University of Virginia Library

1. I.

The garden lay sparkling under the earliest light
of a June morning. A heaven everywhere a
field of rose and azure soared over it; charming
bird-songs trilled from its thickets; a breeze, that
was only living fragrance, rifled its roses, swept
up its avenues, and struck leaf and bough and
blossom into light before it stripped them of their
dewdrops in a shower. The Triton at the lower
end of the little lake sent up a shaft of water-streams
from his horn to catch the sunbeams and
sprinkle them over the surface beneath, and beds
of faintly blue forget-me-nots crept out to meet
the pickerel-weed and lily-pads, — blue flags,
and bluer weed, and waxen-white lilies just unclasping
their petals, with here and there a floating
ball of gold among them, — where the breeze
dipped again in a shining ripple, and weeds and

flags and lilies rocked and swayed before it. On
the one side, the sweet-brier, climbing a pear-tree
to reach the robin's nest, looked back with a
hundred blushing blossoms, and blew a breath of
delight to the damask-rose on the other. The
damask said good-morning to the moss-rose; the
moss-rose to the red; the red would have passed
on the cheerful salutation, but the pale-white
rose, upon its lofty stem, had been awake all
night, had looked into the sick man's chamber,
and learned what the ruddy-cheeked flowers,
which hung their heads and went to sleep with
the birds, were not to know. Nevertheless, a
red-winged blackbird, lighting there and leaving,
shook it so that half its petals fluttered away in
pursuit; a little piece of jewel-work of a humming-bird
darted by to join the frolic; a bluebird
dropped a measure of melody from the
spray where he was tilting, and followed after.
Every thing, in all the bright and blooming
garden, moved and glanced and blushed and
glittered. Every thing spoke of life and joy
and hope and health: nothing spoke of sad
secrets or ill deeds. Every thing told of beauty
and breath, the luxury of living: nothing told
of death, or desolation.

A window-casement, looking out upon the
garden, had been ajar all night, perhaps: the
fresh morning breeze had pushed it open now,
had brushed the curtain from its fastenings, and
lifted it high in the air within, while rioting
round the room. You could see through this
open window that the appointments of the room
were costly: the carpet was like a soft and
springy depth of moss; the bedstead was a mass
of carved mother-of-pearl, its snowy silken curtains,
though heavy with their golden fringe, yet
fluttered and dappled by the wind; on the wall a
solitary picture, a portrait set in a panel of unburnished
gold.

It was a woman's face there, a fair, white
woman, with hair of palest tint, — so white
was she that you saw the tracery of blue veins
upon her temples and her throat: the large eyes
were scarcely bluer. Though dark brows and
darker lashes lent those eyes shadow and depth,
they had an inner splendor of their own, a light
that seemed to burn from the brain: they were
strong and searching eyes, rejoicing eyes, that
said although the heart should break the spirit
would be glad and safe. But the mouth was
another thing; for albeit its lips were like some

pulpy fruit, yet the smile that played around its
corners was full of melancholy. A face that
blended all its contradictions into one perfect
charm, a face to lure on its victims, — to smile
and smile, and murder while it smiled.

There might have been other objects in the room,
but they were not in the line of the window; one
only, a silver tripod, bearing a globe of red roses,
was to be seen. A level sunbeam smote through
them till they seemed to blaze with crimson fire,
and, dyed and suffused with all the ripe, rich
color, the radiance passed on and lay in a stain
of crimson glory on the pillow, as if it did not
dare to touch the ashen frozen face beside it
there; or as if it spurned to simulate the deeper,
darker stain where the sleeper lay, — lay with his
ghastly countenance turned toward that portrait
still, with his glazed eye open on it even now,
while no shadow fell between them, and nothing
stirred in all the room save the bright breeze
blowing in, tossing draperies and playing idle
pranks around the form that lay unconscious and
not to be stirred by its wayward will, — the form
that lay as a murdered man lies, a man murdered
in his sleep, a dead man straight and stark upon
his bed with stiffened blood about him.

The room where this hideous sight was to be
seen in the midst of so much splendor was on the
ground-floor: two great fir-trees stood up on
either side the casement to guard it, but there
was open view to whomsoever passed that way.

A lady came stepping down the marble stairway
on the hither edge of the terrace, — a tall and
shapely woman with a gracious presence of her
own: a cambric handkerchief was loosely tied
over the locks of palest tint. She lifted her gown
from the dew and passed on; she was not bound
toward the open casement; the face she showed
the morning sun was the face of the portrait, the
same features cut as if upon an opaque gem, the
same cream-white skin, but the eyes were lustreless
to-day and sodden with much weeping.

Before the lady was quite lost to sight another
person had entered the bright enclosure: it was
the gardener, making along with his spade across
his shoulder. His way lay directly before the
open casement; he passed it by with a half-glance
behind him; started, after a few steps, as if he
had but just understood the sight he saw, went
back, put down his spade, went in. He was
within perhaps a single minute: when he came
out he was whiter than the thing he had left; he

caught a glimpse of the lady's garment as it fluttered
round a hedge, and ran breathlessly after
her. She turned at the sound of his footsteps.

“Mr. Beaudesfords” — he cried.

“Has sent for me?” she asked eagerly.

“Mr. Beaudesfords” — he began again, and
stopped, incapable, whether terror dazed him, or
some commanding instinct stifled the words, and
gave him others first. “O madame! this note is
for you. I took it from his hand,” he cried.

She reached her own for it, not heeding the
dark, dry imprint on a corner of the crumpled
scrap, gave one glance at an enclosure it contained,
and held it then with no more quiver visible
in her fingers than if they had belonged to a
statue of moulded clay. “Well, McRoy,” she said,
“what disturbs you? What else?”

The gardener looked at her amazedly: her
repose seemed to petrify him. “And this, madame,”
said he, slowly opening his hand before
her as if he could do it no faster. “This little
knife!” His teeth chattered in his head.

“It is mine,” she answered him. “You have
often seen me use it here. Where did you find
it?”

“It is the knife with which Mr. Beaudesfords

was last night murdered in his bed!” he exclaimed.

The white face flushed, flushed rose and redder,
till the swollen veins stood purple: then it grew
deathly, and the lady staggered and caught
McRoy's hand for support. “What!” she tried
to say, “Beaudesfords” —

“Ay, madame,” he replied, “murdered. God!
how could ye?”

She seemed either not to hear him, or else to
find it impossible to comprehend him. “Murdered!”
she gasped again, staying herself only
by that shaking hold upon his arm.

“Ay, ay, that 's it: no more nor less, — just
murdered! But that 's your knife: take it, hide
it! For hark ye, Mrs. Beaudesfords! 't was your
hand closed my May's eyes, — his own are staring
wide open by the same token. And I 'll keep your
secret.”

Mrs. Beaudesfords was moving as the man
spoke, — moving with trembling feet, giving herself
no time to listen to him, to glance at him, to be
appalled by him. “Alarm the house!” she was
hoarsely crying as she fled. “Send Dr. Ruthven
here! Rouse them! Come, rouse them all!”
And she swept past him, strengthening herself,

in a terrible sort of grandeur, like one who encounters
fate and defies it.

The man gaped after her; then gulped down
whatever words he had been about to utter, and
ran in the direction of Dr. Ruthven's abode,
having the power to obey, but not to think, too
stupefied to say even to himself that here was
a woman whose course was to choose without a
tremor.

Mrs. Beaudesfords shivered, but never paused,
as she stepped across the sill of the open casement.
Now it was clear daylight. Last night,
and with another purpose, she had crossed it
stealthily, and in the dark. She seized the bell-rope,
and rang a peal that might have awakened
the dead themselves, before she turned to view
the object that was so soon to be exposed to all.
She appeared to be in a measure stunned by what
she had heard, as if she either knew it too well
already, or else did not fairly believe it. The
sight might have made a stronger woman sicken.
As she caught the stolid stare of those icy eyes,
her limbs failed, and she fell senseless to the floor.

It was only a moment, and the room was full;
servants, sisters, mother, clustering together, and
almost as the summons of the bell had found

them. While these hung, terror-struck, over the
bed, breaking out in a bewildered wailing, others
rubbed her hands and temples. The will that so
seldom swerved came to her relief. She heard a
clanking kind of step on the hall pavement, and
she stood upon one side of the dead man's pillow
when Major Gaston stood upon the other.

Gaston did not utter a syllable. He stooped and
lifted the leaden hand, and let it fall again; and
then he looked at her, bending there before him
as frozen and as pale as the face below. Perhaps
even in such a moment she could feel that his
gaze was on her; but what matter? With that
writing secured, she was safe. She might be a
murderer, since, doubtless, there had been seasons
when in her heart she had desired this death, —
as much a murderer as the one who used that
little knife which a moment since she had found
herself still holding and had flung away like an
adder. Twice and thrice a murderer she would
rather Gaston thought her, than once a false wife.
Her husband's honor lay in that scrap of paper
hidden on her heart. She felt it as she breathed.
Gaston should never know what words were written
there. She looked up and met his gaze with
a steady glance of those triumphant eyes of hers,

triumphant even over death; and, while she
looked, the way was opened for Dr. Ruthven.

The old physician, shocked by his summons,
since he had left his patient in a comfortable state
on the previous evening, bent over the bed a brief
space, and gave a dozen breathless directions.
“This knife, eh! The radial artery opened?”
said he then. “Delicate operation for a night
attack, and a house full of people. Too delicate,
too much so, it couldn't have been. A night attack?
He has not been an hour dead!” And
in the moment ere they could obey his orders he
had the gardener in to point out the exact position
in which the knife was found. Gaston took the
sharp toy from him, balancing it on his fingers,
examining the minutely carved handle with its
crusted stain. “Humph! Just as I thought,”
muttered the Doctor. “A little gash to let eternity
in on a man's soul. Sorry for him! ah, I 'm
sorry for Beaudesfords! It may be yet — Mrs.
Beaudesfords, dear lady, this is no place for
you.”

She had pushed back the little stand with its
portfolio and pencils from the head of the bed,
unperceived in so common an action. There had
been need for some one to be calm, since all the

other women were shrieking and wringing their
hands. But now, slowly sinking on her knees,
and vainly endeavoring to hinder it, she was
shaking the bed with her hard, dry sobs. The
Doctor lifted her, and half helped, half bore, her
from the room. Gaston never stirred.