University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI
DEALING WITH THAT WHICH WAS DONE IN THE PANELED PARLOR

"THERE will be a way," she had said, and yet in her most mad despair of this way she had never thought—though, strange it had been, considering her lawless past, that she had not—never of this way—never! Notwithstanding which, in one frenzied moment in which she had known naught but her delirium, her loaded whip had found it for her—the way!

And yet, it so being found, she stood staring, seeing what she had done—seeing what had befallen—'twas as if the blow had been struck not at her own temple, but at her heart—a great and heavy shock, which left her bloodless and choked and gasping.

"What! what!" she panted. "Nay! nay! nay!" and her eyes grew wide and wild.

She sank upon her knees so shuddering that her teeth began to chatter. She pushed him and shook him by the shoulder.

"Stir!" she cried in a loud whisper. "Move thee! Why dost thou lie so? Stir!"

Yet he stirred not, but lay inert, only with his lips

drawn back, showing his white teeth a little, as if her horrid agony made him begin to laugh. Shuddering, she drew slowly nearer, her eyes more awful than his own. Her hand crept, shaking, to his wrist, and clutched it. There was naught astir— naught! It stole to his breast and, baring it, pressed close. That was still and moveless as his pulse for life was ended, and a hundred moldering years would not bring more of death.

"I have killed thee," she breathed. "I have killed thee—though I meant it not—even hell itself doth know. Thou art a dead man—and this is the worst of all!"

His hand fell heavily from hers, and she still knelt, staring, such a look coming into her face as throughout her life had never been there before—for 'twas the look of a creature who, being tortured, the worst at last being reached, begins to smile at fate.

"I have killed him!" she said in a low, awful voice, "and he lies here and outside people walk and know not. But he knows— and I—and as he lies methinks he smiles—knowing what he has done!"

She crouched even lower still, the closer to behold him, and indeed it seemed his still face sneered as if defying her now to rid herself of him. 'Twas as though he lay there mockingly content, saying: "Now, that I lie here, 'tis for you—for you to move me."

She rose and stood up rigid, and all the muscles of her limbs were drawn as though she were a creature stretched upon a rack, for the horror of this which

had befallen her seemed to fill the place about her and leave her no air to breathe nor light to see.

"Now!" she cried, "if I would give way—and go mad as I could but do, for there is naught else left—if I would but give way, that which is I—and has lived but a poor score of years—would be done with for all time. All whirls before me. 'Twas I who struck the blow—and I am a woman—and I could go raving—and cry out, and call them in, and point to him, and tell them how 'twas done—all! all!"

She choked and clutched her bosom, holding its heaving down so fiercely that her nails bruised it through her habit's cloth, for she felt that she had begun to rave already, and that the waves of such a tempest were arising as, if not quelled at their first swell, would sweep her from her feet and engulf her forever.

"That—that—" she gasped—"nay—that I swear I will not do! There was always One who hated me—and doomed and hunted me from the hour I lay 'neath my dead mother's corpse, a new-born thing. I know not who it was—or why—or how—but 'twas so! I was made evil and cast, helpless, amid evil fates, and having done the things that were ordained, and there was no escape from, I was shown noble manhood and high honor, and taught to worship—as I worship now. An angel might so love and be made higher. And at the gate of heaven a devil grins at me and plucks me back, and taunts and mires me, and I fall—on this!"

She stretched forth her arms in a great gesture,

wherein it seemed that surely she defied earth and heaven.

"No hope no mercy—naught but doom and hell," she cried, "unless the thing that tortured be the stronger. Now—unless fate bray me small—the stronger I will be!"

She looked down at the thing before her. How its stone face sneered, and even in its sneering seemed to disregard her.

She knelt by it again, her blood surging through her body, which had been cold, speaking as if she would force her voice to pierce its deadened ear.

"Aye, mock!" she said, setting her teeth, "thinking that I am conquered—yet am I not! 'Twas an honest blow, struck by a creature goaded past all thought! Aye, mock—and yet, but for one man's sake would I call in those outside and stand before them, crying: `Here is a villain whom I struck in madness—and he lies dead! I ask not mercy—but only justice.'"

She crouched still nearer, her breath and words coming hard and quick. 'Twas indeed as if she spoke to a living man who heard—as if she answered what he had said.

"There would be men in England who would give it to me," she raved, whispering. "That would there, I swear! But there would be dullards and dastards who would not. He would give it—he! Aye, mock as thou wilt! But between his high honor and love and me thy carrion shall not come!"

By her great divan the dead man had fallen, and

so near to it he lay that one arm was hidden by the draperies. And at this moment this she saw—before having seemed to see nothing but the death in his face. A thought came to her like a flame lit on a sudden, and springing high the instant the match struck the fuel it leaped from. It was a thought so daring and so strange that even she gasped once, being appalled, and her hands, stealing to her brow, clutched at the hair that grew there, feeling it seem to rise and stand erect.

"Is it madness to so dare?" she said, hoarsely, and for an instant, shuddering, hid her eyes; but then uncovered and showed them burning. "Nay, not as I will dare it," she said, "for it will make me steel. You fell well," she said to the stone-faced thing; "and, as you lie there, seem to tell me what to do, in your own despite. You would not have so helped me had you known. Now, 'tis 'twixt fate and I—a human thing—who is but a hunted woman."

She put her strong hand forth and thrust him—he was already stiffening—backward from the shoulder, there being no shrinking on her face as she felt his flesh yield beneath her touch, for she had passed the barrier lying between that which is mere life and that which is pitiless hell, and could feel naught that was human. A poor wild beast at bay, pressed on all sides by dogs, by huntsmen, by resistless weapons, by nature's pitiless self, glaring with bloodshot eyes, panting, with fangs bared in the savagery of its unfriended agony, might feel thus. 'Tis but a hunted beast, but

'tis alone and faces so the terror and anguish of death. The thing gazing with its set sneer and moving but stiffly, she put forth another hand upon its side and thrust it farther backward until it lay stretched beneath the great broad seat, its glazed and open eyes seeming to stare upward blankly at the low roof of its strange prison; she thrust it farther backward still, and letting the draperies fall, steadily and with care so rearranged them that all was safe and hid from sight.

"Until to-night," she said, "you will lie well there. And then—and then—"

She picked up the long silken lock of hair which lay like a serpent at her feet and threw it into the fire, watching it burn as all hair burns, with slow hissing, and she watched it till 'twas gone.

Then she stood with her hands pressed upon her eyeballs and her brow, her thoughts moving in great leaps. Although it reeled, the brain which had worked for her ever, worked clear and strong, setting before her what was impending, arguing her case, showing her where dangers would arise, how she must provide against them, what she must defend and set at defiance. The power of will with which she had been endowed at birth, and which had but grown stronger by its exercise, was indeed to be compared to some great engine whose lever 'tis not nature should be placed in human hands, but on that lever her hand rested now, and to herself she vowed she would control it since only thus might she be saved. The torture she had undergone for months, the warring of

the evil past with the noble present, of that which was sweet and passionately loving woman with that which was all but devil, had strung her to a pitch so intense and high that on the falling of this unnatural and unforeseen blow she was left scarce a human thing. Looking back, she saw herself a creature doomed from birth, and here in one moment seemed to stand a force ranged in mad battle with the fate which had doomed her.

"'Twas ordained that the blow should fall so," she said, "and those who did it laugh—laugh at me."

'Twas but a moment, and her sharp breathing became even and regular, as though at her command; her face composed itself, and she turned to the bell and rang it as with imperious haste.

When the lackey entered she was standing, holding papers in her hand as if she had but just been consulting them.

"Follow Sir John Oxon," she commanded. "Tell him I have forgot an important thing, and beg him to return at once. Lose no time. He has but just left me, and can scarce be out of sight."

The fellow saw there was no time to lose. They all feared that imperial eye of hers, and fled to obey its glances. Bowing, he turned and hastened to do her bidding, fearing to admit that he had not seen her guest leave, because to do so would be to confess that he had been absent from his post, which was indeed the truth.

She knew he would come back shortly, and thus he did, entering somewhat out of breath by his haste.

"My Lady," he said, "I went quickly to the street, and indeed to the corner of it, but Sir John was not within sight."

"Fool, you were not swift enough!" she said, angrily. "Wait, you must go to his lodgings with a note. The matter is of importance."

She went to a table 'twas close to the divan, so close that if she had thrust forth her foot she could have touched what lay beneath it—and wrote hastily a few lines.

They were to request that which was stiffening within three feet of her to return to her as quickly as possible, that she might make inquiries of an important nature which she had forgotten at his departure.

"Take this to Sir John's lodgings," she said. "Let there be no loitering by the way. Deliver it into his own hands and bring back at once his answer."

Then she was left alone again, and, being so left, paced the room slowly, her gaze upon the floor.

"That was well done," she said. "When he returns and has not found him I will be angered, and send him again to wait."

She stayed her pacing and passed her hand across her face.

"'Tis like a nightmare," she said. "As if one dreamed and choked and panted and would scream aloud, but could not. I can not. I must not. Would

that I might shriek and dash myself upon the floor, and beat my head upon it until I lay—as he does."

She stood a moment breathing fast, her eyes widening, that part of her which was weak woman putting her in parlous danger, realizing the which she pressed her sides with hands that were of steel.

"Wait! wait!" she said to herself. "This is going mad. This is loosening hold, and being beaten by that One who hates me and laughs to see what I have come to."

Naught but that unnatural engine of will could have held her within bounds and restrained the mounting female weakness that beset her, but this engine being stronger than all else, it beat her womanish and swooning terrors down.

"Through this one day I must live," she said, "and plan and guard each moment that doth pass. My face must tell no tale, my voice must hint none. He will lie still—God knows he will lie still enough."

Upon the divan itself there had been lying a little dog; 'twas a King Charles spaniel, a delicate pampered thing which attached itself to her, and was not easily driven away. Once during the last hour the fierce, ill-hushed voices had disturbed it, and it had given vent to a fretted bark, but being a luxurious little beast, it had soon curled up among its cushions and gone to sleep again. But as its mistress walked about muttering low words and ofttimes breathing sharp breaths, it became disturbed again. Perhaps, through some instinct of which naught is known by

human creatures, it felt the strange presence of a thing, which roused it. It stirred, at first drowsily, and lifted its head and sniffed, then it stretched its limbs, and having done so stood up, turning on its mistress a troubled eye, and this she saw and stopped to meet it. 'Twas a strange look she bestowed upon it, a startled and fearful one; her thought drew the blood up to her cheek, but backward again it flowed when the little beast lifted its nose and gave a low but woful howl. Twice it did this, and then jumped down, and, standing before the edge of the couch, stood there sniffing.

There was no mistake, some instinct of which it knew not the meaning had set it on, and it would not be thrust back. In all beasts this strange thing has been remarked—that they know that which ends them all, and so revolt against it that they can not be at rest so long as it is near them, but must roar or whinny or howl until 'tis out of the reach of their scent. And so 'twas plain this little beast knew and was afraid and restless, He would not let it be, but roved about, sniffing and whining, and not daring to thrust his head beneath the falling draperies, but growing more and yet more excited and terrified until at last he stopped, raised head in air, and gave vent to a longer, louder, and more dolorous howl, and albeit to one with so strange and noticeable a sound that her heart turned over in her breast as she stooped and caught him in her grasp and shuddered as she stood upright, holding him to her side, her hand over

his mouth. But he would not be hushed, and struggled to get down, as if indeed he would go mad unless he might get to the thing and rave at it.

"If I send thee from the room thou wilt come back, poor Frisk," she said. "There will be no keeping thee away, and I have never ordered thee away before. Why couldst thou not keep still? Nay, 'twas not dog nature."

That it was not so was plain by his struggles and the yelps but poorly stifled by her grasp. She put her hand about his little neck, turning, in sooth, very pale.

"Thou too, poor little beast," she said—"thou too, who art so small a thing and never harmed me "

. . . . . . . . . . .

When the lackey came back he wore an air more timorous than before.

"Your Ladyship," he faltered, "Sir John had not yet reached his lodgings. His servant knew not when he might expect him."

"In an hour go again and wait," she commanded. "He must return ere long if he has not left town."

And having said this, pointed to a little silken heap which lay outstretched limp upon the floor.

"'Tis poor Frisk, who has had some strange spasm and fell, striking his head. He hath been ailing for days and howled loudly but an hour ago. Take him away, poor beast."