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diff --git a/old/52702-h/52702-h.htm b/old/52702-h/52702-h.htm deleted file mode 100644 index ec4a1d2..0000000 --- a/old/52702-h/52702-h.htm +++ /dev/null @@ -1,10916 +0,0 @@ -<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> - -<!DOCTYPE html - PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" - "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > - -<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> - <head> - <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" /> - <title> - Mrs Peixada, by Henry Harland (aka Sidney Luska) - </title> - <link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> - <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> - - body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} - P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } - H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } - hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} - .foot { margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%; text-align: justify; font-size: 80%; font-style: italic;} - blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} - .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} - .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} - .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} - .xx-small {font-size: 60%;} - .x-small {font-size: 75%;} - .small {font-size: 85%;} - .large {font-size: 115%;} - .x-large {font-size: 130%;} - .indent5 { margin-left: 5%;} - .indent10 { margin-left: 10%;} - .indent15 { margin-left: 15%;} - .indent20 { margin-left: 20%;} - .indent30 { margin-left: 30%;} - .indent40 { margin-left: 40%;} - div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } - div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } - .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} - .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} - .pagenum {position: absolute; right: 1%; font-size: 0.6em; - font-variant: normal; font-style: normal; - text-align: right; background-color: #FFFACD; - border: 1px solid; padding: 0.3em;text-indent: 0em;} - .side { float: left; font-size: 75%; width: 15%; padding-left: 0.8em; - border-left: dashed thin; text-align: left; - text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; - font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} - .head { float: left; font-size: 90%; width: 98%; padding-left: 0.8em; - border-left: dashed thin; text-align: center; - text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; - font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} - p.pfirst, p.noindent {text-indent: 0} - span.dropcap { float: left; margin: 0 0.1em 0 0; line-height: 0.8 } - pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} - -</style> - </head> - <body> - - -<pre> - -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 - - - - - - -</pre> - - <div style="height: 8em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h1> - MRS PEIXADA - </h1> - <h2> - By Henry Harland (AKA Sidney Luska) - </h2> - <h4> - Author of “As It Was Written,” etc., etc. - </h4> - <h4> - Cassell & Company, Limited, 739 & 741 Broadway, New York. - </h4> - <h3> - 1886 - </h3> -<div class="fig" style="width:50%;"> - <img src="images/0001.jpg" alt="0001 " width="100%" /><br /> - </div> - <h5> - <a href="images/0001.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a> - </h5> -<div class="fig" style="width:50%;"> - <img src="images/0009.jpg" alt="0009 " width="100%" /><br /> - </div> - <h5> - <a href="images/0009.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a> - </h5> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - <b>CONTENTS</b> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> <b>MRS. PEIXADA</b>. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I—A CASE IS STATED. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II.—“A VOICE, A MYSTERY.” </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III.—STATISTICAL. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV.—“THAT NOT IMPOSSIBLE SHE.” </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V.—“A NOTHING STARTS THE SPRING.” - </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI.—“THE WOMAN WHO HESITATES.” </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII.—ENTER MRS. PEIXADA. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII.—“WHAT REST TO-NIGHT?” </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX.—AN ORDEAL. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X.—“SICK OF A FEVER.” </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI.—“HOW SHE ENDEAVORED TO EXPLAIN - HER LIFE.” </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII.—“THE FINAL STATE O’ THE - STORY.” </a> - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h1> - MRS. PEIXADA. - </h1> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER I—A CASE IS STATED. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>N 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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 “<i>Lieber Gott!</i> 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Ah,” replied Arthur, bowing to the latter, “I am happy to be at your - service, sir.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “I suppose the name, Peixada,” the elder of the pair went on, “is not - wholly unfamiliar to you.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, no—by no means,” Arthur assented, wondering whether he had ever - heard it before. - </p> - <p> - “I suppose the circumstances of my brother’s death are still fresh in your - mind.” - </p> - <p> - Arthur put on an intelligent expression, and inwardly deplored his - ignorance. Yet—Peixada? - </p> - <p> - Peixada? the name did have a familiar ring, of a truth. But where and in - what connection had he heard it? - </p> - <p> - “Let me see,” he ventured, “that was in—?” - </p> - <p> - “In July, ’seventy-nine—recollect?” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “Fearful!” put in Mr. Mendel. - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “That would be a good idea,” said Arthur.—To what was the way being - paved? - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “She was bad,” continued Peixada, as Arthur returned the papers, “bad - through and through. I warned my brother against her before his marriage. - </p> - <p> - “‘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.” - </p> - <p> - “She was doocedly handsome, a sooperb creature to look at, you know,” - cried Mr. Rimo, with the accent of a connoisseur. - </p> - <p> - “Hainsome is as hainsome does,” quoth Mr. Mendel, sententiously. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Why, I thought she was insane,” said Arthur. “A mad woman would not be a - competent administratrix.” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “Were there children?” Arthur inquired. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “But now,” Peixada presently went on, “now I have discovered that my - brother left a will.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah, I understand. You wish to have it admitted to probate?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “There was no real estate?” - </p> - <p> - “Not an acre; but the personalty amounted to a good many thousands of - dollars.” - </p> - <p> - “And you don’t know where she is?” - </p> - <p> - “I haven’t an idea.” - </p> - <p> - “Have you made any efforts to find out?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>poste restante</i> 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. - </p> - <p> - Peixada closed his note-book with a snap. - </p> - <p> - “You see,” he said, “I’ve been pretty thorough and pretty unsuccessful. - Can you think of any stone that I have left unturned?” - </p> - <p> - “How about relatives? Have you questioned her relatives?” asked Arthur. - </p> - <p> - “Of relatives—in America, at least—Mrs. P. has none. Her - father died shortly after her marriage. Her mother died during the trial.” - </p> - <p> - “But uncles, aunts, sister, brothers?” - </p> - <p> - “None to my knowledge. She was an only child.” - </p> - <p> - “Her maiden-name was—?” - </p> - <p> - “Karon—Judith Karon. Her father, Michael Karon, used to keep a - jewelry store on Second Avenue.” - </p> - <p> - “About what is her age?” - </p> - <p> - “She was twenty-one at the time of the murder. That would make her - twenty-five or six now.” - </p> - <p> - “So young, indeed? Have you a photograph of her?” - </p> - <p> - “A photograph? No. I don’t know that she ever sat for one. But I have - these.” - </p> - <p> - Peixada produced a couple of rough wood-engravings, apparently cuttings - from illustrated papers, and submitted them for examination. - </p> - <p> - “They don’t look any thing like each other,” said Arthur. “Does either of - them look like her?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - Arthur said, “That’s too bad. But I suppose you have brought a copy of the - will?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Well,” Arthur began—but Peixada interrupted. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, that would be scarcely honorable, would it?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “Good,” said Peixada, rising; “there’s nothing further for me to detain - you with to-day.” - </p> - <p> - “Give my regards to mamma, when you write, Arthur,” said Mr. Mendel. - </p> - <p> - “I leave you my memoranda,” said Peixada, laying his note-book upon - Arthur’s desk. - </p> - <p> - “Take care of yourself,” enjoined Mr. Rimo, smiling and waving his hand. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER II.—“A VOICE, A MYSTERY.” - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>RTHUR 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 <i>loggia</i>. - 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. - </p> - <p> - Hetzel said, “It will be slow work, and tedious.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Just so; after the manner of Monsieur Lecoq. Well, where do you propose - to strike your clew?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I haven’t started in yet. I suppose I shall hit upon one soon - enough.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “I am aware of that.” - </p> - <p> - “What’s the first step you mean to take?” - </p> - <p> - “I haven’t made up my mind. I need time for deliberation.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “What do you think of Peixada’s plan—an advertisement?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Wouldn’t that be jolly? Only it would involve my neglecting the other - business that might turn up if I should stick here.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Such a picture sends the blood to my head. I mustn’t look at it. It would - make me discontented with the reality.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Hello!” cried Arthur, abruptly. “What’s that?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, that,” answered Hetzel, “that’s the corner house—No. 46.” - </p> - <p> - Hetzel spoke metonymically. “That” was a descending musical scale—<i>fa, - mi, re, do, si, la, sol, fa</i>,—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. - </p> - <p> - “<i>Fa, sol, la, si, do, re, mi, fa</i>,” continued the songstress. . - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” was Hetzel’s answer; “they moved in yesterday. I had this all the - morning.” - </p> - <p> - “This singing?” - </p> - <p> - “Exactly, and a piano to boot. Scales and exercises till I was nearly - mad.” - </p> - <p> - “But this—this is magnificent. You were to be envied.” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “Have you seen her?” Arthur asked. - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - 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—<i>fa-si, - sol-do</i>, 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 <i>they?</i> Who lives with her?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Hush-sh!” cried Arthur, motioning with his hand. - </p> - <p> - 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 <i>soul</i>—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.” - </p> - <p> - Arthur went on, “Opera? Talk about opera? Why, this beats the opera all - hollow. Can you conceive a more exquisite <i>mise en scene?</i> 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.” - </p> - <p> - This time her selection was the familiar but ever beautiful <i>Erl Konig</i>, - which she sang with such dramatic spirit that Hetzel himself exclaimed, - when she had finished, “It actually made my heart stand still.” - </p> - <p> - “‘<i>Du liebes Kind, komm geh mit mir!</i>’” hummed Arthur. “Ah, how - persuasively she murmured it! And then, ’<i>Mein Vater, mein Vater, und - horest du nicht?’.</i>—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?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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?” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “They retire early,” he grumbled. - </p> - <p> - “By the way, don’t you think it’s getting a little chilly up here?” asked - Hetzel. - </p> - <p> - “Decidedly,” he assented, shivering. “Shall we go below?” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Eh—er—what? Who is it?” he cried, starting up in bed. - </p> - <p> - “Can I come in?” Arthur’s voice demanded. - </p> - <p> - Without waiting for a reply, Arthur entered. - </p> - <p> - Hetzel’s wits getting out of tangle, “What unheard-of event brings you - abroad so early?” he inquired. - </p> - <p> - “Early? You don’t call this early? It’s halfpast seven.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, that’s a round half hour earlier than I ever knew you to rise - before. ’Is any thing the matter? Are you ill?” - </p> - <p> - “Bosh! I’m always up at half-past seven,” averred Arthur, with brazen - indifference to the truth. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Ah, I—I understand,” said Hetzel. - </p> - <p> - “Understand what?” - </p> - <p> - “The motive that impelled you to rise with the lark.” - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>am</i> up a little in advance of my usual hour—is - that an occasion for so much talk?” - </p> - <p> - “The question is, rather,” rejoined Hetzel, with apparent irrelevancy, - “are you rewarded?” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Well, I’m not ashamed, anyhow,” he said. - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “Of course,” replied Hetzel, sympathetically. - </p> - <p> - “But don’t be secretive. Let’s have the results of your observation.” - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>she</i> come to the window? She ought to want a breath of the - morning air. This is exasperating.” - </p> - <p> - The above monologue had been delivered piecemeal, at intervals of a minute - or so in duration. At its finish, Hetzel got out of bed. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - At the breakfast table, “Well, Josephine,” said Arthur, “tell us of the - night.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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 <i>Wohin</i>. 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - In this platitudinous vein Arthur went on. Meanwhile the lady had wandered - away from Schubert’s <i>Wohin</i>, 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 <i>Berceuse</i>, 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.” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I say—by the way—William—” called Arthur, as the - watchman was proceeding up the street. - </p> - <p> - “Yassir?” queried William, facing about. - </p> - <p> - Arthur ran down the stoop and joined his interlocutor at the foot. - </p> - <p> - “I say, William, I see No. 46 has found a tenant. You don’t happen to know - who it is?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” responded William; “moved in Thursday—old party of the name - of Hart.” - </p> - <p> - “Old party? Indeed! Then I suppose he has a daughter—eh? It was the - daughter who was singing a little while ago?” - </p> - <p> - “I dunno if she’s got a darter. Party’s a woman. I hain’t seen no darter. - Mebbe it was the lady herself.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, no; that’s not possible.—Hart, do you say the name is?” - </p> - <p> - “Mrs. G. Hart.” - </p> - <p> - “What does G. stand for?” - </p> - <p> - “I dunno. Might be John.” - </p> - <p> - “Who is <i>Mr</i>. G. Hart?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - Mused Arthur, absently, “An old lady named Hart; and he doesn’t know - whether the musician is her daughter or not.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, that’s so.—Well, good night.” - </p> - <p> - “Good night, sir,” said William, touching his cap. - </p> - <p> - 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 <i>Wohin</i>, 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER III.—STATISTICAL. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>ONDAY morning - Arthur entered Peixada’s warehouse promptly as the clock struck ten. - Peixada had not yet got down. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Ah, good morning,” he said briskly. “Well?” - </p> - <p> - “I am sorry to bother you so soon again, Mr. Peixada,” said Arthur, - stiffly; “but——” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, that’s all right,” Peixada interrupted. “Glad to see you. Sit down. - Smoke a cigar.” - </p> - <p> - “Then,” pursued Arthur, his cigar afire, “having thought the matter well - over——” - </p> - <p> - “You have concluded—?” - </p> - <p> - “That your view of the case was correct—that we’re in for a long, - expensive, and delicate piece of business.” - </p> - <p> - “Not a doubt of it.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Which are——?” - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>to</i> 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.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, the other method?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Hum,” reflected Peixada.—After a pause, “That would be still more - expensive,” he said. - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps.” - </p> - <p> - “Sure.—It seems to me that there is a third method which you haven’t - thought of.” - </p> - <p> - “Indeed? What is it?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - Peixada filled out a check. Arthur took up his hat. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, à propos,” said Peixada, without explaining what it was à propos 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?” - </p> - <p> - “I don’t know. It could do no harm for me to run it over.” - </p> - <p> - Peixada touched a bell, gave the requisite orders to the underling who - responded, and said to Arthur, “He’ll fetch it.” - </p> - <p> - Presently the man returned, bearing a large, square volume, bound in - bluish black leather. Arthur bowed himself out, with the volume under his - arm. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Ah,” said Arthur, offering his hand, “how do you do? Sit down.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Well, Mr. Ripley,” he questioned solicitously, “how are <i>you</i> - getting on?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, very well, thanks. I saw your uncle this morning.” - </p> - <p> - “That so? Any news?” - </p> - <p> - “You mean about the case? Nothing decisive as yet. It’s hardly time to - expect anything.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, no; of course not. I’ll tell you one thing. You’ve got a nice job - before you.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, and an odd one.” - </p> - <p> - “What I was thinking of especially was the lady. She’s a specimen. Not - many like her.” - </p> - <p> - “It’s to be hoped not. You of course knew her very well?” - </p> - <p> - “No, I can’t say as I did. I can’t say as I <i>knew</i> 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?” - </p> - <p> - “Why, how was that?” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - Having concluded this picturesque narrative, Mr. Rimo emptied a bumper of - sparkling Vichy water, with the remark, “Well, here’s <i>to</i> you,” and - applied a second wax match to his cigar, which had gone out while he was - speaking. - </p> - <p> - “Who were her people?” asked Arthur. “What sort of a family did she come - from?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “He died shortly after the marriage, didn’t he?” - </p> - <p> - “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 - <i>chochmah</i>. Don’t know what <i>chochmah</i> 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.” - </p> - <p> - “Tell me about it.” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “Who was that—what was his name?—the second of her victims,” - inquired Arthur. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “How do you account for the murder? What motive do you assign?” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Rimo rose, shook hands, moved off. - </p> - <p> - Arthur’s dreams that night were haunted by a wild, fierce, Medusa-like - woman’s face. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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 <i>New York Daily Gazette.</i> - </p> - <p> - “Mr. Martin,” began the district-attorney, “what is your business?” - </p> - <p> - “I am a merchant, sir.” - </p> - <p> - “And the commodities in which you deal are? - </p> - <p> - “Ales, wines, and liquors, your honor. - </p> - <p> - “At retail or wholesale?” - </p> - <p> - “Both, sir; but mostly retail.” - </p> - <p> - “Where is your store situated, Mr. Martin?” - </p> - <p> - “On the southwest corner of Eighty-fifth Street and Ninth Avenue.” - </p> - <p> - “Was the residence of the deceased, Mr. Bernard Peixada, near to your - place of business?” - </p> - <p> - “It was, sir—on the next block.” - </p> - <p> - “What block? How is the block bounded?” - </p> - <p> - “The block, sir, is bounded by Eighty-fifth and Eighty-sixth Streets, and - Ninth and Tenth Avenues, your honor.” - </p> - <p> - “Many houses on that block? - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Had Mr. Peixada lived there long? - </p> - <p> - “Since the 1st of May, this year.” - </p> - <p> - “Now, Mr. Martin, do you remember the night of July 30th?” - </p> - <p> - “Faith, I do, sir; and I’ll not soon forget it.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, sir, on that night, toward two o’clock the next morning—” - </p> - <p> - (Laughter among the auditors; speedily repressed by the court attendants.) - </p> - <p> - “Don’t be disconcerted, Mr. Martin. On the morning of July 31st?” - </p> - <p> - “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—” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - Recorder Hewitt ordered the prisoner to remove her veil. - </p> - <p> - “Go on, Mr. Martin,” said the prosecutor to the witness. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - Again the district-attorney stopped the witness. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - The recorder: “Madam, you will turn your chair toward the jury, and keep - your face uncovered.” - </p> - <p> - The district-attorney: “Well, Mr. Martin, what next?” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - The next witness was Miss Ann Doyle. - </p> - <p> - “Miss Doyle, what is your occupation?” asked the district-attorney. - </p> - <p> - “I am a cook, sir.” - </p> - <p> - “Have you a situation, at present?” - </p> - <p> - “I have not, sir.” - </p> - <p> - “How long have you been idle?” - </p> - <p> - “Since the 31st of July, sir.” - </p> - <p> - “Prior to that date where were you employed?” - </p> - <p> - “In the family of Mr. Peixada, sir.” - </p> - <p> - “Were you present at Mr. Peixada’s house on the night of July 30th?” - </p> - <p> - “I was not, sir.” - </p> - <p> - “Tell us, please, how you came to be absent?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “And you availed yourself of this privilege?” - </p> - <p> - “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—” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “That will do, Miss Doyle. Miss Katharine Mahoney, take the stand.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, sir; since me and Ann were the only servants they kept. Mr. Bolen - staid behind, to his sorrow.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Dr. Jetz, how long have you known Mrs. Peix-ada, the prisoner at the - bar?” - </p> - <p> - “Ever since she was born. I helped to bring her into the world.” - </p> - <p> - “When did you last attend her professionally?” - </p> - <p> - “I paid her my last professional visit on the 1st of August, 1878; eight - days before she was married.” - </p> - <p> - “What was her trouble at that time?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Were these ailments of long standing?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.) - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - By the district attorney: “Doctor, are your sentiments—your personal - sentiments—for the prisoner of a friendly or an unfriendly nature?” - </p> - <p> - “Decidedly, sir, of a friendly nature.” - </p> - <p> - “You would be sorry to see her hanged?” - </p> - <p> - The doctor replied by a gesture. - </p> - <p> - “Or sent to State Prison?” - </p> - <p> - “I could not bear to think of it.” - </p> - <p> - “You would do your utmost—would you not?—to save her from such - a fate?” - </p> - <p> - “Eagerly, sir, eagerly.” - </p> - <p> - “That’s sufficient, doctor.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Doctor, are you the author of a work entitled, ’Pathology of Mind - Popularly Expounded’—published, as I see by the title page, in - 1873?” - </p> - <p> - “I am, sir, yes.” - </p> - <p> - “Does that book express with tolerable accuracy your views on the subject - of insanity?’ - </p> - <p> - “It does—certainly.” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, sir.” - </p> - <p> - “And subscribe to its correctness?” - </p> - <p> - “It expresses the opinion which prevails among the authorities.” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “I am not willing to swear positively. It is my opinion that it had.” - </p> - <p> - “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; - </p> - <p> - “Not positively—no, sir.” - </p> - <p> - “It is your opinion?” - </p> - <p> - “It is my opinion.” - </p> - <p> - “How firm?” - </p> - <p> - “Very firm.” - </p> - <p> - “So firm, doctor, that if you were on this jury, you would feel bound, - under any and all circumstances, to acquit the prisoner?” - </p> - <p> - “So firm that I should feel bound to acquit her, unless evidence of a - highly damaging character was forthcoming.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, suppose that evidence of a highly damaging character was - forthcoming, would you convict?” - </p> - <p> - “I might.” - </p> - <p> - “Thanks, doctor. You can go.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Is Dr. Julius Gunther in court?” called out the district-attorney. - </p> - <p> - Dr. Gunther elbowed his way to the front, and was sworn. - </p> - <p> - “Dr. Gunther,” the prosecutor inquired, “you are a physician in general - practice—yes?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, sir, I am.” - </p> - <p> - “You were also, I believe, up to the time of his death, physician to the - family of Mr. Bernard Peixada?” - </p> - <p> - The doctor nodded affirmatively. - </p> - <p> - “Did you ever attend the decedent’s wife—Mrs. Peixada—this - woman here—the prisoner at the bar?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “You were treating her for a sprained ankle. Did you make any observation - of her general health?” - </p> - <p> - “Naturally.” - </p> - <p> - “And you found it?” - </p> - <p> - “Excellent.” - </p> - <p> - “How about her mental faculties? Any symptoms of derangement?” - </p> - <p> - “Not one. I have seldom known a smarter woman. She had an exceptionally - well-balanced mind.” - </p> - <p> - “That’ll do, doctor,” said the district-attorney. To the other side, “Want - to cross-examine?” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, speaking broadly, I suppose so. But in this particular instance, no. - That woman is no more crazy than you are.” - </p> - <p> - “Now,” said the prosecutor, “now, as to my lady’s alleged good character?” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Mrs. Shapiro, were you acquainted with Mr. Bernard Peixada, the - decedent?” - </p> - <p> - “Well acquainted with him—an old friend of his family.” - </p> - <p> - “And with his wife, the prisoner? - </p> - <p> - “I made her acquaintance shortly before Mr. Peixada married her. After - that I saw her as often as once a week.” - </p> - <p> - “Will you please give us your estimate of her character?” - </p> - <p> - “Bad, very bad. She is false, she is treacherous, but above all, she is - spiteful and ill-humored.” - </p> - <p> - “For example?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I could give twenty examples.” - </p> - <p> - “Give one, please.” - </p> - <p> - “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; - </p> - <p> - “Can you give us the date of this extraordinary conversation?” - </p> - <p> - “It was some time, I think, in last June; a little more than a month - before she murdered him.” - </p> - <p> - The efforts of the prisoner’s counsel to break down Mrs. Shapiro’s - testimony were unavailing. - </p> - <p> - “Mr. Short,” says the <i>Gazette</i>, “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER IV.—“THAT NOT IMPOSSIBLE SHE.” - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>T home that - evening, on the <i>loggia</i>, Hetzel said, “I have news for you.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah?” queried Arthur. - </p> - <p> - “Yes—about your mystery across the way.” - </p> - <p> - “Well?” - </p> - <p> - “She’s no longer a mystery. The ambiguity surrounding her has been - dispelled.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, go on.” - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>have</i> 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.” - </p> - <p> - “Why should I be disappointed? The divine voice remains, doesn’t it? Go - ahead.” - </p> - <p> - “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’.” - </p> - <p> - “But the songstress?” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “And Mr. Lehmyl—who is he?” - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps Mrs. Lehmyl is a widow, too. She dresses in black.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah, you have seen her? Describe her to me.” - </p> - <p> - “No, I haven’t seen her. But Josephine has. It is to Josephine that I owe - the information so far communicated.” - </p> - <p> - “What does Josephine say she looks like?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, any thing further?” - </p> - <p> - “Nothing.” - </p> - <p> - “Has she sung for you since I left?” - </p> - <p> - “Not a bar. Probably she has been busy, helping to put the house to - rights.” - </p> - <p> - “Let us hope she will sing for us to-night.” - </p> - <p> - “Let us hope so.” - </p> - <p> - But bed-time stole upon them, and their hopes had not yet been rewarded. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Well?” questioned Hetzel. - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh,” said Hetzel, yawning, “I’m tired. I prefer to stay home this - afternoon.” - </p> - <p> - “Nonsense. You’re simply lazy. It’s—it’s positively a matter of - duty, Hetz.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, you have so frequently asserted that I have no sense of duty, I’m - trying to live up to your conception of me.” - </p> - <p> - 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?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, if you put it on that ground, it’s another question. As a favor to - you, I consent to be dragged out.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - Ere a great while, Mrs. Berle’s maid-servant ushered them into Mrs. - Berle’s drawing-room. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - At its termination, the audience applauded vehemently, and demanded more. - The result was a <i>Scherzo</i> by Chopin. Afterward, Mrs. Lehmyl rose - from the piano and fanned herself. Every body began simultaneously to - talk. - </p> - <p> - 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 <i>goot</i> young man”—which made him blush profusely and - wish his hostess a dozen apoplexies. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “If it is faulty, a premium ought to be placed upon such faults,” he - gushed. - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes. Hetzel and I inhabit the upper portion of this house.” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “Let’s go into the back room,” cried Mrs. Berle; and she led the way. - </p> - <p> - In the back room wine and cakes were distributed by a German <i>Madchen</i> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Prison and hospital and graveyard constantly in sight,” was her comment; - “I should think they would make one gloomy.” - </p> - <p> - “<i>A memento mori</i>, 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.” - </p> - <p> - “It must be very beautiful,” she said, simply. - </p> - <p> - 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 <i>Calliope</i>—an instrument consisting of a series of - steam whistles graduated in chromatic scale. - </p> - <p> - “How uncomfortable those poor people must be,” said Mrs. Lehmyl. “Is—is - this one of the dark, mysterious craft?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Music?” queried Mrs. Lehmyl, dubiously. - </p> - <p> - 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,” “<i>Du lieber Gott!</i>” “<i>Ist’s moglich?</i>” 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. - </p> - <p> - “All this talk about music,” he said, “has whetted my appetite. You are - going to sing for us, aren’t you?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Lehmyl’s tone showed that she meant what she said. - </p> - <p> - “This is a great disappointment,” Arthur rejoined. - </p> - <p> - “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. <i>Wohin</i>, for instance. - Isn’t <i>Wohin</i> abreast of the times?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>here</i>.’ That’s the trouble. Except when Wagner abides by - the old traditions, he never makes one feel good <i>here</i>. 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.” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “I did, indeed. I thought it was exquisite.” - </p> - <p> - “I am glad, because it is a favorite of my own. It’s an old French - folk-song, arranged by Bizet. The title is <i>Le Voile d’une Religieuse</i>.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, indeed, like prayer. It is the most perfect vehicle of expression - for one’s deepest, most solemn feelings—that and——” - </p> - <p> - “And poetry.” - </p> - <p> - “How did you guess that I was going to say poetry?” - </p> - <p> - “It was obvious. The two go together.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Indeed; who is he?” - </p> - <p> - “Robert Browning.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Then I was right?” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “If I should answer that question, I am afraid you might deem me - presumptuous. I could not do so, without paying you a compliment.” - </p> - <p> - “Then, leave it unanswered,” she said, coldly. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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?” - </p> - <p> - “You are very kind,” Hetzel answered; “and we shall do so with great - pleasure.” - </p> - <p> - Upstairs, “Well, how did you like her?” inquired Arthur. - </p> - <p> - “Like whom? Mrs. Berle?” - </p> - <p> - “No—Mrs. Lehmyl, of course, stupid.” - </p> - <p> - “That’s a pretty question for you to ask; as though you’d given me a - chance to find out. How did <i>you</i> like her?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, she’s above the average.” - </p> - <p> - “Is that all? Then you were disappointed? She didn’t come up to your - anticipations?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I don’t say that. Yes, she’s# a fine woman.” - </p> - <p> - “But her friend, Mrs. Hart, is a trump.” - </p> - <p> - “So? Nobody would suspect it from her looks. Her austere coloring inspires - a certain kind of awe.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “No?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “But you and I are one. You can take me to call with you, can’t you?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Nonsense! You can arrange it easily enough. Ask permission to bring your - Fidus Achates.” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “She played uncommonly well—didn’t you think so?” - </p> - <p> - “Indeed, I did. Execution and expression were both fine. She has studied - in Europe, Mrs. Hart says.” - </p> - <p> - “Did you learn who her husband is?” - </p> - <p> - “I learned that he isn’t. I was right in my conjecture. She is a widow.” - </p> - <p> - “That’s a relief. I am glad she is not-encumbered with a husband.” - </p> - <p> - “Fie upon you, man! You ought to be ashamed to say it. He has been dead - quite a number of years.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “That introduces the point of chief importance. What did you think of her - appearance?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “You mean she looks as though she were deficient in levity?” - </p> - <p> - “Well, as though she wouldn’t tolerate any thing petty—a dialogue - such as ours now, for example.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “What possessed me? Why should I have done otherwise?” - </p> - <p> - “It will be an insufferable bore.” - </p> - <p> - “Who was it that somewhat earlier in the afternoon preached me a sermon on - the duties we owe that identical Mrs. Berle?” - </p> - <p> - Arthur spent the evening reading. Hetzel, peeping over his shoulder, saw - that the book of his choice was “The Inn Album” by Robert Browning. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER V.—“A NOTHING STARTS THE SPRING.” - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>NOTHER week - slipped away. The weather changed. There was rain almost every day, and a - persistent wind blew from the north-east. So the <i>loggia</i> 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. - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “‘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.” - </p> - <p> - Hetzel smiled complacently. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - Hetzel laughed. - </p> - <p> - “You’re a cynic,” Arthur informed him. - </p> - <p> - “I don’t believe in playing with fire,” he retorted. - </p> - <p> - Thereafter their conversation drifted to other themes. - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “I suppose it would be a polite thing to do.” - </p> - <p> - “Then why don’t you make an excursion over to the florist’s on Third - Avenue, and lay in an assortment?” - </p> - <p> - “You’re the horticulturist of this establishment. Go yourself.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Ladies? What ladies?” demanded Arthur, brightening up. “Who is to be - there, besides us and Mrs. Berle?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I don’t say that any body is. I thought perhaps one of her daughters, - or a friend, or—” - </p> - <p> - “Well, maybe I’ll go over this afternoon. For the present—” - </p> - <p> - “This afternoon will be too late. The shops close early, you know, on - Sunday.” - </p> - <p> - Arthur issued forth upon his quest for flowers. - </p> - <p> - 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? - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “I surmised as much, and you knew it all the while,” Arthur gasped in a - whisper to Hetzel. - </p> - <p> - His friend shrugged his shoulders. - </p> - <p> - 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——” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, aren’t they delicious!” she cried, impulsively. - </p> - <p> - Her eyes brightened, and she bent over the flowers to breathe in their - incense. - </p> - <p> - “But I mustn’t keep them all for myself,” she added. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, we are equally well treated,” said Mrs. Hart, flourishing a knot of - Jacqueminot roses. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, indeed,” Mrs. Berle joined in, pointing to a table, the marble top - of which was hidden beneath a wealth of variegated blossoms. - </p> - <p> - “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, “<i>Maintenant, monsieur</i>” she said, with a - touch of coquetry, “<i>maintenant à votre tour</i>.” 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Lehmyl looked around, with child-like happiness shining in her eyes. - Arthur looked at her. - </p> - <p> - “Permit me to make you acquainted with my brother, Mr. Lipman,” said the - hostess. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Now, to the table!” cried Mrs. Berle. - </p> - <p> - 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 <i>Lehn deine Wang</i>, 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 <i>La Paloma</i>, in - the merriest way imaginable; and finally, to bring the pendulum of emotion - back to its mean position, <i>Voi chi Sapete</i> 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?” - </p> - <p> - 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 <i>Largo</i>. 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. - </p> - <p> - On her door-step, Mrs. Hart said, “We should be pleased to have you call - upon us, Mr. Ripley.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Hart was accompanied by her cats. - </p> - <p> - Arthur’s spirits sank. - </p> - <p> - “Ah, how do you do?” said Mrs. Hart. “I’m so glad to see you.” - </p> - <p> - She shook his hand cordially and bade him be seated. He sat down and - looked at the ceiling. - </p> - <p> - “Why didn’t you bring your comrade, Mr. Hetzel?” she asked. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “No—not among the Americans of English blood; they haven’t enough - temperamental richness,” acquiesced Mrs. Lehmyl. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Naturally, being Mrs. Berle’s brother.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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: - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “And he played capitally, too—caught the true spirit of the music.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “There is no reason why it should. I’m not’ English-American.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah, I felt sure of it. I felt sure you had Italian blood in your veins.” - </p> - <p> - “No—nor Italian either.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, Spanish, then?” - </p> - <p> - “Why, I supposed you knew. I—I am a Jewess.” - </p> - <p> - “Mercy!” gasped Arthur, blushing to the roots of his hair. “I hope—I - hope you—” He broke off, and squirmed uncomfortably in his chair. - </p> - <p> - “Why, is it possible you didn’t know it?” asked Mrs. Lehmyl. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “You are not orthodox?” - </p> - <p> - “I am quite otherwise.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “I suppose it is.” - </p> - <p> - “You speak as though you regretted it.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “What ideal is that?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “But how many Jews are there who would subscribe to your view of the case—who - would admit that amalgamation is inevitable?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, but I am an American, besides. It is a privilege to be one.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “It seems to me that Ripley is an English name.” - </p> - <p> - “So it is. But my father’s mother was a Frenchwoman.” - </p> - <p> - “A ruddy drop of Gallic blood outweighs a world of gold,” parodied Mrs. - Lehmyl. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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, ’<i>Jews!</i>’ and signaled the driver to stop - and let them out. So we had the conveyance to ourselves, for which we were - not sorry.” - </p> - <p> - “I wish I had been there!” cried Arthur, with astonishing energy. - </p> - <p> - “Why?” asked Mrs. Lehmyl. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, that young man and I would have had an interview alone,” he answered, - in a blood-curdling key. - </p> - <p> - “He means that he would have given that young man a piece of his mind,” - put in Mrs. Hart. - </p> - <p> - The sound of her voice occasioned Arthur a veritable start. He had - forgotten that she was present. - </p> - <p> - “I hope not,” said Mrs. Lehmyl. “To resent such conduct would lend undue - importance to it.” - </p> - <p> - “All the same it makes my blood boil—the thought that those young - animals dared to be rude to you.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “I’m sure we appreciate your sympathy,” she said. “Ruth, play a little for - Mr. Ripley.” - </p> - <p> - Was this intended as a reward of merit? Contrariwise to the gentleman in - <i>Punch</i>, Arthur would so much rather have heard her talk than play. - </p> - <p> - “Shall I?” she asked. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I should be delighted,” he assented. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Ah,” she said, with frank disappointment, “it did not please you.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “In spite of this anti-climax,” he said, sipping his wine, “what I said - was the truth.” - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>La Damnation de Faust</i>, - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “I remember. But that did not affect me so. I never was so affected till I - heard you play just now.” - </p> - <p> - “I don’t know whether I ought to feel complimented, or the reverse.” - </p> - <p> - “What is the feeling we naturally have at perceiving our power over - another human being?” Mrs. Lehmyl changed the subject. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “I told you then that I dared not enlighten you, lest I might be deemed - presumptuous. If you will promise me absolution, beforehand—” - </p> - <p> - “But you, too, I take for granted, share my sentiments.” - </p> - <p> - “What I have read is unsurpassed. ’The Inn Album,’ for example.” - </p> - <p> - “And ’The Ring and the Book.’.rdquo; - </p> - <p> - “I haven’t read ’The Ring and the Book.’.rdquo; - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “You are very kind. I should like nothing better.” - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Lehmyl begged to be excused and left the room. Arthur followed the - sound of her light, quick footsteps up the stairs. - </p> - <p> - “Browning is her patron saint,” volunteered Mrs. Hart. “She spends her - time about equally between him and her piano.” - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Lehmyl came back. - </p> - <p> - “There,” she said, giving him the volume, and smiling, “there is my <i>vade - mecum</i>. I love it almost as dearly as I could if it were a human being. - You must be sure to like it.” - </p> - <p> - “I am sure you honor me very highly by entrusting it to me,” he replied. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - But ere a great while, the scales fell from his eyes. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - Said Mrs. Hart, after he had gone: “A Boston man.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, certainly; that will be delightful,” said Mrs. Hart. - </p> - <p> - “Then we will call for you at about three o’clock?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes.” - </p> - <p> - “Good-night.” - </p> - <p> - 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!” - </p> - <p> - 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! - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I’m a little nervous—guess I drank more coffee for breakfast - than was good for me,” he replied. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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, - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - ’In thy dark eyes splendor, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Where the warm light loves to dwell.’.rdquo; - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - “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? - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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 <i>vice - versa</i>. 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 <i>Wilhelm - Meisler</i>. 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. - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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? - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Good-by,” she said. - </p> - <p> - “May—may I call upon you to-morrow?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes.” - </p> - <p> - He relinquished her hand, which he had been clinging to all this time, and - went his way. - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>to-morrow!</i>” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER VI.—“THE WOMAN WHO HESITATES.” - </h2> - <p> - RIPLEY, attorney, New York: - </p> - <p> - “Draft accepted. Begin immediately. - </p> - <p> - “Ulrich.” - </p> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">S</span>uch 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. - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - Peixada said, “Hum! That’s so. I hadn’t thought of that. That’s a pretty - serious question.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah,” sighed Peixada, with manifest relief. - </p> - <p> - “Now see,” continued Arthur. “Mrs. Peixada shot her husband—was - indicted—tried—acquitted’—yes?” - </p> - <p> - “To be sure.” - </p> - <p> - “But at the same time she also took the life of a man named Edward Bolen, - her husband’s coachman—eh?” - </p> - <p> - “She did—certainly.” - </p> - <p> - “Was she indicted for his murder as well as for the other?” - </p> - <p> - “She was indicted, yes, but——” - </p> - <p> - “But never arraigned for trial. Then the indictment is still in force - against her?” - </p> - <p> - “I suppose it is—unless the statute of limitations——” - </p> - <p> - “The statute of limitations does not apply after an indictment has once - been found.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Splendid!” - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>in re</i> Bolen. I promised that you - would assume the entire expense.” - </p> - <p> - “And he replied?” - </p> - <p> - “That it was a rather irregular proposition, but that he would think it - over and let me know his conclusion.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, have you heard from him since?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - Next day, after an eternity of impatience, he rang her bell. - </p> - <p> - “Mrs. Lehmyl,” said the servant, “is sick in her room with a headache.” - </p> - <p> - “What?” cried Arthur, and stood still, gaping for dismay. - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” repeated Bridget; “sick in her room.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, but she will receive me. I call by appointment. Please tell her that - I am here.” - </p> - <p> - “She said that she could receive no one; but if you’ll step into the - parlor, I’ll speak to Mrs. Hart.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Mercy upon me, man,” cried Hetzel, “what has happened? Cheeks burning, - fingers trembling! No bad news? Speak—quickly.” - </p> - <p> - But Arthur did not speak. - </p> - <p> - 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?” - </p> - <p> - By the time Hetzel had finished speaking, Arthur had folded his letter and - stowed it away in his pocket. - </p> - <p> - “Eh? What were you saying?” he inquired, with a blank look. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I was saying that breakfast is getting cold; coffee spoiling, biscuit - drying up—whatever you choose. Letter from home?” - </p> - <p> - “Home? No; not from home,” said Arthur. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - 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: - </p> - <p> - “46 Beekman Place, - </p> - <p> - “Thursday evening. - </p> - <p> - “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? - </p> - <p> - “Sincerely yours, - </p> - <p> - “Ruth Lehmyl.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - Of course he rang her door-bell in the afternoon. - </p> - <p> - “How is Mrs. Lehmyl to-day?” he inquired of the maid. “I hope her headache - is better.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, she’s all well again to-day—just the same as ever,” was the - reply. - </p> - <p> - 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? - </p> - <p> - “Is—is she in?” he questioned. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes; she’s in.” - </p> - <p> - “Will you please give her my card, then?” - </p> - <p> - He walked into the parlor. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - At length, “I have brought you a few flowers,” he began. - </p> - <p> - She took the flowers, and buried her nose in them, and thanked their - donor, and pinned one of the roses at her breast. - </p> - <p> - “I hope you are quite well again,” he pursued. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes,” she said, “quite well.” - </p> - <p> - “It was very thoughtful of you to write me that letter—when you were - in such pain.” - </p> - <p> - “I owed it to you. I had promised to receive you. It would have been - unfair, if I had not written.” - </p> - <p> - “I—I was quite alarmed about you. I was afraid your headache might—” - He faltered. - </p> - <p> - “There was no occasion for alarm. I am used to such headaches. I expect - one every now and then.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Why?” - </p> - <p> - “I thought perhaps—perhaps you did not care to see me, and had - pleaded a headache for politeness’ sake.” - </p> - <p> - “You did me an injustice.”—A pause.—“I did care to see you.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Do you mean what you have just said?” he asked presently. His voice - quivered. - </p> - <p> - “Yes.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I knew,” she answered, in almost a whisper, and bowed her head. - </p> - <p> - Arthur sprang toward her and grasped her hand. “You knew—then, you - know that—that I love you—<i>Ruth!</i>” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - She raised her head now, and gazed into his eyes; but her gaze was not one - of gladness. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, alas, alas, I know it,” she said, very slowly. - </p> - <p> - Arthur started back. - </p> - <p> - “Alas, alas?” he repeated after her. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes,” she said, in the same slow, grave way; “it is very, very sad.” - </p> - <p> - “Sad?” His eyes were full of mystification. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “I do not understand,” said Arthur, shaking his head. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “But your explanation puts me in the dark.” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “It is not a question of <i>want</i>. I should love you under any and all - conditions.” - </p> - <p> - “But you never, never can marry me.” - </p> - <p> - “I will not believe it until—” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “Because?” There was panic in Arthur’s heart. Was she not a widow, after - all? - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh!” cried Arthur, with manifest relief. “Is that all?” - </p> - <p> - “It is enough—it is final, fatal.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I thought it might be worse.” - </p> - <p> - 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 <i>you</i>, - 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 <i>love you!</i> I can not see that what you have - spoken of is a bar to our marriage.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “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—<i>to you!</i>—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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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>I love you!</i> 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—” - </p> - <p> - 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. <i>You do love me!</i>” he cried. He - caught her in his arms, and strained her rapturously to his breast. - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - 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: - </p> - <p> - 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?” - </p> - <p> - 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!” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, it is too soon to fix that—we can wait about fixing that.” - </p> - <p> - “No, no. It must be fixed before I take leave of you to-day. Every thing - must be finally settled. When?” - </p> - <p> - “Whenever you wish.” - </p> - <p> - “To-morrow.” - </p> - <p> - “Of course I did not mean that.” - </p> - <p> - “As soon, then, as possible.” - </p> - <p> - “Not sooner than—” - </p> - <p> - “Not longer at the utmost than a month.” - </p> - <p> - “A month? It is a very short time, a month.” - </p> - <p> - “But it is a month too long. Make it a month, or less.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, a month, then: this day month.” - </p> - <p> - “This day month—to-day being Friday—falls on Sunday. Say, - rather this day four weeks, the 25th of July.” - </p> - <p> - “How shall I get ready in that interval?” - </p> - <p> - “How shall I live through that interval?” - </p> - <p> - “What interval? Talking about music, as usual?” said Mrs. Hart, entering - at this moment. “Mr. Ripley, how do you do?” - </p> - <p> - “I am the happiest man in the world,” he answered. - </p> - <p> - “I congratulate you. Have you won a case?” - </p> - <p> - “No; I have won a wife.” - </p> - <p> - “I congratulate you doubly. Who is the lady?” - </p> - <p> - “Let me present her to you,” he laughed, taking Ruth by the hand. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - Finally, “I congratulate you trebly,” said Mrs. Hart, turning to Arthur. - </p> - <p> - For a while every body was very happy and very sentimental. - </p> - <p> - When, toward midnight, Arthur returned to his own abode, Hetzel asked him - where he had spent the evening. - </p> - <p> - “In heaven,” he replied. - </p> - <p> - “And with what particular divinity?” - </p> - <p> - “With Mrs. Lehmyl.” - </p> - <p> - “So?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, sir. And—and what do you suppose? She and I are going to be - married.” - </p> - <p> - “What?” cried Hetzel. - </p> - <p> - “Yes; we are engaged, betrothed. We are going to be married.” - </p> - <p> - “Engaged? Betrothed? Married? You? Nonsense!” - </p> - <p> - “Nothing of the kind. Our wedding day is fixed for the 25th of next - month.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, come, be rational.” - </p> - <p> - “I am rational. Why should I jest about it?” - </p> - <p> - “Have you suddenly fallen heir to a fortune?” - </p> - <p> - “Of course not; why?” - </p> - <p> - “Why? Why, what are you going to get married on?” - </p> - <p> - “How do you mean?” - </p> - <p> - “I mean who’s to foot the bills?” - </p> - <p> - “I have my income, have I not?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, your income. Oh, to be sure. Let’s see—how many thousands did - it amount to last year?” - </p> - <p> - “It amounted to fifteen hundred.” - </p> - <p> - “Fifteen hundred what?” - </p> - <p> - “Hundred dollars.” - </p> - <p> - “Is that all?” - </p> - <p> - “It is enough.” - </p> - <p> - “Do you seriously intend to marry on that?” - </p> - <p> - “Why not?” - </p> - <p> - “Why, it won’t keep your wife in pocket handkerchiefs, let alone feeding - and clothing her.” - </p> - <p> - “I hadn’t thought about it, but I’m sure we can get along on fifteen - hundred—added to what I can earn.” - </p> - <p> - “What was her opinion?” - </p> - <p> - “I didn’t mention the subject.” - </p> - <p> - “You asked her to marry you without exhibiting your bank account. Shame!” - </p> - <p> - “We love each other.” - </p> - <p> - “When poverty comes in at the door, what is it love’s habit to do?” - </p> - <p> - “Such love as ours waxes greater.” - </p> - <p> - “And—and your mother. What will she say?” - </p> - <p> - “I’m going to write to her to-night—now.” - </p> - <p> - “Has your mother much respect for my judgment?” - </p> - <p> - “You know she has.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER VII.—ENTER MRS. PEIXADA. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HE 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. - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - Said Peixada, “Well, we shall simply be obliged to adopt the plan that I - suggested in the first place—advertise.” - </p> - <p> - Assented Romer, “Yes, an advertisement is our last hope.” - </p> - <p> - “A forlorn one. She would never answer it,” croaked Arthur. - </p> - <p> - “That depends,” said Romer. - </p> - <p> - “Upon what?” - </p> - <p> - “Upon the adroitness with which the advertisement is framed.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, for instance? Give us a sample.” - </p> - <p> - “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: - </p> - <p> - <i>“Peixada.—If Mrs. Judith Peixada, </i>née<i> 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.”</i> - </p> - <p> - “That, I think,” said Romer, “ought to be inserted in the principal - newspapers of America, England, France, and Germany.” - </p> - <p> - “That’s what I call first-rate,” was Peixada’s comment. - </p> - <p> - Arthur held his peace. - </p> - <p> - “Well,” demanded Romer, “how does it strike <i>you?</i>” - </p> - <p> - Arthur deliberated; at length said, “Candidly, Romer, do you regard that - as altogether square and above-board?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, come; no, you don’t,” urged Romer. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps they wouldn’t; but I do.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, what else is there to be done?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “How do you mean?” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “All right,” said Romer, shrugging his shoulders; “suggest a more - promising move, and I’ll be with you.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - Arthur scratched off a line or two. - </p> - <p> - “Here,” he said. - </p> - <p> - “<i>Peixada.—If Mrs. Judith Peixada, </i>née<i> 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,“</i> was what Arthur had written. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “What do you think, Mr. Peixada?” inquired Romer. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I think she’d sooner cut her thumbs off than do me a favor. But I - leave the decision with you lawyers.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “I haven’t made up my mind. We were thinking of some place on the New - Jersey coast.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “You’re too kind. I don’t know what to say,” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Flint opened a drawer of his desk and extracted a pile of photographs. - </p> - <p> - “Here’s Beacon Rock taken from every available point of view. Here are - some glimpses of the interior,” he said. - </p> - <p> - Divided between delight and gratitude, Arthur could only stammer forth - broken phrases. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, by the way, what’s her address?” demanded Mr. Flint, as Arthur was on - the point of bidding him good-by. - </p> - <p> - “I thought I had told you. You’ll be sure to call soon, won’t you? No. 46 - Beekman Place.” - </p> - <p> - “Now, mum’s the word,” proceeded Mr. Flint. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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!” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>loggia</i>. - 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.” - </p> - <p> - A week elapsed before the bride and groom were heard from. Eventually - Hetzel got a voluminous missive. Portions of it read thus: - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - ’The locust dinned amid the trees; - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - The fields were high with corn,’ - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - 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 <i>dolce far - niente</i>, 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 <i>L’homme - qui rit</i>.. . . 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, <i>she is actually my wife!</i> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - 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: - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>must</i> - 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 - <i>thinks</i> he would not care. He says <i>no matter what the past has - been, it is totally indifferent to him.</i> But perhaps he would not feel - that way if he really knew it. God bless him and keep him from all pain!” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “Show him in.” - </p> - <p> - The gentleman appeared. The gentleman wore the garb of a porter. “I come - from Mr. Peixada, sir, with a note,” he explained. - </p> - <p> - Arthur took the note and broke it open. The gum on the envelope was still - damp. - </p> - <p> - The note bore evidence of having been dashed off in haste. Here it is: - </p> - <p> - “Office of B. Peixada & Co., - </p> - <p> - “No.———Reade Street, - </p> - <p> - “New York, Aug. 11, 1884. - </p> - <p> - “Dear Sir: - </p> - <p> - “If you are in town, (and to-day was the day fixed for your return), - please come right over here at your earliest convenience. <i>Mrs. P. is in - my private office!</i> I am keeping her till your arrival. - </p> - <p> - “Yours truly, - </p> - <p> - “B. Peixada.” - </p> - <p> - Arthur stood still, his eyes glued upon this sheet of paper, long enough - to have read it through a dozen times. - </p> - <p> - “Any answer?” Mr. Peixada’s envoy at last demanded. - </p> - <p> - “Oh—of course—I’ll go along with you at once.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - Peixada was nervously pacing back and forth in the show-room. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Have you notified Mr. Romer, too?” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “I—I think it would be best to wait,” said Arthur, his voice - trembling. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh—very well,” consented Arthur. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - In one of these chairs, with her back toward the door, and engaged - apparently in looking out of the window, sat a lady. - </p> - <p> - Standing still, a yard beyond the threshold, Arthur said, “I beg your - pardon, madam—Mrs. Peixada.” - </p> - <p> - The lady rose, turned around, faced him. - </p> - <p> - The lady was his wife. - </p> - <p> - A slight, startled smile crossed her face. “Why—Arthur—you—?” - she began in atone of surprise, her eyes brightening. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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—-” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - But gradually he recovered himself in some measure. - </p> - <p> - His face a picture of blank amazement, “For heaven’s sake, Ruth, what does - this mean?” he cried. - </p> - <p> - She did not hear him. Her anger of a moment since gave way to a paroxysm - of pain. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - She broke down in a torrent of tears and sobs. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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 <i>done</i>, 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.” - </p> - <p> - Her words were followed by a prolonged, convulsive shudder. - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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!” - </p> - <p> - Completely undone, he could only press his hands to his temples, and - murmur, “Oh my God, my God!” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - He did not recognize them; but an instinct told him who they were. He was - petrified. It did not occur to him to interfere. - </p> - <p> - “Mrs. Peixada, I believe, ma’am?” said one of them, with a smirk. - </p> - <p> - He had to repeat his query thrice before she deigned to give him her - attention. - </p> - <p> - Then with supreme dignity, bending her neck, “What do you wish with me?” - she asked. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - She, flinging one last, brief, scorching glance at her husband, bowed to - the officer, and swept out of the room. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - On the curbstone, hatless, out of breath, stupefied, he halted and looked - up and down the street. Ruth was nowhere to be seen. - </p> - <p> - Here he was joined by Romer and Peixada. - </p> - <p> - “What is it—what has happened?” Romer asked. - </p> - <p> - “What has happened?” he repeated, dully. “Did—didn’t you know? <i>She - is my wife!</i>” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER VIII.—“WHAT REST TO-NIGHT?” - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">P</span>UT 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “What—what is the matter with you?” he demanded. - </p> - <p> - Arthur tottered a short distance into the room, and sank upon a chair. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “No—no; I don’t need that,” Arthur said, waving Hetzel away. - </p> - <p> - “Well, then, speak. Tell me, what is the trouble?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Julian, I am ruined. If—if you knew what I have done!” - </p> - <p> - Arthur buried his face in his hands. - </p> - <p> - “Is—has—has something happened to your wife?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, my wife, my wife,” groaned Arthur, incoherently. - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - Hetzel himself was staggered. Arthur’s tale ended, there befell a long - silence. - </p> - <p> - Finally Arthur broke out petulantly, “Well, why don’t you speak? Why don’t - you tell me what there is to be done?” - </p> - <p> - “It—I think it is very grave. You must let me consider a little - while.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “What else is there to do?” - </p> - <p> - “This,” answered Hetzel. “We must get her \ out of prison.” - </p> - <p> - “That’s very easy to say.” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “That’s the worst of it. They don’t take bail in—in—murder - cases,” - </p> - <p> - “They don’t? Are you sure? Is it never done? We must move heaven and earth - to induce them to, in this case.” - </p> - <p> - “It’s their rule. Romer might depart from it, she being—who she is. - But I am afraid not.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, we must try, at any rate, and without dillydallying. Whom can you - get to go upon her bond?” - </p> - <p> - “The only person I know would be Mr. Flint.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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!” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Now then, for Romer,” said Hetzel. “Where shall we find him?” - </p> - <p> - “I don’t know,” said Arthur. “We must look in the directory.” - </p> - <p> - They stopped at an apothecary’s shop, noted Romer’s address, and started - for the nearest elevated railway station. - </p> - <p> - Half way there Mr. Flint halted. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - They engaged a carriage at a hack-stand hard-by; and in it were jolted - over the cobble-stones to Mr. Romer’s abode. - </p> - <p> - Mr. Romer was not at home! - </p> - <p> - For a moment they gazed blankly into each other’s faces. Finally Mr. Flint - said, “Where has he gone?” - </p> - <p> - “I don’t know,” returned the servant. - </p> - <p> - “Is there any body in this house who does know?” - </p> - <p> - “His mother might.” - </p> - <p> - “Well then, we want to see his mother.” - </p> - <p> - The servant left them in the vestibule, and went up-stairs. Presently she - returned, accompanied by a corpulent old lady. - </p> - <p> - “Did you desire to see Mr. Romer upon official business?"’ inquired the old - lady. - </p> - <p> - “We did, madam—important official business,” said Mr. Flint. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Flint accepted the situation, and was equal to it. - </p> - <p> - “I understand,” he said; “but this is business in which Mr. Romer is - personally interested. We <i>must</i> 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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “Mr. Romer,” said Mr. Flint, plunging <i>in medias res</i>, “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh,” said Romer, “a question of bail.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Hum,” mused Romer, “I don’t see how you’ll manage it.” - </p> - <p> - “Manage it? What is there to be managed? I offer bail; it only remains for - you to take it.” - </p> - <p> - “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>I</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.” - </p> - <p> - “The devil you say!” cried Mr. Flint. - </p> - <p> - “I’m very sorry, I’m sure. But that’s about the size of it,” said Romer. - </p> - <p> - “And is—is there nothing to be done? Is this lady to remain - indefinitely in the Tombs—a common prisoner?” - </p> - <p> - “Until you can bring the question before Mr. Orson, at any rate.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, where is he, Mr. Orson?” - </p> - <p> - “He’s on his vacation—down at Long Branch.” - </p> - <p> - “What hotel?” - </p> - <p> - “The * * *.” - </p> - <p> - “Good. Will you go with me to Long Branch to-morrow morning?” - </p> - <p> - “To-morrow morning? No, I can’t go to-morrow morning.” - </p> - <p> - “Why not?” - </p> - <p> - “Because I’ve got a calendar on my hands.” - </p> - <p> - “When can you go?” - </p> - <p> - “I might arrange to run down to-morrow night, and come back Wednesday - morning.” - </p> - <p> - “For mercy’s sake, then, do so. On what train will you start with me - to-morrow night?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Romer went back to his bowling. - </p> - <p> - Mr. Flint said, “Well, I don’t see that we can go any further to-night.” - </p> - <p> - “I suppose we’ll have to reconcile ourselves to waiting and hoping,” said - Hetzel. - </p> - <p> - “Good God! Is she to—to pass the night in prison?” cried Arthur. - </p> - <p> - “Come, come, my dear boy,” said Mr. Flint. - </p> - <p> - “We must make the best of it.” Turning to Hetzel. “Where are you going - now?” he asked. - </p> - <p> - “I think—it has just occurred to me—that we ought to see Mrs. - Hart,” Hetzel returned. - </p> - <p> - “Well then, set me down at my house on your way up.” And Mr. Flint gave - the necessary instructions to the driver. - </p> - <p> - 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?” - </p> - <p> - “She is perfectly safe,” said Hetzel. “Come into the house.” - </p> - <p> - “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—?” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Let me reassure you. Mrs. Ripley is perfectly safe,” repeated Hetzel. - </p> - <p> - “But then—then, <i>why does he look like this?</i>” pointing to - Arthur, and laying a stress upon each syllable. - </p> - <p> - “Sit down,” said Hetzel, “and compose yourself; and he will tell you.” - </p> - <p> - To Arthur, “Now, Arthur, try to command your feelings, and tell Mrs. Hart - all about it.” - </p> - <p> - As best he could, he told Mrs. Hart as much as was needful to make her - comprehend the state of affairs. - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “It would be impossible to obtain admittance at this hour,” said Hetzel. - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - For a long while Mrs. Hart could only cry and utter inarticulate syllables - of grief. - </p> - <p> - By and by Hetzel asked, “Can you tell us how she came to go down there—to - Mr. Peixada’s place?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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—” - </p> - <p> - “Of course I will,” interpolated Mrs. Hart. - </p> - <p> - “—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.” - </p> - <p> - “And meanwhile, meanwhile!” cried Arthur, wringing his hands. - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “Mrs. Hart isn’t her husband,” Arthur retorted. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - By and by the door-bell rang. A servant entered. - </p> - <p> - “Here is a note, ma’am, a man just left,” she said to Mrs. Hart. - </p> - <p> - 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:— - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - Hetzel was returning the note to Mrs. Hart, when Arthur stretched out his - hand for it. - </p> - <p> - “Am I not to read what my own wife has written?” he demanded fiercely. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - They heard the vestibule door slam behind him. - </p> - <p> - “He is mad,” said Mrs. Hart. “He will do himself an injury.” - </p> - <p> - “No, he won’t—not if I can stop him,” said Hetzel; and he hurried - forth upon Arthur’s track. - </p> - <p> - But he came back in a little while, panting for breath. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - He remained within eyeshot of this dismal structure till daybreak, when at - last he went back to Beekman Place. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER IX.—AN ORDEAL. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>RTHUR 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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “I didn’t expect to find you up,” said Arthur. - </p> - <p> - “We haven’t been abed,” said Hetzel. - </p> - <p> - “I suppose nothing new has happened? You haven’t heard from her again?” - </p> - <p> - “No.” - </p> - <p> - They remained silent for some time. - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - Arthur vouchsafed no comment. - </p> - <p> - “We have had a lot of reporters pestering us, too,” Hetzel went on. “Of - course I refused to see them, one and all.” - </p> - <p> - At this Arthur started. - </p> - <p> - “Then I suppose the whole thing is in the papers, curse them!” he cried. - </p> - <p> - “I am afraid so.” - </p> - <p> - “Haven’t you looked to see?” - </p> - <p> - “It isn’t time yet. The papers haven’t been delivered yet.” - </p> - <p> - Arthur pulled out his watch. - </p> - <p> - “Not going—run down,” he said; “but of course it’s time. It must be - seven o’clock.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Well?” queried Arthur. - </p> - <p> - Hetzel undid the newspapers, and commenced to look them over. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, it’s all here—a column of it—on the front page,” he - groaned. - </p> - <p> - “Let me see,” said Arthur, extending his hand. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Sit down,” said Hetzel, “or you’ll wake Mrs. Hart.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, to be sure,” assented Arthur; and did as he was bidden. - </p> - <p> - By and by, “Do you know at what hours visitors are admitted?” Hetzel - asked. - </p> - <p> - “I—I think between ten and four.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, then, we’ll want a carriage here at halfpast nine. I’ll send out - now to order one.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - At this juncture Mrs. Hart appeared, very old and gray and pallid. She - came in without speaking, and took a chair near the window. - </p> - <p> - “I hope your nap has refreshed you,” Hetzel ventured. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes,” she replied dismally, “I suppose it has.—Where have you - been, Arthur?” - </p> - <p> - “Nowhere—only out of doors.” - </p> - <p> - All three held their peace. - </p> - <p> - Presently the servant returned from her errand, and told Hetzel that the - carriage would be on hand at the proper time. - </p> - <p> - “Bridget,” said Mrs. Hart, “you’d better brew some coffee, and serve it up - here.” - </p> - <p> - When Bridget had gone, “You have sent for a carriage? At what hour are we - to start?” Mrs. Hart inquired. - </p> - <p> - “At half-past nine.” - </p> - <p> - “Then, if you will excuse me, I’ll go up-stairs and get ready.” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “Why, she won’t need them. She’ll be with us again to-day, will she not?” - </p> - <p> - “You know, Mr. Flint can’t see Mr. Orson till this evening. So, it seems - to me——-” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes, I had forgotten,” said Mrs. Hart, gulping down a sob, and left - the room. - </p> - <p> - During her absence, Bridget brought in the coffee. - </p> - <p> - “Take a cup up to your mistress,” said Hetzel. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - But Arthur declined. - </p> - <p> - Half-past nine was leisurely in arriving. At last, however, they heard the - grinding of carriage-wheels upon the pavement outside. - </p> - <p> - They climbed into the carriage. The coachman cracked his whip. Off they - drove. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - At last Hetzel said, “Well, here we are.” - </p> - <p> - No answer. - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - He was aroused by the reappearance of Hetzel and Mrs. Hart. They got into - the carriage. The carriage moved. - </p> - <p> - “What—what is the trouble now?” Arthur asked. - </p> - <p> - “Damn them for a set of insolent scoundrels!” - </p> - <p> - Hetzel blurted out, forgetful of Mrs. Hart’s sex. “They wouldn’t let us - in.” - </p> - <p> - “Why not?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, they insist on a tangle of red-tape—say we must have passes, - and so forth, from the district-attorney.” - </p> - <p> - “Well?” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - Hetzel lost his temper. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - He got his passes. - </p> - <p> - They drove back to the Tombs. This time Mrs. Hart encountered no obstacles - to her entrance. - </p> - <p> - Hetzel rejoined Arthur in the carriage. A quarter-hour elapsed before - either spoke. - </p> - <p> - Arthur said, “She—she’s staying a long while.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh,” responded Hetzel, “they’ve got such a lot to talk about, you know.” - </p> - <p> - At the end of another quarter-hour, more or less, Arthur complained, “What - under heaven can be keeping her so long?” - </p> - <p> - “Be patient,” said Hetzel. “It’ll do no good to fret.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - But just at this moment Mrs. Hart issued forth. - </p> - <p> - Hetzel ran to meet her. - </p> - <p> - She was paler than ever. Her eyelids were red. - </p> - <p> - “We may as well drive home,” she said. “She won’t see him.” - </p> - <p> - “For heaven’s sake, why not?” asked Hetzel. - </p> - <p> - “I’ll tell you all about it, as we drive along.” - </p> - <p> - “But how—how shall we break the news to him?” - </p> - <p> - “You—you’d better speak to him now, before I get in.” - </p> - <p> - Hetzel approached the carriage window. - </p> - <p> - “Arthur,” he began, awkwardly, “try—try to keep quiet, and not—the—the - fact is—” - </p> - <p> - “Is she ill? Is she dead?” cried Arthur, with mad alarm. - </p> - <p> - “No, no, my dear boy; of course not. Only—only—just now—she—” - </p> - <p> - “She refuses to see me?” - </p> - <p> - “Well—” - </p> - <p> - “I was fully prepared for that. I knew she would.” - </p> - <p> - His head sank upon his breast. - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Hart shot a glance at Hetzel, as much as to ask, “Shall I?” He nodded - affirmatively. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Hart paused, and swallowed a sob. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “Go on, go on,” groaned Arthur, as Mrs. Hart paused. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “It is as I supposed,” moaned Arthur. “She hates me. All is over and past - between us, she said.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - They drove for some blocks in silence. - </p> - <p> - “Did you give her her things, Mrs. Hart?” Arthur asked, abruptly. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “And—and it was a regular prison cell in which she was confined?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Did you tell her of our efforts to get bail for her?” asked Hetzel. - </p> - <p> - “Dear me, I forgot all about it.” - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps you’d better write her a note, when we get home. I’ll send a - messenger with it.” - </p> - <p> - “All right, I will,” acquiesced Mrs. Hart. - </p> - <p> - 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 <i>couldn’t</i> - write to her. I should break down, if I tried. Won’t you do it, instead?” - </p> - <p> - “One word from you would comfort her more than a dozen from me.” - </p> - <p> - “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—” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, very well,” said Hetzel. “Can you let me have pen and paper?” - </p> - <p> - What he wrote ran thus:— - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “God bless you and be with you! - </p> - <p> - “Julian Hetzel.” - </p> - <p> - “I want to add a postscript,” said Arthur, when Hetzel laid down his pen. - </p> - <p> - “Do you think you’d better?” asked Hetzel, dubiously. - </p> - <p> - “Let me have it, will you?” cried Arthur, savagely; and held out his hand - for the paper. - </p> - <p> - 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, <i>please</i> - 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!” - </p> - <p> - Hetzel said, “I’ll run out to the corner, and find some one to carry this - to her.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - Towards six o’clock the door-bell rang. All three started violently. The - same notion occurred to all three at once. - </p> - <p> - “It—it is from her. It is her answer,” gasped Arthur, and began to - breathe quickly. - </p> - <p> - Hetzel went to the door. After what seemed an eternity to those he had - left behind, he returned. - </p> - <p> - “No,” he said, replying to their glances; “not yet. It is only your - office-boy, Arthur. He has brought you your day’s mail.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Read that, will you, and tell me what he says,” was his request. - </p> - <p> - Hetzel read the following:— - </p> - <p> - “Office of - </p> - <p> - “B. Peixada & Co., - </p> - <p> - “No.—Reade Street, - </p> - <p> - “New York, Aug. 12, 1884. - </p> - <p> - “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, - </p> - <p> - “Respectfully Yours, - </p> - <p> - “B. Peixada. - </p> - <p> - “A. Ripley, Esq., attorney, etc.” - </p> - <p> - “He wants you to transfer his papers to another lawyer and render your - bill, that’s all,” said Hetzel. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, is that all?” Arthur rejoined. “Well, then, let me have his note.” - </p> - <p> - Arthur put Peixada’s note into his pocket. The trio relapsed into their - former silence. - </p> - <p> - Again by and by the door-bell rang. Again all three started. Again Hetzel - went to the door. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - 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?” - </p> - <p> - Hetzel rose. Arthur remained seated. - </p> - <p> - “Come, Arthur. Didn’t you hear what Mrs. Hart said? Dinner is ready,” - Hetzel began. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, you don’t suppose I want any dinner, do you? You two go down, if you - choose. I’ll wait for you here.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - Hetzel took Arthur by the arm, and led him out. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - Hetzel opened the door. A telegraph-boy confronted him. - </p> - <p> - “Ripley?” the boy demanded. - </p> - <p> - “Yes—yes,” said Arthur, and seized hold of the dispatch that the boy - offered. - </p> - <p> - But his courage forsook him. He turned white, and leaned against the wall - for support. - </p> - <p> - “Some—something has happened to her,” he gasped. “Read it for me, - Hetz, and let me know the worst.” - </p> - <p> - “No, it isn’t from her. It’s from Mr. Flint,” said Hetzel, after he had - read it. - </p> - <p> - “Oh,” sighed Arthur.—“Well, what does he say?” - </p> - <p> - “Here.” - </p> - <p> - Hetzel put the telegram into Arthur’s hands. Its contents were:— - </p> - <p> - “Victory! Meet me to-morrow morning, 10:30, at district-attorney’s office. - Every thing satisfactorily arranged. Absolutely nothing to fear.—Arthur - Flint.” - </p> - <p> - “There,” Hetzel added, “now I hope you’ll brace up a little.” - </p> - <p> - “I suppose I ought to,” said Arthur. “Anyhow, I’ll try.” - </p> - <p> - 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!” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I think so, too,” agreed Mrs. Hart. “But you—you will not - leave us? You will sleep in our spare room?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, thank you. Yes, perhaps I’d better stay here, so as to be on hand in - case any thing should happen.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, of course. You don’t feel like being left alone. I understand. Come - on,” said Hetzel. - </p> - <p> - “Thanks,” said Arthur. “Yes, that’s it. I don’t feel like being left - alone.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “What do we want to stop at my office for?” - </p> - <p> - “Why, to attend to the matters that Peixada wrote you about—return - the will—and so forth.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes. I had forgotten.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “You speak as though you were going to leave me behind,” said Mrs. Hart. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - Hetzel made no further opposition. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - Nobody seemed to be much impressed by this piece of intelligence. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - Hetzel’s brow contracted. - </p> - <p> - “What do you want to see Mr. Romer about?” demanded Jim, leisurely lifting - himself from the desk atop which he had been seated. - </p> - <p> - Hetzel’s brows contracted a trifle more closely. There was an ugly look in - his eyes. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - Hetzel had spoken quietly, but with an inflection that was unmistakable. - </p> - <p> - “Well, step this way, then, will you?” said Jim, the least bit - crestfallen. - </p> - <p> - They followed him into Mr. Romer’s private room. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “How do, Ripley?” said Romer. “Glad to see you.” - </p> - <p> - Thereupon befell a moment of silence. Nobody seemed to know what to say - next. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “And here are the papers, all ready to be signed,” said Mr. Flint. - </p> - <p> - “But where——” Hetzel began. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Well?” queried Hetzel. - </p> - <p> - “Well, you see, she must put in her plea of not guilty in—in open - court.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Is this absolutely necessary?” asked Hetzel. - </p> - <p> - “Mr. Orson made it a <i>sine qua non</i>,” replied Romer; “and if you’ll - listen to me for a moment, I’ll tell you why.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes; it’s true,” groaned Arthur. - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>statu quo</i>.’ That’s what I said to Mr. - Orson.” - </p> - <p> - “By Jove, Romer, you—you’re a brick,” was the most Arthur could - respond. There was a frog in his voice. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “You see,” Mr. Flint said, “how much we have to thank Mr. Romer for.” - </p> - <p> - “And I hope Mr. Romer will believe that we appreciate his kindness,” added - Hetzel. - </p> - <p> - “I—I—God bless you, Romer,” blurted out Arthur. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I forgot about that,” Arthur confessed. - </p> - <p> - “But—but,” asked Mrs. Hart, “can’t we see her and speak to her - before she has to appear in court?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - Another moment of silence. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - Ah, how still Arthur’s heart stood, as the clerk cried, in rasping, - metallic accents, “Judith Peixada, alias Ruth Ripley, to the bar!” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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! - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - The clerk assumed that he had misunderstood. “Come, speak up louder,” he - said, roughly. “How do you plead?” - </p> - <p> - A spasm contracted the prisoner’s features, She bit her lip. Her hands - shook violently. She repeated, “I plead guilty.” - </p> - <p> - 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—” - </p> - <p> - “One moment, Mr. Clerk,” the judge at this point interrupted. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “If the court please,” said Romer, “I should like to make a brief - statement, before these proceedings are continued.” - </p> - <p> - “Certainly,” said the judge. “You can wait, Mr. Clerk, until we have heard - from the district-attorney.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Will you kindly see that a chair is furnished the prisoner?” Romer asked - of the clerk. - </p> - <p> - An attendant brought a chair. The prisoner sat down. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Flint and Hetzel breathed more freely. Mrs. Hart fanned herself with - manifest agitation. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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; - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “Order! Silence!” called the officers. One of them seized Mrs. Hart’s arm - and pushed her into a chair. - </p> - <p> - The prisoner’s lips moved. “I do,” she whispered. - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - Romer stepped forward. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - The prisoner was at once led away. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER X.—“SICK OF A FEVER.” - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">R</span>OMER drew near to - Mr. Flint. - </p> - <p> - “I did all I could,” he said. - </p> - <p> - “Things look pretty desperate now, don’t they?” Mr. Flint returned. - </p> - <p> - Hetzel tugged at his beard. - </p> - <p> - 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?” - </p> - <p> - “I don’t see how I can help it. Bail is out of the question, after what - has happened, you know.” - </p> - <p> - “But can’t I see her and speak to her just a moment, first?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, certainly; you can do that.” - </p> - <p> - Romer stepped aside and spoke to an officer. - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - They looked around toward Arthur. A glance showed them that he had - fainted. - </p> - <p> - “When did this happen?” asked Romer. - </p> - <p> - No one could tell. No one had paid the slightest attention to Arthur, - since the prisoner had first appeared in court. - </p> - <p> - “Well, we must get him out of here right away,” said Romer. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “I’ll have to send some one to take my place in court,” he explained. - </p> - <p> - To the subordinate who appeared, “Ask Mr. Birdsall to step here,” he said. - </p> - <p> - Mr. Birdsall came, received Romer’s orders, departed. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - He rubbed some brandy upon Arthur’s temples, and poured a drop or two - between his lips. - </p> - <p> - “You fan him, will you?” he asked of Hetzel. - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Hart proffered her fan. Hetzel took it, and fanned Arthur’s face - vigorously. - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, to be sure; I had forgotten,” said Romer. “I’ll send a man to obtain - admittance for you.” - </p> - <p> - “May I also bear you company?” inquired Mr. Flint. - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Hart replied, “That is very kind of you. I should like very much to - have you.” - </p> - <p> - Romer rang his bell for a second time. A negro answered it. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - Then he returned to the sofa, on which Arthur still lay inanimate. - </p> - <p> - “No progress?” he demanded of Hetzel. - </p> - <p> - “None. Can you send for a physician? Is there one near by?” - </p> - <p> - A third stroke of the bell. Hetzel’s acquaintance, Jim, entered. - </p> - <p> - “Run right over to Chambers Street Hospital, and tell them we want a - doctor up here at once,” was Romer’s behest. - </p> - <p> - “Our friend’s in a pretty bad way,” he continued to Hetzel. “And, by Jove, - his wife must be a maniac.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>bona fide</i> one.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “We might have a commission appointed.” - </p> - <p> - “What is that?” - </p> - <p> - “Why, a commission to inquire into, and report upon, her sanity.” - </p> - <p> - “We might? We will. That’s exactly what we’ll do. But how? What are the - necessary steps to take?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah, yes; I see.—Mercy upon me, I never knew a fainting fit to last - so long as this; did you?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - Arthur’s face betrayed no sign of vitality except for the gentle flutter - of his nostrils as his breath came and went. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Here’s the doctor, sir,” cried Jim, entering at this point. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Open all the windows, please,” he said in a quiet, business-like tone. - </p> - <p> - He laid his ear upon the patient’s breast, and listened. - </p> - <p> - “When did this begin?” he asked at length. - </p> - <p> - “I should say about half an hour ago,” Romer answered, looking at his - watch. - </p> - <p> - “Is—is there any occasion for anxiety?” Hetzel inquired. - </p> - <p> - The doctor shrugged his shoulders. “Can’t tell yet,” was his reply. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Each of you gentlemen please take one of his hands,” said the doctor, - “and chafe it till it gets warm.” - </p> - <p> - Romer and Hetzel obeyed. - </p> - <p> - “Want him taken to the hospital?” the doctor inquired presently. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, no,” said Hetzel. “As soon as he is able, we want to take him home.” - </p> - <p> - “Where does he live?” - </p> - <p> - “In Beekman Place—Fiftieth Street and the East River.” - </p> - <p> - “Hum,” muttered the doctor, dubiously; “that’s quite a distance.” - </p> - <p> - “To be sure. But after he comes to, and gets rested, he won’t mind it.” - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps not.” - </p> - <p> - “Why, do you mean that that he’s going to be seriously sick?” - </p> - <p> - “Unless I’m mistaken, he’s going to lie abed for the next six weeks.” - </p> - <p> - “What?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “I’ll send for one.—Can you let me have a messenger?” he asked of - Romer. - </p> - <p> - Romer summoned Jim. - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “But you won’t fail to call us if—if—” Hetzel hesitated. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, you needn’t be afraid. There’s no immediate danger.” - </p> - <p> - “You’ll find us in the next room,” said Romer, and led Hetzel out. - </p> - <p> - Whom should they run against in the passageway but Mrs. Hart and Mr. - Flint? - </p> - <p> - “What! Back so soon?” Romer exclaimed. - </p> - <p> - “She refused to see me,” said Mrs. Hart. - </p> - <p> - Romer pushed open a door. “Sit down in here,” he said. - </p> - <p> - “Where is Arthur?” asked Mr. Flint. “How is he getting on?” - </p> - <p> - Romer explained Arthur’s situation. - </p> - <p> - “Worse and worse,” cried Mr. Flint. - </p> - <p> - “But how was it that she refused to see you?” Hetzel questioned, - addressing Mrs. Hart. - </p> - <p> - “She sent me this,” Mrs. Hart replied, holding out a sheet of paper. - </p> - <p> - Hetzel took it and read:— - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “Ruth.” - </p> - <p> - “Don’t blame her too severely, Mrs. Hart,” said Hetzel. “She is probably - half-distracted, and scarcely knows what she is doing.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I don’t blame her,” replied Mrs. Hart; “only—only—it was - a little hard to be denied.” - </p> - <p> - “Have you any idea what it is that she is writing?” - </p> - <p> - “Not the remotest.” - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps it is an explanation of her conduct today in court.” - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps,” - </p> - <p> - 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?” - </p> - <p> - “As I was suggesting to Mr. Hetzel, a while ago, her friends might claim - that she’s insane.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “I know absolutely nothing about it,” said Mr. Flint. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “And in the event of the commission declaring her to be insane?” queried - Mr. Flint. - </p> - <p> - “Why, then, her plea will be rendered null and void.” - </p> - <p> - “And in case they say that she’s of sound mind?” - </p> - <p> - “There’ll be the devil to pay. Sentence will have to be passed.” - </p> - <p> - “And she will—will actually—?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Well,” said Hetzel, rising, “good-by, Mr. Romer, and I trust that you - know how grateful we are to you.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, that’s all right,” said Romer. “Don’t mention it. Good-by.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Now,” said the doctor, “first of all, send for your own physician. I must - see him and confer with him, before I go away.” - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Hart left the room, to obey the doctor’s injunction. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Here, Jake, before you go,” said Mr. Flint, producing his purse. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, thanks. Can’t accept any thing, sir,” responded Jake, and vanished. - </p> - <p> - “Now, gentlemen,” resumed the doctor, “just lend a hand, and help undress - him.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “A very sick man, I’m afraid, isn’t he, doctor?” asked Mr. Flint. - </p> - <p> - “I’m afraid so.” - </p> - <p> - The doctor covered him with the bed-clothes. - </p> - <p> - “What do you think is the matter with him?” Mr. Flint pursued. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “He’s quite unconscious, apparently.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, in a sort of lethargy. That’s what makes the case a puzzle. Won’t - you order a hot-water bottle, somebody?” - </p> - <p> - Hetzel left the room. In a moment he brought the bottle of hot water. The - doctor applied it to Arthur’s feet. - </p> - <p> - “And the chopped ice?” Hetzel inquired. - </p> - <p> - The doctor placed his hand upon Arthur’s brow. - </p> - <p> - “N—no; we won’t use the chopped ice yet a while,” he answered. - </p> - <p> - By and by a bell rang down-stairs. A little later Mrs. Hart came in. - </p> - <p> - “Our doctor—Dr. Letzup—is here,” she announced. - </p> - <p> - Dr. Letzup entered. - </p> - <p> - “I suppose you medical men would like to be left alone?” said Mr. Flint. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I guess so,” said the hospital-doctor. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - Presently Mr. Hart jumped up. - </p> - <p> - “What—what now?” Mr. Flint questioned. - </p> - <p> - “I heard one of them step into the hall. Perhaps they need something.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Ah, I was looking for you,” he explained. “I am going now. I don’t see - that I can be of any further use.” - </p> - <p> - “How is Arthur?” - </p> - <p> - “About as he was. Dr. Letzup has taken charge of him. Well, good day.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “I’m much obliged,” said the doctor; “but they are expecting me in - Chambers Street.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Well, doctor?” began Mrs. Hart. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “What do you take his trouble to be, doctor?” asked Hetzel. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Flint left a little later. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Good night.” - </p> - <p> - “What did the doctor say to you?” inquired Mrs. Hart. - </p> - <p> - Hetzel told her. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XI.—“HOW SHE ENDEAVORED TO EXPLAIN HER LIFE.” - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HURSDAY 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. - </p> - <p> - “All right,” said Hetzel; “ask her to step this way.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “<i>Ach Gott!</i>” 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. - </p> - <p> - 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 <i>her!</i>” - </p> - <p> - Without further preliminary, he pushed back his chair, tore the envelope - open, and set out to read the missive through. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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.’ - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>chazzan</i> 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. - </p> - <p> - “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—<i>ex voto</i> 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: - </p> - <h3> - B. PEIXADA. - </h3> - <p> - MONEY LENT ON WATCHES, JEWELRY, PRECIOUS STONES, AND ALL VARIETIES OF - PERSONAL PROPERTY. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “How could my father do it? How could he bring himself to do this thing? - It is a long story. - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>Parnass</i> 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 - <i>penacle</i>; 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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “‘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. - </p> - <p> - “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?’ - </p> - <p> - “His words helped me to find my voice. - </p> - <p> - “‘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.’ - </p> - <p> - “My mother and father looked at me and at each other in dismay. - </p> - <p> - “‘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.’ - </p> - <p> - “‘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.’ - </p> - <p> - “‘Never,’ said I. - </p> - <p> - “‘On the eighth of August,’ said my father. - </p> - <p> - “‘Time will show,’ said I. - </p> - <p> - “‘Time will show,’ said he, ’in less than fifteen minutes. Judith, - listen.’ - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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.’ - </p> - <p> - “‘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.’ - </p> - <p> - “‘The most you could earn,’ my father answered, ’would be no more than a - drop in the bucket, Judith.’ - </p> - <p> - “‘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.’ - </p> - <p> - “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.’ - </p> - <p> - “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.’—— - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>congratulations!</i> 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. - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>ad - bestias</i>. 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. - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>chazzan</i> 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—<i>his wife</i>, 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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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 ’<i>Baruch Adonai,’.</i> and - reverently in his final ’<i>Amen</i>’ 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. - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>my husband</i>, would - lead me away with him! - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “‘Judith,’ she said, when I had reached her side, ’we had better go - up-stairs now, and change your dress.’ - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “‘Well,’ he said, ’come in.’ - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - Thus far Hetzel had read consecutively. At this point he was interrupted - by the entrance of Mrs. Hart. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I don’t mind that. Good-by.” - </p> - <p> - Hetzel gained the sick-room. The nurse said, “You won’t have much to do, - except sit down and keep quiet.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>Inferno</i>, 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. - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>friend</i> 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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>laughed!</i> 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—<i>thirty - years</i>—more of life as his wife. - </p> - <p> - “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.’ - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “That night Bernard Peixada and Edward Bolen talked together till past - midnight, in the parlor. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>my</i> 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?’ - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “‘Is this privilege,’ I asked, ’to be extended to the coachman, also?’ - </p> - <p> - “‘Who told you to concern yourself about the coachman? I will look after - him,’ was Bernard Peixada’s reply. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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! - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “I listened. Stillness so deep that I could hear my heart beat. - </p> - <p> - “What could it be, then, that had awakened me so abruptly? - </p> - <p> - “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. . - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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.’ - </p> - <p> - “‘No fear of that,’ replied Edward Bolen. - </p> - <p> - “‘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 <i>creaks</i>. Understand? It creaks. So, - in climbing this second flight of stairs, you want to skip the third - step.’ - </p> - <p> - “‘Sure,’ was Edward Bolen’s rejoinder. - </p> - <p> - “‘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?’ - </p> - <p> - “‘The bath-room door.’ - </p> - <p> - “‘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?’ - </p> - <p> - “‘I lock it again, behind me.’ - </p> - <p> - “‘Very well. And then?’ - </p> - <p> - “‘Then I open the door from the bath-room into the room I’m after. That’ll - be unlocked.’ - </p> - <p> - “‘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.” - </p> - <p> - “‘I’ll be sure to do that.’ - </p> - <p> - “‘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 <i>him</i>. Then you’ll have things all your - own way.—Well, do you know what next?’ - </p> - <p> - “‘Next, I’m to fasten the sponge tight where it belongs, and pour on more - of the stuff.’ - </p> - <p> - “‘Just so. And next?’ - </p> - <p> - “‘I’m to light the gas.’ - </p> - <p> - “‘Right again. And next?’ - </p> - <p> - “‘Well, I suppose the job comes next—hey?’ - </p> - <p> - “‘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.’ - </p> - <p> - “‘And how about him? Shall I loosen the sponge?’ - </p> - <p> - “‘No, no. Don’t stop to do that. He’ll come around all right in time; or, - if he shouldn’t, why, small loss!’ - </p> - <p> - “‘Well, I reckon I understand the job pretty thoroughly now. I suppose I’d - better be starting.’ - </p> - <p> - “‘Yes. Now wait here a moment. I’ll go upstairs and get you the - combination.’ - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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—<i>robbed!</i>’ - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “Bernard Peixada cried out, ’I have been robbed—<i>robbed!</i>’ 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!’ - </p> - <p> - “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, ’<i>Her</i>.’ - </p> - <p> - “Bernard Peixada started. ’What—my wife?’ he gasped. - </p> - <p> - “‘Ask her,’ suggested Edward Bolen. - </p> - <p> - “Bernard Peixada seemed to hesitate. Finally, approaching my bedside, - ’Judith,’ he called through chattering teeth.. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “‘Judith,’ Bernard Peixada called a second time. - </p> - <p> - “‘Yes,’ I gathered strength to respond. - </p> - <p> - “‘Judith,’ Bernard Peixada went on, still all a-tremble, ’have you—have - you taken any papers out of my safe?’ - </p> - <p> - “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.’ - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “Edward Bolen muttered, ’Eh! what did I tell you?’ - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “Edward Bolen waited. - </p> - <p> - “So did I. - </p> - <p> - “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?’ - </p> - <p> - “I tried to be as calm as he was. ’I will not tell you,’ I replied. - </p> - <p> - “A smile that was ominous contracted his lips. - </p> - <p> - “‘Oh, yes, you will,’ he said, mockingly, ’and the sooner you do so, the - better—for you.’ - </p> - <p> - “‘I have said, I will not,’ I repeated. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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.’ - </p> - <p> - “‘Good God!’ he cried, and stood still, aghast. - </p> - <p> - “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?’ - </p> - <p> - “‘I will not tell you,’ I answered. - </p> - <p> - “‘I give you one more chance,’ he said; ’where is it?’ - </p> - <p> - “‘I’ll will not tell you.’ - </p> - <p> - “‘Very well. Then we shall be constrained—’ He broke off, and - whispered a few sentences into Edward Bolen’s ear. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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.’ - </p> - <p> - “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?’ - </p> - <p> - “I did not speak. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “‘I will tell you any thing you wish to know,’ I said. - </p> - <p> - “‘As I anticipated,’ was Bernard Peixada’s comment. ’Well, where shall we - find the paper that you stole?’ - </p> - <p> - “‘Loosen that cord, and I will tell you—I will give it to you,’ I - said. - </p> - <p> - “‘No,’ he returned. ’Give it to me, or tell me where it is, and then I - will loosen the cord.’ - </p> - <p> - “‘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.’ - </p> - <p> - “‘Down-stairs?’ queried Bernard Peixada, tightening the cord a little; - ’where down-stairs?’ - </p> - <p> - “‘In—in the parlor—in the book-case—shut up in a book,’ - I answered. - </p> - <p> - “‘In what book?’ - </p> - <p> - “‘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. - </p> - <p> - “Bernard Peixada exchanged a glance with Edward Bolen; then said to me, - ’All right. Come down-stairs with us.’ - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “At the bottom of the stairs I had to halt and lean against the bannister - for support. I was weak and faint. - </p> - <p> - “‘Go light the gas in the parlor, Bolen,’ said Bernard Peixada. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “‘Ah!’ he cried—a loud, piercing cry, half of surprise, half of - triumph. ’Ah!’ And then he swore a brutal oath. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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! - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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.) - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>murder</i>, - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “Yours sincerely, - </p> - <p> - “Ruth Ripley. - </p> - <p> - “Mr. Julian Hetzel, 43 Beekman Place.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XII.—“THE FINAL STATE O’ THE STORY.” - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>N 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. - </p> - <p> - Romer lifted his eyes from off his law-book, removed his cigar from - between his lips, and ejaculated, “Hello! What’s up now?” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “By—by God!” was all he said. - </p> - <p> - Then he began to pace uneasily to and fro across the room. - </p> - <p> - “Well,” asked Hetzel, “do you think that that’s the sort of a woman to be - left locked up in the Tombs prison?” - </p> - <p> - “Heavens and earth!” cried Romer; and continued his promenade. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “Good and the less time lost, the better.” - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>nolle</i> the indictment! That is to say, I’ll render the - indictment null and void by indorsing upon it a <i>nol. pros</i>., - together with a memorandum to the effect that the district-attorney is - persuaded of the defendant’s innocence. Do you understand?” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Well?” Hetzel made haste to inquire. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - She halted just across the threshold, looked from Romer to Hetzel, bowed - slightly to the latter, and then stood still in passive attendance. - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>nolle</i> 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.” - </p> - <p> - Ruth sat perfectly still in her chair. Her great, melancholy eyes were - fixed upon the wall in front of her. She made no answer. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - At this, Ruth winced perceptibly. “Oh,” she said, very low, “must—must - I go into court again?” - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>nolle</i> the indictment; - and then it will all be over for good; and, as I’ve said, you’ll go home - with Mr. Hetzel.” - </p> - <p> - Ruth rose, bowed to Romer, and said, “I am ready to follow you.” - </p> - <p> - “Is there any objection to my accompanying you?” Hetzel asked. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, no; come along,” said Romer. - </p> - <p> - 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 <i>sotto voce,</i> “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. - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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?” - </p> - <p> - “Well,” Hetzel answered, “that reminds me. You—you see, the fact is—” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - 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?” - </p> - <p> - “I don’t know,” replied Hetzel, “and I don’t care. You sha’n’. do so. I’ll - be your proxy.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “Why, how is that?” Ruth questioned. - </p> - <p> - “The will fell through.” - </p> - <p> - “Fell through? Was it a forgery? Or what?” - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>is</i> 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.” - </p> - <p> - “And so the money will remain where it is?” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - So, it was natural that Ruth’s heart should sing. - </p> - <p> - 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!” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - Then his lips moved. “Was—was it all a dream—my meeting you in - Peixada’s office, and all the rest?” he whispered. - </p> - <p> - “Yes—all a dream?” she answered. - </p> - <p> - 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?” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <h3> - THE END. - </h3> - <div style="height: 6em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's Mrs Peixada, by Henry Harland, AKA Sidney Luska - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MRS PEIXADA *** - -***** This file should be named 52702-h.htm or 52702-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/2/7/0/52702/ - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by the Internet Archive - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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