XI
THE SECRET OF THE OLD PAVILION
I was as sane that night as I had ever been in my life. I am quite sureof this, though I had had a merry time enough earlier in the eveningwith my friends in the old pavilion (that time-honored retreat of myancestors), whose desolation I had thought to dissipate with a littleharmless revelry. Wine does not disturb my reason--the little wine Idrank under that unwholesome roof--nor am I a man given to suddenexcitements or untoward impulses.
Yet this thing happened to me.
It was after leaving the pavilion. My companions had all ridden away andI was standing on the lawn beyond my library windows, recalling mypleasure with them and gazing somewhat idly, I own, at that bare portionof the old wall where the tree fell a year ago (the place where the moonstrikes with such a glitter when it rides high, as it did that night),when--believe it or not, it is all one to me--I became conscious of asudden mental dread, inexplicable and alarming, which, seizing me afteran hour of unmixed pleasure and gaiety, took such a firm grip upon myimagination that I fain would have turned my back upon the night and itsinfluences, only my eyes would not leave that open space of wall where Inow saw pass--not the shadow, but the veritable body of a large, black,hungry-looking dog, which, while I looked, turned into the open gatewayconnecting with the pavilion and disappeared.
With it went the oppression which held me spell-bound. The ice meltedfrom my blood; I could move my limbs, and again control my thoughts andexercise my will.
Forcing a laugh, I whistled to that dog. The lights with which thebanquet had been illuminated were out, and every servant had left theplace; but the tables had not been entirely cleared, and I could wellunderstand what had drawn this strange animal thither. I whistled then,and whistled peremptorily; but no dog answered my call. Angry, for therules are strict at my stables in regard to wandering brutes, I strodetoward the pavilion. Entering the great gap in the wall where a gate hadonce hung, I surveyed the dismal interior before me, with feelings Icould not but consider odd in a strong man like myself. Though the winewas scarcely dry in the glass which an hour before I had raised in thisvery spot amid cheers and laughter, I found it a difficult matter toreenter there now, in the dead of night, alone and without light.
For this building, harmless as it had always seemed, had been, in a way,cursed. For no reason that he ever gave, my father had doomed thisancient adjunct to our home to perpetual solitude and decay. By his willhe had forbidden it to be destroyed--a wish respected by my guardiansand afterward by myself--and though there was nothing to hinder itsbeing cared for and in a manner used, the dismal influence which hadpervaded the place ever since his death had, under the sensations I havementioned, deepened into horror and an unspeakable repugnance.
Yet never having had any reason to believe myself a coward, I tookboldly enough the few steps necessary to carry me inside its dismalprecincts; and meeting with nothing but darkness and silence, began towhistle again for the dog I had certainly seen enter here.
But no dog appeared.
Hastening out, I took my way toward the stables. As I did so I glancedback, and again my eyes fell on that place in the wall gleaming white inthe moonlight. Again I felt the chill, the horror! Again my eyesremained glued to this one spot; and again I beheld the passing of thatdog, running with jaws extended and head held low--fearsome, uncanny,supernaturally horrible; a thing to flee from, if one could only fleeinstead of standing stock-still on the sward, gazing with eyes thatseemed starting from their sockets till it had plunged through that gapin the wall and again disappeared.
The occult and the imaginary have never appealed to me, and the moment Ifelt myself a man again, I hurried on to the stables to call up my manJared.
But half-way there I paused, struck by an odd remembrance. This fatherof mine, Philo Ocumpaugh, had died, or so his old servants had said,under peculiar circumstances. I had forgotten them till now--suchstories make poor headway with me--but if I was not mistaken, the factswere these:
He had been ailing long, and his nurses had got used to the sight of hisgaunt, white figure sitting propped up, but speechless, in the great bedopposite the stretch of blank wall in the corner bedroom, where apicture of his first wife, the wife of his youth, had once hung, butwhich, for some years now, had been removed to where there were fewershadows and more sunlight. He had never been a talkative man, and in allthe five years of my own memory of him, I had never heard him raise hisvoice except in command, or when the duties of hospitality required it.Now, with the shadow of death upon him, he was absolutely speechless,and his nurses were obliged to guess at his wishes by the movement ofhis hands or the direction of his eyes. Yet he was not morose, andsometimes was seen to struggle with the guards holding his tongue, asthough he would fain have loosed himself from their inexorable control.Yet he never succeeded in doing so, and the nurses sat by and saw nodifference in him, till suddenly the candle, posed on a table near by,flickered and went out, leaving only moonlight in the room. It wasmoonlight so brilliant that the place seemed brighter than before,though the beams were all concentrated on one spot, a blank space in themiddle of the wall upon which those two dim orbs in the bed were fixedin an expectancy none there understood, for none knew that the summonshad come, and that for him the angel of death was at that momentstanding in the room.
Yet as moonlight is not the natural light for a sick man's bedside, oneamongst them had risen for another candle, when something--I had neverstopped to hear them say what--made him pause and look back, when he sawdistinctly outlined upon the white wall-space I have mentioned, thefigure--the unimaginable figure of a dog, large, fierce andhungry-looking, which dashed by and--was gone. Simultaneously a cry camefrom the bed, the first words for months--"Aline!"--the name of hisgirl-wife, dead and gone for years. All sprang; some to chase the dog,one to aid and comfort the sick man. But no dog was there, nor did heneed comfort more. He had died with that cry on his lips, and as theygazed at his face, sunk low now in his pillow as if he had started upand fallen back, a dead weight, they felt the terror of the moment growupon them till they, too, were speechless. For the aged features weredrawn into lines of unspeakable anguish and horror.
But as the night passed and morning came, all these lines smoothed out,and when they buried him, those who had known him well talked of thebeautiful serenity which illumined the face which, since their firstremembrance of him, had carried the secret of a profound and unbrokenmelancholy. Of the dog, nothing was said, even in whispers, till timehad hallowed that grave, and the little children about, grown to be menand women. Then the garrulity of age had its way.
This story, and the images it called up, came like a shock as I haltedthere, and instead of going on to the stables, I turned my steps towardthe house, where I summoned from his bed a certain old servant who hadlived longer in the family than myself.
Bidding him bring a lantern, I waited for him on the porch, and when hecame, I told him what I had seen. Instantly I knew that it was no newstory to him. He turned very pale and set down the lantern, which wasshaking very visibly in his hand.
"Did you look up?" he asked; "when you were in the pavilion, I mean?"
"No; why should I? The dog was on the ground. Besides--"
"Let us go down to the pavilion," he whispered. "I want to see formyself if--if--"
"If what, Jared?"
He turned his eyes on me, but did not answer. Stooping, I lifted thelantern and put it in his hand. He was quaking like a leaf, but therewas a determination in his face far beyond the ordinary. What made himquake--he who knew of this dog only by hearsay--and what, in spite ofthis fear, gave him such resolution? I followed in his wake to see whatit was.
The moon still shone clear upon the lawn, and it was with a certainrenewal of my former apprehensions that I approached the spot on thewall where I had seen what I was satisfied not to see again. But thoughI glanced that way--what man could have avoided it?--I perceived nothingbut the bare paint, and we went on and passed in without a
word, Jaredleading the way.
But once on the threshold of the pavilion itself, it was for him to showthe coward. Turning, he made me a gesture; one I did not understand; andseeing that I did not understand it, he said, after a fearful lookaround:
"Do not mind the dog; that was but an appearance. Lift your eyes to theceiling--over there--at the extreme end toward the south--do yousee--_what_ do you see?"
"Nothing," I replied, amazed at what struck me as utter folly.
"Nothing?" he repeated in a relieved voice, as he lifted up his lantern."Ah!" came in a sort of muttered shriek from his lips, as he pointed up,here and there, along the farther ceiling, over which the light nowplayed freely and fully. "What is that spot, and that spot, and that?They were not there to-day. I was in here before the banquet, and _I_would have seen. What is it? Master, what is it? They call it--"
"Well, well, what do they call it?" I asked impatiently.
"Blood! Do you not see that it is blood? What else is red and shiny andshows in such great drops--"
"Nonsense!" I vociferated, taking the lantern in my own hand. "Blood onthe ceiling of my old pavilion? Where could it come from? There was noquarrel, no fight; only hilarity--"
"Where did the dog come from?" he whispered.
I dropped my arm, staring at him in mingled anger and a certainhalf-understood sympathy.
"You think these stains--" I began.
"Are as unreal as the dog? Yes, master."
Feeling as if I were in a dream, I tossed up the lantern again. Thedrops were still there, but no longer single or scattered. From side toside, the ceiling at this one end of the building oozed with the thickred moisture to which he had given so dreadful a name.
Stepping back for fear the stains would resolve themselves into rain anddrop upon my forehead, I stared at Jared, who had now retreated towardthe door.
"What makes you think it blood?" I demanded.
"Because some have smelt and tasted it. We have never talked about it,but this is not an uncommon occurrence. To-morrow all these stains willbe gone. They come when the dog circles the wall. Whence, no one knows.It is our mystery. All the old servants have heard of it more than once.The new ones have never been told. Nor would I have told you if you hadnot seen the dog. It was a matter of honor with us."
I looked at him, saw that he believed every word he said, threw anotherglance at the ceiling, and led the way out. When we had reached thehouse again, I said:
"You are acquainted with the tradition underlying these appearances, asyou call them. What is it?"
He could not tell me. He knew no more than he had already stated--gossipand old wives' tales. But later, a certain manuscript came into mypossession through my lawyer, which I will append to this.
It was written by my unhappy father, some little time before his lastillness, and given into the charge of the legal representative of ourfamily, with the express injunction that its seal was to remain intactif for twenty years the apparition which had haunted him did not presentitself to the eyes of any of his children. But if within that time hisexperience should repeat itself in theirs, this document was to behanded over to the occupant of Homewood. Nineteen out of the twentyyears had elapsed, without the dog being seen or the ceiling of thepavilion dropping blood. But not the twentieth; hence, the document wasmine.
You can easily conceive with what feelings I opened it. It was headedwith this simple line:
MY STORY WHICH I CAN WRITE BUT COULD NEVER TELL.
I am cursed with an inability to speak when I am most deeply moved,either by anger or tenderness. This misfortune has wrecked my life. Onthe verge of old age, the sorrows and the mistakes of my early life fillmy thoughts so completely that I see but one face, hear but one voice;yet when she was living--when _she_ could see and hear, my tongue wassilent and she never knew. Aline! my Aline!
I married her when I was thirty-five and she eighteen. All the worldknows this; but what it does not know is that I loved her--toy,plaything that she was--a body without a mind--(or, so I consideredher)--while she had but followed the wishes of her relatives in givingher sweet youth to a cold and reticent man who might love, indeed, butwho had no power to tell that love, or even to show it in the ways whichwomen like, and which she liked, as I found out when it was too late.
I could not help but love her. It was ingrained within me; a part of thecurse of my life to love this gentle, thoughtless, alluring thing towhich I had given my name. She had a smile--it did not come often--whichtore at my heart-strings as it welled up, just stirring the dimples inher cheeks, and died away again in a strange and moving sweetness.Though I reckoned her at her worth; knew that her charm was allphysical; that she neither did nor could understand a passion like mine,much less return it, it was none the less irresistible, and I have knownmyself to stand before a certain book-shelf in the turn of the stairwayfor many minutes together, because I knew that she would soon be comingdown, and that, when she did, some ribbon from her gown would flutter byme, and I should feel the soft contact and go away happy to my books.Yet, if she stopped to look back at me, I could only return her lookwith one she doubtless called harsh, for she had not eyes to see belowthe surface.
I tell you all this, lest you may not understand. She was not yourmother and you may begrudge me the affection I felt for her; if so,thrust these leaves into the fire and seek not the explanation of whathas surprised you; for there is no word written here which does not findits meaning in the intense love I bore for her, my young girl-wife, andthe tragedy which this love has brought into my life. She was slight inbody, slight in mind and of slight feeling. I first discovered this laston the day I put my mother's ring on her finger. She laughed as I fittedit close and kissed the little hand. Not from embarrassment or childishimpulse; I could have understood that; but indifferently, like one whodid not know and never could. Yet I married her, and for six monthslived in a fool's paradise. Then came that hall. It was held near here,very near, at one of our neighbor's, in fact. I remember that we walked,and that, coming to the driveway, I lifted her and carried her across.Not with a smile--do not think it. More likely with a frown, though myheart was warm and happy; for when I set her down, she shook herself,and I thought she did it to hide a shudder, and then I could not havespoken a word had my life depended on it.
I little knew what lay back of that shudder. Even after I had seen herdance with him, not only once, but twice, I never dreamed that herthoughts, light though they were, were not all with me. It took thatmorsel of paper and the plain words it contained to satisfy me of this,and then-- But passion is making me incoherent. What do you know of thatscrap of paper, hidden from the whole world from the moment I first readit till this hour of full confession? It fluttered from some one's handduring the dance. I did not see whose. I only saw it after it had fallenat my feet, and as it lay there open I naturally read the words. Theywere written by a man to a woman, urging flight and setting the hourand place for meeting. I was conscious of shame in reading it, and letthese last details escape me. As I put it in my pocket I rememberthinking, "Some poor devil made miserable!" for there had been hint init of the husband. But I had no thought--I swear it before God--of whothat husband was till I beheld her flit back through the open doorway,with terror in her mien and searching eyes fixed on the floor. Then hellopened before me, and I saw my happiness go down into gulfs I had neverbefore sounded, even in imagination.
But even at that evil hour my countenance scarcely changed--I wasopposite a mirror, and I caught a glimpse of myself as I moved. Butthere must have been some change in my voice--for when I addressed her,she started and turned her face upon me with a wild and pathetic lookwhich knocked so at my heart that I wished I had never read those words,and so could return her the paper with no misgiving as to its contents.But having read it, I could not do this; so, beyond a petty greeting, Isaid nothing and let the moment pass, and she with it; for couples weredancing and she was soon again in the whirl. I am not a dancing manmyself, and I had leisure
to think and madden myself with contemplationof my wrecked life and questions as to what I should do to her and tohim, and to the world where such things could happen. I had forgottenthe details of time and place, or rather had put them out of my mind,and I would not look at the words again--could not. But as the minuteswent by, the remembrance returned, startling and convincing, that thehour was two and the place--our old pavilion.
I walked about after that like a man in whose breast the sources of lifeare frozen. I chatted--I who never chatted--with women, and with men. Ieven smiled--once. That was when my little white-faced wife asked me ifit were not time to go home. Even a man under torture might findstrength to smile if the inquisitor should ask if he were not ready tobe released.
And we went home.
I did not carry her this time across the driveway; but when we parted inthe library, where I always spent an hour before retiring, I picked outa lily from a vase of flowers standing on my desk and held it out toher. She stared at it for a moment, quite as white as the lily, then sheslowly put out her hand and took it. I felt no mercy after that, andbade her good-night with the remark that I should have to write far intothe morning, and that she need not worry over my light, which I shouldnot probably put out till she was half through with her night's rest.
For answer, she dropped the lily. I found it next morning lying witheredand brown, in the hall-way.
That light did burn far into the morning; but I was not there to trimit. Before the fatal hour had struck, I had left the house and made myway to the pavilion. As I crossed the sward I saw the gleam of a lanternat the masthead of a small boat riding near our own landing-place, and Iunderstood where he was at this hour, and by what route he hoped to takemy darling. "A route she will never travel," thought I, striving to keepout of my mind and conscience the vision of another route, anothertravel, which that sweet young body might take if my mood held and mypurpose strengthened.
There was no moon that night, and the copse in which our pavilion standswas like a blot against the starless heavens. As I drew near it, my dog,the invariable companion of my walks, lifted a short, sharp bark fromthe stables. But I knew whose hand had fastened him, and I went onwithout giving him a thought. At the door of the pavilion I stopped. Allwas dark within as without, and the silence was something to overwhelmthe heart. She was not there then, nor was he. But he would be comingsoon, and up or down between the double hedge-rows.
I went to meet him. It was a small detail, but possibly a necessary one.In her eyes he was probably handsome and gifted with all that I openlylacked. But he was shallow and small for a man like me to be concernedabout. I laughed inwardly and with very conceivable scorn as I heard thefaint fall of his footsteps in the darkness. It was nearly two and hemeant to be prompt.
Our coming together in that narrow path was very much what I expected itto be. I had put out my arms and touched the hedge on either side, sothat he could not escape me. When I heard him drawing close, I foundthe voice I had not had for her, and observed very quietly and with thecold politeness of a messenger:
"My wife finds herself indisposed since the ball, and begs to be excusedfrom joining you in the pleasant sail you proposed to her."
That, and no more; except that when he started and almost fell into myarms, I found strength to add:
"The wind blows fresh to-night; you will have no difficulty in leavingthis shore. The difficulty will be to return."
I had no heart to kill him; he was young and he was frightened. I heardthe sob in his throat as I dropped my arm and he went flying down to theriver.
This was child's play; the rest--
My portion is to tell it; forty years ago it all befell, and till now noword of it has ever left my lips.
There was no sound of her advancing tread across the lawn as I steppedback into my own grounds to enter the pavilion. But as I left the pathand put foot inside the wall, I heard a far, faint sound like the harshclosing of a door in timid hands, followed by another bark from thedog, louder and sharper than the first--for he did not recognize myAline as mistress, though I had striven for six months to teach him theplace she held in my heart.
By this I knew she was coming, and that what preparations I had to makemust be made soon. They were not many. Entering the well-known place, Ilit the lantern I had brought with me and set it down near the door. Itcast a feeble light about the entrance, but left great shadows in therear. This I had calculated on, and into these shadows I now stepped.
The pavilion, as you remember it, is not what it was then. I had used itlittle, fancying more my own library up at the house, but it was notutterly without furnishings, and to young eyes might even lookattractive, with love, or fancied love, to mellow its harsh lines andlend romance to its solitude. At this hour and under these circumstancesit was a dismal hole to me; and as I stood there waiting, I thought howthe place fitted the deed--if deed it was to be.
I had always thought her timid, afraid of the night and all threateningthings. But as I listened to the sound of her soft footfall at the door,I realized that even her breast could grow strong under the influence ofa real or fancied passion. It was a shock--but I did not cry out--onlyset my teeth together and turned a little so that what light there waswould fall on my form rather than on my face.
She entered; I felt rather than heard the tremulous push she gave to thedoor, and the quick drawing in of her breath as she put her foot acrossthe threshold. These sapped my courage. This fear, this almosthesitation, drew me from thoughts of myself to thoughts of her, and itwas in a daze of mingled purposes and regrets that I felt her at last atmy side.
"Walter!" fell softly, doubtfully from her lips.
It was the name of him the dip of whose oars as he made for his boat Icould now faintly hear in the river below us.
Turning, I looked her in the face.
"You are late," said I. God gave me words in my extremity. "Walter hasgone." Then, as the madness of terror replaced love in her eyes, Ilifted her forcibly and carried her to the window, where I drew asidethe vines. "That is his boat's lantern you see drawing away from thedock. I bade him God-speed. He will not come again."
Without a word she looked, then fell back on my arm. It was not lifewhich forsook her face, and left her whole sweet body inert--that Icould have borne, for did she not merit death who had killed my love,killed me?--but happiness, the glow of youthful blood, the dreams of ayouthful brain. And seeing this, seeing that the heart I thought achild's heart had gone down in this shipwreck, I felt my anger swell andmaster me body and soul, and before I knew it, I was towering over herand she was cowering at my feet, crushed and with hands held up indefense, hands that had been like rose-leaves in my grasp, futile hands,but raised now in entreaty for her life to me, to me who had loved her.
Why did they not move me? Why did my muscles tighten instead of relax? Ido not know; I had never thought myself a cruel man, but at that instantI felt that this toy of my strong manhood had done harm far beyond itsvalue, and that it would comfort me to break it and toss it far aside;only I could not bear the cry which now left her lips:
"I am so young! not yet, not yet, Philo! I am so young! Let me live alittle while."
Was it a woman's plea, conscious of the tenderness she appealed to, oronly a child's instinctive grasping after life, just life? If it werethe first, it would be easy to finish; but a child's terror, a child'slonging--that pulled hard at my manhood, and under the possibility, myown arm fell.
Instantly her head drooped. No defense did she utter; no further pleadid she make; she simply waited.
"You have deserved death." This I managed to utter. "But if you willswear to obey me, you shall not pay your forfeit till you have had afurther taste of life. Not in my house; there is not sufficient freedomwithin its walls for you; but in the broad world, where people dance andsing and grow old at their leisure, without duty and without care. Forthree months you shall have this, and have it to your heart's content.Then you shall come back to me my true wife, if
your heart so prompts;if not, to tell me of your failure and quit me for ever. But--" Here Ifear my voice grew terrible, for her hands instinctively rose again."Those three months must be lived unstained. As you are in God's sightthis hour, I demand of you to swear that, if you forget this ordisregard it, or for any cause subject my name to dishonor, that youwill return unbidden at the first moment your reason returns to you, totake what punishment I will. On this condition I send you away to-night.Aline, will you promise?"
She did not answer; but her face rose. I did not understand its look.There was pathos in it, and something else. That something else troubledme.
"Are you dissatisfied?" I asked. "Is the time too short? Do you wantmore months for dancing?"
She shook her head and the little hands rose again:
"Do not send me away," she faintly entreated; "I don't know why--butI--had rather stay."
"With me? Impossible. Are you ready to promise, Aline?"
Then she rose and looked me in the eye with courage, almost withresolution.
"As I live!" said she.
And I knew she would keep her word.
The next thing I remember of that night was the sight of her littlewhite, shivering figure looking out at me from the carriage that was tocarry her away. The night was cold, and I had tucked her in with as muchcare as I might have done the evening before, when I still worshipedher, still thought her mine, or at least as much mine as she was anyone's. When I had done this and pressed a generous gift into her hand, Istood a minute at the carriage door, in pity of her aspect. She lookedso pinched and pale, so dazed and hopeless. Had she been alone--but thecompanion with whom I had provided her was at her side and my tongue wastied. I turned, and the driver started up the horses.
"Philo!" I heard blown by me on the wind.
Was it she who called? No, for there was anguish in the cry, the anguishof a woman, and she was only a frightened, disheartened child whom I hadsent away to--dance.
One month, two months went by, and I began to take up my life. Another,and she would be home for good or ill. I thought that I could livethrough that other. I had heard of her; not from her--that I did notrequire; and the stories were all of the same character. She wasenjoying life in the great city to which I had sent her; radiant atnight, if a little spiritless by day. She was at balls, at concerts andat theaters. She wore jewels and shone with the best; I might be proudof her conquests and the sweetness and dignity with which she boreherself. Thus her friends wrote.
But she wrote nothing; I had not required it. Once, some one--a visitorat the house--spoke of having seen her. "She was surrounded withadmirers," he had said. "How early our American women ripen!" was hiscomment. "She held her head like one who has held sway for years; but Ithought her a trifle worn; as if pleasure absorbed too much of hersleep. You must look out for her, Judge."
And I smiled grimly enough, I own, to think just how I was looking outfor her.
Then came the thunderbolt.
"I am told that no one ever sees her in the day-time; that she isalways busy, days. But she does not look as if she took that time forrest. What can your little wife be doing? You ought to hurry up thatimportant opinion of yours and go see."
He was right; what was she doing? And why shouldn't I go see? There wasno obstacle but my own will; but that is the greatest obstacle a man canhave. I remained at Homewood, but the four weeks of our furtherprobation looked like a year.
Meanwhile, I had my way with the pavilion. I have shown you my heart,sometimes at its best, oftenest at its worst. I will show it to youagain in this. I had a wall built round it, close against the thicket inwhich it lay embedded. This wall was painted white, and near it I hadlamps placed which were lit at nightfall. Should a figure pass that wallI could see it from my window. No one could enter that doorway now,without running the risk of my seeing him from where I sat at my desk.
Did I feel easier? I do not know that I did. I merely followed animpulse I dared not name to myself.
Two weeks of this final month went by. Then (it was in the evening) someone came running up from the grounds, with the message that Mrs.Ocumpaugh had ridden into the gate, but that she was not ready to enterthe house. Would I meet her at the pavilion?
I was in the library, at my desk, with my eyes on the wall, when thiswas told me. I had just seen the fierce figure of that unmanageable dogof mine run by that white surface, and my lips were open to order himtied up, when he, and everything else in this whole world, was forgottenin this crushing news of her return. For the three months were not upand her presence here could mean but one thing--she had found temptationtoo much for her, and she had come back to tell me so in obedience toher promise.
"I will go meet Mrs. Ocumpaugh," I said.
The man stared.
"I will go meet Mrs. Ocumpaugh now," I repeated, and tried to rise.
But my limbs refused; death had entered my heart, and it was some fewminutes before I found myself upon the lawn outside.
When I got there I was trembling and so uncertain of movement that Itottered at the gate. But seeing signs of her presence within, Istraightened myself and went in.
"I SHOULD NOT HAVE KNOWN THE WOMAN WHO STOOD THERE WITHMY NAME FORMED ON HER LIPS."]
She was standing at the extreme end of the room when I entered, in thefull light of the solitary moonbeam which shot in at the westerncasement. She had thrown aside her hat and coat, and never in all mylife had I seen anything so ethereal as the worn face and wasted formshe thus disclosed. Had it not been for the haunting and pathetic smilewhich by some freak of fate gave poignancy to her otherwise infantilebeauty, I should not have known the woman who stood there with my nameformed on her lips.
"Destroyed!" was my thought; and the rage which I felt that momentagainst fate flushed my whole being, and my arms went up, not in threatagainst her, but to an avenging Heaven, when I heard an impetuous rush,an angry growl, and the delicate, trembling figure went down under theleap of the monstrous animal which I had taught to love me, but couldnever teach to love her.
In horror and unspeakable anguish of soul I called off the dog; and,stooping with bitter cries, I took her in my arms.
"Hurt?" I gasped. "Hurt, Aline?" I looked at her anxiously.
"No," she whispered, "happy." And before I realized my own feelings orthe passion with which I drew her to my breast, she had nestled her headagainst my heart, smiled and died.
The shock of the dog's onslaught had killed her.
I would not believe it at first, but when I was quite sure, I took outthe pistol I carried in my breast and shot the cowering brute midwaybetween the eyes.
When this was done, I turned back to her. There was no light but themoon, and I needed no other. The clear beams falling on her face madeher look pure and stainless and sweet. I could almost have loved heragain as I marked the tender smile which lingered from that passingmoment on her lips. "Happy," she had said. What did she mean by that"Happy"? As I asked myself I heard a cry. The companion who had beenwith her had rushed in at the doorway, and was gazing in sorrow andamazement at the white form lying outstretched and senseless againstthat farther wall.
"Oh," she cried, in a tone that assured me she had not seen the doglying in his blood at my back; "dead already? dead at the first glance?at the first word? Ah, she knew better than I, poor lamb. I thought shewould get well if she once got home. She wearied so for you, sir, andfor Homewood!"
I thought myself quite mad; past understanding aright the wordsaddressed to me.
"She wearied--" I began.
"With all her soul for you and Homewood," the young woman repeated."That is, since her illness developed."
"Her illness?"
"Yes, she has been ill ever since she went away. The cold of that firstjourney was too much for her. But she kept up for several weeks--doingwhat no other woman ever did before with so little strength and solittle hope. Danced at night and--"
"And--and--what by day, what?" I could hardly get the words out o
f mymouth.
"Studied. Learned what she thought you wouldlike--French--music--politics. It was to have been a surprise. Poorsoul! it took her very life. She did not sleep-- Oh, sir, what is it?"
I was standing over her, probably a terrifying figure. Lights wereplaying before my eyes, strange sounds were in my ears, everything aboutme seemed resolving itself into chaos.
"What do you mean?" I finally gasped. "She studied--to please _me_? Whydid she come back, then, so soon--" I paused, choked. I had been aboutto give away my secret. "I mean, why did she come thus suddenly, withoutwarning me of what I might expect? I would have gone--"
"I told her so; but she was very determined to come to you herself--tothis very pavilion. She had set the time later, but this morning thedoctor told her that her symptoms were alarming, and without consultinghim or heeding the advice of any of us, she started for home. She wasbuoyant on the way, and more than once I heard her softly repeating yourname. Her heart was very loving-- Oh, sir, you are ill!"
"No, no," I cried, crushing my hand against my mouth to keep down thecry of anguish and despair which tore its way up from my heart. "Beforeother hands touch her, other eyes see her, tell me when she began--Iwill not say to love me, but to weary for me and--Homewood."
"Perhaps she has told you herself. Here is the letter, sir, she bade megive you if she did not reach here alive. She wrote it this morning,after the doctor told her what I have said."
"Give--give--"
She put it in my hand. I glanced at it in the moonlight, read the firstfew words, and felt the world reel round me. Thrusting the letter in mybreast, I bade the woman, who watched me with fascinated eyes, to go nowand rouse the house. When she was gone I stepped back into the shadows,and catching hold of the murderous beast, I dragged him out and aboutthe wall to a thick clump of bushes. Here I left him and went back to mydarling. When they came in, they found her in my arms. Her head hadfallen back and I was staring, staring, at her white throat.
That night, when all was done for her which could be done, I shut myselfinto my library and again opened that precious letter. I give it, toshow how men may be mistaken when they seek to weigh women's souls:
_My Husband:_
I love you. As I shall be dead when you read this, I may say so without fear of rebuff. I did not love you then; I did not love anybody; I was thoughtless and fond of pleasure, and craved affectionate words. He saw this and worked on my folly; but when his project failed and I saw his boat creep away, I found that what feeling I had was for the man who had thwarted him, and I felt myself saved.
If I had not taken cold that night I might have lived to prove this. I know that you do not love me very much, but perhaps you would have done so had you seen me grow a little wiser and more like what your wife should be. I was trying when--O Philo, I can not write--I can not think. I am coming to you--I love--forgive--and take me back again, alive or dead. I love you--I love--
As I finished, the light, which had been burning low, suddenly went out.The window which opened before me was still unshuttered. Before me,across the wide spaces of the lawn, shone the pavilion wall, white inthe moonlight. As I stared in horror at it, a trembling seized my wholebody, and the hair on my head rose. The dark figure of a running dog hadpassed across it--_the dog which lay dead under the bushes_.
"God's punishment," I murmured, and laid my head down on that patheticletter and sobbed.
The morning found me there. It was not till later that the man sent tobury the dog came to me with the cry, "Something is wrong with thepavilion! When I went in to close the window I found the ceiling at thatend of the room strangely dabbled. It looks like blood. And the spotsgrew as I looked."
Aghast, bruised in spirit and broken of heart, I went down, after thatsweet body was laid in its grave, to look. The stains he had spoken ofwere gone. But I lived to see them reappear,--as you have.
God have mercy on our souls!