University of Virginia Library

17. CHAPTER XVII.

The head of Eva was thrown back
upon the pillow, her throat and shoulders
were bare, her face was distorted by
agony, her lips apart, and her eyes glassy.
And upon her white throat there were
livid marks, like the print of fingers.
She was dead; her cheek was scarcely
cold—but she was dead. She had been
choked to death. The spasm of her last
agony was still upon her face. It was
her cry—that low gurgling sound—which
I had heard in my dream. Maddened
by that sight—the young mother dead
upon her pillow—I still had presence of
mind to pass to the fireplace and awake
the servant from her slumber. As she
opened her eyes and looked around with
a sleepy stare, a new horror confronted
me. The babe upon her knee was dead
—the livid print of fingers was on its
throat.

“The nurse,” I gasped, “where is she?
Woman! my wife and child have been
murdered, and yet you sleep.” I did
not wait for further words, but hurried
from the room, and through every room
in the house, in search of the nurse.
She was no where to be found. Then
sick at heart, I staggered into the open
air, and examined the garden. The
wicket-gate of the path leading to the
wood was open, and upon the soft earth
I traced the print of a footstep—the
mark of a woman's shoe, turned from
the house. While I stood gazing upon
this footstep, a hand was laid upon my
shoulder. Looking up, I beheld the
slender frame and benevolent visage of
the doctor.

“I have come out thus early to rectify
a queer mistake, which, somehow or
other, was made last night. Yesterday,
I succeeded in getting a nurse for your
wife—a Mrs. Moulton, recommended to
me by a brother physician. When I
left my office yesterday afternoon, I told
my student to send this Mrs. Moulton
out here, as soon as she called. The
nurse came, as you know, while I was
here last night; and I took her, of
course, to be Mrs. Moulton, whom, personally,
I had never seen. Judge of my
surprise, when, on returning to my office,
last night, I found the real Mrs. Moulton
waiting for me there. It appears the
one who first called at the office, and
whom my student sent to this place,
was a sham Mrs. Moulton. And I have
come out at this early hour to clear up
this mystery. For I don't like a patient
of mine to be entrusted to the care of a
person whose qualifications I do not
fully know. Bless me, how pale you
look!”

I silently motioned him to follow me,
and led him into the house, and up the
stairs, and into Eva's chamber.

“There, doctor,” said I, pointing to
the corpse of poor Eva, “behold the consequences
of your mistake.” And as he
sank back, perfectly appalled, I fell groaning
and raving upon the form of my dead
wife.

It was at least three hours before I
could recover sufficient fortitude to converse,
even with the appearance of calmness,
with the doctor. We came to the
same conclusion. Eva had been murdered
by the nurse, who, taking the name of
Mrs. Moulton, had obtained admittance
in the chamber of my real wife.

“And now, doctor,” said I, with a
husky voice and livid face, “as this has

been the consequence, in some measure,
of your negligence, I demand of you that
there shall be no coroner's inquest.
Make out what certificate you please of
the causes of Eva's death, but let her be
buried quietly and in peace. We must
avoid all publicity.

The doctor was troubled; he had
never done such a thing; but I was imperative.

“By pursuing such a course we will be
enabled to discover the murderess,” said
I, “and when she is discovered, you may
make the matter public.”

At length the doctor consented; and
with a face stamped with grief and horror,
and a leaden step, left the house,
promising to return on the morrow.

“Peggy, you have heard what I
said to the doctor;” I said to the rough-featured
Irish woman, who wept incessantly.
“Do you, also, promise to be
silent, in order that I may discover the
murderess of your mistress?”

The good woman, half choked as she
was by grief, swore it on the cross.

“And now,” said I, turning to the bed
where Eva lay, her limbs composed, the
death spasm gone from her face, and her
dead babe in her arms—“Good-bye! thou
dearest and truest of all the creatures of
God. Good-bye! mother and child. You
both have left me. With you, all that is
good within me is dead. And if I live,
it is not to enjoy life, or to love again,
but it is —.” I could say no more,
but bowed my head over the face of my
dead wife, and wept my tears upon her
face. And the poor Irish woman knelt
by the bed, and in her rough voice spoke
out a prayer of her church, for the souls
of the mother and child. When I again
raised my head, my attention was attracted
by something bright which glittered
on the pillow—it was a diamond ring,
not mine, nor Eva's, but had evidently
fallen from the hand of the murderess.
I regarded it for a long time, and then
secured it in my pocket-book.

“Watch by the dead, to-night,” I said
to the Irish woman, “early to-morrow I
will return.” Then, dressing myself in
fashionable attire, I left the cottage, passed
through the wood, and gained the high
road.

It was a cloudy autumnal day; the sky
leaden; the wind howling mournfully,
and whirling the withered leaves high in
air. As I walked rapidly along the high
road to the city, you may be sure that
all the agony a man can feel, and yet
live, was tearing at my heart-strings.
Had it not been for the hope of vengeance,
I verily believe I would have gone
mad. Night had fallen, when, entering
the city, I directed my steps to my lofty
mansion. As I ascended the steps, and
traversed the lofty hall, how different
were my feelings from yesterday.

“The madam is out!” one of the servants
informed me: “Out in the carriage
on Broadway.”

I hurried to the library, and on the
way encountered the pretty quadroon
girl, Marie. She had always regarded
me with a singular mixture of fear and
affection, since the morning of “the
phial” scene.

“Come here, Marie,” and I led her
into the library, and lighted a candle.
“Do you know this ring?”

“Dat 'long to missus,” said the brown
girl, looking at me with her big eyes.
“Name inside.”

Holding the ring to the light, I discovered
that the initials of the madam, the
initials of the name which she had borne
in her first marriage, were indeed engraven
on the inside.

“I only asked, Marie, because I wish
to present your mistress with a much
handsomer ring. Now, go down stairs,
and tell them to have supper ready by
the time madam comes home.” The
girl left the library, and I sat down to—
think. A servant soon came to announce
that the madam had returned, and that
supper was waiting for us. I looked in
the glass, and arranged my attire. I
was startled by the ghastly pallor of my
face.

“This will not do; the part which I
have to play demands a face all gaiety and
smiles.”

I drew a decanter from the closet, and
drank a half tumbler of Madeira, and felt
it flush my face in an instant, although it
did not produce the least sensation of
intoxication. Descending to the supper
room, I found an elegant repast in waiting
by the light of wax candles; and the
madam was there, richly dressed, her
wig as black, her false teeth as white, as
usual. Her little black eyes, it seemed
to me, shone with feverish lustre, and
her cheeks were spread with an additional

thickness of rouge. She greeted me
warmly, and I her with ease and gaiety.
And we sat down to supper. How we
talked! Of the opera, the last party, the
newest scandal—who was to marry such
a belle, and who such an exquisite would
honor with his hand—how we talked!
Of anything and everything save the
subject which was deepest in both our
hearts. And all the while, behind my
richly-dressed, bejewelled madam, I saw
the vision of a young mother, dead upon
her bed, with her dead baby on her
breast. After supper came wine; and
we drank each other's health, and talked
and laughed, until Maria, who waited by
the table, watching us with her big eyes,
could not help joining loudly in our merriment.
At length, in perfect good humor
with herself, the madam retired to
ber chamber, and I went into the library.
There I sat for a long time in silent
thought.

It was after midnight, when, candle in
hand, I stole softly into the luxurious
chamber of the madam. Locking the
door, I drew a small table to the bedside,
and placed upon its dark surface three
objects—the lighted candle, a glass filled
with Madeira, and the ring.

I surveyed the madam as she slept,
under her silver canopy. She was wrapped
in a night robe, fringed with lace; a
cap had taken the place of her wig, her
false teeth lay upon the bureau. A more
luxuriously attired or uglier woman I
had never seen.

I laid my hand upon her shoulder:
“Get up, madam,” I said in her ear.

She started up, opened her eyes in
sleepy wonder, as she clutched her night
robe over her shoulders.

“Frank! what's the matter?” she
cried, her voice (from the absence of her
teeth) hardly intelligible. And the sleepy
wonder on her face began to be succeeded
by a look of vague terror.

“The matter is, madam, that to-morrow
morning I will consign you to the
hands of justice, as the murderess of my
real and only wife. And I have come to
inform you of it, so that you may prepare
yourself to be dragged through the streets,
like the felon that you are, with the mob
hooting at your heels. O madam! do you
know this ring?”

Never shall I forget the dead, blank
look, which, at my words, came over her
face. She clutched her hands nervously,
but had not a word in reply.

“This ring I found on Eva's pillow,
dearest,” I continued. “And you can
now prepare yourself for the morrow! I
did not think of offering you a glass of
wine, or of soothing you with a few drops
from the silver phial, but—” I tossed the
contents of the wineglass upon the carpet,
and regarded her with a look which
she understood,—“but I believe you are
in the habit of stilling your nerves with
morphine. Try some morphine to-night,
love. It will make you sleep
well.”

And taking up the ring, I rose as if to
leave the room. Then, clad in her nightclothes,
she sprang from the bed, and
clutched me by the knees, offering me
her fortune, everything, if I would only
spare her life.

“I don't threaten your life, madam,”
I replied, shaking her grasp from my
knees, “I only speak of to-morrow, and
advice morphine.” And taking up the
ring, I left the room. But at the very
door she again fell at my feet, clutched
my knees, and held me back.

“Take my fortune, take all,” she
shrieked, “only spare my life. Spare
my life! my life!” Her night-dress fell
from her shoulders, and her own hair—
black streaked with gray—streamed
down her livid cheeks. Never have I
seen so terrible a picture of fright. I was
touched,—I relented,—but a power over
which I had no control suddenly possessed
me.

“Woman! I do not take your life. I
do not condemn you. It is your first
and your second husband; it is Eva and
her child who condemn you. Address
your prayers to them, not to me.”

And again I flung her from me. I left
the room and closed the door; and
watched without in the dark. I heard
her pace up and down, heard her
sobs and groans, and ejaculations; and
thus, perchance, two hours passed away.
At length all was still within her chamber.
Not a sound broke the dead quiet.
I went slowly to the library room, and
sat before the fire, in a sort of half stupor,
awaiting the approach of dawn.
Dawn came at last, and there was a loud
outcry and the sound of footsteps hurrying
to and fro throughout the mansion

Marie rushed into the library and

flung herself at my feet. “O Master!
O Master!” was all she could say—
“Come! Come!” And clutching me by
the hands, she led me from the room and
down stairs, into the bed-chamber of her
mistress. The morning light shone gaily
through the embroidered curtains, and a
bird in a cage near the window was
gaily singing, and—a corpse was suspended
from the canopy by a silken cord,
the blackened face and startling eyeballs
turned full to the light.