she wept, and spoke of the wrong -she had done him, and said that she had forfeited her self-respect. But -Arthur summoned all his eloquence to induce her to look at the matter -through his eyes, and in the end—Somewhat later an eavesdropper -outside the parlor door might have caught the following dialogue passing -within: - -Ruth’s voice: “It is strange, Arthur, but a little while ago it -seemed to me that I could never tell that—that thing—I spoke about, -to any living soul; yet now—now I feel quite otherwise. I feel as -though I could tell it to you. I want to tell it to you. It is only -right that I should tell you every thing about my life. It is a long -story; shall I begin?” - -Arthur’s voice: “No, Ruth. Shall I let the happiness of this hour be -marred for you and me, by your thinking and speaking of what would pain -you? Besides, I prefer that you should keep this—this thing—this -secret—as an evidence of my unwavering confidence in you. Why should -we trouble ourselves about the past at all, when the present is at hand, -and the future is waiting for us? You and I—we have only just been -born. The past is dead. Our life dates from this moment. Oh, it is to -the future that we must look!” - -“But it seems as though you ought to know—ought to know your -wife—ought to know who she is, and what she has done.” - -“But I do know her. I do know who she is and what she has done. I -know it all by instinct. I want her to have this constant proof of my -love—that I can trust her without, learning her secrets.” - -“But you will not forget—never forget—that I have offered to -tell you, will you? You will remember that I am always willing to tell -you—that whenever you wish to know it, you will only have to ask -me.” - -“Yes, I will remember it; and it will make me happy to remember it. -But if you wish to tell me something now that I should like to hear, -tell me on what day we shall be married?” - -“Oh, it is too soon to fix that—we can wait about fixing that.” - -“No, no. It must be fixed before I take leave of you to-day. Every -thing must be finally settled. When?” - -“Whenever you wish.” - -“To-morrow.” - -“Of course I did not mean that.” - -“As soon, then, as possible.” - -“Not sooner than—” - -“Not longer at the utmost than a month.” - -“A month? It is a very short time, a month.” - -“But it is a month too long. Make it a month, or less.” - -“Well, a month, then: this day month.” - -“This day month—to-day being Friday—falls on Sunday. Say, rather -this day four weeks, the 25th of July.” - -“How shall I get ready in that interval?” - -“How shall I live through that interval?” - -“What interval? Talking about music, as usual?” said Mrs. Hart, -entering at this moment. “Mr. Ripley, how do you do?” - -“I am the happiest man in the world,” he answered. - -“I congratulate you. Have you won a case?” - -“No; I have won a wife.” - -“I congratulate you doubly. Who is the lady?” - -“Let me present her to you,” he laughed, taking Ruth by the hand. - -Mrs. Hart dropped every thing she held—scissors, spectacles, -knitting-bag—struck an astonished attitude, and uttered a sharp cry of -surprise. Ruth blushed and smiled. For an instant the two ladies stood -off and eyed each other. Then simultaneously they rushed toward each -other, and fell into each other’s arms; and then there were tears and -kisses and incoherent sounds. - -Finally, “I congratulate you trebly,” said Mrs. Hart, turning to -Arthur. - -For a while every body was very happy and very sentimental. - -When, toward midnight, Arthur returned to his own abode, Hetzel asked -him where he had spent the evening. - -“In heaven,” he replied. - -“And with what particular divinity?” - -“With Mrs. Lehmyl.” - -“So?” - -“Yes, sir. And—and what do you suppose? She and I are going to be -married.” - -“What?” cried Hetzel. - -“Yes; we are engaged, betrothed. We are going to be married.” - -“Engaged? Betrothed? Married? You? Nonsense!” - -“Nothing of the kind. Our wedding day is fixed for the 25th of next -month.” - -“Oh, come, be rational.” - -“I am rational. Why should I jest about it?” - -“Have you suddenly fallen heir to a fortune?” - -“Of course not; why?” - -“Why? Why, what are you going to get married on?” - -“How do you mean?” - -“I mean who’s to foot the bills?” - -“I have my income, have I not?” - -“Oh, your income. Oh, to be sure. Let’s see—how many thousands did -it amount to last year?” - -“It amounted to fifteen hundred.” - -“Fifteen hundred what?” - -“Hundred dollars.” - -“Is that all?” - -“It is enough.” - -“Do you seriously intend to marry on that?” - -“Why not?” - -“Why, it won’t keep your wife in pocket handkerchiefs, let alone -feeding and clothing her.” - -“I hadn’t thought about it, but I’m sure we can get along on -fifteen hundred—added to what I can earn.” - -“What was her opinion?” - -“I didn’t mention the subject.” - -“You asked her to marry you without exhibiting your bank account. -Shame!” - -“We love each other.” - -“When poverty comes in at the door, what is it love’s habit to -do?” - -“Such love as ours waxes greater.” - -“And—and your mother. What will she say?” - -“I’m going to write to her to-night—now.” - -“Has your mother much respect for my judgment?” - -“You know she has.” - -“Well, then, tell her from me that you’ve just done a most sensible -thing; that your bride’s an angel, yourself a trump, and each of you -to be envied above all man and woman kind.” - - - - -CHAPTER VII.—ENTER MRS. PEIXADA. - -THE four weeks had wound away. I shall not detain the reader with a -history of them. The log-book of a prosperous voyage is apt to be -dull literature. They were four weeks of delightful progress toward a -much-desired goal—four weeks of unmitigated happiness. The course of -true love ran smooth. Time flew. Looking forward, to be sure, Arthur -thought the hoped-for day would never come. But looking backward from -the eve of it, he was compelled to wonder whither the time had sped. - -On Thursday, the 24th of July, in the office of -Assistant-district-attorney Romer, were seated Arthur, Peixada, and -Mr. Romer himself. Arthur held an open letter in his hand. The letter, -written in a heavy, English chirography, was signed with considerable -flourish, “Reginald Graham.” Arthur had just finished reading it -aloud. Said he, folding it up and putting it into his pocket, “So all -trace of her is lost. We are back at the point we started from.” - -Said Peixada, “Well, we shall simply be obliged to adopt the plan that -I suggested in the first place—advertise.” - -Assented Romer, “Yes, an advertisement is our last hope.” - -“A forlorn one. She would never answer it,” croaked Arthur. - -“That depends,” said Romer. - -“Upon what?” - -“Upon the adroitness with which the advertisement is framed.” - -“Well, for instance? Give us a sample.” - -“Let me think,” said Romer. After a moment’s reflection, “How -would this answer?” And he applied pen to paper. Presently he -submitted the paper for inspection to his companions. Its contents were -as follows: - -“Peixada.—If Mrs. Judith Peixada, née Karon, widow of Bernard -Peixada, Esquire, late of the city of New York, deceased, and formerly -administratrix of the goods, chattels, and credits of said decedent, -will communicate either personally or by letter with her brother-in-law, -Benjamin Peixada, No.——-Reade Street, New York, she will learn -something affecting the interests of her estate greatly to her -advantage.” - -“That, I think,” said Romer, “ought to be inserted in the -principal newspapers of America, England, France, and Germany.” - -“That’s what I call first-rate,” was Peixada’s comment. - -Arthur held his peace. - -“Well,” demanded Romer, “how does it strike you?” - -Arthur deliberated; at length said, “Candidly, Romer, do you regard -that as altogether square and above-board?” - -“Why not? It’s a decoy. The use of decoys in dealing with -criminals—this woman is a criminal, mind you; a murderess and -practically a thief as well—the use of decoys in such cases is -justified by a hundred precedents.” - -“What’s the matter with you?” asked Peixada. “Nothing’s the -matter with me,” retorted Arthur, a bit sharply; “but I must say, I -think such a proceeding as this is pretty low.” - -“Oh, come; no, you don’t,” urged Romer. - -“I do. And what’s more, I won’t lend myself to it. If that -advertisement appears in the papers, Mr. Peixada will have to retain -another man in my place.” - -“But, goodness alive, it’s our last resort. Would you rather have -the whole business fall through? Be reasonable. Why, it’s a ruse the -daintiest men at the bar wouldn’t stick at.” - -“Perhaps they wouldn’t; but I do.” - -“Well, what else is there to be done?” - -“And besides,” said Arthur, not heeding Romer’s question, “you -make a great mistake in fancying that she would be deceived by it. If -that woman is any thing, she’s shrewd. She’s far too shrewd to bite -when the hook’s in sight.” - -“How do you mean?” - -“I mean she’d sniff danger at once—divine that it is—what you -have called it—a decoy. What under the sun could her brother-in-law -have to communicate that would be to her advantage?” - -“All right,” said Romer, shrugging his shoulders; “suggest a more -promising move, and I’ll be with you.” - -“I’ll tell you what,” said Arthur, “I’m not too squeamish. I -won’t connive at downright falsehood; but I’m willing to compromise. -It’s a bitter pill to swallow—it goes against the grain—but I’ll -consent to something like this. Let me take your pen.” - -Arthur scratched off a line or two. - -“Here,” he said. - -“Peixada.—If Mrs. Judith Peixada, née Karon, widow of Bernard -Peixada, Esquire, deceased, will communicate with her brother-in-law, -Benjamin Peixada, No.—— Reade Street, New York, she will confer a -favor,” was what Arthur had written. - -“This,” he added verbally, “will be quite as likely to fetch her -as the other. Its very frankness will disarm suspicion. Besides, it’s -not such an out-and-out piece of treachery.” - -“What do you think, Mr. Peixada?” inquired Romer. - -“Oh, I think she’d sooner cut her thumbs off than do me a favor. But -I leave the decision with you lawyers.” - -“I may as well repeat,” volunteered Arthur, “that in the event -of your employing the form Mr. Romer drew, I shall withdraw from the -case.” - -“Well,” said Romer, “I’m not sure Ripley isn’t right. At any -rate, no harm giving his way a trial. If it should fail to attract -our game, we can use sweeter bait later on. Who’ll see to its -insertion?” - -“I shall have to beg you to do that,” said Arthur, “because -to-morrow I’m going out of town—to stay about a fortnight. I -shall be on deck again two weeks from Monday—August 11th. Meanwhile, -here’s my country address. Telegraph me, if any thing turns up.” - -Telling the story of his morning’s work to Hetzel, he concluded thus, -“I suppose it was a legitimate enough stratagem—one that few lawyers -would stop at—but, all the same, I feel like a sneak. I should like to -kick myself.” - -Hetzel responded, cheeringly, “You’ve made your own bed, and now -you’ve got to lie in it. You ought to have observed these little -drawbacks to the beauty of Themis, before you dedicated yourself to her -service.” - -Next day in Mrs. Hart’s parlor, Arthur Ripley and Ruth Lehmyl were -married. Besides themselves and the clergyman who tied the knot, the -only persons present were Arthur’s mother, Mrs. Hart, Julian Hetzel, -and a certain Mr. Arthur Flint. - -This last named gentleman was Arthur’s godfather, and had been a -classmate of Arthur’s father at Yale college. He was blessed with a -wife, a couple of married daughters, and a swarm of grandchildren of -both sexes; despite which, he had always taken a more than godfatherly -interest in his namesake. For whatever business Arthur had to do, prior -to his connection with Peixada, he was indebted to Mr. Flint. It was -but natural, therefore, that he should have apprised Mr. Flint of his -matrimonial projects as soon as they were distinctly formed. He had -visited him one day at his office, and asked him to attend the wedding. - -“The 25th of July?” cried Mr. Flint. “At such short notice? And -my wife and Sue and Nellie away in Europe! It’s a pity I can’t call -them home by the next steamer, to wish you joy. It’ll break their -hearts not to be present at your marriage. However—however, where are -you going on your wedding-journey?” - -“I haven’t made up my mind. We were thinking of some place on the -New Jersey coast.” - -“The New Jersey coast is all sand and glare. It would spoil your -bride’s complexion. I’ll tell you what you’d better do. -You’d better go and pass your honeymoon at my cottage in New -Hampshire—Beacon Rock. It’s shut up and doing no one any -good—consequence of my wife’s trip to Europe. Say the word, and -I’ll wire Perkins—my general factotum there—to open and air the -house, start fires, and be ready to welcome you with a warm dinner on -the 26th.” - -“You’re too kind. I don’t know what to say,” - -“Then say nothing. I’ll take yes for granted. You’ll find Beacon -Rock just the place for a month’s billing and cooing. Eastward, the -multitudinous sea; westward, the hardy New England landscape; and all -around you, the sweetest air it will ever be your luck to breathe. Look -here.” - -Mr. Flint opened a drawer of his desk and extracted a pile of -photographs. - -“Here’s Beacon Rock taken from every available point of view. Here -are some glimpses of the interior,” he said. - -Divided between delight and gratitude, Arthur could only stammer forth -broken phrases. - -“Oh, by the way, what’s her address?” demanded Mr. Flint, as -Arthur was on the point of bidding him good-by. - -“I thought I had told you. You’ll be sure to call soon, won’t you? -No. 46 Beekman Place.” - -“Now, mum’s the word,” proceeded Mr. Flint. - -“I don’t want you to breathe a syllable of this business to your -sweetheart. Lead her to suppose that you’re going to some Purgatorial -summer hotel; and then enjoy her surprise when she spies Beacon Rock. -Oh, yes, I’ll call and pay her my respects—likely enough some night -this week. Good-by. God bless you.” - -Mr. Flint called, pursuant to his promise. On the stoop, as he was -leaving, he clapped Arthur upon the shoulder, and cried, “By George, -my boy, your Jewess is a jewel!” - -Three days later came a paper parcel, addressed to Mrs. Lehmyl. It -contained a small purple velvet box. To the outside of the box was -attached a card, bearing the laconic device, “Sparks from a Flint.” -Inside, upon a cushion of lavender silk lay a gold breastpin, from the -center of which a cluster of wondrous diamonds shot prismatic rays. It -was the sole bit of jewelry that adorned Ruth’s wedding-gown. - -“Immediately after the ceremony,” says Hetzel, in a letter written -at the time, “they got into a hack, and were driven to the Fall River -boat. We, who were left behind, crossed the street and assembled upon -the loggia. There we waited till the Bristol hove in sight down the -river. Then, until it had disappeared behind Blackwell’s Island, there -was much waving of handkerchiefs between the travelers—whom we -could make out quite clearly, leaning against the rail—and us poor -stay-at-homes. Afterward, Mrs. Ripley and Mrs. Hart adapted their -handkerchiefs to other purposes.” - -A week elapsed before the bride and groom were heard from. Eventually -Hetzel got a voluminous missive. Portions of it read thus: - -“In Boston, as our train didn’t leave till noon, we sought the -Decorative Art Rooms, and spent an hour or so coveting the pretty things -that they are full of. At the depot I had a slight unpleasantness with -the potentate from whom I bought our tickets—(confound the insolence -of these railroad officials! Why doesn’t some ingenious Yankee -contrive an automaton by which they may be superseded?)—but despite -it, we got started comfortably enough, and were set down at Portsmouth -promptly at three o’clock. She enjoyed the drive in an open carriage -through the quaint old New England town immensely; but when we had -reached the open country, and were being whisked over bridges, down -leafy lanes, across rugged pasture lands, on our way to New Castle, her -pleasure knew no bounds. There is something peculiarly refreshing in -this keen New Hampshire air, compounded as it is of pine odors and the -smell of the sea, and something equally refreshing in this homely New -Hampshire landscape, with its thorns and thistles growing alongside -daisies and wild roses. - - -’The locust dinned amid the trees; - -The fields were high with corn,’ - - -as we spun onward behind the horses’ hoofs. Now and then, much to her -consternation, a brilliant striped snake darted from the foot-path -into the bushes.... I had given her to believe, you know, that -our destination was the * * * hotel, a monstrous barracks of an -establishment, perched on the top of a hill in this neighborhood; -and when we clattered past it without stopping, she was altogether -mystified. I parried her questions successfully, however; and at the -end of another half mile Beacon Rock rose before us.... For a while we -did—could do-nothing but race around the outside of the house, and -attempt by eloquent attitudes, frantic gestures, ecstatic monosyllables, -to express something of the admiration which it inspired. Mr. Flint had -shown me photographs of the cottage before I left New York; but he -had shown me no photographs of the earth, sea, and sky by which it is -surrounded—and that is its superlative merit. It falls in perfectly -with the nature round about. It is indigenous—as thoroughly so as the -seaweed, the stone walls, the apple trees. It looks as though it might -have grown out of the soil: or as if the waters, in a mood of titanic -playfulness, had cast it up and left it where it stands upon the shore. -Fancy a square tower, built of untrimmed stone, fifty feet in height and -twenty in diameter, springing straight up from a bare granite ledge— -which, in its turn, sprouts from a grassy lawn, which, in its turn, -slopes gradually down to the rocks at the sea’s edge. This solemn, -sturdy tower is pierced at its base by divers sinister looking -portholes, which suggest cannon and ambushed warriors, but which, -in point of fact, perform no more bellicose a function than that of -admitting daylight into the cellar. Above these there are deep-set -windows, through which the sun pours merrily all day long. I am seated -at one of them, writing, now. . . . The tower faces the sea, and defies -it. Behind the tower, and sheltered by it, nestles the cottage proper, -a most picturesque, gabled, rambling structure of wood, painted terra -cotta red... . . I don’t know how long we stood around outside. -Finally, Mr. Perkins, a native who, aided by his wife, cooks and -’chores’ for us, suggested the propriety of entering. We entered; -and if the exterior had charmed us, the interior simply carried us away. -I shall not attempt an itemized description of it, because probably I -shouldn’t be able to make the picture vivid enough to be worth your -while. But imagine the extreme of aestheticism combined with the extreme -of comfort, and you will get a rough notion of our environment. There -are broad, open fire places, deep chimney corners, luxurious Turkey -rugs, antique chairs and tables, beautiful pictures, interesting -books—though we don’t read them—and every thing else a fellow’s -heart could desire. There is no piano—the sea air would make short -work of one—but I have hired a guitar from a Portsmouth music dealer, -and she accompanies her songs on this.... Our mode of existence has been -a perpetual dolce far niente, diversified by occasional strolls about -the country—to Fort Constitution, a ruin of 1812—to the hotel, where -a capital orchestra dispenses music every afternoon—or simply -across the meadows, without an objective point. We can sight several -light-houses from the tower windows; and a mile out at sea, in -everlasting restlessness, floats a deep-voiced, melancholy bell-buoy, -which recalls all the weird creeping of the flesh we had in reading the -shipwreck in L’homme qui rit.. . . Of course we have written a glowing -letter of thanks to Mr. Flint. She, I forgot to tell you, could not at -first believe her senses—believe that this little earthly paradise was -meant for our occupation. When at last the truth was borne in upon her, -you ought to have witnessed her delight.... Oh, Julian, old boy, you -can’t form the least conception of the great, radiant joy that fills -my heart. I am really half afraid that it’s a dream from which I shall -presently wake up. I don’t dare to verify it by pinching myself, -lest that misfortune might indeed befall me. My happiness is so much in -excess of other men’s, I don’t feel that I deserve it; and sometimes -I am tormented by a morbid dread that it may not last. Just think, she -is actually my wife! Ah, how my heart leaps, when I say that to myself, -and realize all that it means!.... I have tried to put business quite -out of my mind; but now and then it recurs to me, despite myself. I feel -more and more uncomfortable about that advertisement. I have no doubt -the woman richly deserves the worst that can happen to her, and all -that, but nevertheless I can’t get rid of a deucedly unpleasant qualm -of conscience, when I think of the trap I have helped to set for her. -Between ourselves, I derive some consolation from the thought that the -chances are ninety-nine in a hundred that she will decline to nibble at -our bait.... Unless I telegraph to the contrary, expect us to breakfast -with you to-morrow week—Saturday, August 9th.” - -Hetzel carried his letter across the street, and gave it to Mrs. Hart. -She, not to be outdone, read aloud fragments of one which she had -received from Ruth by the same mail. Among the paragraphs in the latter -which she suppressed was this: - -“I have offered twice to tell him the whole story. I very much want -to do so—to have it off my mind. It doesn’t seem right that I should -keep it secret; and he is so kind and tender, I feel that I could bring -myself to tell him every thing. But with characteristic generosity, he -declines to listen—bids me keep my secret as a proof of his confidence -in me. Perhaps, then, it will be just as well for me to wait till we -get back to town. Sooner or later—and the sooner, the better—I shall -insist upon his allowing me to speak. A regret grows upon me daily that -I did not insist upon that before we were married. Though I know so well -that he loves me, my heart stands still when I stop to think, ’How may -he feel towards me when he knows it all?’ or, ’Suppose before I have -explained it to him, he should hear it from somebody else?’ Oh, it is -not possible that he will cease to care for me, is it? I wish I could -go to him this instant, and tell him about it, and then for good and all -know my fate. Why did I wait till we were married? I could not bear to -have him change in his feelings toward me now. Oh, I wish this miserable -secret were off my mind—it tortures me with such terrifying doubts. -But perhaps I had best not interrupt the happiness of his holiday by -introducing a subject which he appears anxious to avoid. Do you agree -with me? I say, I wish I could go, and tell it to him; and yet when the -time comes for doing so, I am afraid my tongue will cleave to the roof -of my mouth. If it should destroy his love for me! make him despise -me! If for a single moment, as I was speaking, he should recoil from -me!—withdraw his hand from mine! Oh, God, why can not the past be -blotted out? I must speak to him before any body else can do so. If some -one of his acquaintances should recognize me, and tell him, what might -he not do? He thinks he would not care. He says no matter what the past -has been, it is totally indifferent to him. But perhaps he would not -feel that way if he really knew it. God bless him and keep him from all -pain!” - -Saturday morning, surely enough, the truants came home, and took up -their quarters at Mrs. Hart’s, where for the present they were to -remain. They hoped to set up a modest establishment of their own in the -spring. - -Late Monday forenoon Arthur screwed his courage to the sticking place, -and tore himself away from his wife’s side. Reading the newspapers on -his way down town, he had the satisfaction of seeing himself in print. -The Peixada advertisement occupied a conspicuous position. He went -straight to his office, where he found a number of letters waiting for -him. These he disposed of as speedily as might be; and then he sallied -forth to call upon Mr. Flint. He got back at about halfpast two -o’clock. Less than five minutes later, his office-boy stuck his head -through the doorway, and announced, “A gentleman to see you.” - -“Show him in.” - -The gentleman appeared. The gentleman wore the garb of a porter. “I -come from Mr. Peixada, sir, with a note,” he explained. - -Arthur took the note and broke it open. The gum on the envelope was -still damp. - -The note bore evidence of having been dashed off in haste. Here it is: - -“Office of B. Peixada & Co., - -“No.———Reade Street, - -“New York, Aug. 11, 1884. - -“Dear Sir: - -“If you are in town, (and to-day was the day fixed for your return), -please come right over here at your earliest convenience. Mrs. P. is in -my private office! I am keeping her till your arrival. - -“Yours truly, - -“B. Peixada.” - -Arthur stood still, his eyes glued upon this sheet of paper, long enough -to have read it through a dozen times. - -“Any answer?” Mr. Peixada’s envoy at last demanded. - -“Oh—of course—I’ll go along with you at once.” - -His heart was palpitating. The prospect of a face to face encounter -with the redoubtable Mrs. Peixada caused him unwonted trepidation. The -tidings conveyed in Peixada’s note were so unexpected and of such -grave importance, no wonder Arthur’s serenity was ruffled. Striding up -Broadway at the messenger’s heels, he tried to picture to himself the -impending scene. The trap had sprung. What manner of creature would the -quarry turn out to be? Poor woman! There was a lot of trouble in store -for her. But it was not his fault. He had done nothing but that -which his duty as an attorney had required of him. He would exert his -influence in her behalf—try to smooth things down for her, and make -them as comfortable as under the circumstances they could be. Still for -all slips of hers, she was one of Eve’s family. He felt that he pitied -her from the bottom of his soul. - -Peixada was nervously pacing back and forth in the show-room. - -“Ah,” he cried, catching hold of Arthur’s hand and wringing it -vigorously, “you have come! What luck, eh? I can scarcely believe it -is true. I’m quite put about by it, I declare. She walked in here, as -large as life, not half an hour ago, and asked to see me. I had no idea -the sight of her would upset me so. I told her that my business with her -was of a legal nature, and I guessed she’d better wait while I sent -round for my attorney. But I was desperately afraid you hadn’t got -back. She acted just like a lamb. I tell you, that advertisement was -a happy thought, wasn’t it? Pity we didn’t advertise in the -first place, and so save all that delay and money. But I’m not -complaining—not I. I’d be willing to spend twice the same amount -right over again for the same result. Now we’ll get a round hundred -thousand; and I won’t forget you.” - -“Have you notified Mr. Romer, too?” - -“Oh, yes; of course. Sent word for him to come with his officers. -She—she’s in my private office—there—behind that door. Won’t -you go in, and tell her about the will, and keep her occupied till they -get here?” - -“I—I think it would be best to wait,” said Arthur, his voice -trembling. - -“No—no. She’ll begin to get impatient. Please go in now. It’ll -relieve my agitation, anyhow. I’m really surprised to find myself so -shaken up. Here—this is the door. Open it, and go ahead in.” - -“Oh—very well,” consented Arthur. - -He put his hand upon the knob, fortified himself with a long breath, and -entered the room. Peixada, sticking his head in behind him, rattled off, -“Here, madam, is the gentleman I spoke to you about. He’ll explain -what we want you for,” and withdrew, slamming the door. - -Peixada’s private office was scarcely more than a hole in the wall—a -small, square closet, lighted by a single grimy window, and destitute of -furniture except for a desk and a couple of chairs. - -In one of these chairs, with her back toward the door, and engaged -apparently in looking out of the window, sat a lady. - -Standing still, a yard beyond the threshold, Arthur said, “I beg your -pardon, madam—Mrs. Peixada.” - -The lady rose, turned around, faced him. - -The lady was his wife. - -A slight, startled smile crossed her face. “Why—Arthur—you—?” -she began in atone of surprise, her eyes brightening. - -But suddenly a change; a look of perplexity, followed by one of -enlightenment, as if a dreadful truth had burst upon her. The blood sank -from her cheeks, her lip curled, her breast fluttered—a terrible fire -flashed from her eyes. She drew herself up. She was awful, but she was -superb. - -“Ah,” she said, “I see. So you have been prying into my secrets -behind my back—you, who were too magnanimous to let me tell them to -you! It was for you that Mr. Peixada bade me wait. This is the surprise -he spoke of—a surprise of your contriving. You have found out who I -am. I hope you are—-” - -She broke off. Her voice had been very low, but had vibrated with -passion. Now, the flaming, contemptuous eyes with which she covered him, -spoke her mind more plainly than her tongue could. - -He, upon her first rising and facing him, had started back, gasping, -“Good God—you—Ruth!” Since then a chaos of emotions had held -him, dumb. - -But gradually he recovered himself in some measure. - -His face a picture of blank amazement, “For heaven’s sake, Ruth, -what does this mean?” he cried. - -She did not hear him. Her anger of a moment since gave way to a paroxysm -of pain. - -“Oh, merciful God,” she moaned, “how I have been deceived! Oh, to -think that he—my—my husband—Oh, it is too much! It is more than I -can bear.” - -She broke down in a torrent of tears and sobs. - -An impulse carried him to her side. He put his arm around her waist, -drew her to him, bent over her, stammered out broken syllables of love, -comfort, entreaty. - -His touch rekindled her wrath, and endowed her frame with preternatural -strength. She repulsed him—flung him away from her, over against the -opposite wall, with as little effort as if he had been a stick in her -path. This fragile woman, towering above this stalwart man, her cheeks -now burning scarlet, her limbs quivering with strong emotion, cried, -“How dare you touch me? How dare you speak to me? How dare you insult -me with your presence? Is it not enough what you have done, without -forcing me to remain in the same room with you? Are you not content to -have consorted with Benjamin Peixada—to have listened to the story -of your wife’s life from that man’s lips—without coming here -to confront me with it—to compel me to defend myself against his -accusations. Wasn’t it enough to put that advertisement in the paper? -Haven’t you sufficiently punished me by decoying me to this place, as -you have done? What more do you want? What new humiliation? Though you -hate me, now that you know who I am and what I haye done—you, who -talked of loving me in spite of every thing—can you not be merciful, -and leave me alone? Go—out of my sight—or, at least, stand aside and -let me go.” - -Her words were followed by a prolonged, convulsive shudder. - -Exerting his utmost self-control, dazed and bewildered as he was, he -began, “Ruth, will you not give me a chance to speak? Will you not -listen to me? Can’t you see that this is some—some frightful error -into which we have fallen—which we can only right by speaking? You are -doing me a great wrong, Ruth. You are wronging yourself. I beg of you, -subdue your anger—oh, for God’s sake, don’t look at me like that. -Try to be calm, Ruth, and let us talk together. Let me explain to you. -Explain to me, for I am as hopelessly in the dark as you can be. Let us -have some understanding.” - -His plea passed totally without effect: I suppose, because his wife was -a woman. The tumult and the violence of the shock she had sustained had -shattered her good sense. Her perceptive faculties were benumbed. Her -entire vitality was absorbed by her pain and her indignation. I doubt -whether she had heard what he said. But she caught at the last word, at -any rate. - -“Understanding? What is there to understand? I understand—I -understand quite enough. I understand that you have sought information -about me from Benjamin Peixada. I understand that it was you who got -me here by false pretenses—by that advertisement. I understand that -you—you think I am—that you believe what Benjamin Peixada has -told you—and that—that the love you protested so much about, has -all—all died away—and you—you shudder to think that I am your -wife. Well, you may understand this, that I too shudder. I shudder to -think that you are my husband—to think that you could have done this -behind my back—that—that you—even when you were pretending to love -me most, and telling me that you did not care about my secret—even -then, you were fraternizing with Benjamin Peixada! You may understand -that, however base you may believe me to be, I believe you to be baser -still. Oh, if you would only go away, and never, never intrude yourself -upon my sight again!” - -Completely undone, he could only press his hands to his temples, and -murmur, “Oh my God, my God!” - -So they stood: he, hanging his head, deserted by his manhood, crushed as -by a blow from out the skies; she, erect, scornful, magnificent, all her -womanhood aroused, all her unspeakable fury blazing in her eyes: so they -stood, when, the door creaking open, two new personages advanced upon -the scene. - -He did not recognize them; but an instinct told him who they were. He -was petrified. It did not occur to him to interfere. - -“Mrs. Peixada, I believe, ma’am?” said one of them, with a smirk. - -He had to repeat his query thrice before she deigned to give him her -attention. - -Then with supreme dignity, bending her neck, “What do you wish with -me?” she asked. - -“Here, ma’am, is a bench-warrant which I have the honor of serving -upon you—matter of the People of the State of New York against Judith -Peixada, otherwise known as Judith Karon, charged with murder in the -first degree upon the person of Edward Bolen, late of the City, County, -and State of New York, deceased. Please come along quiet, ma’am, and -make no resistance.—Donnelly, get behind her.” - -The officer delivered himself rapidly of this address, and thrust his -warrant into the prisoner’s hand. The man spoken to as Donnelly, took -a position behind her, obedient to orders. His superior opened the door, -and pointing toward it, said, “Please move along fast, ma’am.” - -She, flinging one last, brief, scorching glance at her husband, bowed to -the officer, and swept out of the room. - -For an instant Arthur remained motionless, riveted to the spot where she -had left him. All at once his body quivered perceptibly. Then, realizing -what had happened, he dashed headlong through the show-room—heedless -of Romer, Peixada, and a score of Peixada’s clerks, who stood still -and stared—and out into the street, calling, “Ruth, Ruth, come back, -come back,” at the top of his voice. - -On the curbstone, hatless, out of breath, stupefied, he halted and -looked up and down the street. Ruth was nowhere to be seen. - -Here he was joined by Romer and Peixada. - -“What is it—what has happened?” Romer asked. - -“What has happened?” he repeated, dully. “Did—didn’t you know? -She is my wife!” - - - - -CHAPTER VIII.—“WHAT REST TO-NIGHT?” - -PUT yourself in his place. At first, as we have seen, he was simply -stunned, bewildered. His breath was taken away, his understanding -baffled. His senses were thrown into disorder. It was as if a cannon had -gone off under his feet, all was uproar and smoke and confusion. But by -degrees the smoke lifted. The outlines of things became distinct. - -One stupendous fact stared Arthur in the face. Its magnitude was -appalling. Its proportions were out of nature: The sight of it froze his -blood, sickened his heart, turned his brain to stone. Judith Peixada, -the woman whom he had pursued, insnared, betrayed; the woman whom he had -delivered over to the clutches of the law, whom the officers had just -dragged away from him, who even at this moment was under lock and -key for a capital offense in the Tombs prison; the woman whom he had -heretofore regarded as an abandoned murderess, beyond the pale of human -pity, but whom he knew now, all appearances, all testimony, to the -contrary notwithstanding, now at the eleventh hour, to be somehow as -guiltless as the babe unborn: this woman was identical with his wife, -with Ruth, with the lady whom he had wooed and married! He had been -groping in the dark. He had brought his own house crashing down around -his ears. - -The vastness of the catastrophe, its apparent hopelessness, its grim, -far-reaching corollaries, and the bitter knowledge that he might have -prevented it, loomed up before him like a huge, misshaped monster, by -which his earthly happiness was irretrievably to be destroyed. Add to -this his consciousness of what she thought of him, and the sternest -reader must pity his condition. She believed that, surreptitiously, he -had been prying into the story of her life—a story which on more than -one occasion she had volunteered to tell him, but to which, with feigned -magnanimity, he had refused to listen, preferring to gather it covertly -from other lips. She believed that, once having discovered her identity, -he had ceased to love her, and had entered ruthlessly into a conspiracy -whose object it was to lure her within reach of the criminal law. -Unnatural, impossible, enormous, as such baseness would be, she -nevertheless believed it of him. Ignorant of the circumstances, -too indignant to suffer an explanation, she had jumped to the first -conclusion that presented itself, and had gone to her prison, convinced -that her husband had played her false. - -His sensations, of course, were far too complicated, far too turbulent, -to be easily disentangled. Senseless hatred of Peixada for having -crossed his path; senseless hatred of himself for having accepted -Peixada’s case; self-reproach, deep and bitter, for having forbidden -her to share her secret with him; a wild desire to follow her, see -her, speak to her, force her to understand; an intense wish to be doing -something that might help to remedy matters, without the remotest notion -of what ought to be done; a remorse that bordered upon fury, in thinking -of the past; a despair and a terror that bordered upon madness, in -thinking of the future; a sense of impotence that lashed him into -frenzy, in thinking of the present; these were a few of the emotions -fermenting in Arthur’s breast. His intelligence was quite unhinged. He -had lost his reckoning. He was buffeted hither and thither by the waves -of thought and feeling that smote upon him, like a ship without a rudder -in a stormy sea. He wandered aimlessly through the streets, neither -knowing nor caring whither his steps might lead him: while the people -along his route stopped to stare and wonder at this crazy man, who, -without a hat, with eyes gleaming vacantly from their sockets, with -the pallor of death upon his cheek, hurried straight forward, looking -neither to the right nor to the left. His blood coursed like liquid fire -through his arteries. There was the hubbub of bedlam in his ears. The -sole relief he could obtain came from ceaseless motion. - -Toward four o’clock that afternoon Hetzel, who lay prone upon his -sofa, glancing lazily at the last issue of his favorite magazine, heard -a heavy, unsteady footfall upon the stairs. Next instant the door flew -open, and Arthur stood before him, hair awry, clothing disordered, -countenance drawn, haggard, and soiled with dust and perspiration. -Hetzel jumped up, and was at his side in no time. - -“What—what is the matter with you?” he demanded. - -Arthur tottered a short distance into the room, and sank upon a chair. - -It flashed across Hetzel’s mind that his friend might possibly be -the worse for drink. He laid hold of an ammonia bottle, and held it to -Arthur’s nostrils. - -“No—no; I don’t need that,” Arthur said, waving Hetzel away. - -“Well, then, speak. Tell me, what is the trouble?” - -“Oh, Julian, I am ruined. If—if you knew what I have done!” - -Arthur buried his face in his hands. - -“Is—has—has something happened to your wife?” - -“Oh, my wife, my wife,” groaned Arthur, incoherently. - -Hetzel was perplexed, puzzled as to what to do or say; so, very -sensibly, held his tongue. By and by Arthur began, “My wife—my -wife—oh, Hetzel, listen.” - -Then, brokenly, in half sentences, with frequent pauses, he managed -to give Hetzel some account of the day’s happening, winding up thus: -“You—you see how it is. She had offered to tell me that secret she -said she had, but I wouldn’t let her. I wanted her to keep it, to show -her how much I loved her. At least, that’s what I thought. But I—I -know now that it was my cowardice. I was afraid to hear it. We were so -happy, I didn’t want to run any risk of having our happiness -lessened by—by thinking about unpleasant things. My ignorance was -comfortable—I dreaded enlightenment. I was afraid of what it might be. -I preferred to keep it entirely out of my head. God, that was a terrible -mistake! If I had only had the courage to let her speak! But I was -a coward. I went to work and persuaded myself that I was acting from -motives of generosity—that I wanted to spare her the pain of talking -about it—that I loved her too much to care about it—and all that. -But that wasn’t it at all. It was weakness, and downright cowardice, -and evasion of my duty. I see it plainly now—now, when worse has come -to worst. And she—she thinks—she thinks that I made inquiries behind -her back, and found out what it was, and got to be friendly with Peixada -in that way, and then went and put that advertisement into the papers -just for the sake of—of humiliating her—oh, God!—and she thinks -it was I who arranged to have her taken to prison. She actually believes -that—believes that I did that! She wouldn’t listen to me. Her -indignation carried her away. She doesn’t see how unreasonable it is. -She hates me and despises me, and never will care for me again.” - -Hetzel himself was staggered. Arthur’s tale ended, there befell a long -silence. - -Finally Arthur broke out petulantly, “Well, why don’t you speak? Why -don’t you tell me what there is to be done?” - -“It—I think it is very grave. You must let me consider a little -while.” - -Another long silence. Hetzel, with bent head, was walking up and down -the room. At length, coming to a standstill, he began, “Yes, it is -very serious. But it is not—can not be—irremediable. There must be -a way out of it—of course there must. I—I—by Jove, let’s look -it squarely in the face. It will merely make matters worse to—to sit -still and think about how bad it is.” - -“What else is there to do?” - -“This,” answered Hetzel. “We must get her \ out of prison.” - -“That’s very easy to say.” - -“Well, we’ll do it, no matter how difficult it may be. She mustn’t -be left in the Tombs an hour longer than we can help. After that, it -will be time to make her understand your part in the business. But now -we must bend every muscle to get her out of prison. Whom do you know who -will go bail for her?” - -“That’s the worst of it. They don’t take bail in—in—murder -cases,” - -“They don’t? Are you sure? Is it never done? We must move heaven and -earth to induce them to, in this case.” - -“It’s their rule. Romer might depart from it, she being—who she -is. But I am afraid not.” - -“Well, we must try, at any rate, and without dillydallying. Whom can -you get to go upon her bond?” - -“The only person I know would be Mr. Flint.” - -“Then we must see Mr. Flint at once. Where does he live? Every minute -is precious. We’ll ask him to be her bondsman. Then we’ll seek out -Romer, and persuade him. If he’s got a grain of manhood in him, -he won’t refuse. If we make haste, there’s no reason why she -shouldn’t be free before sundown to-night. Come—let’s be about -it.” - -Hetzel’s speech really inspired Arthur with a certain degree of hope -and confidence. At all events, it was a relief to feel that he was doing -something to repair the mischief he had wrought. So, in a hat borrowed -from his chum, he led the way to Mr. Flint’s residence. - -On the way thither he began, “To think that it was I who started the -authorities upon her track—-I who urged them to prosecute her! And to -think how the prosecution may end!” - -Hetzel retorted, “End? I wish the end had come. I’m not afraid -of the end. I know nothing of the circumstances of the case, but I do -know—and you know, and we all know—that she never was guilty of -murder. I know that we can prove it, too—establish her innocence -beyond a shade of suspicion. We shall only need strength and patience to -do that. You needn’t worry about the end.” - -“But the meanwhile, then! Meanwhile, fancy what she thinks of me! -Fancy her despair! Meanwhile, she—she may die—or—she may go -mad—or kill herself.” - -“You little know your wife, if you think that. She’s altogether too -strong a woman to succumb to misfortune like that, altogether too noble -a woman to do any thing of that kind. And as for her opinion of you, -why, it stands to reason that she’ll see the absurdity of it, as -soon as the first shock has passed off. Just as soon as she’s in -a condition to use her mind, and think things over, she’ll say to -herself that there’s something which she doesn’t understand, and -she’ll ask you to explain. Take my word for it.” - -As they mounted Mr. Flint’s steps, Arthur said, “Will—will you -do the talking? I don’t think I could bear to go over the whole story -again.” - -Mr. Flint had but just got home from down-town. He was now in his bath. -He sent word to the callers that he would dress and be with them as -quickly as he could. They waited silently in the darkened drawing room, -and listened to the ticking of an old-fashioned hall-clock. In about ten -minutes Mr. Flint joined them. - -Hetzel stated their errand. Of course, Mr. Flint was horrified and -amazed. Of course, he agreed eagerly to do every thing in his power to -aid them. - -“Now then, for Romer,” said Hetzel. “Where shall we find him?” - -“I don’t know,” said Arthur. “We must look in the directory.” - -They stopped at an apothecary’s shop, noted Romer’s address, and -started for the nearest elevated railway station. - -Half way there Mr. Flint halted. - -“No,” he said, “we can’t depend upon the cars. We must have a -carriage. There’s no telling how much traveling we shall have to do, -before this business is completed.” - -They engaged a carriage at a hack-stand hard-by; and in it were jolted -over the cobble-stones to Mr. Romer’s abode. - -Mr. Romer was not at home! - -For a moment they gazed blankly into each other’s faces. Finally Mr. -Flint said, “Where has he gone?” - -“I don’t know,” returned the servant. - -“Is there any body in this house who does know?” - -“His mother might.” - -“Well then, we want to see his mother.” - -The servant left them in the vestibule, and went up-stairs. Presently -she returned, accompanied by a corpulent old lady. - -“Did you desire to see Mr. Romer upon official business?” inquired -the old lady. - -“We did, madam—important official business,” said Mr. Flint. - -“Then, gentlemen, you can’t see him till to-morrow morning at his -office. He don’t see people officially after office-hours. If he did, -he’d get no peace.” - -Mr. Flint accepted the situation, and was equal to it. - -“I understand,” he said; “but this is business in which Mr. Romer -is personally interested. We must see him to-night. To-morrow morning -will be too late. If you know where he is, you’d better tell us. -Otherwise, I shan’t answer for his displeasure.” - -“Oh, in that case,” said the old lady, quite deceived by Mr. -Flint’s white lie, “in that case, you’ll find him dining at the * -* * Club. At least, he said he should dine there, when he left the house -this morning.” - -“Thank you, madam,” said Mr. Flint. In the carriage, “Bless my -soul!” he added. “It couldn’t have fallen out better. I’m a -member of the * * * Club, myself.” - -They entered the club-house. Mr. Flint led Arthur and Hetzel into -the reception-room, where, for a moment, he left them alone. -Shortly returning, “Mr. Romer,” he announced, “is in the -bowling-alley—hasn’t yet gone up to dinner. I’ve sent him my -card.” - -In due time Romer appeared, his face flushed by recent exercise. -Catching sight of Arthur, “What, you—Ripley?” he exclaimed. -“I’d fust been telling the fellows down-stairs about—that -is—I—well, I—I’m real glad to see you.” - -“Mr. Romer,” said Mr. Flint, plunging in medias res, “I have -ventured to disturb you in your leisure for the purpose of offering bail -in the case of Mrs. Ripley, who, I am informed, was taken in custody -to-day by your officers.” - -“Oh,” said Romer, “a question of bail.” - -“Yes—we want to give bail for the lady at once—in any amount -that you may wish—but without delay. She must be out of prison before -to-morrow morning.” - -“Hum,” mused Romer, “I don’t see how you’ll manage it.” - -“Manage it? What is there to be managed? I offer bail; it only remains -for you to take it.” - -“Oh, excuse me, but I have no authority in the matter—no more than -you yourself. Mr. Orson, my chief, is the man for you to see, and he’s -out of town. We don’t take bail generally in murder cases; and I -can’t make an exception of this one—though I’d like to, first -rate, for Ripley’s sake. Perhaps Mr. Orson might do so—in fact I -should advise him to—but, as I’ve said, he’s not on hand. -Then, the amount would have to be determined, the papers drawn, the -proceedings submitted to a magistrate—and on the whole, it couldn’t -be arranged inside of a day or two, at the shortest.” - -“The devil you say!” cried Mr. Flint. - -“I’m very sorry, I’m sure. But that’s about the size of it,” -said Romer. - -“And is—is there nothing to be done? Is this lady to remain -indefinitely in the Tombs—a common prisoner?” - -“Until you can bring the question before Mr. Orson, at any rate.” - -“Well, where is he, Mr. Orson?” - -“He’s on his vacation—down at Long Branch.” - -“What hotel?” - -“The * * *.” - -“Good. Will you go with me to Long Branch to-morrow morning?” - -“To-morrow morning? No, I can’t go to-morrow morning.” - -“Why not?” - -“Because I’ve got a calendar on my hands.” - -“When can you go?” - -“I might arrange to run down to-morrow night, and come back Wednesday -morning.” - -“For mercy’s sake, then, do so. On what train will you start with me -to-morrow night?” - -“Call at my office at four o’clock in the afternoon, and I’ll let -you know. You may count, Ripley, upon my doing all I can for you.” - -Mr. Romer went back to his bowling. - -Mr. Flint said, “Well, I don’t see that we can go any further -to-night.” - -“I suppose we’ll have to reconcile ourselves to waiting and -hoping,” said Hetzel. - -“Good God! Is she to—to pass the night in prison?” cried Arthur. - -“Come, come, my dear boy,” said Mr. Flint. - -“We must make the best of it.” Turning to Hetzel. “Where are you -going now?” he asked. - -“I think—it has just occurred to me—that we ought to see Mrs. -Hart,” Hetzel returned. - -“Well then, set me down at my house on your way up.” And Mr. Flint -gave the necessary instructions to the driver. - -Mrs. Hart was posted on her stoop, peering anxiously up and down the -street, as the carriage containing Hetzel and Arthur rumbled into -Beekman Place. When she saw that the carriage had stopped directly in -front of her domicile, she made a rush toward it, pulled open the door, -and cried, “Ruth, Ruth—at last you have come back! I was so much -worried!” Then, discovering her mistake, “Oh, it is not Ruth? Where -can she be?” - -“She is perfectly safe,” said Hetzel. “Come into the house.” - -“You have seen her?” questioned Mrs. Hart. “She has been gone such -a long time! I was frightened half to death. Tell me, why doesn’t she -come home? What—?” - -Mrs. Hart faltered. By this time they had reached the parlor, which was -brilliantly lighted up; and at the spectacle of Arthur’s face, livid -enough at best, but rendered doubly so by the gas-jets, Mrs. Hart -faltered. - -“Let me reassure you. Mrs. Ripley is perfectly safe,” repeated -Hetzel. - -“But then—then, why does he look like this?” pointing to Arthur, -and laying a stress upon each syllable. - -“Sit down,” said Hetzel, “and compose yourself; and he will tell -you.” - -To Arthur, “Now, Arthur, try to command your feelings, and tell Mrs. -Hart all about it.” - -As best he could, he told Mrs. Hart as much as was needful to make her -comprehend the state of affairs. - -Mrs. Hart was nervous enough at the outset. As Arthur’s story -proceeded, her nervousness became more and more ungovernable. When she -learned that Ruth had been carried off to prison, she cried, “Oh, take -me to her at once. I must go to her at once. She must not be left alone -there all night.” - -“It would be impossible to obtain admittance at this hour,” said -Hetzel. - -But saying it did not suffice. Mrs. Hart insisted. “Oh, they would -surely let me in. She—she will die if she is left there alone.” - -Hetzel undertook to comfort her, and to bring her around to reason. -Finally she was sufficiently calm to listen to the rest of what Arthur -had to say. - -His tale complete, Hetzel took up the sequel, explaining how they had -tried to have her liberated on bail, how Mr. Flint was to visit Mr. -Orson at Long Branch to-morrow night, and going on to express his -assurance that in a week’s time at the furthest the storm would have -blown over, and made way for calm and sunshine. - -For a long while Mrs. Hart could only cry and utter inarticulate -syllables of grief. - -By and by Hetzel asked, “Can you tell us how she came to go down -there—to Mr. Peixada’s place?” - -“Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Hart. “It was my fault. I advised her to. You -see, this is the way it happened. After Arthur had left the house -this morning, Ruth picked up the newspaper. She was just glancing over -it—not reading any thing in particular—when all at once, she gave a -little scream. I asked her what it was; and she said, ’Look here.’ -Then she showed me the advertisement that he has spoken of. ’Would you -pay any attention to it?’ she asked. I read it, and considered, and -then asked her what action her impulse prompted her to take. She said -that she hardly knew. If there was something they wanted of her, which -was right and proper, she supposed she ought to do it; but she hated -to have any dealings with Peixada. ’I thought Judith Peixada had been -dead two years,’ she said; ’but now she comes to life again just -when she is least expected.’ I suggested that she might write a -letter. But on thinking it over she said, ’No. Perhaps the best thing -I can do will be to go at once and beard the lion in his den. I shall -worry about it otherwise. I may as well know right away what it is. -After lunch I’ll go down-town and call upon Mr. Peixada; and then -I’ll surprise Arthur in his office, and bring him home.’ Then I—I -said I thought that was the best thing she could possibly do,” Mrs. -Hart interrupted herself to dry her eyes. Presently, “You see, it was -my fault,” she resumed. “I ought to have suspected that they meant -foul play; but instead, I let her walk straight into their pitfall. -Right after lunch, at about halfpast one, she started out. She promised -to be home again by four o’clock. When she didn’t come and didn’t -come, I began to get more and more anxious about her. I was almost -beside myself, when at last you arrived.” - -Hetzel said, “It is bad enough to think of her being locked up in -prison, but that is not the worst. I’m sure we can get her out of -prison; and although I don’t know the first thing about the case, -I’m sure that we can prove her innocence. The trouble now is -this. She’s suffering all manner of torments, because she totally -misconceives her husband’s part in the transaction. Our endeavor must -be to put her husband’s conduct before her in the right light—make -her understand that he acted all along in good faith, and without the -faintest suspicion that she and Judith Peixada were one and the same. -She was so much incensed at him this afternoon, that she wouldn’t let -him justify himself. We must set this mistake right tomorrow morning. -I think that you, Mrs. Hart, had better visit her as early to-morrow as -they will admit you, and—” - -“Of course I will,” interpolated Mrs. Hart. - -“—And tell her Arthur’s side of the story. When she understands -that, she’ll feel like another woman. Then he can see her, and talk -to her, and find out the facts of the case, and lay them before the -authorities. It seems to me that this is the plain course to take.” - -“And meanwhile, meanwhile!” cried Arthur, wringing his hands. - -“Come,” said Hetzel, “show your grit. Look at Mrs. Hart. See how -bravely she bears up. Do you want to make it harder for every one by -your example?” - -“Mrs. Hart isn’t her husband,” Arthur retorted. - -Then he bit his lip and kept silence. Mrs. Hart sat bolt upright, -staring at vacancy, with brows knitted into a tight frown. Hetzel tugged -away at his whiskers, and was evidently thinking hard. - -By and by the door-bell rang. A servant entered. - -“Here is a note, ma’am, a man just left,” she said to Mrs. Hart. - -Mrs. Hart read the note and passed it to Hetzel. It was written upon a -half sheet of paper, headed in heavy black print, “City Prison.” It -was brief:— - -“My dear, dear Friend:—You must be anxious about me. I have tried -hard to get word to you. At last they have found a messenger for me. You -see by this letter-heading where I am. The advertisement was a trick. -But it was worse, much worse, than you can fancy. If I could only see -you! Will you come to me to-morrow morning? I am too heartsick to write, -Ruth.” - -Hetzel was returning the note to Mrs. Hart, when Arthur stretched out -his hand for it. - -“Am I not to read what my own wife has written?” he demanded -fiercely. - -He took in its contents at a glance. Even this sheet of common prison -paper was sweet with that faint, evanescent perfume that clung to -everything Ruth’s fingers touched. Letting it drop to the floor, “I -can’t stand it,” he cried in a loud voice, and left the room. - -They heard the vestibule door slam behind him. - -“He is mad,” said Mrs. Hart. “He will do himself an injury.” - -“No, he won’t—not if I can stop him,” said Hetzel; and he -hurried forth upon Arthur’s track. - -But he came back in a little while, panting for breath. - -“I ran as far as First Avenue,” he explained; “but he had -succeeded in getting out of sight. Never mind. He’ll come home all -right. No doubt he needs to be alone.” - -Once out of doors, Arthur dashed blindly ahead. It was a sultry night. -The odor of ailanthus trees hung heavy on the air. Many people were -abroad. On the door-steps of most of the houses, the inmates sat, -chatting, smoking, dozing, airing themselves. The city had given itself -over to rest and recreation. Through open windows escaped bursts of -song and laughter and piano playing. Young girls, dressed in white, -promenaded on the arms of young men who puffed cigarettes. - -Arthur had no fixed destination. He walked, because walking was a -counter-irritant. He walked rapidly, and took no notice of the sights -and sounds round about him. He remembers dimly that he left the -respectable quarters of the city far behind, and entered a maze of -crooked, squalid, foul-smelling streets. Then, he remembers that all at -once he looked up and wondered where he was. And there, a blot upon the -sky, there loomed the prison that held his beloved. - -He remained within eyeshot of this dismal structure till daybreak, when -at last he went back to Beekman Place. - - - - -CHAPTER IX.—AN ORDEAL. - -ARTHUR ran up the steps of Mrs. Hart’s house, and, opening the door -with his latch-key, entered the parlor. The gas was burning at full -head. Hetzel was stretched at length in an easy-chair, his hands thrust -deep into his trowsers-pockets. At sight of Arthur, he rose and advanced -on tip-toe to meet him. - -“Hush-sh,” he said, putting his finger to his lips. He pointed to -the sofa, upon which Mrs. Hart lay, asleep. Then he took Arthur’s -arm, and led him through the hall into the back room. There they seated -themselves. - -“I didn’t expect to find you up,” said Arthur. - -“We haven’t been abed,” said Hetzel. - -“I suppose nothing new has happened? You haven’t heard from her -again?” - -“No.” - -They remained silent for some time. - -Hetzel began, “After you left in that abrupt way, Mrs. Hart, who -had borne up wonderfully, quite went to pieces. She has been in a half -hysterical condition all night. I persuaded her to lie down about an -hour ago, and now she’s asleep.” - -Arthur vouchsafed no comment. - -“We have had a lot of reporters pestering us, too,” Hetzel went on. -“Of course I refused to see them, one and all.” - -At this Arthur started. - -“Then I suppose the whole thing is in the papers, curse them!” he -cried. - -“I am afraid so.” - -“Haven’t you looked to see?” - -“It isn’t time yet. The papers haven’t been delivered yet.” - -Arthur pulled out his watch. - -“Not going—run down,” he said; “but of course it’s time. It -must be seven o’clock.” - -“Oh, I didn’t know it was so late. I’ll go see.” Hetzel went -away. Presently he returned, saying, “Surely enough, here they are.” - -“Well?” queried Arthur. - -Hetzel undid the newspapers, and commenced to look them over. - -“Yes, it’s all here—a column of it—on the front page,” he -groaned. - -“Let me see,” said Arthur, extending his hand. - -But the head-lines were as much as he had the heart to read. He threw -the sheet angrily to the floor and began to stride back and forth across -the room. - -“Sit down,” said Hetzel, “or you’ll wake Mrs. Hart.” - -“Oh, to be sure,” assented Arthur; and did as he was bidden. - -By and by, “Do you know at what hours visitors are admitted?” Hetzel -asked. - -“I—I think between ten and four.” - -“Well, then, we’ll want a carriage here at halfpast nine. I’ll -send out now to order one.” - -For a second time Hetzel left the room. When he got back, he said that -he had dispatched a servant to the nearest livery stable. - -At this juncture Mrs. Hart appeared, very old and gray and pallid. She -came in without speaking, and took a chair near the window. - -“I hope your nap has refreshed you,” Hetzel ventured. - -“Oh, yes,” she replied dismally, “I suppose it has.—Where have -you been, Arthur?” - -“Nowhere—only out of doors.” - -All three held their peace. - -Presently the servant returned from her errand, and told Hetzel that the -carriage would be on hand at the proper time. - -“Bridget,” said Mrs. Hart, “you’d better brew some coffee, and -serve it up here.” - -When Bridget had gone, “You have sent for a carriage? At what hour are -we to start?” Mrs. Hart inquired. - -“At half-past nine.” - -“Then, if you will excuse me, I’ll go up-stairs and get ready.” - -“Certainly,” said Hetzel. “And while you’re about it, you’d -better put a few things together to take to her, don’t you think?” - -“Why, she won’t need them. She’ll be with us again to-day, will -she not?” - -“You know, Mr. Flint can’t see Mr. Orson till this evening. So, it -seems to me——-” - -“Oh, yes, I had forgotten,” said Mrs. Hart, gulping down a sob, and -left the room. - -During her absence, Bridget brought in the coffee. - -“Take a cup up to your mistress,” said Hetzel. - -Then he poured out a cup for Arthur. He had to use some persuasion to -induce him to drink it; but eventually he prevailed. Having swallowed a -portion for himself, he lighted a cigarette. - -“Better try one,” he said, with a woful attempt at cheerfulness, -offering the bunch to Arthur. “There’s nothing like tobacco to brace -a man up.” - -But Arthur declined. - -Half-past nine was leisurely in arriving. At last, however, they heard -the grinding of carriage-wheels upon the pavement outside. - -They climbed into the carriage. The coachman cracked his whip. Off they -drove. - -That drive was a purgatory. At its start their hearts were oppressed by -a nameless terror. It had intensified into a breathless agony, before -their drive was over. Their foreheads were wet with cold perspiration. -Their lips were ashen. As they turned from Broadway into Leonard Street, -and knew that they were nearing their journey’s end, each of them -instinctively winced, and gasped, and shuddered. When the carriage -finally drew up before the prison entrance, not one of them dared to -speak or to stir. - -At last Hetzel said, “Well, here we are.” - -No answer. - -After an interval, he went on, “Mrs. Hart, you, of course, will go in -first. You must explain to her about Arthur, and induce her to see him. -You can send word, or come back, when she’s ready to.” - -With this, he opened the carriage door, dismounted, and helped Mrs. Hart -to follow. Arthur remained behind. He closed his eyes for a little, -and held his hands to his forehead. His hands were cold and damp. His -forehead was now dry and hot; and he could count the pulsations of -the arteries in his temples. His throat ached with a great lump. He -mechanically watched the people pass on the sidewalk, and wondered -whether any of them were as miserably unhappy as he. The myriad noises -of the street smote his ears with a strange sharpness, and caused -him from time to time to start and turn even paler than he had been. -Gradually, however, he began to lose consciousness of outward things, -and to think, think, think. He had plenty to think about. Pretty soon, -he was fathoms deep in a brown study. - -He was aroused by the reappearance of Hetzel and Mrs. Hart. They got -into the carriage. The carriage moved. - -“What—what is the trouble now?” Arthur asked. - -“Damn them for a set of insolent scoundrels!” - -Hetzel blurted out, forgetful of Mrs. Hart’s sex. “They wouldn’t -let us in.” - -“Why not?” - -“Oh, they insist on a tangle of red-tape—say we must have passes, -and so forth, from the district-attorney.” - -“Well?” - -“Well, we’re on our way to procure them now.” But at the -district-attorney’s office there was fresh delay. The clerk whose duty -it was to make out the passes, had not yet reached his post; and none of -his colleagues seemed anxious to play the lieutenant’s part. - -Hetzel lost his temper. - -“Come, what are you lazy louts paid for, I’d like to know?” he -thundered. “Where’s your master? Where’s Mr. Romer? I’ll see -whether you’re to sit around here in your shirt-sleeves, grinning, or -not. I want some one of you to wait on me, or I’ll make it hot for the -whole pack.” - -He got his passes. - -They drove back to the Tombs. This time Mrs. Hart encountered no -obstacles to her entrance. - -Hetzel rejoined Arthur in the carriage. A quarter-hour elapsed before -either spoke. - -Arthur said, “She—she’s staying a long while.” - -“Oh,” responded Hetzel, “they’ve got such a lot to talk about, -you know.” - -At the end of another quarter-hour, more or less, Arthur complained, -“What under heaven can be keeping her so long?” - -“Be patient,” said Hetzel. “It’ll do no good to fret.” - -By and by Arthur started up. “By Jove, I can’t wait any longer. I -can’t endure this waiting. I must go in myself,” he cried. - -But just at this moment Mrs. Hart issued forth. - -Hetzel ran to meet her. - -She was paler than ever. Her eyelids were red. - -“We may as well drive home,” she said. “She won’t see him.” - -“For heaven’s sake, why not?” asked Hetzel. - -“I’ll tell you all about it, as we drive along.” - -“But how—how shall we break the news to him?” - -“You—you’d better speak to him now, before I get in.” - -Hetzel approached the carriage window. - -“Arthur,” he began, awkwardly, “try—try to keep quiet, and -not—the—the fact is—” - -“Is she ill? Is she dead?” cried Arthur, with mad alarm. - -“No, no, my dear boy; of course not. Only—only—just -now—she—” - -“She refuses to see me?” - -“Well—” - -“I was fully prepared for that. I knew she would.” - -His head sank upon his breast. - -They had covered half the distance between the Tombs and Beekman Place, -when at length Arthur said, “Please, Mrs. Hart, please tell me about -your visit.” - -Mrs. Hart shot a glance at Hetzel, as much as to ask, “Shall I?” He -nodded affirmatively. - -“There isn’t much to tell,” she began. “They led me down a lot -of stone corridors, and through a yard, and up a flight of stairs, and -across a long gallery, past numberless little, black, iron doors; and at -last we stopped before one of the doors, and the woman who was with -me called out,’.eixada, alias Ripley’—only think of the -indignity!—and after she had called it out that way two or three -times, a little panel in the door flew open, and there—there was -Ruth’s face—so pale, so sad, and her eyes so large and awful—it -made my heart sink. I supposed of course they were going to let me in; -but no, they wouldn’t. The prison woman said I must stand there, and -say what I had to say to the prisoner in her presence.” - -Mrs. Hart paused, and swallowed a sob. - -“Well, I stood there, so frightened at the sight of Ruth’s face, -that I didn’t know what to do; till by and by she said, very softly, -’Aren’t you going to kiss me, dear?’ Oh, her voice was so sweet -and sad, I couldn’t help it, but I burst out crying; and she cried, -too; and she put her face up close to the open place in the door; and -then we kissed each other; and then—then we just cried and cried, and -couldn’t speak a word.” - -The memory of her former tears brought fresh tears to Mrs. Hart’s -eyes. Drying them, she went on, “We were crying like that, and never -thinking of any thing else, when the prison woman said, ’If you have -any communication to make to the prisoner, you’d better make it right -off, because you can’t stay here all day, you know.’ Then I began -about Arthur. I said, ’Ruth, I wanted to tell you that Arthur is down -outside, and that he wishes to see you.’ Oh, if you could have seen -the look that came upon her face! It made me tremble. I thought she was -going to faint, or something. But no. She said, very calmly, ’It would -do no good for me to see Arthur. It would only pain him and myself. I -do not wish to see him. I could not bear to see him. That is what she -said.” - -“Go on, go on,” groaned Arthur, as Mrs. Hart paused. - -“She said she didn’t want to see you, and couldn’t bear to. I -said, ’But, Ruth, you ought to see him. You and he ought to speak -together, and try to understand each other.’ She said, ’There is -no misunderstanding between us. I understand every thing.’—’Oh, -no,’ said I, ’no, you don’t. There is something which he wants -to explain to you—about how he came to be associated with Mr. -Peix-ada.’—’I don’t care about that,’ said she. ’There are -some things which he can not explain. I am miserable enough already. -I need all my strength. I should break down, if I were to see -him.’—But I said, ’Consider, him, Ruth. You can’t imagine -how unhappy he is. He loves you so much. It is breaking his -heart.’—’Loves me?’ she said. ’Does he still pretend to love -me? Oh, no, he does not love me. He never loved me. If he had loved me, -he would never have done what he did. Oh, no, no—I can not see him, I -will not see him. You may tell him that I said it would do no good -for us to see each other. Every thing is over and past between him and -me.’ She had said all this very calmly. But then suddenly she began to -cry again: and she was crying and sobbing as if her heart would break, -and she couldn’t speak a word, and all I could do was to try and -soothe her a little, when the prison woman said I must come away. I -tried to get her to let me stay—offered her money—but she said, -’No. It is dinner time now. No visitors are allowed in the building at -dinner time. You must go.’—So, I had to leave Ruth alone.” - -“It is as I supposed,” moaned Arthur. “She hates me. All is over -and past between us, she said.” - -“Nonsense, man,” protested Hetzel. “It is merely a question -of time. Mrs. Hart simply didn’t have time enough. If she had been -allowed to stay a half hour longer, your wife would have loved you as -much as ever. She does love you as much as ever, now. But her heart -is crushed and sore, and all she feels is the pain. It’s less than -twenty-four hours since the whole thing happened; she hasn’t had -time enough yet to think it over. We’re going to have her home again -to-morrow; and if between the three of us we can’t undeceive her -respecting your relations to Peixada—bring her to hear and comprehend -the truth—I’ll be mightily surprised.” - -They drove for some blocks in silence. - -“Did you give her her things, Mrs. Hart?” Arthur asked, abruptly. - -“No,” said Mrs. Hart; “they wouldn’t let me. I forgot to tell -you that they made me empty my pockets before they led me to her. The -prison woman took the things, and said she would examine them, and then -give her such as were not against rules.” - -“And—and it was a regular prison cell in which she was confined?” - -“Oh, yes; it was horrible. The walls were whitewashed, and there was -only one little bit of a grated window, and the floor was of stone, and -the bed was a narrow iron cot, and she had just a wretched, old, wooden -stool to sit on, and the air was something frightful.” - -“Did you tell her of our efforts to get bail for her?” asked Hetzel. - -“Dear me, I forgot all about it.” - -“Perhaps you’d better write her a note, when we get home. I’ll -send a messenger with it.” - -“All right, I will,” acquiesced Mrs. Hart. - -But in Beekman Place she said to Hetzel: “About that note you spoke -of—I don’t feel that I can trust myself to write. I’m afraid I -should say something that—that might—I mean I think I couldn’t -write to her. I should break down, if I tried. Won’t you do it, -instead?” - -“One word from you would comfort her more than a dozen from me.” - -“But—it is such hard work for me to keep control of myself, as it -is—and if I should undertake to write—I—I—” - -“Oh, very well,” said Hetzel. “Can you let me have pen and -paper?” - -What he wrote ran thus:— - -“My dear Mrs. Ripley: I only want to send you this line or two, to -tell you that your friends are hard at work in your behalf, and that -before this time to-morrow we mean to have you safe and sound at home. -Meanwhile, for Arthur s sake, try to bear up and be of good cheer. The -poor boy is breaking his heart about you. All I can do for him is to -promise that in a few hours, now, he shall hold you in his arms again. I -should like to make clear to you in this note how it was that he seemed -to have had a share in the trickery by which you were betrayed; but I am -afraid I might make a bungle of it; and after all, it is best that you -should hear the tale from his own lips, as you surely will to-morrow -morning. I beg and pray that you will strive hard not to let this thing -have any grave effect upon your health. That is what I most dread. Of -other consequences I have no fear—and you need have none. If you will -only exert your strength to bear it a little while longer, and come -home to us to-morrow sound and well in health, why, we shall all live -to forget that this break in our happiness ever occurred. I think I feel -the full pain of your position. I know that it is of a sort to unnerve -the staunchest of us. But I know too that you have uncommon powers at -your command; and I beg of you, for your own sake, for Arthur’s, for -Mrs. Hart’s, to call upon them now. Weather the storm for one more -night, and then I vouch for the coming blue skies. - -“God bless you and be with you! - -“Julian Hetzel.” - -“I want to add a postscript,” said Arthur, when Hetzel laid down his -pen. - -“Do you think you’d better?” asked Hetzel, dubiously. - -“Let me have it, will you?” cried Arthur, savagely; and held out his -hand for the paper. - -Hetzel gave it to him. On the blank space that was left he wrote: -“Ruth—my darling—for God’s sake, overcome your anger against me. -Don’t judge me before you have heard my defense. Be merciful, Ruth, -and wait till you have let me speak and justify myself, before taking -for granted that I have been guilty of treachery toward you. Oh, Ruth, -how can you condemn me on mere appearances?—me, your husband. Oh, -please, Ruth, please write me an answer, saying that you have got over -the anger you felt for me yesterday and this morning, and that you will -suspend judgment of me till I have had a chance to clear myself. I can -not write my explanation here, now. I am not calm enough, and it is too -long a story. Oh, Ruth, I shall go mad, unless you will promise to wait -about condemning me. Write me an answer at once, and send it by the -messenger who brings you this. I can not say any thing else except that -I love you. Oh, you will kill me, if you go on believing what you -told Mrs. Hart—that I do not love you. You must believe that I love -you—you know I love you. Say in your answer that you know I love you. -I love you as I never loved you—more than I ever loved you before. -Oh, little Ruth, please cheer up, and don’t be unhappy. If this thing -should result seriously for your health, I—I shall die. Dear little -Ruth, just try to keep up until to-morrow morning. If you will only come -home all right to-morrow morning, then our sufferings will not count. -Ruth!” - -Hetzel said, “I’ll run out to the corner, and find some one to carry -this to her.” - -He went off. Mrs. Hart and Arthur sat silent and motionless in the -parlor. In due time Hetzel got back. He too took a seat and kept his -peace. So the afternoon wore away. No one spoke. Their minds were busy -enough, God knows; but busy with thoughts which they dared not shape in -speech. The clock on the mantel-piece ticked with painful distinctness. -Street-sounds penetrated the closed windows—children’s voices, at -their games—the cries of fruit venders—hand-organ music—the noise -of wheels on paving stones—and reminded the listeners that the life of -the city was going on very much as usual. Now and then a steam-whistle -shrieked on the river. Now and then one of our tongue-tied trio drew a -deep, audible sigh. Ruth’s piano, in the corner, was open. On the rack -lay a sheet of music, and with it a tiny white silk handkerchief that -she had doubtless thrown down carelessly, and left there, the day -before. When Arthur perceived this, he got up, crossed the floor, took -possession of it, and tucked it into his pocket. - -Towards six o’clock the door-bell rang. All three started violently. -The same notion occurred to all three at once. - -“It—it is from her. It is her answer,” gasped Arthur, and began to -breathe quickly. - -Hetzel went to the door. After what seemed an eternity to those he had -left behind, he returned. - -“No,” he said, replying to their glances; “not yet. It is only -your office-boy, Arthur. He has brought you your day’s mail.” - -Arthur apathetically commenced to look over the envelopes. At last he -came to one which he appeared on the point of opening. But then abruptly -he seemed to change his mind, and tossed it to Hetzel. - -“Read that, will you, and tell me what he says,” was his request. - -Hetzel read the following:— - -“Office of - -“B. Peixada & Co., - -“No.—Reade Street, - -“New York, Aug. 12, 1884. - -“Dear Sir:—In view of the extraordinary occurrence of yesterday -morning, I presume it is needless for me to say that your further -services as my attorney can be dispensed with. Please have the goodness -to transfer my brother’s will and all other papers in your keeping, -in reference to the case of my late sister-in-law, to Edwin Offenbach, -Esq., attorney, No.—Broadway. I don’t know if you expect me to -pay you any more money; but if you do, please send memorandum to above -address, and oblige, - -“Respectfully Yours, - -“B. Peixada. - -“A. Ripley, Esq., attorney, etc.” - -“He wants you to transfer his papers to another lawyer and render your -bill, that’s all,” said Hetzel. - -“Oh, is that all?” Arthur rejoined. “Well, then, let me have his -note.” - -Arthur put Peixada’s note into his pocket. The trio relapsed into -their former silence. - -Again by and by the door-bell rang. Again all three started. Again -Hetzel went to the door. - -Arthur leaned forward, and strained his ears. He heard Hetzel take down -the chain; he heard the door creak open; he heard a boy’s voice, rough -and lusty, say, “No answer. Here, sign—will you?” And then he sank -back in his chair. - -Hetzel staid away for some minutes. Coming back, “It was the -messenger,” he said; “but he had no answer. The prison people told -him that there was none.” - -It was now about seven o’clock. Presently Bridget appeared upon the -threshold, and asked to speak with her mistress. Mrs. Hart stepped into -the hall, where for a time she and the servant conversed in low tones. -Re-entering the parlor, she said, “Dinner.—She came to tell me that -dinner is ready. I had forgotten it. Will you come down?” - -Hetzel rose. Arthur remained seated. - -“Come, Arthur. Didn’t you hear what Mrs. Hart said? Dinner is -ready,” Hetzel began. - -“Oh, you don’t suppose I want any dinner, do you? You two go down, -if you choose. I’ll wait for you here.” - -“Now, be sensible, will you? Come down-stairs with us. Whether you -want to, or not, you must eat something. You’ll get sick, fasting like -this. We’ve got enough on our hands, as it is, without having a sick -man to look after. Come along.” - -Hetzel took Arthur by the arm, and led him out. - -But their attempt at dinner was pretty doleful. Despite their long -abstinence from food, none of them was hungry. Hetzel alone contrived to -finish his soup. Mrs. Hart and Arthur could swallow no more than a few -mouthfuls of bread and wine apiece. - -Afterward they went back to the parlor. As before, Arthur sat still -and nursed his thoughts. Hetzel picked up an illustrated book from -the table, and began to turn the pages. Mrs. Hart said, “If you will -excuse me, I think I’ll lie down for a little. I have a splitting -headache.” She lay down on the sofa. Hetzel got a shawl, and covered -her with it. - -The clock was striking ten, when for a third time the bell rang. For a -third time Hetzel started to answer it. Arthur accompanied him. - -Hetzel opened the door. A telegraph-boy confronted him. - -“Ripley?” the boy demanded. - -“Yes—yes,” said Arthur, and seized hold of the dispatch that the -boy offered. - -But his courage forsook him. He turned white, and leaned against the -wall for support. - -“Some—something has happened to her,” he gasped. “Read it for -me, Hetz, and let me know the worst.” - -“No, it isn’t from her. It’s from Mr. Flint,” said Hetzel, after -he had read it. - -“Oh,” sighed Arthur.—“Well, what does he say?” - -“Here.” - -Hetzel put the telegram into Arthur’s hands. Its contents were:— - -“Victory! Meet me to-morrow morning, 10:30, at district-attorney’s -office. Every thing satisfactorily arranged. Absolutely nothing to -fear.—Arthur Flint.” - -“There,” Hetzel added, “now I hope you’ll brace up a little.” - -“I suppose I ought to,” said Arthur. “Anyhow, I’ll try.” - -Mrs. Hart was much relieved. Indeed, her spirits underwent a -considerable reaction. Her eyes brightened, and she cried, “Oh, to -think! The dear child will be home again by luncheon-time to-morrow!” - -“And now,” put in Hetzel, “I would counsel both you and Arthur to -go to bed. A night’s rest will work wonders for you.” - -“Yes, I think so, too,” agreed Mrs. Hart. “But you—you will not -leave us? You will sleep in our spare room?” - -“Oh, thank you. Yes, perhaps I’d better stay here, so as to be on -hand in case any thing should happen.” - -All three climbed the staircase. Mrs. Hart showed Hetzel to his -quarters, and inspected them to satisfy herself that every thing was -in proper order for his comfort. Then he escorted her back to her own -bed-chamber. Arthur was standing in the hall. Mrs. Hart bade them both -good night, and disappeared. Thereupon Hetzel, turning to Arthur, said, -“Now, old boy, go straight to bed, and refresh yourself with a sound -sleep. Good-by till morning.” - -But Arthur stopped him. In a voice that betrayed some embarrassment, he -began, “I say, Julian, I wonder whether you would very much mind my -sleeping with you. You see, I—I haven’t been in there”—pointing -to a door in front of them—“since—since—” He broke off. - -“Oh, of course. You don’t feel like being left alone. I understand. -Come on,” said Hetzel. - -“Thanks,” said Arthur. “Yes, that’s it. I don’t feel like -being left alone.” - -The sky was overcast next morning, and a cold wind blew from across the -river. Hetzel and Mrs. Hart were up betimes; but Arthur, who had tossed -restlessly about for the earlier half of the night, lay abed till late. -He did not show his face downstairs till nine o’clock. - -“We want to start in about half an hour, Arthur,” said Hetzel. -“That will give us time to stop at your office, before going to the -district-attorney’s.” - -“What do we want to stop at my office for?” - -“Why, to attend to the matters that Peixada wrote you about—return -the will—and so forth.” - -“Oh, yes. I had forgotten.” - -“Then, I suppose, Mrs. Hart, that we shall be back here for luncheon, -and bring Ruth with us. But if we shouldn’t turn up till somewhat -later, you mustn’t alarm yourself. There’s no telling how long the -legal formalities may take.” - -“You speak as though you were going to leave me behind,” said Mrs. -Hart. - -“Why, I didn’t think you would want to go with us. The weather is -so threatening, and the district-attorney’s office is so unpleasant a -place, I took for granted that you would prefer to stay home.” - -“Oh, no. I should go wild, waiting here alone. You must let me -accompany you. I want to be the first—no, the second—to greet -Ruth.” - -Hetzel made no further opposition. - -They went straight to Arthur’s office. There he did the Peixada -documents up in a bundle, directed the same to Mr. Edwin Offenbach, and -told his office boy to deliver it to Mr. Offenbach in person. Then -they proceeded on foot up Broadway and down Chambers Street to the -district-attorney’s. - -The identical lot of supercilious clerks with whom Hetzel had had it out -the day before, were lolling about now in the ante-room. “We wish to -see Mr. Romer,” Hetzel announced. - -Nobody seemed to be much impressed by this piece of intelligence. - -“Come, you fellow,” Hetzel went on, addressing one young gentleman -in particular, who appeared to have no more weighty duty to perform -than the trimming of his finger-nails; “just take that card into Mr. -Romer—will you?—and look sharp about it.” - -The young gentleman glanced up languidly, surveyed his interlocutor with -a mingling of pity and amusement, at length drawled, “Say, Jim, see -what this party’s after,” and returned to his toilet. - -Hetzel’s brow contracted. - -“What do you want to see Mr. Romer about?” demanded Jim, leisurely -lifting himself from the desk atop which he had been seated. - -Hetzel’s brows contracted a trifle more closely. There was an ugly -look in his eyes. - -“What do I want to see Mr. Romer about?” he repeated. “I’ll -explain that to Mr. Romer. What I want you to do is to conduct us to -Mr. Romer’s office; and I want you to do that at short notice, or, I -promise you, I’ll find out the reason why.” - -Hetzel had spoken quietly, but with an inflection that was unmistakable. - -“Well, step this way, then, will you?” said Jim, the least bit -crestfallen. - -They followed him into Mr. Romer’s private room. - -Romer was seated at his desk. Mr. Flint was seated hard-by at a table, -examining some papers. Both rose at the entrance of the visitors. - -“Ah, Arthur, my dear boy,” Mr. Flint exclaimed, “here you are.” -He clapped his godson heartily upon the shoulder, and proceeded to pay -his compliments to Mrs. Hart and Hetzel. - -“How do, Ripley?” said Romer. “Glad to see you.” - -Thereupon befell a moment of silence. Nobody seemed to know what to say -next. - -Finally Mr. Flint began. “I think,” he said, “I ought to tell you -that Mr. Romer is to be thanked for all the good luck that we have met -with. Except for his intercession, Mr. Orson would not have considered -the bail question for a moment. As it is, Mr. Romer has persuaded -him—But perhaps you’d better go on,” he added, abruptly turning to -Romer. - -“Well,” said Romer, “the long and short of it is that Mr. Orson -agrees to accept bail in twenty-five thousand dollars. You know, Ripley, -it’s our rule not to take bail at all in cases of this sort; and so he -had to fix a large amount to ward off scandal.” - -“And here are the papers, all ready to be signed,” said Mr. Flint. - -“But where——” Hetzel began. - -“Yes, just so. I was coming to that,” Romer interposed. “We’ve -sent for her, and she’ll get here before long. But what I was going -to say is this: Mr. Orson makes it a condition that before bail is -accepted, she be required to—to plead.” - -“Well?” queried Hetzel. - -“Well, you see, she must put in her plea of not guilty in—in open -court.” - -“What!” cried Arthur. “Subject her to that humiliation? Drag her -up to the bar of a crowded court-room, and—and—Oh, it will kill her! -You might as well kill her outright.” - -“Is this absolutely necessary?” asked Hetzel. - -“Mr. Orson made it a sine qua non,” replied Romer; “and if -you’ll listen to me for a moment, I’ll tell you why.” - -He paused, gnawed his mustache for an instant, at length resumed, “You -know, Ripley, we never should have gone at this case, at all, except for -you. That’s so, isn’t it? All right. Now, what I want to make plain -is that we’re, not to blame. You started us, didn’t you? Well and -good. We unearthed that old indictment, which otherwise might have -lain moldering in its pigeon-hole till the day of doom, we unearthed -it simply because you urged us to. We never should have moved in the -matter, except for you. I want you to confess that this is a true -statement of the facts.” - -“Oh, yes; it’s true,” groaned Arthur. - -“All right, Ripley. That’s just what I wanted to bring out. Now I -can pass on to point two. Point two is this. I suppose you’re very -sorry for what’s happened. I know we are—at least, I am—awfully -sorry. And what’s more, I feel—I feel—hang it, I feel uncommonly -friendly toward you, Ripley, old boy. Don’t you understand? I want to -do all I can to get you out of this confounded mess. And so, what I went -to work to do with Mr. Orson was not only to induce him to take bail, -but also, don’t you see, to get him to drop the case. What I urged -upon him was this. I said, ’Look here, Mr. Orson, we didn’t start -this business, did we? Then why the deuce should we press it? The -chances of conviction aren’t great, and anyhow we’ve got our hands -full enough, without raking up worm-eaten indictments. I say, as long -as she has turned out to be who she is, I say, let’s leave matters in -statu quo.’ That’s what I said to Mr. Orson.” - -“By Jove, Romer, you—you’re a brick,” was the most Arthur could -respond. There was a frog in his voice. - -“Well, sir,” Romer continued, “I put it before Mr. Orson in that -shape, and I argued with him a long time about it. But what struck him -was this. ’What’ll the public say?’ he asked. ’Now it’s got -into the papers, there’ll be the dickens to pay, if we don’t push -it.’ And you can’t deny, Ripley, that that’s a pretty serious -difficulty. Well, he and I, we talked it over, and considered the pros -and cons, and the upshot of it was that he said, ’All right, Romer. I -have no desire to carry the matter further than is necessary to set us -right before the public. So, what I’ll consent to do is to have bail -fixed in a large sum—say twenty-five thousand dollars—and then she -must plead in open court. That’ll satisfy the reporters. Then we’ll -put the indictment back into the safe, and let it lie. As long as -we’re solid with the public, I don’t care.’ That’s what Mr. -Orson said. So now, you see, she’s got to plead in open court, to -prevent the newspapers from raising Cain with us, and the bail’s -got to be pretty considerable for the same reason. But after that’s -settled, you can take her home, and rest easy. As long as we’re -in office the charge won’t be revived; and by the time we’re -superseded, it will be an old story and forgotten by all hands.” - -“You see,” Mr. Flint said, “how much we have to thank Mr. Romer -for.” - -“And I hope Mr. Romer will believe that we appreciate his kindness,” -added Hetzel. - -“I—I—God bless you, Romer,” blurted out Arthur. - -“Well,” said Romer, “to come down to particulars, we’ve got a -crowded calendar to-day, and so the court room is likely to be full of -people. I wanted to make this pleading business as easy as possible for -her, and on that account I’ve sent an officer after her already. Just -as soon as the judge arrives, she can put in her plea. Then we’ll all -come back here, and have the papers signed; and then you can go home -and be happy. Now, if you’ll follow me, I’ll take you into the court -room by the side entrance.” - -“Oh, we—I don’t want to go into the court room. I couldn’t stand -it. Let us wait here till it’s over,” whimpered Arthur, through -chattering teeth. - -Romer looked surprised. “Just as you please,” said he; “but -prisoners generally like to see a friendly face near them, when -they’re called up to plead.” - -“Ripley doesn’t know what he’s saying,” put in Hetzel. “Of -course we will follow you into court.” In a lower tone, turning to -Arthur, “You don’t mean that you want her to go through that ordeal -alone, do you?” he demanded. - -“Oh, I forgot about that,” Arthur confessed. - -“But—but,” asked Mrs. Hart, “can’t we see her and speak to her -before she has to appear in court?” - -“I don’t think that could be managed,” replied Romer, “without -some delay. You know, I want to have her plead the moment she gets -here, so as to avoid the crush. It’ll only take a few minutes. You’d -better come now.” - -They followed Romer out of his office, down a long, gloomy corridor, -along which knots of people stood, chatting and smoking rank cigars, and -into the General Sessions court room—the court room that Arthur had -visited a few months before, out of idle curiosity to witness the scene -of Mrs. Peixada’s trial. - -There were already about forty persons present: a half dozen lawyers -at the counsel-table, busy with books and papers; a larger number -of respectable looking citizens, who read newspapers and appeared -bored—probably gentlemen of the jury; and a residue of damp, dirty, -dismal individuals, including a few tattered women, who were doubtless, -like those with whom we are chiefly concerned, come to watch the fate -of some unfortunate friend. Every body kept very still, so that the -big clock on the wall made itself distinctly heard even to the farthest -corner of the room. Its hands marked five minutes to eleven. The -suspense was painful. It seemed to Arthur that he had grown a year older -in the interval that elapsed before the clock solemnly tolled the hour. - -Romer had chairs placed for them within the bar, a little to the right -of the clerk’s desk, so that they would not be more than six feet -distant from the prisoner, when she stood up to speak. Then he left -them, saying, “I’ll see whether the judge has got down. I want to -ask him to go on the bench promptly, as a favor to me.” - -Soon afterward a loud rapping sounded upon the door that led from -the corridor, and the officers who were scattered about the room, -simultaneously called, “Hats off.” - -The judge, with grave and rather self-conscious mien, stalked past our -friends, and took his position on the bench. Romer followed at a -few paces. He smiled at Arthur, and crossed over to the -district-attorney’s table. - -There was a breathing space of silence. Then the crier rose, and sang -out his time-honored admonition, “Hear ye, hear ye, hear ye, all -persons having business with this court,” etc., to the end. - -Another moment of silence. - -The clerk untied a bundle of papers, ran them over, got upon his feet, -and exchanged a few whispered words with the judge. Eventually he turned -around and faced the audience. - -Ah, how still Arthur’s heart stood, as the clerk cried, in rasping, -metallic accents, “Judith Peixada, alias Ruth Ripley, to the bar!” - -There were by this time quite seventy-five spectators present. Every -one of them leaned forward on his chair, and craned his neck eagerly, -to catch a good glimpse of the prisoner. In the distance, somewhere, -resounded a harsh click (as of a key turned in a stiff lock), succeeded -by a violent clang (as of an iron door opened and slammed to, in haste). -Then, up the aisle leading from the rear of the court room, advanced the -figure of a lady, dressed in black. She had to run the gauntlet of -those seventy-five on-lookers, more than one of whom was bold enough to -obtrude himself upon her path, and stare her squarely in the face. She -had no veil. - -But she marched bravely on, looking fixedly ahead, and at last reached -the railing where she had to halt. She was terribly pale. Her features -were hard and peaked. Her under-lip was pressed tight beneath her teeth. -Her face might have been of marble. It contrasted sharply with the black -hair above it, and the black gown underneath. Her eyes were empty of -expression, like those of one who is blind. She appeared not to see her -friends: at any rate, she gave them no sign of recognition. Yet they -were only a few feet away, and almost exactly in front of her. She stood -motionless, with both hands resting on the rail. - -What must have been Arthur Ripley’s feelings at this moment, as he -beheld his wife, standing within arm’s reach of him, a prisoner in a -court of law, prey to a hundred devouring eyes, and recognized his utter -helplessness to interfere and shield her! - -“Judith Peixada, alias Ruth Ripley,” began the clerk, in the same -mechanical, metallic voice, “you have been indicted for murder in the -first degree upon the person of Edward Bolen, late of the first ward of -the City of New York, deceased, and against the peace of the People of -the State of New York, and their dignity. How say you, are you guilty or -not guilty of the felony as stated?” - -The prisoner’s hands clutched tightly at the railing. She drew a deep -breath. Her pale lips parted. So low that only those within a radius of -a yard or two could hear, she said, “I am guilty.” - -The clerk assumed that he had misunderstood. “Come, speak up -louder,” he said, roughly. “How do you plead?” - -A spasm contracted the prisoner’s features, She bit her lip. Her hands -shook violently. She repeated, “I plead guilty.” - -The clerk’s face betrayed a small measure of surprise. Speedily -controlling it, however, he began to recite the formula, for such case, -made and provided: “You answer that you are guilty of the felony as -charged in the indictment, and so your plea shall stand record—” - -“One moment, Mr. Clerk,” the judge at this point interrupted. - -Mr. Flint and Hetzel were looking into each other’s faces with blank -consternation. Arthur’s head had dropped forward upon his breast. Mrs. -Hart sprang to her feet, ran toward the prisoner, grasped her arm, and -cried out, “Oh, it is not true. You don’t know what you have said, -Ruth. It is not true—she is not guilty, sir,” directing the last -words at the clerk. The on-lookers shifted in their seats and conversed -together. The court-officers hammered with their gavels and commanded, -“Order—silence.” Mr. Romer stood up, and tried to catch the -judge’s eye. - -“One moment, Mr. Clerk,” the judge had said; then addressing himself -to the culprit, “The plea that you offer, Judith Peixada, ought not, -in the opinion of the court, to be accepted. The penalty for murder -in the first degree is fixed by law, and that penalty is hanging. No -discretionary alternative is left to the magistrate. Therefore to permit -you to enter a plea of guilty of murder in the first degree, would be to -permit self-destruction. It has never been the custom of our courts -to accept that plea; though, naturally, they have seldom enough had -occasion to decline it. If I remember rightly, the Connecticut tribunals -have in one or two instances allowed that plea to be recorded; but, -unless I am misinformed, the statutes of Connecticut empower the -sentencing officer to choose between death and imprisonment for life. - -“I can not consistently and conscientiously violate our precedents, -and for that reason I must decline to entertain the plea that you have -offered. If, however, you are in your heart persuaded of your guilt, and -wish to spare the People the expense and labor of a trial before a jury, -I will accept a plea of murder in the second degree, the punishment for -which, I must beg you to recollect, is confinement at hard labor in the -State Prison for the term of your natural life. The clerk will now put -the question to you, Judith Peixada, and you are at full liberty to -reply to it as you deem fit.” - -“If the court please,” said Romer, “I should like to make a brief -statement, before these proceedings are continued.” - -“Certainly,” said the judge. “You can wait, Mr. Clerk, until we -have heard from the district-attorney.” - -Every man and woman in the court-room, save only two, strained forward -to catch each syllable that Romer might pronounce. The two exceptions -were the prisoner and her husband. He sat huddled up in his chair, -apparently deaf and blind to what was going on around. She leaned -heavily upon the railing in front of her, and the expression in her eyes -was one of weary indifference. - -“Will you kindly see that a chair is furnished the prisoner?” Romer -asked of the clerk. - -An attendant brought a chair. The prisoner sat down. - -“If your honor please,” said Romer, “I desire to state that, in -case the prisoner be allowed to plead to murder in the second degree, -it will be against the protest of the People. The evidence in support of -the indictment is of such a nature as to admit of doubt concerning the -prisoner’s guilt; and, if it were submitted to a jury, I think the -chances would be even whether they would acquit her or convict her. The -People feel that there is evidence enough to justify a trial, but they -are reluctant to—become accessories to what, in their judgment, may -be the hasty act of an ill-advised woman. It is the duty of the -district-attorney to endeavor to secure a conviction—it would be his -duty to consent to a plea—when fully convinced in his own mind of the -accused person’s legal guilt. But when he is doubtful, or at least not -entirely satisfied, of that guilt, as I confess to being in the case at -bar, it is his duty to submit the question for arbitration to a jury. -That, your honor, is the stand which I am compelled to take in these -premises. I entertain grave doubts of the prisoner’s guilt—doubts -which could only be set at rest by a verdict rendered in the regular -way. I protest therefore against the entry of a plea such as your honor -has suggested; and, if the court please, I desire that this protest on -the part of the People be made a matter of record.” - -Mr. Flint and Hetzel breathed more freely. Mrs. Hart fanned herself with -manifest agitation. - -The judge replied: “The clerk will procure a transcript of the -district-attorney’s remarks from the stenographer, and enter the same -in the minutes. In response to those remarks, I feel called upon to say -that it is to be presumed that the prisoner at the bar, better than any -one else, is competent to decide upon the question of her own guilt or -innocence. She certainly can not be in doubt as to whether she committed -the felony charged against her. The court has already enlightened -her respecting the sentence that will be imposed in the event of her -pleading guilty of murder in the second degree. Whatever evidence might -be adduced in her behalf at a trial, is certainly not to be weighed -against her own voluntary and unconstrained confession. It would be -contrary to public policy and to good morals for the court to seal the -prisoner’s lips, as the district-attorney appears anxious to have it -do. The clerk will now put the necessary inquiries to her; and if she -elect to offer the plea in debate, the court will feel obliged to accept -it.” Romer bowed and sat down. - -The clerk forthwith proceeded to business. “Judith Peixada, stand -up,” he ordered. Upon her obeying, he rattled off, “Judith Peixada, -do you desire to withdraw your plea of guilty of murder in the first -degree, and to substitute for the same a plea of guilty of murder in the -second degree, as charged in the second count of the indictment? If so, -say, ’I do.’.rdquo; - -Mrs. Hart cried, “No, no! She does not. Don’t you see that the child -is sick? How should she know whether she is guilty or not? Oh, it will -be monstrous if you allow her to say that she is guilty.” - -“Order! Silence!” called the officers. One of them seized Mrs. -Hart’s arm and pushed her into a chair. - -The prisoner’s lips moved. “I do,” she whispered. - -“You answer,” went on the clerk, “that you are guilty of the -felony of murder in the second degree, as charged in the second count of -the indictment; and so your plea shall stand recorded. What have you -now to say why sentence should not be pronounced upon you according to -law?” - -Romer stepped forward. - -“If your honor please,” he said, “the People are not yet prepared -to move for sentence. In the absence of counsel for the prisoner, I must -take it upon myself to request that sentence be suspended for at least -one week.” - -“The court suspends sentence till this day week at eleven o’clock -in the forenoon,” said the judge; “and meanwhile the prisoner is -remanded to the city prison.” - -The prisoner was at once led away. - - - - -CHAPTER X.—“SICK OF A FEVER.” - -ROMER drew near to Mr. Flint. - -“I did all I could,” he said. - -“Things look pretty desperate now, don’t they?” Mr. Flint -returned. - -Hetzel tugged at his beard. - -Mrs. Hart started up. “Oh, for mercy’s sake, Mr. Romer, you are not -going to let them take her back to—to that place, are you?” - -“I don’t see how I can help it. Bail is out of the question, after -what has happened, you know.” - -“But can’t I see her and speak to her just a moment, first?” - -“Oh, certainly; you can do that.” - -Romer stepped aside and spoke to an officer. - -“Unfortunately,” he said, returning, “they have already carried -her off. But you can drive right down behind her.—Hello! What’s the -matter with Ripley?” - -They looked around toward Arthur. A glance showed them that he had -fainted. - -“When did this happen?” asked Romer. - -No one could tell. No one had paid the slightest attention to Arthur, -since the prisoner had first appeared in court. - -“Well, we must get him out of here right away,” said Romer. - -Mr. Flint and Hetzel lent a hand apiece; and his three friends carried -the unhappy man out of the room, of course thereby creating a new -sensation among the spectators. They bore him along the corridor, -and into Mr. Romer’s office, where they laid him upon a sofa. Romer -touched a bell. - -“I’ll have to send some one to take my place in court,” he -explained. - -To the subordinate who appeared, “Ask Mr. Birdsall to step here,” he -said. - -Mr. Birdsall came, received Romer’s orders, departed. - -“There, now,” said Romer, “I’ve got that off my hands. Now, -let’s bring him around. Luckily, I have a flask of brandy in my -desk.” - -He rubbed some brandy upon Arthur’s temples, and poured a drop or two -between his lips. - -“You fan him, will you?” he asked of Hetzel. - -Mrs. Hart proffered her fan. Hetzel took it, and fanned Arthur’s face -vigorously. - -Mrs. Hart looked on for a moment in silence. At length she said, -“Well, I can’t wait here. I am going to the prison.” - -“Oh, to be sure; I had forgotten,” said Romer. “I’ll send a man -to obtain admittance for you.” - -“May I also bear you company?” inquired Mr. Flint. - -Mrs. Hart replied, “That is very kind of you. I should like very much -to have you.” - -Romer rang his bell for a second time. A negro answered it. - -“Robert,” said Romer, “go with this lady and gentleman to the -Tombs, and tell the warden that they are special friends of mine, and -that I shall thank him to show them every courtesy in his power.” - -Then he returned to the sofa, on which Arthur still lay inanimate. - -“No progress?” he demanded of Hetzel. - -“None. Can you send for a physician? Is there one near by?” - -A third stroke of the bell. Hetzel’s acquaintance, Jim, entered. - -“Run right over to Chambers Street Hospital, and tell them we want a -doctor up here at once,” was Romer’s behest. - -“Our friend’s in a pretty bad way,” he continued to Hetzel. -“And, by Jove, his wife must be a maniac.” - -“I don’t wonder at him,” said Hetzel. “I feel rather used -up myself, after that strain in court. But her conduct is certainly -incomprehensible.” - -“The idea of pleading guilty, when I had things fixed up so neatly! -She must be stark, raving mad. Insanity, by the way, was her defense at -the former trial. I guess it was a bona fide one.” - -“No doubt of it. But I suppose it’s too late to make that claim -now—isn’t it?—now that the judge has ordered her plea of guilty to -be recorded. Yet—yet it isn’t possible that she will really have to -go to prison.” - -“We might have a commission appointed.” - -“What is that?” - -“Why, a commission to inquire into, and report upon, her sanity.” - -“We might? We will. That’s exactly what we’ll do. But how? What -are the necessary steps to take?” - -“Why, when she’s brought up for sentence, next week, and asked what -she has to say, and so forth, you have an attorney on hand, and let him -declare his conviction, based upon affidavits, that she’s a lunatic, -and then move that sentence be suspended pending the investigation of -her sanity by a commission to be appointed by the court—understand? -Our side won’t oppose, and the judge will grant the motion as a matter -of course.” - -“Ah, yes; I see.—Mercy upon me, I never knew a fainting fit to last -so long as this; did you?” - -“Well, I’m not much posted on fainting-fits in general, but it’ -does seem as though this was an uncommonly lengthy one, to be sure.” - -Arthur’s face betrayed no sign of vitality except for the gentle -flutter of his nostrils as his breath came and went. - -“Poor fellow,” mused Romer, “what an infernal pickle he’s gone -and got himself into! It’s the strangest coincidence I ever heard of. -There he was, pegging away at that case month after month, and never -suspecting that the lady in question was his wife! And she—she never -told him. Queer, ain t it? As far as we were concerned, we never should -have lifted a finger, only I was anxious to do Ripley a good turn. -He’s a nice fellow, is Ripley, and I always liked him and his father -before him. That’s why we took this business up—just for the sake of -giving him a lift, you know. As for his client, old Peixada, we’d -have seen him hanged before we’d have troubled ourselves about his -affairs—except, as I say, for Ripley’s sake. And now, this is what -comes of it. Well, Ripley never was cut out for a lawyer anyhow. He had -too many notions, and didn’t take things practically enough. Why, when -the question of advertising first came up, he was as squeamish about it, -and made as much fuss, as if he’d known all the time who she was.” - -“Here’s the doctor, sir,” cried Jim, entering at this point. - -Jim was followed by a young gentleman in uniform, who, without waiting -to hear the history of the case, at once approached the sofa, and began -to exercise his craft. He undid Arthur’s cravat, unbuttoned his shirt -collar, placed one hand upon his forehead, and with the other hand felt -his pulse. - -“Open all the windows, please,” he said in a quiet, business-like -tone. - -He laid his ear upon the patient’s breast, and listened. - -“When did this begin?” he asked at length. - -“I should say about half an hour ago,” Romer answered, looking at -his watch. - -“Is—is there any occasion for anxiety?” Hetzel inquired. - -The doctor shrugged his shoulders. “Can’t tell yet,” was his -reply. - -He drew a leather wallet from his pocket, and unclasping it, disclosed -an array of tiny glass phials. One of these he extracted, and holding it -up to the light, called for a glass of water. Romer brought the water. -The doctor poured a few drops of medicine from his phial into the -tumbler. The water thereupon clouded and became opaque. Dipping his -finger into it, the doctor proceeded to moisten Arthur’s lips. - -“Each of you gentlemen please take one of his hands,” said the -doctor, “and chafe it till it gets warm.” - -Romer and Hetzel obeyed. - -“Want him taken to the hospital?” the doctor inquired presently. - -“Oh, no,” said Hetzel. “As soon as he is able, we want to take him -home.” - -“Where does he live?” - -“In Beekman Place—Fiftieth Street and the East River.” - -“Hum,” muttered the doctor, dubiously; “that’s quite a -distance.” - -“To be sure. But after he comes to, and gets rested, he won’t mind -it.” - -“Perhaps not.” - -“Why, do you mean that that he’s going to be seriously sick?” - -“Unless I’m mistaken, he’s going to lie abed for the next six -weeks.” - -“What?” - -“Sh-h-h! Not so loud. Yes, I’m afraid he’s in for a long illness. -As for taking him to Beekman Place, if you’re bound to do it, we must -have an ambulance.” - -“I think if he’s got to be sick, he’d better be sick at home. What -is it necessary to do, to procure an ambulance?” - -“I’ll send for one.—Can you let me have a messenger?” he asked -of Romer. - -Romer summoned Jim. - -The doctor wrote a few lines on a prescription blank, and instructed -Jim to deliver it to the house-surgeon at the hospital. Returning to -Arthur’s side, “He’s beginning to come around,” he said; “and -now, I think, you gentlemen had better leave the room. He mustn’t -open his mouth for some time; and if his friends are near him when he -recovers consciousness, he might want to talk. So, please leave me alone -with him.” - -“But you won’t fail to call us if—if—” Hetzel hesitated. - -“Oh, you needn’t be afraid. There’s no immediate danger.” - -“You’ll find us in the next room,” said Romer, and led Hetzel out. - -Whom should they run against in the passageway but Mrs. Hart and Mr. -Flint? - -“What! Back so soon?” Romer exclaimed. - -“She refused to see me,” said Mrs. Hart. - -Romer pushed open a door. “Sit down in here,” he said. - -“Where is Arthur?” asked Mr. Flint. “How is he getting on?” - -Romer explained Arthur’s situation. - -“Worse and worse,” cried Mr. Flint. - -“But how was it that she refused to see you?” Hetzel questioned, -addressing Mrs. Hart. - -“She sent me this,” Mrs. Hart replied, holding out a sheet of paper. - -Hetzel took it and read:— - -“My dear one:—It will seem most ungracious and ungrateful of me to -send word that I can not see you just now, and yet that is what I am -compelled to do. My only excuse is that I am writing something which -demands the utmost concentration and self-possession that I can command; -and if I should set eyes upon the face I love so well, I should lose all -control of myself. It is very hard to be obliged to say this to you; -but what I am writing is of great importance—to me, at least—and the -sight of you would agitate me so much that I could not finish it. Oh, -my dear, kind friend, will you forgive me? If you could come to see me -to-morrow, it would be a great comfort. Then my writing will be done -with. I love you with all my heart, and thank you for all your goodness -to me. - -“Ruth.” - -“Don’t blame her too severely, Mrs. Hart,” said Hetzel. “She is -probably half-distracted, and scarcely knows what she is doing.” - -“Oh, I don’t blame her,” replied Mrs. Hart; “only—only—it -was a little hard to be denied.” - -“Have you any idea what it is that she is writing?” - -“Not the remotest.” - -“Perhaps it is an explanation of her conduct today in court.” - -“Perhaps,” - -Mr. Flint said, “Well, Mr. Romer, the bright plans that we were making -last night have been knocked in the head, haven’t they? But I won’t -believe that there isn’t some way out of our troubles, in spite of -all. It isn’t seriously possible that she’ll be sentenced to prison, -is it?” - -“As I was suggesting to Mr. Hetzel, a while ago, her friends might -claim that she’s insane.” - -“Well, insane she must be, in point of fact. A lady like Mrs. -Ripley—to plead guilty of murder—why, of course, she’s insane. -It’s absurd on its face.” - -“You don’t any of you happen to be posted on the circumstances of -the case, do you?” Romer asked. “I mean her side of the story. I’m -familiar with the other side myself.” - -“I know absolutely nothing about it,” said Mr. Flint. - -“All I know,” said Hetzel, “is what Arthur has let drop in -conversation, from time to time, during the last few months. But -then, you know, he was looking at it from the point of view of the -prosecution. I should imagine that if any one would understand the true -inwardness of the matter, it would be Mrs. Hart.” - -Mrs. Hart said, “I know that she is as innocent as the babe at its -mother’s breast. When she and I first met each other, in England, two -years ago, and became friends, she told me all about it; but it was a -long and complicated story, and I can’t remember it clearly enough to -repeat it. You see, I always regarded it as a dark bygone that had best -be forgotten. I believe that as far as the mere bodily act went, she -did fire off the pistol that killed her husband and that other man. But -there were some circumstances that cleared her of all responsibility, -though I can’t recall exactly what they were. But it wasn’t that she -was insane. She never was insane. I think she said her lawyers defended -her on that plea when she was tried; but she insisted that she was not -insane, and explained it in some other way.” - -“Oh, that don’t signify,” said Romer. “When defendants really -are insane, they invariably fancy that they’re not, and get highly -indignant at their counsel for maintaining that they are. At any rate, -lunacy is what you must fight for now. As I told Mr. Hetzel, you want to -retain a lawyer, and have him move for a commission when the case comes -up next week. You’ll have your motion granted on application, because -we shan’t oppose.” - -“And in the event of the commission declaring her to be insane?” -queried Mr. Flint. - -“Why, then, her plea will be rendered null and void.” - -“And in case they say that she’s of sound mind?” - -“There’ll be the devil to pay. Sentence will have to be passed.” - -“And she will—will actually—?” - -“I wouldn’t worry about that. The chances are that they will report -as you wish. And if they shouldn’t—if worse came to worst—why, -there’s the governor, who has power to pardon.” - -“The ambulance has arrived,” said the doctor, coming into the -room. “Some one had better run on ahead, and get a bed ready for the -patient. Please, also, prepare plenty of chopped ice, and have some -towels handy, and a bottle of hot water for his feet. By the way, you -didn’t give me the number of the house. How’s that? No. 46? Thanks. -We’ll drive slowly, so as not to shake him up; and consequently -you’ll have time enough to get there first, and make every thing -ready.” - -“Well,” said Hetzel, rising, “good-by, Mr. Romer, and I trust that -you know how grateful we are to you.” - -“Oh, that’s all right,” said Romer. “Don’t mention it. -Good-by.” - -In the street Mr. Flint said, “I’ll invite myself to go home with -you. I want to see how badly off the poor boy is.” - -In Beekman Place they made the ’arrangements, that the doctor -had indicated for Arthur’s reception, and then sat down in the -drawing-room to await his coming. By and by the ambulance rolled up to -the door. - -They hurried out upon the stoop. A good many of the neighbors had come -to their windows, and there was a small army of inquisitive children -bivouacked upon the curbstone. Mrs. Berle ran across from her house, and -talked excitedly to Mrs. Hart. Of course, all Beekman Place had read in -the newspapers of Judith Peixada’s arrest. - -The doctor, assisted by the driver, lifted the sick man out. He lay at -full length upon a canvas stretcher. His face had assumed a cadaverous, -greenish tinge. His big blue eyes, wide open, were fixed upon the empty -air above them. To all appearances, he was still unconscious. - -They carried him up the stoop; through the hall, and into the room -above-stairs to which Mrs. Hart conducted them. There they laid him on -the bed. - -“Now,” said the doctor, “first of all, send for your own -physician. I must see him and confer with him, before I go away.” - -Mrs. Hart left the room, to obey the doctor’s injunction. - -“You, Jake,” the doctor went on, addressing the driver, “needn’t -wait. Drive back to the hospital, and tell them that I’ll come as soon -as I can be spared.” - -“Here, Jake, before you go,” said Mr. Flint, producing his purse. - -“Oh, thanks. Can’t accept any thing, sir,” responded Jake, and -vanished. - -“Now, gentlemen,” resumed the doctor, “just lend a hand, and help -undress him.” - -Following the doctor’s directions, they got the patient out of his -clothes. He seemed to be a mere limp, inert mass of flesh, and displayed -no symptoms of realizing what was going on. His extremities were -ice-cold. His forehead was hot. His breath was labored. - -“A very sick man, I’m afraid, isn’t he, doctor?” asked Mr. -Flint. - -“I’m afraid so.” - -The doctor covered him with the bed-clothes. - -“What do you think is the matter with him?” Mr. Flint pursued. - -“Oh, it hasn’t developed sufficiently yet to be classified. His -mind must have been undergoing a strain for some time, I guess; and now -he’s broken down beneath it.” - -“He’s quite unconscious, apparently.” - -“Yes, in a sort of lethargy. That’s what makes the case a puzzle. -Won’t you order a hot-water bottle, somebody?” - -Hetzel left the room. In a moment he brought the bottle of hot water. -The doctor applied it to Arthur’s feet. - -“And the chopped ice?” Hetzel inquired. - -The doctor placed his hand upon Arthur’s brow. - -“N—no; we won’t use the chopped ice yet a while,” he answered. - -By and by a bell rang down-stairs. A little later Mrs. Hart came in. - -“Our doctor—Dr. Letzup—is here,” she announced. - -Dr. Letzup entered. - -“I suppose you medical men would like to be left alone?” said Mr. -Flint. - -“Yes, I guess so,” said the hospital-doctor. - -Mrs. Hart led the way into the adjoining room. There our friends -maintained a melancholy silence. Mrs. Hart’s cats slept comfortably, -one upon the sofa, the other upon the rug before the mantelpiece. The -voices of the two physicians, in earnest conversation, were audible -through the closed door. - -Presently Mr. Hart jumped up. - -“What—what now?” Mr. Flint questioned. - -“I heard one of them step into the hall. Perhaps they need -something.” - -She hurried to the threshold. There she confronted the hospital-doctor. -He had his hand raised, as if on the point of rapping for admittance. - -“Ah, I was looking for you,” he explained. “I am going now. I -don’t see that I can be of any further use.” - -“How is Arthur?” - -“About as he was. Dr. Letzup has taken charge of him. Well, good -day.” - -“Oh, you shan’t leave us in this way,” protested Mrs. Hart. “You -must at least wait and let me offer you a glass of wine.” - -“I’m much obliged,” said the doctor; “but they are expecting me -in Chambers Street.” - -Mrs. Hart, flanked by Mr. Flint and Hetzel, accompanied him to the -vestibule. All three did their utmost to thank him adequately for the -pains he had taken in their behalf. Returning up-stairs, they were -joined by Dr. Letzup. - -“Well, doctor?” began Mrs. Hart. - -“Well, Mrs. Hart,” the doctor replied, “our friend in the next -room has been exciting himself lately, hasn’t he? What he wants now -is a trained nurse, soothing medicines, and perfect quiet. The first two -I’m going to send around, as soon as I leave the house. For the last, -he must depend upon you. That is equivalent to saying that he will -have it. Therefore, so far as I can see, you have every reason to be -hopeful.” - -“What do you take his trouble to be, doctor?” asked Hetzel. - -“Oh, I don’t know of any special name for it,” said the -doctor. “The poor fellow must have been careless of himself -recently—worrying, probably, about something—and then came a shock -of one kind or another—collapse of stock he’d been investing in, -or what not—and so he went under. We’ll fetch him up again, fast -enough. The main thing is to steer him clear of brain fever. I think -we can do it. If it turns out that we can’t—if the fever should -develop—then, we’ll go to work and pilot him safely through it. Now -I must be off. Some one had better stay with him till the nurse comes. -Keep him warm—hot water at his feet, you know, and bed-clothes tucked -in about his shoulders. When the nurse turns up, she’ll give him his -medicines. I’ll call again after dinner.” - -Mr. Flint left a little later. - -“I suppose I shan’t be of any assistance, but merely in the way, -by remaining here. So I’ll go home. But of course you’ll notify -me instantly if there should be a change for the worse,” was his -valedictory. - -After dinner the doctor called, pursuant to his promise. Having visited -his patient, and held an interview with the nurse, he beckoned Hetzel to -one side. - -“Don’t be frightened,” he said, “but I’m afraid it’s going -to be brain fever, after all. He’s a little delirious just now, -and his temperature is higher than I should like. The nurse will take -perfect care of him. You’d better go to bed early and sleep well, so -as to be fresh and able to relieve her in the morning. Good night.” - -“Good night.” - -“What did the doctor say to you?” inquired Mrs. Hart. - -Hetzel told her. - - - - -CHAPTER XI.—“HOW SHE ENDEAVORED TO EXPLAIN HER LIFE.” - -THURSDAY morning it rained. Hetzel was seated in Mrs. Hart’s -dining-room, making such an apology for a breakfast as, under the -circumstances, could be expected of him, when the waitress announced -that Josephine was in the kitchen, and wished to speak with her master. - -“All right,” said Hetzel; “ask her to step this way.” - -Josephine presented herself. Not without some embarrassment, she -declared that she had heard what rumor had to say of Mrs. Ripley’s -imprisonment and of Mr. Ripley’s sickness, and that she was anxious to -learn the very truth of the matter from Hetzel’s lips. Hetzel replied -good-naturedly to her interrogations; and at length Josephine rose to go -her way. But having attained the door, she halted and faced about. - -“Ach Gott!” she exclaimed. “I was forgetting about these.” She -drew a bunch of letters from her pocket, and deposited them upon the -table beside Hetzel’s plate. - -Alone, Hetzel picked the letters up, and began to study their -superscriptions. One by one, he threw them aside without breaking their -seals, till at last “Hello!” he cried, “who has been writing a -book for me to read? Half an inch thick, as I’m alive; looks like -a lady’s hand, too; seems somehow as though I recognized it. Let me -see.—Ah! I remember. It must be from her!” - -Without further preliminary, he pushed back his chair, tore the envelope -open, and set out to read the missive through. - -“Dear Mr. Hetzel: I received a very kind note from you last night, -and I should have answered it at once, only I had so much to say that I -thought it would be better to wait till morning, in order to begin -and finish it at a sitting. The lights are turned off here at nine -o’clock: and therefore if I had begun to write last evening, I should -have been interrupted in the midst of it; and that would have rendered -doubly difficult what in itself is difficult enough. - -“I have much to explain, much to justify, much to ask forgiveness for. -I am going to bring myself to say things to you, which, a few days ago, -I believed it would be impossible for me to say to any living being, -except my husband; and it would have been no easy matter to say them to -him. But a great change has happened in the last few days. Now I can not -say those things to my husband—never can. Now my wretched failure of a -life is nearly ended. I am going to a prison where, I know very well, I -shall not survive a great while. - -“And something, which there is no need to analyze, impels me to put in -writing such an explanation of what I have done and left undone in this -world, as I may be able to make. Perhaps I am prompted to this course by -pride, or if you choose, by vanity. However that may be, I do feel that -in justice to myself as well as to my friends, I ought to try to state -the head and front of my offending so as to soften the judgment that -people aware only of my outward acts, and ignorant of my inner motives, -would be disposed to pass upon me. I have ventured to address myself to -you, instead of to Mrs. Hart, out of consideration for her. It would be -too hard for her to have to read this writing through. You, having read -it, can repeat its upshot to her in such a manner as to make it easier -for her to bear. I know that you will be willing to do this, because I -know that both she and I have always had a friend in you. - -“For my own assistance, let me state clearly beforehand the points -upon which I must touch in this letter. First, I must explain why, -having a blot upon my life—being, that is to say, who I am—I allowed -Arthur Ripley to marry me. Then I must go on to perform that most -painful task of all—tell the story of the death of Bernard Peixada and -Edward Bolen. Next, I must justify—what you appear to misunderstand, -though the grounds of it are really very simple—the deep resentment -which I can not help cherishing against your bosom friend, my husband. -Finally, I must give the reasons that induced me to plead guilty of -murder an hour ago in court. - -“But no. I have put things in their wrong order at the outset. It will -not be possible for me to explain why I consented to become Arthur’s -wife, until I have given you the true history of Bernard Peixada’s -death. I must command my utmost strength to do this. I must forget -nothing. - -“I must force myself to recount every circumstance, hateful as the -whole subject is. I must search my memory, subdue my feelings, and as -dispassionately as will be possible, put the entire miserable tale in -writing. I pray God to help me. - -“I am just twenty-six years old—ten months younger than Arthur. My -birthday fell while he and I were at New Castle together—August 4th. -How little I guessed then that in ten days every thing would be so -altered! It is strange. I trusted him as I trusted myself. I could not -conceive the possibility of his deceiving me. He seemed so sincere, so -simple-minded, so single-hearted, I could as easily have fancied a toad -issuing from his mouth, as a lie. Yet all the time—even while we were -alone together there in New Castle—he was lying to me. That whole -fortnight—that seemed so wonderfully serene and pure and light—was -one dark falsehood. Even then, he was having my career investigated here -in New York, behind my back. And I—I had offered to tell him every -thing. Painful as it would have been, I should have told him the whole -story; but he would not let me. - -“He preferred to hear Benjamin Peixada’s—my enemy’s—version -of it. Even now, when I have—plenty—to remind me of the truth, even -now, I can scarcely believe it. - -“But I must not deviate. As I was saying, I am twenty-six years old. -More than six years ago, when I was nineteen, nearing twenty, my father -said to me one day, ’Mr. Peixada has done us the honor to ask for your -hand in marriage. We have accepted. So, on the eighth of next August, -you will be married to him.’ - -“You can not realize, Mr. Hetzel, a tithe of the horror I experienced -when my father spoke those words to me, until I have gone back further -still, and told something of my life up to that time. At this moment, as -I recall the occasion of my father’s saying that to me, my heart turns -to ice, my cheeks burn, my limbs quake, my nature recoils with disgust -and loathing. It is painful to have to go over it all again, to have to -live through it all again; yet that is what I have started out to do. - -“You must know, to begin with, that my father was a watchmaker, and -that he kept a shop on Second Avenue, between Sixth and Seventh Streets. -He was a man of great intelligence, of uncommon cultivation, and of -a most gentle and affectionate disposition; but he was a Jew of the -sternest orthodoxy, and he held old-fashioned, orthodox notions of the -obedience children owe to their parents. My father in his youth had -intended to become a physician; but while he was a student in Berlin, in -1848, the revolution broke out; he took part in it; and as a consequence -he had to leave Germany and come to America before he had won his -diploma. Here, friendless, penniless, he fell in with a jeweler, -named Oppenhym, who offered to teach him his trade. Thus he became an -apprentice, then a journeyman, finally a proprietor. I was born in the -house on Second Avenue, in the basement of which my father kept his -shop. We lived up stairs. Our family consisted only of my father and -mother, myself, and my father’s intimate friend, Marcus Nathan. -Mr. Nathan was a very learned gentleman, who had been a widower and -childless for many years, and who acted as chazzan in our synagogue. -It was to him that my father confided my education. It was he who first -taught me to read and write and to care for books and music. How good -and loyal a friend he was to me you will learn later on. He died early -in 1880.... I did not go to school till I was thirteen years old. Then -I was sent to the public school in Twelfth Street, and thence to the -Normal College, where I graduated in 1876. I studied the piano at home -under the direction of a woman named Emily Millard—an accomplished -musician, but unkind and cruel. She used to pull my hair and pinch me, -when I made mistakes; and afterward, when they tried me in the court of -General Sessions for Bernard Peixada’s murder, Miss Millard came and -swore that I was bad. - -“Bernard Peixada—whom the newspapers described as ’a retired -Jewish merchant’—was a pawnbroker. His shop was straight across the -street from ours. I never in my life saw another structure of brick and -mortar that seemed to frown with such sinister significance, with such -ominous suggestiveness, upon the street in front of it as did that -house of Bernard Peixada’s. It was a brick house; but the bricks were -concealed by a coat of dark gray stucco, with blotches here and there -that were almost black. The shop, of course, was on the ground floor. -Its broad windows were protected, like those of a jail, by heavy iron -bars. Within them was exhibited an assortment of such goods and chattels -as the pawnbroker had contrived to purchase from distress—musical -instruments, household ornaments, kitchen utensils, firearms, tarnished -suits of uniform, faded bits of women’s finery—ex voto offerings at -the shrine of Mammon. Behind these, all was darkness, and mystery, and -gloom. Over the door, three golden balls—golden they had been once, -but were no longer, thanks to the thief, Time, abetted by wind and -weather—the pawnbroker’s escutcheon, swayed in the breeze. Higher up -still—big, white, ghastly letters on a sable background—hung a sign, -bearing a legend like this: B. PEIXADA. - -MONEY LENT ON WATCHES, JEWELRY, PRECIOUS STONES, AND ALL VARIETIES OF -PERSONAL PROPERTY. - -“And on the side door, the door that let into the private hallway -of the house, was screwed a solemn brass plate, with ’B. Peixada’ -engraved in Old English characters upon it. (When Bernard Peixada -retired from business, he was succeeded by one B. Peinard. On taking -possession, Mr. Peinard, for economy’s sake, caused the last four -letters of Bernard Peixada’s name on the sign to be painted out, and -the corresponding letters of his own name to be painted in: so that, to -this day, the time-stained PEI stands as it used to stand years ago, and -contrasts oddly with the more recent word that follows.) As I have -said, the shop windows were defended by an iron grating. The other -windows—those of the three upper stories—were hermetically sealed. -I, at least, never saw them open. The blinds, once green, doubtless, but -blackened by age, were permanently closed; and the stucco beneath them -was fantastically frescoed with the dirt that had been washed from them -by the rain. - -“I think it was partly due to these black blinds, and’ to the queer -shapes that the dirt had taken on the wall, that the house had that -peculiarly sinister aspect that I have spoken of. At all events, -you could not glance at its façade without shuddering. As early a -recollection as any that I have, is of how I used to sit at our front -windows, and gaze over at Bernard Peixada’s, and work myself into a -very ecstasy of fear by trying to imagine the dark and terrible things -that were stored behind them. My worst nightmares used to be that I was -a prisoner in Bernard Peixada’s house. I never dreamed that some time -my most hideous nightmare would be surpassed by the fact. - -“But if I used to terrify myself by the sight of Bernard Peixada’s -dwelling, much keener was the terror with which Bernard Peixada’s -person inspired me. Picture to yourself a—creature—six feet tall, -gaunt as a skeleton, always dressed in black—in black broadcloth, that -glistened like a snake’s skin—with a head—my pen revolts from -an attempt to describe it. Yet I must describe it, so that you may -appreciate a little what I endured when my father said that he had -chosen Bernard Peixada for my husband. Well, Bernard Peixada’s head -was thus: a hawk’s beak for a nose, a hawk’s beak inverted for a -chin; lips, two thin, blue, crooked lines across his face, with yellow -fangs behind them, that shone horribly when he laughed; eyes, two black, -shiny beads, deep-set beneath prominent, black, shaggy brows, with the -malevolence of a demon aflame deep down in them; skull, destitute of -honest hair, but kept warm by a curling, reddish wig; skin, dry -and sallow as old parchment, on which dark wrinkles were traced—a -cryptogram, with a meaning, but one which I could not perfectly -decipher; these were the elements of Bernard Peixada’s -physiognomy—fit features for a bird of prey, were they not? Have you -ever seen his brother, Benjamin? the friend of Arthur Ripley? Benjamin -is corpulent, florid, and on the whole not ill-looking—morally and -physically vastly superior to his elder brother. But fancy Benjamin -pumped dry of blood, shrunken to the dimensions of a mummy, then -bewigged, then caricatured by an enemy, and you will form a tolerably -vivid conception of how Bernard Peixada looked. But his looks were not -all. His voice, I think, was worse. It was a thin, piercing voice -that, when I heard it, used to set my heart palpitating with a hundred -horrible emotions. It was a dry, metallic voice that grated like a -file. It was a sharp, jerky voice that seemed to chop the air, each -word sounding like a blow from an ax. It was a voice which could not be -forced to say a kind and human thing. Cruelty and harshness were natural -to it. I can hear it ringing in my ears, as I am writing now; and it -makes my heart sink and my hand tremble, as it used to do when I -indeed heard it, issuing from his foul, cruel mouth. Will you be -surprised—will you think I am exaggerating—when I say that Bernard -Peixada’s hideousness did not end with his voice? I should do his -portrait an injustice if I were to omit mention of his hands—his -claws, rather, for claws they were shaped like; and, instead of fingers, -they were furnished with long, brown, bony talons, terminated by black, -untrimmed nails. I do not believe I ever saw Bernard Peixada’s hands -in repose. They were in perpetual, nervous motion—the talons clutching -at the air, if at nothing more substantial—even when he slept. The -most painful dreams that I have had, since God delivered me of him, have -been those in which I have seen his hands, working, working, the fingers -writhing like serpents, as they were wont to do in life. Oh, such a -monstrosity! Oh, such a wicked travesty of man! This, Mr. Hetzel, was -the person to f-whom my father proposed to marry me. There was no one to -plead for me, no one to interfere in my behalf. And I was a young girl, -nineteen years old. - -“How could my father do it? How could he bring himself to do this -thing? It is a long story. - -“In the first place, Bernard Peixada was accounted a most estimable -member of society. He was rich; he was pious; he was eminently -respectable. His ill-looks were ignored. Was he to blame for them? -people asked. Did he not close his shop regularly on every holiday? Who -was more precise than he in observing the feasts and fasts of the Hebrew -calendar? or in attending services at the Synagogue? Was smoke ever to -be seen issuing from his chimneys on the Sabbath? Old as he was, did he -not abstain from food on the fast of Gedalia, and on that of Tebeth, and -on that of Tamuz, as well as on the Ninth of Ab and on Yom Kippur? Had -he not, year after year, been elected and re-elected Parnass of the -congregation? All honor to him, then, for a wise man and an upright -man in the way of the law! It was thus that public opinion in our small -world treated Bernard Peixada. On the theory that handsome is that -handsome does, he got the credit of being quite a paragon of beauty. -To be sure, he lacked social qualities—he was scarcely a -hail-fellow-well-met. He cared little for wine and tobacco—he abhorred -dominoes—he could not be induced to sit down to a game of penacle; but -all the better! The absence of these frivolous interests proved him to -be a man of responsible weight and gravity. It was a pity he had never -married. Perhaps it was not yet too late. Lucky the girl upon whom his -eye should turn with favor. If he had not youth and bodily grace to -offer her, he had, at least, wealth, wisdom, and respectability. - -“Bernard Peixada had been the black beast of my childhood. When -I would go with my mother to the Synagogue, and sit with her in the -women’s gallery, I could not keep my eyes off Bernard.. Peixada, who -occupied the president’s chair downstairs. The sight of him had an -uncanny fascination for me. As I grew older, it was still the same. -Bernard Peixada personified to me all that was evil in human nature. -He was the Ahriman, the Antichrist, of my theology. He made my flesh -creep—gave me a sensation similar to that which a snake gives -one—only incomparably more intense. - -“Well, one evening in the early spring of 1878, I was seated in our -little parlor over the shop, striving to entertain a very dull young -man—a Mr. Rimo, Bernard Peixada’s nephew—when the door opened, -and who should come gliding in but Bernard Peixada himself? I had never -before seen him at such close quarters, unless my father or mother or -Mr. Nathan was present too; and then I had derived a sense of security -from realizing that I had a friend near by. But now, here he was in the -very room with me, and I all alone, except for this nephew of his, Mr. -Rimo. I had to catch for my breath, and my heart grew faint within me. - -“Bernard Peixada simply said good evening and sat down. I do not -remember that he spoke another word until he rose to go away. But for -two hours he sat there opposite me, and not for one instant did he take -his eyes from off my face. He sat still, like a toad, and leered at me. -His blue lips were curled into a grin, which, no doubt, was intended -to be reassuring, but which, in fact, sent cold shivers chasing down my -back. He stared at me as he might have stared at some inanimate object -that had been offered to him in pawn. Then at last, when he must have -learned every line and angle of my face by rote, he got up and went -away, leading Mr. Rimo after him. - -“I lay awake all that night, wondering what Bernard Peixada’s visit -meant, hoping that it meant nothing, fearing—but it would take -too long for me to tell you all I feared. Suffice it that the next -afternoon—I was seated in my bed-room, trying to divert my imagination -with a tale of Hawthorne’s—the next afternoon my father called me -into his office behind the shop, and there in the presence of my mother -he corroborated the worst fears that had beset me during the night. - -“‘Judith,’ he said, ’our neighbor, Mr. Peixada, has done us -the honor of proposing for your hand. Of course we have accepted. He -designates the eighth of August for the wedding-day. That will give you -plenty of time to get ready in; and on Sundays you will stay at home to -receive congratulations. - -“It took a little while, Mr. Hetzel, for the full meaning of -my father’s speech to penetrate my mind. At first I did not -comprehend—I was stupefied, bewildered. My senses were benumbed. -Mechanically, I watched my father’s canary-bird hop from perch to -perch in his cage, and listened to the shrill whistle that he uttered -from time to time. I was conscious of a dizziness in my head, of a -sickness and a chill over all my body. But then, suddenly, the horror -shot through me—pierced my consciousness like a knife. Suddenly my -senses became wonderfully clear. I saw the black misery that they had -prepared for me, in a quick, vivid tableau before my eyes. I trembled -from head to foot. I tried to speak, to cry out, to protest. If I could -only have let the pain break forth in an inarticulate moan, it would -have been some relief. But my tongue clove to the roof of my mouth. -I could not utter a sound. ’Well, Judith,’ said my father, ’why -don’t you speak?’ - -“His words helped me to find my voice. - -“‘Speak!’ I cried. ’What is there to say? Marry Bernard Peixada? -Marry that monster? I will never marry him. I would a thousand times -rather die.’ - -“My mother and father looked at me and at each other in dismay. - -“‘Judith,’ said my father, sternly, ’that is not the language -that a daughter should use toward her parents. That is not the way a -young lady should feel, either. Of course you will marry Mr. Peixada. -Don’t make a scene about it. It has all been arranged between us; and -your betrothed is coming to claim you in half an hour.’ - -“‘Father,’ I answered, very calmly, ’I am sorry to rebel against -your authority, but I tell you now, once for all, I will not marry -Bernard Peixada.’ ’Judith,’ rejoined my father, imitating my -manner, ’I am sorry to contradict you, but I tell you now, once for -all, you will.’ - -“‘Never,’ said I. - -“‘On the eighth of August,’ said my father. - -“‘Time will show,’ said I. - -“‘Time will show,’ said he, ’in less than fifteen minutes. -Judith, listen.’ - -“It was an old story that my father now proceeded to tell me—old, -and yet as new as it is terrible to the girl who has to listen to it. -It does not break the heart in two, like the old, old story of Heine’s -song: it inflames the heart with a dull, sullen anguish that is the -worst pain a woman can be called upon to endure. My father told me how -for two years past his pecuniary affairs had been going to the dogs; -how he had been getting poor and poorer; how he had become Bernard -Peixada’s debtor for sums of money that he could never hope to pay; -how Bernard Peixada owned not only the wares in our shop, but the very -chairs we sat on, the very beds we slept in, the very plates off which -we ate; how, indeed, it was Bernard Peixada who paid for the daily bread -that kept our bodies and souls together. My father explained all this to -me, concluding thus: ’I was in despair, Judith. I thought I should go -crazy. I saw nothing but disgrace and the poor-house before your mother -and you and me. I could not sleep at night. I could not work during the -day. I could do nothing but think, think, think of the desperate pass to -which my affairs had come. It was an agony, Judith. It would soon have -killed me, or driven me mad. Then, all at once, the darkness of my—sky -is lightened by this good man, whom I have already to thank for so much. -He calls upon me. He says he will show me a way out of my difficulties. - -“I ask what it is. He answers, why not unite our families, accept him -as my son-in-law? and adds that between son-in-law and father-in-law -there can be no question of indebtedness. In other words, he told me -that he loved you, Judith; that he wished to marry you; and that, once -married to you, he would consider my debts to him discharged. Try, -Judith, to realize his generosity. I—I owe him thousands. But for -him we should have starved. But for him, we should starve to-morrow. -Ordinary gratitude alone would have been enough to compel me to say yes -to his proposition. But by saying yes, did I not also accomplish our own -salvation? Now that you have heard the whole story, Judith, now, like a -good girl, promise to make no opposition.’ - -“‘So that,’ I retorted, indignantly, ’I am to be your ransom—I -am to be sacrificed as a hostage. The pawnbroker consents to receive -me as an equivalent for the money you owe him. A woman to be literally -bought and sold. Oh, father, no, no! There must be some other way. Let -me go to work. Have I not already earned money by giving lessons? I will -teach from morning to night each day; and every penny that I gain, I -will give to you to pay Bernard Peixada with. I will be so industrious! -I would rather slave the flesh from my bones—any thing, rather than -marry him.’ - -“‘The most you could earn,’ my father answered, ’would be no -more than a drop in the bucket, Judith.’ - -“‘Well, then,’ I went on, ’there is Mr. Nathan. He has money. -Borrow from him. He will not refuse. I know that he would gladly give -much money to save me from a marriage with Bernard Peixada. I will ask -him.’ - -“Judith, you must not speak of this to Mr. Nathan,’ cried my father, -hastily. ’He must not know but that your marriage to Mr. Peixada is -an act of your own choice. I—to tell you the truth—I have already -borrowed from Mr. Nathan as much as I dare to ask for.’ - -“To cut a long story short, Mr. Hetzel, my father drew for me such -a dark picture of his misfortunes, he argued so plausibly that all -depended upon my marrying Bernard Peixada, he pleaded so piteously, that -in the end I said, ’Well, father, I will do as you wish.’—— - -“I do not think it is necessary to dwell upon what followed: how my -father and mother embraced me, and wept over me, and thanked me, and -gave me their benediction; how Bernard Peixada came from his lair -across the street, and kissed my hand, and leered at me, and called me -’Judith’ in that voice of his; how then, for weeks afterward, my -life was one protracted, hopeless horror; how the sun rose morning after -morning, and brought neither warmth nor light, but only a reminder that -the eighth of August was one day nearer still; how I could speak of -it to no one, but had to bear it all alone in silence; how at night -my sleep was constantly beset by nightmares, in which I got a bitter -foretaste of the future; how evening after evening I had to spend in -the parlor with Bernard Peixada, listening to his voice, watching his -fingers writhe, feeling the deadly light of his eyes upon me, breathing -the air that his presence tainted; how every Sunday I had to receive -people’s congratulations! the good wishes of all our family -friends—I need not dwell upon these things. My life was a long -heart-ache. I had but one relief—hoping that I might die. I did not -think of putting an end to myself; but I did pray that God, in his -mercy, would let me die before the eighth of August came. Indeed, my -health was very much broken. Our family doctor visited me twice a week. -He told my father that marriage would be bad for me. But my father’s -hands were tied. - -“The people here tell me that there is a man confined in this prison -under sentence to be hanged. The day fixed for his execution is the -first Friday of next month. Well, I think that that man, now, as he -looks forward to the first Friday of September, may feel a little as I -felt then, when I would look forward to the eighth of August—only he -has the mitigation of knowing that afterward he will be dead, whereas I -knew that I should have to live and suffer worse things still. As I -saw that day steadily creeping nearer and nearer to me, the horror that -bound my heart intensified. It was like the old Roman spectacle. I had -been flung ad bestias. I stood still, defenseless, beyond the reach of -rescue, hopeless of escape, and watched the wild beast draw closer and -closer to me, and all the while endured the agony of picturing to myself -the final moment, when he would spring upon me and suck my blood: only, -again there was this difference—the martyr in the arena knew that -after that final moment, all would be over; but I knew that the worst -would then just be begun. Yet, at last—toward the end—I actually -fell to wishing that the final moment would arrive. The torture, long -drawn out, of anticipation was so unbearable that I actually wished the -wild beast would fall upon me, in order that I might enjoy the relief -of change. Nothing, I felt, could be more painful than this waiting, -dreading, imagining. The eighth of August could bring no terror that I -had not already confronted in imagination. - -“Well, this one wish of mine was granted. The eighth of August came. I -was married to Bernard Peixada. I stood up in our parlor, decked out in -bridal costume, holding Bernard Peixada’s hand in mine, and took the -vows of matrimony in the presence of a hundred witnesses. The canopy was -raised over our heads; the wine was drunken and spilled; the glass was -broken. The chazzan sang his song; the rabbi said his say; and I, -who had gone through the performance in a sort of stupor—dull, half -conscious, bewildered—I was suddenly brought to my senses by a clamor -of cheerful voices, as the wedding-guests trooped up around us, to -felicitate the bridegroom and to kiss the bride. I realized—no, I -did not yet realize—but I understood that I was Bernard Peixada’s -wife—his wife, for good and all, for better or for worse! I don’t -remember that I suffered any new pain. The intense suffering of the last -few months had worn out my capacities for suffering. My brain was dazed, -my heart deadened. - -“The people came and came, and talked and talked—I remember it as I -remember the delirium I had when I was sick once with fever. And after -the last person had come and talked and gone away, Bernard Peixada -offered me his arm, and said, ’We must take our places at the wedding -feast.’ Then he led me up-stairs, where long tables were laid out for -supper. - -“A strange sense of unreality possessed me. In a vague, dreamy, -far-off way, I saw the guests stand up around the tables; saw the men -cover their heads with hats or handkerchiefs; heard the voice of Mr. -Nathan raised in prayer; heard the company join lustily in his ’Baruch -Adonai,’. and reverently in his final ’Amen’ saw the head-gear -doffed, the people sink into their seats; heard the clatter of knives -and forks mingle with the tinkling of glasses, the bubble of pouring -wine, the uproar of talk and laughter; was conscious of glaring lights, -of moving forms, of the savor of food, mixed with the perfume of flowers -and the odor of cologne on the women’s handkerchiefs: felt hot, -dazzled, suffocated, confused—an oppression upon my breast, a ringing -in my ears, a swimming in my head: the world was whirling around and -around—I alone, in the center of things, was motionless. - -“So on for I knew not how long. In the end I became aware that -speeches were being made. The wedding feast, that meant, was nearly -over. I did not listen to the speeches. But they reminded me of -something that I had forgotten. Now, indeed, my heart stood still. They -reminded me that the moment was not far off when Bernard Peixada, when -my husband, would lead me away with him! - -“The speeches were wound up. Mr. Nathan began his last grace. My -mother signaled me to be ready to come to her as soon as Mr. Nathan -should get through. - -“‘Judith,’ she said, when I had reached her side, ’we had better -go up-stairs now, and change your dress.’ - -“We went up-stairs. When we came down again, we found Bernard Peixada -waiting in the hall. Through the open door of the parlor, I could hear -music, and see young men and women dancing. Oh, how I envied them! My -mother and father kissed me. Bernard Peixada grasped my arm. We left my -father’s house. We crossed the street. Bernard Peixada kept hold of my -arm, as if afraid that I might make a dash for liberty—as, indeed, my -impulse urged me to do. With his unoccupied hand, Bernard Peixada drew -a key from his pocket, and opened the side door of his own dark -abode—the door that bore the brass plate with the Old English letters. - -“‘Well,’ he said, ’come in.’ - -“With a shudder, I crossed the threshold of that mysterious, sinister -house—of that house which had been the terror of my childhood, and was -to be—what? In the midst of my fear and my bewilderment, I could not -suppress a certain eagerness to confront my fate and know the worst at -once—a certain curiosity to learn the full ghastliness of my doom. In -less time than I had bargained for, I had my wish.” - -Thus far Hetzel had read consecutively. At this point he was interrupted -by the entrance of Mrs. Hart. - -“Are you busy?” she asked. “Because, if you’re not, I think you -had better go up-stairs and sit with Arthur. The nurse wants to eat -her breakfast and lie down for a while. And I, you know, am expected by -Ruth.” - -“Oh, to be sure,” Hetzel replied, with a somewhat abstracted manner. -“Oh, yes—I’ll do as you wish at once. But it is a pity that you -should have to go down-town alone—especially in this weather.” - -“Oh, I don’t mind that. Good-by.” - -Hetzel gained the sick-room. The nurse said, “You won’t have much to -do, except sit down and keep quiet.” - -Arthur lay motionless, for all the world as if asleep, save that his -eyes were open. The room was darkened. Hetzel sat down near to the -window, and returning to Ruth’s letter, read on by the light that -stole in through the chinks in the blinds. The wind and rain played a -dreary accompaniment. - -“To detain you, Mr. Hetzel, with an account of my married life would -be superfluous. It was as bad as I had expected it to be, and worse. It -bore that relation to my anticipations which pain realized must always -bear to pain conjectured. The imagination, in anticipating pleasure, -generally goes beyond the reality and paints a too highly colored -picture. But in anticipating suffering, it does not go half far -enough. It is not powerful enough to foretell suffering in its complete -intensity. - -“Sweet is never so sweet as we imagine it will be; bitter is always at -least a shade bitterer than we are prepared for. Imagination slurs over -the little things—and the little things, trifles in themselves, are -the things that add to the poignancy of suffering. Bernard Peixada had -a copy of Dante’s Inferno, illustrated by Doré, on his sitting-room -table. You may guess what my life was like, when I tell you that I used -to turn the pages of that book, and literally envy the poor wretches -portrayed there their fire and brimstone. The utmost refinement of -torture that Dante and Doré between them could conceive and describe, -seemed like child’s play when I contrasted it to what I had to put up -with everyday. Bernard Peixada was cruel and coarse and false. It did -not take him a great while to fathom the disgust that he inspired -me with; and then he undertook to avenge his wounded self-love. He -contrived mortifications and humiliations for me that I can not bring -myself to name, that you would have difficulty in crediting. Besides, -this period of my life is not essential to what I have set myself -to make plain to you. It was simply a period of mental and moral -wretchedness, and of bodily decline. My health, which, I think I have -said, had been failing before the eighth of August, now proceeded -steadily from bad to worse. It was aggravated by the daily trials I had -to endure. Of course I strove to bear up as bravely as I could. - -“I did not wish Bernard Peixada to have the satisfaction of seeing how -unhappy he had succeeded in making me. I did not wish my poor father -and mother to witness the misery I had taken upon myself in obedience -to their behests. I said, ’That which is done is done, and can not be -undone, therefore let it not appear what the ordeal costs you.’ And in -the main I think I was successful. Only occasionally, when I was alone, -I would give myself the luxury of crying. I had never realized what a -relief crying could be till now. But now well, when I would be seized by -a paroxysm of grief that I could not control, when amid tears and sobs -I would no doubt look most pitiable—it was then that I came nearest to -being happy. I remember, on one of these occasions—Bernard Peixada -had gone out somewhere—I was surprised by a sanctimonious old woman, a -friend of his, if friendship can subsist between such people, a certain -Mrs. Washington Shapiro. ’My dear,’ said she, ’what are you crying -for?’ I was in a desperate mood. I did not care what I said; nay, more -than this, I enjoyed a certain forlorn pleasure in speaking my true mind -’for once, especially to this friend of Bernard Peixada’s. ’Oh,’ -I answered, ’I am crying because I wish Bernard Peixada was dead -and buried.’ I had to smile through my tears at the horror-stricken -countenance Mrs. Shapiro now put on. ’What! You wish Bernard Peixada -was dead?’ she exclaimed. ’Shame upon you! How can you say such a -thing!’—’He is a monster—he makes me unhappy,’ I responded. -’In that case,’ said Mrs. Shapiro, ’you ought to wish that you -yourself were dead, not he. It is you who are monstrous, for thinking -and saying such wicked things of that good man.’—’Oh,’ I -rejoined, ’I am young. I have much to live for. He is an old, bad man. -If he should die, it would be better for every body.’—This was, as -nearly as I can remember, a month or two before the night of July 30th. -As I have told you, it was a piece of self-indulgence. - -“I enjoyed speaking my true sentiments; I enjoyed horrifying Mrs. -Shapiro. But I was duly punished. She took pains to repeat what I had -said to Bernard Peixada. He did not fail to administer an adequate -punishment. Afterward, when I was tried for murder, Mrs. Shapiro turned -up, and retailed our conversation to the jury, for the purpose of -establishing my evil disposition. - -“It was in the autumn after my marriage that my father was stricken -with paralysis, and died. It was better for him. If he had lived, he -could not have: remained ignorant of his daughter’s misery; and then -he would have had to suffer the pangs of futile self reproach. Of course -he left nothing for my mother. The creditors took possession of every -thing. Bernard Peixada had been false to his bargain. Instead of -canceling my father’s indebtedness to him, as he had promised, he had -simply j sold his claims. Immediately after my father’s death, the -creditors swooped down upon his house and shop, and sold the last stick -of: furniture over my mother’s head. Mr. Nathan generously bought in -the things that were most precious as keep-sakes and family relics, and -returned them to my mother, after the vultures had flown away. Oddly -enough, they did not appear to blame Bernard Preixada—did not hold him -accountable. - -“They continued to regard him as a paragon of manly virtue. Perhaps he -contrived some untruthful explanation, by which they were deceived I had -naturally hoped that now my mother would come to live with us. It would -have been a great comfort to me, if she had done so. But Bernard Peixada -wished otherwise. He cunningly persuaded her that she and I had best -dwell apart. So he supplied her with enough money to pay her expenses -and sent her to board in the family of a friend of his. - -“Well, somehow, that fall and winter dragged away. It is something -terrible for me to look back at—that blackest, bleakest winter of my -life. I not understand how I managed to live through it without going -mad. I was a prisoner in Bernard Peixada’s house. My mother and Mr. -Nathan came to see me quite frequently; but Bernard was present during -their visits and therefore I got but little solace from them. - -“The only persons except my mother and Mr. Nathan whom Bernard Peixada -permitted me to receive, were his own friends. And they were one and all -hateful to me. To my friends he denied admittance, I was physically very -weak. My ill health made it impossible for me to forget myself in my -books. The effort of reading was too exhausting. I could not sit for -more than a quarter of an hour at the piano? either, without all but -fainting away. (Mr. Nathan had given me a piano for a wedding-present.) -At the time I am referring to—when I was unable to play upon -it—Bernard Peixada allowed me the free use of it. But afterward—when -I had become stronger, and began to practice regularly—one day I found -it locked. Bernard Peixada stood near by, and watched me try to open it. -I looked at him, when I saw that I could not open it, and he looked at -me. Oh, the contortion of his features, the twisting of his thin blue -lips, the glitter of his venomous little eyes, the loathsome gurgle in -his throat, as he laughed! He laughed at my dismay. Laughter? At least, -I know no other word by which to name the hideous spasm that convulsed -his voice. The result was, I passed my days moping. He objected to my -leaving the house, except in his company. I had therefore to remain -within doors. I used to sit at the window, and watch the life below -in the street, and look across at our house—now occupied by -strangers—and live over the past—my childhood, my girlhood—always -stopping at the day and the hour when my father had called me from the -reading of that story of Hawthorne’s, to announce my doom to me. But -I am wasting your time. All this is aside from the point. I did survive -that winter. And when the spring came, I began to get better in health, -and to become consequently more hopeful in spirit. I said, Why, you are -not yet twenty-one years old. He is sixty—and feeble at that. Only -try hard to hold out a little longer—a few years at the most—and he -must, in the mere course of nature, die. Then you will not yet be an -old woman. Life will still be worth something to you. You will have your -music, and you will be rid of him.’ Wicked? Unwomanly? Perhaps so; -but I think it was the way every girl in my position would have -felt. However, the consolation that came from thoughts like this, was -short-lived. The next moment it would occur to me, ’He may quite -possibly live to be ninety!’ And my heart would sink at the prospect -of thirty years—thirty years—more of life as his wife. - -“In March, 1879, Bernard Peixada spoke to me as follows: ’Judith, -you are not going to be a pawnbroker’s wife much longer. I have, made -arrangements to sell my business. I have leased a house up-town. We -shall move on the 1st of May. After that we shall be a gentleman and -lady of leisure.’ - -“Surely enough, on the 1st of May we moved. The house he had leased -was a frame house, standing all alone in the middle of the block, -between Eighty-fifth and Eighty-sixth Streets and Ninth and Tenth -Avenues. It was a large, substantial, comfortable house, dating from -Knickerbocker times. He had caused it to be furnished in a style which -he meant to be luxurious, but which was, in truth, the extreme of -ugliness. The grounds around it were laid out in a garden. We went to -live there punctually on the 1st of May. - -“Bernard Peixada now began to spend money with a lavish hand. He -bought fine clothes and jewels, in which he required me to array myself. -He even went to the length of purchasing a carriage and a pair of -horses. Then he would make me go driving at his side through Central -Park. He kept a coachman. The coachman was Edward Bolen. (Meanwhile, I -must not forget to tell you, Bernard Peixada had quarreled and broken -with my mother and Mr. Nathan. Now he allowed neither of them to enter -his house.) I was in absolute ignorance concerning them. Once I ventured -to ask him for news of them. He scowled. He said, ’You must never -mention them in my presence.’ And he accompanied this injunction with -such a look that I was careful to observe it scrupulously thereafter. I -received no letters from them. You may imagine what an addition all this -was to my burden. - -“But it is of Edward Bolen that I must tell you at present. He was a -repulsive looking Irishman. It is needless that I should describe him. -Suffice it that at first I was unsuspicious enough to accept him for -what he ostensibly was—Bernard Peixada’s coachman—but that ere -a great while I discovered, that he was something else, besides. I -discovered that he and Bernard Peixada had secrets together. - -“At night, after the household had gone to bed, he and Bernard Peixada -would meet in the parlor, and hold long conversations in low tones. -What they talked about, I did not know. But this I did know—it was not -about the horses. I concluded that they were mutually interested in -some bad business—that they were hatching some villainous plots -together—but, I confess, I did not much care what the business was, or -what the plots were. Only, the fact that they were upon this footing of -confidence with each other, struck me, and abode in my memory. - -“One afternoon, about a fortnight before the thirtieth of July, -Bernard Peixada had taken me to drive in Central Park. As I was getting -out of the carriage, upon our return, I tripped somehow, and fell, -and sprained my ankle. This sent me to my room. Dr. Gunther, Bernard -Peixada’s physician, attended me. He said I should not be able to -walk, probably for a month. - -“More than a week later, toward sunset, I was lying there on my bed. -Bernard Peixada had been absent from the house all day. Now I heard his -footfall below in the corridor—then on the stairs—then in the hall -outside my door. I took for granted that he was coming to speak with me. -I recoiled from the idea of speaking with him just then. So I closed my -eyes, and pretended to be asleep. - -“He came in. He approached my bedside, kept my eyes shut tight. -’Judith,’ he said, did not answer—feigned not to hear. -’Judith,’ repeated. Again I did not answer. He placed his hand upon -my forehead. I tried not to shudder. I guess she’s sound asleep,’ he -said; ’that’s good.’ He moved off. - -“His words, ’that’s good,’ Mr. Hetzel, frightened me. Why was -it ’good’ that I should be asleep? Did he intend to do me a mischief -while I slept? I opened my eyes the least bit. I saw him standing -sidewise to me, a yard or so away. He drew a number of papers from the -inside pocket of his coat. He ran them over. He laid one of them aside, -and replaced the others in his pocket. Then he went to the safe—he -kept a small safe in our bed-chamber—and opening the door—the door -remained unlocked all day; his habit being to lock it at night and -unlock it in the morning—he thrust the paper I have mentioned into one -of the pigeonholes, pushed the door to, and left the room. I had seen -him do all this through half closed eyes. Doubtless this was why it was -’good’ for me to be asleep—so that he could do what he had done, -unobserved. - -“I suppose I was entirely reprehensible—that my conduct admitted of -no excuse. However that may be, the fact is that an impulse prompted me -to get up from my bed, and to possess myself of the paper that he had -put into the safe. I did not stop to question or to combat that -impulse. No sooner thought, than I jumped up—and cried out loud! I had -forgotten my sprained ankle! For an instant I stood still, faint with -pain, terrified lest he might have heard my scream—lest he might -return, find me on my feet, divine my intention, and punish me as he -knew so well how to do. But while I stood there, undetermined whether -to turn back or to pursue my original idea, the terror passed away. -I limped across the floor, pulled the safe door open, put in my hand, -grasped the paper, drew it out, swung the door back, regained my bed. - -“There I had to lie still for a little, and recover my breath. I had -miscalculated my strength. The effort had exhausted me. My ankle was -aching cruelly—the pains shot far up into my body. But by and by I -felt better. I unfolded the paper, smoothed it out, glanced at it.. -This was all I had earned by my exertions:—’R. 174.—L. 36s.—R. -222.—L. 30.’ This was all that was written upon the paper. And what -this meant, how could I tell? I made up my mind, after much puzzling, -that it must be a secret writing—a cipher of one sort or another. I -was not sorry that I had purloined it, though I was disappointed at its -contents. I felt sure that Bernard Peixada could scarcely mean to employ -it for good ends. So it was just as well that I should have taken it -from him. I was on the point of destroying it, when I decided not to. -’No, I had best not destroy it,’ I thought. ’It possibly may be of -value. I will hide it where he can not find it.’ I hid it beneath the -mattress on which I lay. - -“How absurd and unreasonable my whole proceeding had been, had it not? -Much ado about nothing! With no adequate motive, and at the cost of much -suffering to myself, I had committed an unnecessary theft; and the -fruit of it was that incomprehensible row of figures. The whim of a sick -woman. And yet, though I recognized this aspect of the case with perfect -clearness, I could not find it in me to repent what I had done. - -“That night Bernard Peixada and Edward Bolen talked together till past -midnight, in the parlor. - -“I don’t know whether you believe in premonitions, in presentiments, -Mr. Hetzel. I scarcely know whether I do, myself. But from the moment -I woke up, on the morning of July 30th, I was possessed by a strange, -vague, yet irresistible foreboding that something was going to -happen—something extraordinary, something of importance. At first this -was simply a not altogether unpleasant feeling of expectancy. As the day -wore on, however, it intensified. It became a fear, then a dread, then a -breathless terror. I could ascribe it to no rational cause. I struggled -with it—endeavored to shake it off. No use. It clutched at my -heart—tightly—more tightly. I sought to reassure myself, by having -recourse to a little materialism. I said, ’It is because you are -not as well as usual to-day. It is the reaction of body upon mind.’ -Despite the utmost I could say, the feeling grew and grew upon me, -till it was well-nigh insupportable. Yet I could not force it to take -a definite shape. Was it that something had happened, or was going to -happen, to my mother? to Mr. Nathan? to me? I could not tell—all I -knew was that my heart ached, that at every slightest sound it would -start into my mouth—then palpitate so madly that I could scarcely -catch my breath. - -“I had not seen Bernard Peixada at all that day. Whether he was in -the house, or absent from it, I had not inquired. But just before -dinner-time—at about six o’clock—he entered my room. My heart -stood still. Now, I felt, what I had been dreading since early morning, -was on the point of accomplishment. I tried to nerve myself for the -worst. Probably he would announce some bad news about my mother.—But I -was mistaken. He said only this: ’After dinner, Judith, you will call -the servants to your room, and give them leave of absence for the night. -They need not return till to-morrow morning. Do you understand?’ - -“I understood and yet I did not understand. I understood the -bald fact—that the servants were to have leave of absence for the -night—but the significance of the fact I did not understand. I knew -very well that Bernard Peixada had a motive for granting them this -indulgence, that it was not due to a pure and simple impulse of -good-nature on his part: but what the motive was, I could not divine. -I confess, the fear that had been upon me was augmented. So long as our -two honest, kindly Irish girls were in the house, I enjoyed a certain -sense of security. How defenseless should I be, with them away! A -thousand wild alarms beset my imagination. Perhaps the presentiment -that had oppressed me all day, meant that Bernard Peixada was meditating -doing me a bodily injury. Perhaps this was why he wished the servants to -be absent. Unreasonable? As you please. - -“‘Is this privilege,’ I asked, ’to be extended to the coachman, -also?’ - -“‘Who told you to concern yourself about the coachman? I will look -after him,’ was Bernard Peixada’s reply. - -“I concluded that the case stood thus:—I was to be left alone with -Bernard Peixada and Edward Bolen. The pair of them had something to j -accomplish in respect to me—which—well, in the fullness of time I -should learn the nature of their j designs. I remembered the paper that -I had stolen. Had Bernard Peixada discovered that it was missing, and -concealed the discovery from me? Was he now bent upon recovering the -paper? and upon chastising me, as, from his point of view, I deserved to -be chastised? Again, in the fullness of time I should learn. I strove to -possess my soul in patience. - -“Bernard Peixada left me. One of our servants brought me my dinner. I -told her that she might go out for the night, and asked her to send the -other girl to my room. To this latter, also, I delivered the message -that Bernard Peixada had charged me with.—When they tried me for -murder, Mr. Hetzel, they produced both of these girls as witnesses -against me, hoping to show, by their testimony, that I had prearranged -to be alone in the house with Bernard Peixada and Edward Bolen, so that -I could take their lives at my ease, with no one by to interfere, or to -survive and tell the story! - -“The long July twilight faded out of the sky. Night fell. I was alone -in the house—isolated from the street—beyond hope of rescue—at the -mercy of Bernard Peixada and his coachman, Edward Bolen. I lay still in -bed, waiting for their onslaught. - -“And I waited and waited; and they made no onslaught. I heard the -clock strike eight, then nine, then ten, then eleven. No sign from the -enemy. Gradually the notion grew upon me—I could not avoid it—that I -had been absurdly deluding myself—that my alarms had been groundless. -Gradually I became persuaded that my premonition had been the -nonsensical fancy of a sick woman. Gradually my anxiety subsided, and I -fell asleep. - -“How long I slept I do not know. Suddenly I awoke. In fewer seconds -than are required for writing it, I leaped from profound slumber to wide -wakefulness. My heart was beating violently; my breath was coming in -quick, short gasps; my forehead was wet with perspiration. - -“I sat up in bed, and looked around. My night-lamp was burning on the -table. There was no second person in my room. The hands of the clock -marked twenty-five minutes before one. - -“I listened. Stillness so deep that I could hear my heart beat. - -“What could it be, then, that had awakened me so abruptly? - -“I continued to listen. Hark! Did I not hear—yes, certainly, I -heard—the sound of voices—of men’s voices—in the room below. -Bernard Peix-ada and Edward Bolen were holding one of their midnight -sessions. That was all. . - -“That was all: an every-night occurrence. And yet, for what reason -I can not tell, on this particular night that familiar occurrence -portended much to me. Ordinarily, I should have lain abed, and left them -to talk till their tongues were tired. On this particular night—why, -I did not stop to ask myself—swayed by an impulse which I did not stop -to analyze—I got straightway out of bed, crept to the open window, and -standing there in the chilling atmosphere, played the eavesdropper -to the best of my powers. Was it woman’s curiosity? In that event, -woman’s curiosity serves a good end now and then. - -“The room in which they were established, was, as I have said, -directly beneath my own. Their window was directly beneath my window. -Their window, like mine, was open. I heard each syllable that they spoke -as distinctly as I could have heard, if they had been only a yard away. -Each syllable stenographed itself upon my memory. I believe that I can -repeat their conversation word for word. - -“Bernard Peixada was saying this: ’You know the number. Here is a -plan. The house is a narrow one—only twelve feet wide. There is no -vestibule. The street door opens directly into a small reception-room. -In the center of this reception-room stands a table. You want to look -out for that table, and not knock against it in the dark.’ - -“‘No fear of that,’ replied Edward Bolen. - -“‘Now look said Bernard Peixada; ’here is the door that leads out -of the reception-room. It is a sliding door, always kept open. Over -it hangs a curtain, which you want to lift up from the bottom: don’t -shove it aside: the rings would rattle on the rod. Beyond this door -there is a short passage-way see here. And right here, where my pencil -points, the stairs commence. You go up one flight, and reach the -parlors. There are three parlors in a line. From the middle parlor a -second staircase mounts to the sleeping rooms. Now, be sure to remember -this: the third step—I mark it with a cross the third step creaks. -Understand? It creaks. So, in climbing this second flight of stairs, you -want to skip the third step.’ - -“‘Sure,’ was Edward Bolen’s rejoinder. - -“‘Well and good. Now you have finished with the second flight of -stairs. At the head you find yourself in a short, narrow hall. Three -doors open from this hall. The front door opens into the spare bed-room, -now unoccupied. The middle door opens into the bath-room. The last door -opens into the room you want to get at. Which of these doors are you to -pass through?’ - -“‘The bath-room door.’ - -“‘Precisely. That is the door which your key fits—not the door -that leads straight into his room. Well, now observe. Here is the -bath-room. You unlock the door from the hall into the bath-room, -and—what next?’ - -“‘I lock it again, behind me.’ - -“‘Very well. And then?’ - -“‘Then I open the door from the bath-room into the room I’m after. -That’ll be unlocked.’ - -“‘Excellent! That will be unlocked. He never locks it. So, finally -you are in the room you have been making for. Now, study this room -carefully. You see, the bed stands here; the bureau, here; a sofa, here; -the safe, here. There are several chairs. You want to look sharp for -them.” - -“‘I’ll be sure to do that.’ - -“‘All right. But the first thing will be to look after him. He’ll -probably wake up the instant you open the door from the bath-room. -He’s like a weasel, for light sleeping. You can’t breathe, but -he’ll wake up. He’ll wake up, and most likely call out, “Who’s -there? Is any one there?” or something of that sort. Don’t you -answer. Don’t you use any threats. You can’t scare him. Give him -time, and he’ll make an outcry. Give him a chance, and he’ll fight. -So, you don’t want to give him either time or chance. The first thing -you do, you march straight up to the bed, and catch him by the throat; -hold him down on the pillow, and clap the sponge over his face. Press -the sponge hard. One breath will finish his voice. Another breath will -finish him. Then you’ll have things all your own way.—Well, do you -know what next?’ - -“‘Next, I’m to fasten the sponge tight where it belongs, and pour -on more of the stuff.’ - -“‘Just so. And next?’ - -“‘I’m to light the gas.’ - -“‘Right again. And next?’ - -“‘Well, I suppose the job comes next—hey?’ - -“‘Exactly. You have learned your lesson better than I’d have given -you credit for doing. The job comes next. Now you’ve got the gas lit, -and him quiet, it’ll be plain sailing. The safe stands here. It’s -a small affair, three, by three, by two and a half. I’ll give you the -combination by and by. I’ve got it up stairs. But first, look here. -Here’s a plan of the inside of the safe. Here’s an inside -closet, closed by an iron door. No matter about that. Here s a row -of pigeon-holes, just above it seven of them—see? Now, the fifth -pigeon-hole from the right-hand side—the third from the left—the one -marked here with red ink—that’s the one that you’re interested in. -All you’ll have to do will be to stick in your hand and take out every -thing that pigeonhole contains—every thing, understand? Don’t you -stop to examine them. Just lay hold of every thing and come away. What -I want will be in that pigeon-hole; and if you take every thing you -can’t miss it. Then, as I say, all you’ll have left to do will be to -get out of the house and make tracks for home.’ - -“‘And how about him? Shall I loosen the sponge?’ - -“‘No, no. Don’t stop to do that. He’ll come around all right in -time; or, if he shouldn’t, why, small loss!’ - -“‘Well, I reckon I understand the job pretty thoroughly now. I -suppose I’d better be starting.’ - -“‘Yes. Now wait here a moment. I’ll go upstairs and get you the -combination.’ - -“As rapidly as, with my sprained ankle, I could, I returned to my -bed. I had scarcely touched my head to the pillow, when Bernard Peixada -crossed the threshold. I lay still, feigning sleep. You may imagine -the pitch of excitement to which the conversation I had intercepted -had worked me up. But as yet I had not had time to think it over and -determine how to act. Crime, theft, perhaps murder even, was brewing. I -had been forewarned. What could I do to prevent it? Unless I should -do something, I should be almost an accomplice—almost as bad as the -conspirators themselves. - -“Bernard Peixada went at once to the safe, and swung open the heavy -door. I lay with my back toward him, and was unable, therefore, to watch -his movements. But I could hear his hands busy with rustling papers. And -then, all at once, I heard his voice, loud and hoarse, sounding like the -infuriated shriek of a madman, ’I have been robbed—robbed!’ - -“Like a lightning flash, it broke upon me. I knew what the paper I -had stolen was. I knew what the mysterious figures it bore meant. I -had stolen the combination that Bernard Peixada had come in quest of! -Without that combination their scheme of midnight crime could not be -carried through! It was indispensable to their success. And I had stolen -it! I thanked God for the impulse that had prompted me to do so. Then -I lay still and waited. My heart was throbbing so violently, I was -actually afraid that Bernard Peixada might hear it. I lay still and -waited and prayed as I had never prayed before. I prayed for strength to -win in the battle which, I knew, would now j shortly have to be fought. - -“Bernard Peixada cried out, ’I have been robbed—robbed!’ Then -for a few seconds he was silent. Then he ran to the entrance of the room -and shouted, ’Bolen, Bolen, come here.’ And when Edward Bolen had -obeyed, Bernard Peixada led him to the safe and said—ah, how his harsh -voice shook!—said, ’Look! I have been robbed. The combination is -gone. I put it in there with my own hands. It is there no longer. It -has been stolen. Who stole it? If you did, by God, I’ll have you -hanged!’ - -“I had slowly and noiselessly turned over in bed. Now, through half -closed eyes, I could watch the two men. Bernard Peixada’s body was -trembling from head to foot, as if palsy-stricken. His small, black -eyes were starting from their sockets. His yellow fangs shone hideously -behind his parted lips. His talons writhed, writhed, writhed. Edward -Bolen stood next his master, as stolid as an ox. Edward Bolen appeared -to be thinking. In a little while Edward Bolen shrugged his massive -shoulders, lifted his arm, pointed to my bed, and spoke one word, -’Her.’ - -“Bernard Peixada started. ’What—my wife?’ he gasped. - -“‘Ask her,’ suggested Edward Bolen. - -“Bernard Peixada seemed to hesitate. Finally, approaching my bedside, -’Judith,’ he called through chattering teeth.. - -“I did not answer—but it was not that I meant still to pretend -sleep. It was that my courage had deserted me. I had no voice. I -clenched my fists and made my utmost effort to command myself. - -“‘Judith,’ Bernard Peixada called a second time. - -“‘Yes,’ I gathered strength to respond. - -“‘Judith,’ Bernard Peixada went on, still all a-tremble, ’have -you—have you taken any papers out of my safe?’ - -“What use could lying serve at this crisis? There was sufficient evil -in action now, without my adding answered, ’Yes—I have taken the -paper you are looking for.’ - -“Bernard Peixada had manifestly not expected such an answer. It -took him aback. He stood, silent and motionless, glaring at me in -astonishment. His mouth gaped open, and the lamplight played with his -teeth. - -“Edward Bolen muttered, ’Eh! what did I tell you?’ - -“But Bernard Peixada stood motionless and silent only for a -breathing-space. Suddenly flames leaped to his eyes, color to his -cheek. I shall not an ineffectual lie to it. I drew a long breath, and -transcribe the volley of epithets that I had now to sustain from his -foul mouth. His frame was rigid with wrath. His voice mounted from -shrill to shriller. He spent himself in a tirade of words. Then he sank -into a chair, unable to keep his feet from sheer exhaustion. The veins -across his forehead stood out like great, bloated leeches. His long, -black finger-nails kept tearing the air. - -“Edward Bolen waited. - -“So did I. - -“But eventually Bernard Peixada recovered his forces. Springing to -his feet, looking hard at me, and pronouncing each word with an evident -attempt to control his fury, he said, ’We have no time to waste upon -you just now, madam. Bolen, here, has business to transact which he must -needs be about. Afterward I shall endeavor to have an understanding with -you. At present we will dispose of the matter of prime importance. You -don’t deny that you have stolen a certain paper from my safe. I wish -you at once, without an instant’s delay or hesitation, to tell us what -you have done with that paper. Where have you put it?’ - -“I tried to be as calm as he was. ’I will not tell you,’ I -replied. - -“A smile that was ominous contracted his lips. - -“‘Oh, yes, you will,’ he said, mockingly, ’and the sooner you do -so, the better—for you.’ - -“‘I have said, I will not,’ I repeated. - -“The same ominous, sarcastic smile: but suddenly it faded out, and -was replaced by an expression of alarm. ’You—you have not destroyed -it?’ he asked, abruptly. - -“It seemed to me that he had suggested a means for terminating the -situation. This time, without a qualm, I lied. ’Yes, I have destroyed -it.’ - -“‘Good God!’ he cried, and stood still, aghast. - -“Edward Bolen stepped forward. He tugged at Bernard Peixada’s elbow. -He pointed toward me. ’Don’t you see, she’s lying?’ he demanded -roughly. Bernard Peixada started. The baleful light of his black eyes -pierced to the very marrow of my consciousness. He searched me through -and through. ’Ah!’ he cried, with a great sigh of relief, ’to -be sure, she’s lying.’ His yellow teeth gnawed at his under lip: a -symptom of busy thinking. Finally he said, ’You have not destroyed it. -I advise you to tell us where it is. I advise you to lose no time. Where -is it?’ - -“‘I will not tell you,’ I answered. - -“‘I give you one more chance,’ he said; ’where is it?’ - -“‘I’ll will not tell you.’ - -“‘Very well. Then we shall be constrained—’ He broke off, and -whispered a few sentences into Edward Bolen’s ear. - -“Edward Bolen nodded, and left the room. Bernard Peixada glared at me. -I lay still, wondering what the next act was to be, fortifying myself to -endure and survive the worst. - -“Bernard Peixada said, ’You are going to cause yourself needless -pain. You may as well speak now as afterward. You’ll be as docile as a -lamb, in a minute or two.’ - -“I held my tongue. Presently Edward Bolen returned. He handed -something to Bernard Peix-ada. Bernard Peixada turned to me. ’Which -one of your ankles,’ he inquired, ’is it that you are having trouble -with?’ - -“I did not speak. - -“Bernard Peixada shrugged his shoulders. ’Oh, very well,’ he -sneered; ’it won’t take long to find out.’ With that, he seized -hold of the bed-clothes that covered me, and with a single motion of his -arm tossed them upon the floor. - -“I started up—attempted to spring from off the bed. He placed his -hands upon my shoulders, and pushed me back, prostrate. I struggled -with him. He summoned Edward Bolen to re-enforce him. Edward Bolen was a -strong man. Edward Bolen had no difficulty in holding me down, flat upon -the mattress. I watched Bernard Peixada. - -“Bernard Peixada took the thing that I had seen Edward Bolen give -him—it was a piece of thick twine, perhaps twelve inches in length, -and attached at each end to a transverse wooden handle—he took it, and -wound it about my ankle—the ankle that was sprained. Then, by means of -the two wooden handles, he began to twist it around and around—and at -every revolution, the twine cut deeper and deeper into my flesh—and at -last they pain became more horrible than I could bear—oh, such pain, -such fearful pain!—and I cried out for quarter. - -“‘I will tell you any thing you wish to know,’ I said. - -“‘As I anticipated,’ was Bernard Peixada’s comment. ’Well, -where shall we find the paper that you stole?’ - -“‘Loosen that cord, and I will tell you—I will give it to you,’ -I said. - -“‘No,’ he returned. ’Give it to me, or tell me where it is, and -then I will loosen the cord.’ - -“‘It is not here—it—it is down-stairs,’ I replied, inspired -by a sudden hope. If I could only get down-stairs, I thought, I might -contrive to reach the door that let out of the house. Then, lame -though I was, and weak and sick, I might, by a supreme effort, elude -my persecutors—attain the street—summon help—and thus, not only -escape myself, but defeat the criminal enterprise that they were bent -upon. It was a crazy notion. At another moment I should have scouted it. -But at that moment it struck me as wholly rational—as, at any rate, -well worth venturing. I did not give myself time to consider it very -carefully. It made haste from my mind to my lips. ’The paper,’ I -said, ’is down-stairs.’ - -“‘Down-stairs?’ queried Bernard Peixada, tightening the cord a -little; ’where down-stairs?’ - -“‘In—in the parlor—in the book-case—shut up in a book,’ I -answered. - -“‘In what book?’ - -“‘I can not tell you. But I could put my hand upon it, if I -were there. After I took it from the safe—you were absent from the -house—I—oh, for mercy’s sake, don’t, don’t tighten that—I -crawled down-stairs—ah, that is better; loosen it a little——I -crawled down to the parlor—and—and shut it up in a book. I don’t -remember what book. But I could find it for you if I were there.’ In -the last quarter hour, Mr. Hetzel, I, who had recoiled from lying at the -outset, had become somewhat of an adept at that art, as you perceive. - -“Bernard Peixada exchanged a glance with Edward Bolen; then said to -me, ’All right. Come down-stairs with us.’ - -“He removed the instrument of torture. A wave of pain more sickening -than any I had yet endured, swept through my body, as the ligature was -relaxed, and the blood flowed throbbing back into my disabled foot. I -got up and hobbled as best I could across the floor, out through -the hall, down the stairs. Edward Bolen preceded me. Bernard Peixada -followed. - -“At the bottom of the stairs I had to halt and lean against the -bannister for support. I was weak and faint. - -“‘Go light the gas in the parlor, Bolen,’ said Bernard Peixada. - -“Bolen went off. Now, I thought, my opportunity had come. The -hall-door, the door that opened upon the grounds, was in a straight -line, not more than twenty feet distant from me. I looked at Bernard -Peixada. He was standing a yard or so to my right, in manifest -unconcern. I drew one deep breath, mustered my utmost courage, prayed -to God for strength, made a dash forward, reached the door, despite my -lameness, and had my hand upon the knob, before Bernard Peixada appeared -to realize what had occurred. But then—when he did realize—then in -two bounds he attained my side. The next thing I knew, he had grasped my -arm with one hand, and had twined the fingers of the other hand around -my throat. I could feel the sharp nails cutting into my flesh. - -“‘Ah!’ he cried—a loud, piercing cry, half of surprise, half of -triumph. ’Ah!’ And then he swore a brutal oath. - -“At his touch, Mr. Hetzel, I ceased to be a woman; I became a wild -beast. It was like a wild beast, that I now fought. Insensible to pain, -aware only of a fury that was no longer controllable in my breast, I -fought there with Bernard Peixada in battle royal. Needless to detail -our maneuvers. I fought with him to such good purpose that ere a great -while he had to plead for quarter, as I had had to plead up-stairs a few -moments ago. Quarter I gave him. I flung him away from me. He tottered -and fell upon the floor. - -“Now I looked around. This was how things stood: Bernard Peixada -lay—half lay, half sat—upon the floor, preparing to get up. Edward -Bolen, his dull countenance a picture of amazement and stupefaction, -was advancing toward us from the lower end of the hall. And—and—on -a chair—directly in front of me—not two feet away—together with -a hat, a pair of overshoes, a bunch of keys, a lantern—I descried my -deliverance—a pistol! - -“Quick as thought, I sprang forward. Next moment the pistol was mine. -Again I looked around. The situation was still much the same. Clasping -the butt of the pistol firmly in my hand, and gathering what assurance -I could from the feeling of it, I set out once more to open the door and -gain the outside of the house. - -“I thought I was victress now—indisputably victress. But it -transpired that I had my claims yet to assert. I slid back the bolts of -the door, unhindered, it is true; but before I had managed to turn the -knob and pull the door open, Edward Bolen and Bernard Peixada sprang -upon me. - -“There was a struggle. How long it lasted, I do not know. I heard the -pistol go off—a sharp, crashing, deafening report—once, twice: who -pulled the trigger, I scarcely knew. Who was wounded, I did not know. -All was confusion and pain and noise, blood and fire and smoke, horror -and sickness and bewilderment. I saw nothing—knew nothing—understood -nothing. I was beside myself. It was a delirium. I was -helpless—irresponsible. - -“In the end, somehow, I got that door open. Through it all, that idea -had clung in my mind—to get the door open, somehow, at any cost. Well, -I got it open. I felt the fresh air upon my cheek, the perfume of the -garden in my nostrils. The breeze swept in, and cut a path through the -smoke, and made the gas jets flicker. Then I saw—I saw that I was -free. I saw that my persecutors were no longer to be feared. I saw -Edward Bolen and Bernard Peixada lying prone and bleeding upon the -marble pavement at my feet. - -“I have explained to you, Mr. Hetzel, the circumstances of Bernard -Peixada’s death. It is not necessary for me to dwell upon its -consequences. At least, I need merely outline them. I need merely -tell you that in due order I was taken prisoner, tried for Bernard -Peixada’s murder, and acquitted. - -“I was taken prisoner that very night. Next morning they brought me -here—to the same prison that I am again confined in now. Here I was -visited by Mr. Nathan. I had sent for him, addressing him in care of the -sexton of our synagogue; and he came. - -“I told him what I have told you. He said I must have a lawyer—that -he would engage a lawyer for me. He engaged two lawyers—Mr. Short and -Mr. Sondheim. I repeated my story to them. They listened. When I had -done, they laughed. I asked them why they laughed. They replied that, -though my story was unquestionably true, no jury would believe it. They -said the lawyer for the prosecution would mix me upon cross-examination, -and turn my defense to ridicule. They said I should have to plead -lunacy. I need not detain you with a rehearsal of the dispute I had with -Messrs. Short and Sondheim. Eventually—in deference chiefly to the -urging of Mr. Nathan—I consented to let them take their own course. So -I was led to court, and tried, and acquitted. It would be useless for me -to go over my trial again now in this letter. I shall say enough when I -say that it was conducted in the same room that I had to plead in this -morning—that the room was crowded—that I had to sit there all day -long, for two mortal days, and listen to the lawyers, and the witnesses, -and the judge, and support the gaze of a multitude of people. If it had -not been for Mr. Nathan, I don’t know how I should have lived through -the ordeal. But he sat by me from beginning to end, and held my hand, -and inspired me with strength and hope. My mother, meantime, I had not -seen. Mr. Nathan said she was away from the city, visiting with friends, -whom he named; and added that it would be kinder not to let her know -what was going on. After my release, Mr. Nathan confessed that, thinking -I had already enough to bear, he had deceived me. My mother had been -sick; while my trial was in progress, she had died. Well, at last the -trial was over, and the jury had declared me not guilty, and the prison -people let me go. Mr. Nathan and I went together to an apartment he had -rented in Sixty-third Street. Thither came Messrs. Short and Sondheim, -and made me sign numberless papers—the nature of which I did not -inquire into—and after a while I understood that I had inherited a -great deal of money from Bernard Peixada—more than a hundred thousand -dollars. This money I asked Mr. Nathan to dispose of, so that it might -do some good. He invested it, and made arrangements to have the income -divided between a hospital, an orphan asylum, a home for working women, -an industrial school, and a society for the protection of children who -are treated cruelly by their parents. (I have just now received a paper -with a red seal on it, from which I learn that Bernard Peixada left a -will, and that the money I have spoken of will have to be paid over to -his brother.) - -“That winter—the winter of 1879-80—Mr. Nathan and I spent alone -together. For the first time since the day on which my father had told -me I must marry Bernard Peixada, for the first time, I began to have a -feeling of peace, and repose, and security. Mr. Nathan was so good to -me—oh, such a good, kind, tender friend, Mr. Hetzel—that I became -almost happy. It was almost a happiness just to spend my time near to -Mr. Nathan—he was so gentle, so strong; he made me feel so safe, -so far away from the storm and the darkness of the past. Was I not -tormented by remorse? Did I not repent having taken two human lives? Not -for one instant. I held myself wholly irresponsible. If Bernard Peixada -and Edward Bolen had died by my hand, it was their own fault, their own -doing. No, I did not suffer the faintest pang of remorse. Only, now and -then I would remember—now and then the night of July 30th would re -enact itself in my memory—and then I would shudder and grow sick at -heart; but that was not remorse. It was disgust and horror. Of course -I do not mean that I was happy in a positive sense, this winter. Real -happiness I never knew until I met Arthur. But I was less unhappy than I -had been for a long, long while. - -“But in the early spring Mr. Nathan died. The last person I had left -to care for, the last person who cared for me, the man who had stood as -a rock of strength for me to lean upon, to whom I had perhaps been too -much of a burden, but whom I had loved as a woman in my relation to him -must needs have loved him—this man died. I was absolutely alone in the -world. That was a dreary, desolate spring. - -“Soon after his death, I received a paper something like this paper -with the red seal that I have received to-day. I found that he had made -a will and left me all his money. My doctor said I needed a change. I -went to Europe. I traveled alone in Europe for some months, trying to -forget myself in sight-seeing—in constant motion. At last I settled -down in Vienna, and devoted myself to studying music. I staid about a -year in Vienna. Then a spirit of restlessness seized upon me. I left -Vienna and went to London. - -“In London I met Mrs. Hart. We became friends at once. She was about -to make a short trip on the Continent, before returning to America. She -asked me to accompany her. I said I would go to the Continent with -her, but that I could not return to America. She wanted to know why. I -answered by telling her a little something of my recent history. I said, -’In America I am Judith Peixada—the notorious woman who killed her -husband. Here I am unknown. So I will remain here.’ She asked, ’How -old are you?’ I said, ’Twenty-three, nearing twenty-four.’ She -said, ’You are a child. You have a long life before you. You are -wasting it, moping about in this aimless way here in Europe. Come home -with me. Nobody shall recognize you for Judith Peixada. I will give you -a new name. You shall be Ruth Lehmyl. Ruth Lehmyl was the name of my -daughter who is dead. You may guess how dearly I love you, when I ask -you to take my daughter’s name. Come home and live with me, Ruth, and -make me happy.’—As you know, I was prevailed upon. After a month -or two spent at Aix-les-Bains, we came back to America. We dwelt for a -while in an apartment on Fifty-ninth Street. Last April we moved into -Beekman Place. - -“This brings me to the second point. Why, with that dark stain upon my -past—why, being Judith Peixada, for all my change of name—why did I -consent to become Arthur Ripley’s wife? Oh, Mr. Hetzel, it was because -I loved him. I was a woman, and I loved him, and I was weak. He said -that he loved me, that it would break his heart if I should refuse him; -and I could not help it. I tried hard. I tried to act against my heart. -I told him that my life had not been what he might wish it to be. I -begged him to go away. But he said that he cared nothing for the -past, and he urged me and pleaded with me, and I—I loved him so the -temptation was so strong—it was as if he had opened the gates of -heaven and invited me to enter—I caught a glimpse of the great -joy—of the great sorrow, too, of the sorrow that would follow to him -and to me if I sent him away—and my strength was insufficient—and we -were married. - -“I am very tired, Mr. Hetzel. I have been writing for so long a time -that my fingers are cramped, and my back aches from bending over, and my -body has become chilled through by sitting still in this damp place, and -my head is thick and heavy. Yet I have some things still left to say. -You must pardon me if I am stupid and roundabout in coming to the point. -And if I do not succeed in making what I have on my mind very clear to -you, you must excuse me on the ground that I am quite worn out. - -“As I have said, I was frank with Arthur Ripley. I warned him that my -past life had been darkened by sin. I said, ’If you knew about it, you -would not care to marry me.’ He retorted, The past is dead. You and -I have just been born.’ It did indeed seem so to me—as though I had -just been born. I allowed myself to be persuaded. We were married. But -then, Mr. Hetzel, as soon as I had yielded, I said to Arthur, ’It is -not right that I, your betrothed, should keep a secret from you. I -will tell you the whole story.’ I said this to him on more than one -occasion before we were married. And I repeated it again and again -afterward. But every time that I broached the subject, he put it aside. -He answered, ’No. Keep your secret as a reminder of my unwavering -confidence and perfect love.’ I supposed that he was sincere. I -marveled at his generosity, and loved him all the better, because of it. -Yet what was the truth? The truth was that in his inmost heart? he could -not help wishing to know what his wife’s secret was. But he played -the hypocrite. He forbade me to tell it to him—forbade me to unseal -my lips—and so got the credit for great magnanimity. Then, behind -my back, he associated with Benjamin Peixada, and learned from his -lips—not my secret—no, but the false, distorted version of it, which -Bernard Peixada’s brother would delight to give. What Benjamin Peixada -told him, he believed; and it was worse than he had bargained for. When -he understood that his wife had committed murder, that his wife had -stood, a common criminal, at the bar of the court of General Sessions, -lo! all the love that he had boasted, died an instant death. And -then—this is what is most infamous—then he contrived a cruel method -of letting me know that he knew. Instead of coming to me, and telling -me in a straightforward way, he put that advertisement into the paper. -That, I do think, was infamous. And all the time, he was pretending that -he loved me, and I was believing him, and treating him as a wife treats -her husband. I read that advertisement, and was completely deceived -by it. I went to Benjamin Peixada’s place. ’What do you wish with -me?’ I asked. He answered, ’Wait a little while, and the gentleman -who wrote that advertisement will come and explain to you. Wait a little -while, and I promise you a considerable surprise.’ I waited. The -gentleman came. The gentleman was Arthur. Not content with having -decoyed me to that place in that way, he—he called me by that -name—he called me Mrs. Peixada! The surprise was considerable, I -confess. And yet, you and Mrs. Hart wonder that I am indignant. - -“Oh, of course, I understand that Arthur had no share in causing my -arrest. I understand that all he intended was to confront me there in -Benjamin Peixada’s office, and inform me that he knew who I was, and -denounce me, and repudiate me. But Benjamin Peixada had a little plan of -his own to carry through. When Arthur saw what it was—when he saw that -Benjamin Peixada had set a trap for me, and that I was to be taken away -to prison—then he was shocked and pained, and felt sorry for what he -had helped to do. You don’t need to explain that to me. That is not -why I feel the deep resentment toward him which, I admit, I do feel. -The bare fact that he pried into my secrets behind my back, and went -on pretending to love me at the same time, shows me that he never truly -loved me. You speak of my seeing him. It would be useless for me to -see him. He could not undo what he has done. All the explanations and -excuses that he could make, would not alter the fact that he went to -work without my knowledge, and found out what I had again and again -volunteered to tell him. If he suffers from supposing that I think he -had a share in causing my imprisonment, you may tell him that I think -no such thing. Tell him that I understand perfectly every thing that he -could say. Tell him that a meeting between us would only be productive -of fresh pain for each. - -“Mr. Hetzel, if you were a woman, and if you had ever gone through the -agony of a public trial for murder in a crowded court-room, and if all -at once you beheld before you the prospect of going through that agony -for a second time, I am sure you would grasp eagerly at any means within -your reach by which to escape it. That is the case with me. I am a -woman. I have been tried for murder once—publicly tried, in a crowded -court-room. I would rather spend all the rest of my life in prison, than -be tried again. That is why I pleaded guilty this morning. If there were -any future to look forward to—if Arthur had acted differently—if -things were not as they are—then, perhaps—but it is useless to say -perhaps. I have nothing to live for—nothing worth purchasing at the -price of another trial. - -“Does any thing remain for me to say? I do not think of any thing. -I hope I have made what I had to say clear enough. I beg that you will -forgive me, if I have trespassed beyond the limits of friendship, in -writing at such length. - -“Yours sincerely, - -“Ruth Ripley. - -“Mr. Julian Hetzel, 43 Beekman Place.” - - - - -CHAPTER XII.—“THE FINAL STATE O’ THE STORY.” - -ON Thursday, August 14th, at about half, past one in the afternoon, -Assistant-district-attorney Romer was seated in his office, poring over -a huge law-book’, and smoking a huge cigar, when the door suddenly -flew open, and in came, or more accurately, in burst Mr. Julian Hetzel. -In one hand Hetzel carried a dripping umbrella; the other hand was -thrust deep into the breast of its owner’s coat. Hetzel’s face wore -an expression of intense excitement. - -Romer lifted his eyes from off his law-book, removed his cigar from -between his lips, and ejaculated, “Hello! What’s up now?” - -Hetzel hurried straight ahead, till he had reached the edge of Romer’s -desk. Then, extracting a ponderous envelope from the inner pocket of -his coat, he threw it emphatically down upon Romer’s blotting pad, and -cried, “Read that—will you?—and tell me what you think of it.” - -Romer picked the envelope up, looked inquiringly at its superscription, -inserted thumb, and forefinger, drew out its contents, unfolded the -same, turned to the beginning, scanned perhaps the first dozen lines, -stopped, ran the pages rapidly over to the end, found the signature, -then glanced up, and asked, “Are you in a hurry? Have you plenty of -time to spare? Because it’s a pretty serious undertaking—to read -this through.” - -“Here—give it to me,” returned Hetzel. “I’ve been over it -once, and got familiar with the handwriting. I’ll read it to you.” - -Hetzel read Ruth Ripley’s letter aloud to Romer. The reading consumed -rather more than an hour. Not once did Romer interrupt, or Hetzel pause. -At the end, the two men looked at each other in silence. By and by -Romer’s lips opened. - -“By—by God!” was all he said. - -Then he began to pace uneasily to and fro across the room. - -“Well,” asked Hetzel, “do you think that that’s the sort of a -woman to be left locked up in the Tombs prison?” - -“Heavens and earth!” cried Romer; and continued his promenade. - -“But the question is,” said Hetzel, “whether she’s to be left -there in the Tombs. In view of what she has written down in those -papers, can’t we get her out? I want to take her home before nightfall -to-day. It seems to me, it’s an outrage upon humanity for her to -remain locked up an hour longer. You’re acquainted with the practical -side of this kind of thing. Now, give me your opinion.” - -Romer knitted his brows, and kept on moving back and forth, up and down -the room, Gradually, pendulum-fashion, the space covered at each turn -shortened somewhat; until finally coming to a standstill, Romer said, -“Yes, by Jove! You’re right. She sha’n’. spend another night in -that place if I can help it; and I think I can.” - -“Good and the less time lost, the better.” - -“What I mean to do,” said Romer, “is this. I mean to take a pretty -big responsibility upon my shoulders, but I guess I’m safe in doing -so. I’m sure Mr. Orson would approve, if he were here; and as long -as he isn’t here, I’m going to act on that assumption, and run the -chances of getting his approval after the fact. The homicide that that -woman committed—why, it was a clear case of self-defense. And what -I’m going to take the responsibility of doing is this. I shall send -down to the Tombs and have her brought up here—to my office—without -a moment’s delay. While the officers are gone after her, I’ll run -into court and speak privately to the judge. I’ll lay these facts -before him, and tell him that we, the People, are convinced that it -was a plain case of justifiable homicide; and I’ll ask him to let her -withdraw her plea of guilty, and enter one of not guilty, right away. He -can’t refuse, if I put it on that ground. I’ll ask him, moreover, -as a personal favor to me, to have the court-room cleared of people, so -that she? won’t be obliged to face the music again to-day, as she was -yesterday. I can’t promise that he’ll agree to this; but it isn’t -at all impossible. Well and good. I’ll make these arrangements before -she arrives. When she does arrive, I’ll talk to her. You leave me to -do the talking. Then we’ll go with her into the judge’s presence, -and have her do what’s necessary there. And then, in your sight and in -hers, so that all doubt on that score will be cleared away for good -and all, I’ll nolle the indictment! That is to say, I’ll render the -indictment null and void by indorsing upon it a nol. pros., together -with a memorandum to the effect that the district-attorney is persuaded -of the defendant’s innocence. Do you understand?” - -“Yes,” said Hetzel, “I think I understand. And if you can only -succeed in doing this, we—we’ll—” Hetzel’s voice broke. Before -he was able to recover it, Romer had left the room. - -Half an hour, or thereabouts, elapsed. Hetzel waited as patiently as -he could—which is not saying much. Every five minutes, he had out his -watch. It was nearly half past three when at last Romer reappeared. - -“Well?” Hetzel made haste to inquire. - -“Well,” said Romer, “congratulate me! The judge agrees to do every -thing, just as I wished. At first he was disposed to hesitate. Then I -read him that part where she describes the application of the torture. -That finished him. They’re just winding up a larceny case at this -moment. He’s on the point of sentencing the prisoner. After that’s -over, he’ll have the court-room emptied, and be ready for us. She -ought to get here any minute now, and—” Romer paused; for, at this -moment, the door of his office opened, and Mrs. Ripley entered the room. - -She halted just across the threshold, looked from Romer to Hetzel, bowed -slightly to the latter, and then stood still in passive attendance. - -Romer advanced toward her, and said, very gently, “I beg of you, Mrs. -Ripley, to come in and sit down. I have something to say, and I -shall thank you very much if you will listen. Sit down here in this -easy-chair.—There.—Now, when you are ready, I’ll speak.” - -“I am ready,” she said. Her voice was faint and weak. She leaned -back in her chair, as though feeble and exhausted. Her face was -intensely white—snow-white beneath its coronet of raven hair. There -were large, dark circles under her eyes. - -“Mrs. Ripley,” began Romer—then hesitated—then began anew, -“Mrs. Ripley, I—that is, Mr. Hetzel—Mr. Hetzel has given me the -letter you wrote him yesterday, and I have read it. I dare not trust -myself to—to say what—to say any thing about it, more than this, -that we—the district-attorney’s office—that we are sorry, very, -very sorry for all that has happened—for all that you have been made -to suffer these last few days, and that—that we are anxious to do -every thing in our power to make amends. Of course I know we never -can make amends in full. I know that. We can’t undo what has been -done—can’t cure the pain that you’ve already had to bear. -But—but we can spare you—we can save you from having to suffer any -more pain, and—and then, you know, being ignorant of the real truth, -as we were, it wasn’t altogether our fault, was it? No; the original -fault lay with your lawyers, Short and Sondheim, when you were first -tried, years ago. They—they ought to have been strung and quartered, -because, if they had had you tell your story to the district-attorney -then, and if you had told it in its completeness, as you have in this -letter, why—why, nobody would have doubted your innocence for a -moment, and you would have been spared no end of trouble and sorrow and -mortification. But that’s neither here nor there. It’s too late to -complain of Short and Sondheim. They have an inborn antipathy to the -truth, and always fight as shy of it as they can. There’s no use -raking up bygones. The point is now that we want to set you at liberty -as quickly as possible. That’s the most we can do. We mean to nolle -the indictment against you—which will be as complete an exoneration as -an acquittal by a jury and an honorable discharge by a judge would -be. That’s what we intend to do. But first—before we can do -that—first, you know, you will have to untie our hands by withdrawing -the plea that you put in yesterday, and by entering in place of it a -plea of not guilty. Then you’ll be a free woman. Then you can go home -with Mr. Hetzel, here, and rest assured that you’ll never be troubled -any more about the matter.” - -Ruth sat perfectly still in her chair. Her great, melancholy eyes were -fixed upon the wall in front of her. She made no answer. - -“Now,” Romer said, after having waited in vain for her to speak, -“now, if you will be so good, I should like to have you come with me -into the court room, in order, you know, to do what I have said.” - -At this, Ruth winced perceptibly. “Oh,” she said, very low, -“must—must I go into court again?” - -“Oh, this time,” explained Romer, “it will not be as hard for you -as it was before. There’ll be, no spectators and no red tape. You’ll -tell the judge that you withdraw your plea of guilty, and plead not -guilty, and he’ll say all right; and then you’ll see me nolle the -indictment; and then it will all be over for good; and, as I’ve said, -you’ll go home with Mr. Hetzel.” - -Ruth rose, bowed to Romer, and said, “I am ready to follow you.” - -“Is there any objection to my accompanying you?” Hetzel asked. - -“Oh, no; come along,” said Romer. - -Every thing befell substantially as Romer had predicted. They found the -judge presiding over an empty court-room. His honor came down informally -from the bench, bade Mrs. Ripley be seated, said laughingly, “I’ll -act as clerk and judge both,” went to the clerk’s desk, possessed -himself of pen, ink, and paper, rattled off sotto voce, “You, Judith -Peixada, do hereby”—mumble, mumble, mumble—“and enter in lieu of -the same”—mumble, mumble—“upon the indictment;” threw down his -pen, got up, added in a loud, hearty voice, “That’s all, madam: good -day,” bowed, and left the room. - -A few minutes later Ruth was seated at Hetzel’s side in a carriage; -and the carriage was making at top-speed for Beekman Place. After they -had driven for half a dozen blocks in silence, Hetzel began, “Mrs. -Ripley, I am sorry to disturb you. I suppose you are so tired that you -would rather not be talked to. But there is something which you must -hear before we reach home; and I must beg of you to give me permission -to say it now—at once.” - -“Say any thing you wish. I will listen to any thing you wish to -say.” Her voice was that of a woman whose spirit has been quite broken -and subdued. - -“Well, then, the upshot of what I have to say is just this. -Don’t for a moment imagine that I mean to reproach you. Under the -circumstances—considering the shock and the pain of your situation -last Monday—you weren’t to be blamed for jumping to a false -conclusion. But now, at last, you are in a position to see things as -they truly are. What I want to say is what Mrs. Hart wanted to say when -she visited you on Tuesday. It is that Arthur—that your husband—had -no more idea, when he put that advertisement into the papers, that you -were Judith Peixada, than I had, or than the most indifferent person in -the world had. When you fancy that he had been trying to find out your -secrets behind your back, you do him a—a tremendous injustice. -He never would be capable of such a thing. Arthur is the frankest, -honestest fellow that ever lived. He doesn’t know what deception -means. The amount of the matter was simply this. He had been retained -by Mr. Peixada to hunt up his brother’s widow. In order to accomplish -this, he resorted to a device which, I suppose, precedents seemed -to justify, though it strikes me as a pretty shabby one, -notwithstanding—he advertised. And when he went to meet Mrs. Peixada -in his client’s office, and found that she and you were one and the -same person, why, he was as much astonished as—as I was when he came -home and told me about it. There’s the long and short of the story in -a nutshell. The detail of it you’ll learn when you talk it over with -him.” - -Hetzel waited, expecting Ruth to speak. But she did not speak for a long -while. She sat rigid in her corner, with pale face and downcast eyes. -At last, however, her lips opened. In a whisper, “Will—will he ever -forgive me?” she asked. - -“Forgive you?” repeated Hetzel. “He doesn’t feel that he has -any thing to forgive you for. On the other hand, he hopes for your -forgiveness—hopes you will forgive him for having refused to let you -speak. It was a coincidence and a mistake. He loves you. When that is -said, every thing is said.” - -For another long while Ruth kept silence. As the carriage turned into -Fiftieth Street, she straightened up, and drew a deep, tremulous breath. -After a brief moment of hesitation, she said, “I—I suppose he is -waiting for us—yes?” - -“Well,” Hetzel answered, “that reminds me. You—you see, the fact -is—” - -And thereupon the poor fellow had to break the news of Arthur’s -illness to her, as best he could. Beginning with that hour, the trained -nurse had an indefatigable companion in her vigils. - - - - - - -One morning Ruth said to Hetzel, “To-day is the day fixed for the -probate of Bernard Peixada’s will. Do you think it is necessary that I -should go to the court?” - -“I don’t know,” replied Hetzel, “and I don’t care. You -sha’n’. do so. I’ll be your proxy.” - -He went to the surrogate’s office. When he returned home, he said, -“Well, Mrs. Ripley, the enemy has had his Waterloo! The orphan -asylum and the home for working-girls will continue to enjoy Bernard -Peixada’s wealth.” - -“Why, how is that?” Ruth questioned. - -“The will fell through.” - -“Fell through? Was it a forgery? Or what?” - -“No, it wasn’t a forgery, but it was a holograph. That is to say, -the testator was rash enough to draw it himself—without the assistance -of a lawyer; and so he contrived to make a fatal blunder. It seems that -the law requires a person, upon signing his will, to explain explicitly -to the witnesses the nature of the document—that it is a will, and -not a deed, or a contract, or what not. And that is precisely what Mr. -Peixada fortunately omitted to do. The witnesses swore that he had said -nothing whatever concerning the character of the instrument—that he -had simply requested them to attest his signature, and then had folded -the paper up, and put it into his pocket. The lawyer—Arthur’s -successor—pressed them pretty hard, but they weren’t to be shaken; -and the clerk thereupon declared that the will was void and valueless; -and then there was a lot of excitement; and I came away; and that’s -how the case stands at present.” - -“And so the money will remain where it is?” - -“Precisely; though I should think the man to whom it once belonged -would turn in his grave, at the thought of the good it’s doing. This -is the sort of thing that helps one to believe in an avenging angel, -isn’t it?” - - - - - - -One Sunday afternoon, toward the middle of September, Ruth was very -happy. The crisis of Arthur’s illness, Dr. Letzup vouched, had passed. -His delirium had subsided. He had fallen into a placid slumber. With -proper care and vigilant guarding against a relapse, the doctor thought, -he ought to be upon his feet within a month. - -So, it was natural that Ruth’s heart should sing. - -But, especially when one is a songstress by birth and training, a -singing heart is apt to induce sympathetic action on the part of the -voice. Ruth was seated at the window in the room adjoining Arthur’s, -listening to her heart’s song, when, most likely without her being -conscious of it, a soft, sweet strain of melody began to flow from her -lips. It was very low and gentle, and yet, as the event proved, it was -loud enough to arouse the invalid from his much needed sleep. The nurse -came bustling in from the sick room, with finger raised in warning, -and exclaimed in a whisper, “Hush—hush—sh—sh! You’ve gone and -waked him up!” - -Was it possible that she had so far forgotten herself? Oh, dear, dear! -Her regret bordered upon despair. Yet, with the impetuosity that is -characteristic of her sex, she could not stop there, and let bad enough -alone, but must needs be guilty of still further imprudence, and march -bodily into the sick man’s presence, and up close to his bedside. - -He lay with open eyes looking straight ceiling-ward. But at the moment -of her entrance he turned his gaze full upon her, and a happy smile -lighted up his wan, wasted face. He did not attempt to speak. Neither -did she. But she bent over him, and kissed him once upon the forehead, -and rewarded his smile with a glance of infinite tenderness. - -Then his lips moved. “Was—was it all a dream—my meeting you in -Peixada’s office, and all the rest?” he whispered. - -“Yes—all a dream?” she answered. - -He closed his eyes and went to sleep again. When Dr. Letzup called that -evening, “Better and better!” he cried. “What panacea have you -been administering during my absence?” - - - - - - -On Saturday, October 18th, the steamship Alcibiades, Captain Gialsamino, -of the Florio line, sailed from its berth in Brooklyn, and pointed its -prow towards Naples. Inscribed on the passenger-list were the names: -“M. and Mme. A. Ripli.” Monsieur and Madame Ripley were bent upon -wintering in Italy. They have remained abroad ever since. Arthur talks -in his letters of coming home next spring, though what he will do when -he gets here, I don’t know, for he has registered a solemn vow never -again to practice law. 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