CHAPTER IV.
At last nature turns if tried beyond her limit, snapped the frail cord which held Andrew’s mind in soundness, and in a moment that which he had dreaded was upon him. He knew that he was insane.
One night he had repaired to his study as usual. The pressure in his head was something almost unendurable. He felt the cord snapping, and resolved ere it was too late, to write a letter to his wife. To write the confession so long deferred. He took his pen and endeavored to collect his thoughts. It was not difficult to inscribe “My Darling Wife” at the top of the page. Then he gazed at it dreamily. Something was wrong in those three words, but what was it? Where did the right begin, and where did it end? He read the words over and over again aloud, so that he might understand them more fully. Then he slowly drew his pen through them and wrote beneath “My Cherished Victoria.” “She will know why I did it,” he murmured. “Oh, yes, she will know.” He lingered over the next words with a tender smile on his face. “No woman on this earth was ever loved with the worship, adoration, which I have lavished upon you. She knows that too,” he continued, resting his head upon one hand. “Why do I tell her what she already knows so well? Ah, why?” He dropped the pen and seemed to be musing, then resuming, with a fierce wild light burning in his eyes, he wrote: “But I have also sinned grievously against you; so grievously, that I can never hope for pardon, therefore I have resolved to take my life, and so end it all.”
He stopped and looked wildly about him. Where was the blessed instrument which in a moment would put him out of the torments and misery now assailing him. He opened several drawers in his desk, and at last found what he sought. He handled it lovingly. This little toy would give him that peace which had fled from him for so many years. He could lie down to a dreamless sleep and waken—where? He did not care. The unknown and untried hereafter could be better borne than the tears and reproaches of Victoria. He had no dread of what he should meet. If he could only escape, only escape. He kissed the weapon which was so soon to bring him that coveted rest, and laid it down to finish his confession.
He had just taken up his pen when a loud tattoo was beat upon the wall nearest to where he was sitting. He arose with an air of resignation, as if what he was about to do was a duty most irksome to him, and opening the book-case door, placed his hand inside. Noiselessly the ponderous case rolled forward, disclosing an aperture rather larger than a common door. A powerful mulatto stepped into the study, and approached Andrew, gesticulating wildly. He placed his hands to his head, and then upon his chest, motioning toward the opening through which he had just entered.
“Is your master ill?” asked Andrew. The man nodded a quick assent. Andrew motioned him to follow, and went quickly up the stairs which could be plainly seen from the opening.
It was fully an hour ere he returned. He descended the stairs with a weary, lagging step, as if every motion of his limbs was an effort. His eyes had lost their wild, frenzied look, and seemed filled with a dull, heavy pain. The man was suffering deeply, and as he crawled to his chair beside the desk, and dropped into it like a log, one felt that whatever the crisis might be, it was now near at hand.
He folded his arms upon the desk and laid his tired head upon them. Just then Mary’s voice was heard outside the door. “Papa, I am going to bed. I want my kiss.” He heard her but he could not answer. The latch was lifted, the door opened, and Mary entered. For the first time Andrew had forgotten to bolt the door. He was conscious of it. He heard Mary’s step approaching, but some power held him fast in his chair, and he could not rise to close the book-case which still remained open. He heard the sweet, shrill voice in accents of pity say: “What is the matter, papa? Is your naughty head bad again?” Then, although he did not see, he felt that her wondering eyes had discovered the secret door. He heard her moving from him, and he had the strength to raise his head, and watch Mary as she laboriously climbed the stairs. He listened until his ears could no longer distinguish her footsteps, and then buried his face—upon which despair and ruin was plainly written—once more in his arms. The sword had fallen, and the hair had been severed by his own child. He had not even the strength to lift the toy lying so near him, and so escape the wrath to come.
He heard Mary returning, and heard her running swiftly from the room. His benumbed brain could still determine what she was about to do. She had gone to tell her mother; but somehow, the thought did not worry him. He felt rather glad than otherways. Presently he heard voices. Mary was bringing Victoria. A wild thought flashed through his mind. With an effort he grasped the revolver. He would slay Victoria and the child as they entered, and then himself. At the same instant the toy fell from his nerveless fingers. Ah, no, he could not harm a hair of those so precious to him. Only himself. Only himself; but he did not feel equal to it, just now, and it would shock Victoria. He must wait. Again his head sunk upon his arms.
Victoria entered, her face white and fearful, with Mary clinging to her skirts. She glanced toward the aperture, and approached the wretched man. “Andrew, what is this Mary has been telling me? The child is nigh frightened out of her senses. She declares she has been up some hidden stairs, into rooms which she has never seen before, and there she saw a big negro standing by a bed in which an old man was sleeping. When the negro saw her, he ran at her as if to beat her, and the child came running to me. Is all this true? I can see the secret staircase for myself, but who is the old man, and what does all this mystery mean?”
There was no answer from the bowed figure.
Mary gently shook him. “I have had no share in your secrets, Andrew. Perhaps it were better if I had, but now I demand an answer. Have I your permission to ascend those stairs which I have already divined lead to the rooms in the western gable? Shall I see for myself what those rooms contain?”
“Yes, go!” hoarsely answered Andrew.
Victoria turned to leave him. He raised his head and caught her gown with his hand.
“Victoria!” he cried, “my angel! My more than life! Go, I dare not detain you. God has spoken to me. The time has now come; but my darling, keep what you shall see there a secret for Mary’s sake, and remember that I did it all out of my great overpowering love for you.” He kissed the hem of her gown and sank upon his knees as she wonderingly turned and ascended the stairs. His agonized eyes watched her disappear, and then his hand sought that thing which should give him peace. He groped for it. He had not the strength to reach it, and with a groan he fell forward upon his face.
Victoria had not a suspicion of what she was about to behold. Many strange wild thoughts floated through her mind as she ascended the stairs. The foremost one was that Andrew’s father had not been killed, as had been believed, but that he was an imbecile perhaps, and so had been confined in these apartments for years. Yes, this must be it. She trembled violently as she reached the topmost stair, and stood gazing into the room beyond. It was vacant. No person was in sight, but scattered about the room were several toys such as very small children are amused with. A rattle box, a tin horn, and a drum. Victoria saw, and her eyes also noted the luxurious furnishings of the apartment, which was octagon in shape; and the walls were hung with very rare tapestries, which although faded, she knew were of immense value. How often she had wanted to investigate these rooms, but now that the opportunity had come, she felt an irresistable desire to turn and go back to Andrew, and be content with what he should tell her. A vague dread of what she might see in the further room, stayed her footsteps, and she turned to descend the stairs, but Mary who had become brave now that her mother was with her, pulled at Victoria’s gown and cried: “Come mamma, into the other room, the negro won’t dare to touch me now that you are with me. The old man in the bed looks so funny. Do come, mamma.”
Victoria turned again, and with hesitating steps went toward the further room, whose door stood open. The violent trembling which had left her for a moment returned now and her limbs shook under her so that she was scarcely able to stand. She steadied herself by clasping the door with her hands, while she gazed fascinated into that mysterious room, of which she had dreamed so often, but which was so entirely different from her wildest imaginings. As with the other room, this also was only lighted from the top by one single glass, which was lowered or raised at one’s will, to admit both air and light. The floor was inlaid with different colored woods, over which rich rugs were strewn. The walls were hung with what had once been a bright yellow satin, but which had now faded to a dirty brown in streaks where the light had touched it. The chairs were all upholstered in rich stuffs whose beauty had long since disappeared, but the wonderful carvings still remained. They were the most beautiful Victoria thought that she had ever seen. A Chinese table of teak wood next caught her eye. It was a wonderful work of art. The legs which came together at the top were marvels of carving. The top of the table was inlaid about every two inches with solid ivory, in which were carved tiny figures of men and women, birds and flowers, and in fact everything known to the cunning Chinese artizan. Victoria bewildered, took in the surroundings with a rapid glance, and in much less time than it has taken to describe them.
“What a pity to let these rare things go to ruin when they might be put to good use,” she thought as her eyes sought the bed. A mulatto stood at the bedside, fanning the occupant vigorously. So engrossed was he that he did not heed Victoria’s footsteps. She approached the bed with an awed manner which one is apt to use in a sick chamber.
“Is your patient ill?” she whispered, touching him upon the arm. He turned with a start, and gazed with a frightened look at her and the child. Then he seized her roughly by the arm and strove to push her from the room, but Victoria, who had by this time recovered her usual calm manner, resolved to end this long hidden mystery. She did not remember of ever having seen this negro before, but no doubt he was one of their own men. She turned haughtily upon him. “I am your mistress,” she said, raising her hand. “Don’t dare to touch me. Your master has given his consent to my coming here. Now, tell me who is this man, and if he is not ill why he remains so quiet?”
The man released her with a gutteral sound, which made her start, and wildly moved his arms about, while he opened his mouth and pointed at it. To her horror she saw that he had no tongue.
“Great heavens!” she ejaculated, “what mystery is here?” Her tone was very tender as she added pityingly: “My poor man, I did not know of your affliction. Can you hear? Do you understand what I say?”
He nodded assent.
“Then, who is the man in that bed?”
He shook his head slowly.
“You do not know?” she asked in surprise. “How long has he been here? How long have you been here?”
Again the man shook his head, this time with an air of sadness most pitiful to Victoria.
“Poor fellow,” she said, gently stroking his arm. Then, as a thought came to her, she added: “Can you read and write?” Again that mournful gesture more sad than tears.
Victoria turned in despair toward the bed. “Perhaps I can get a lucid answer from this person,” she thought.
The mulatto approached the bed with a candle. As its rays fell upon the upturned face of the sleeper, Victoria started back with a cry of horror, snatched the candle from the man and placed it close to the sleeper’s face.
“Roger!” she gasped. “Oh, my God! What do I see? Roger’s living face, yet surrounded by snow-white hair? Am I going mad?” She reeled, and the mulatto caught the candle as it fell from her hand. Although everything seemed turning to darkness around her, Victoria did not faint. She felt a tightening grip at her heart, as if some one was slowly squeezing it between their hands. Her eyes could not leave the face of that old man lying upon the pillow. “Who was he?” Not Roger, of course. How silly of her to imagine so for even one moment. Had she not seen Roger’s body placed in the ground with her own eyes? Had she not insisted upon gazing at the horribly disfigured body of her beloved, although the sight had been one which she should never forget? Ah, no, this was not Roger. “Whoever he might be he was not her first beloved.”
As she reasoned she felt calmer. “This was Roger’s father without a doubt. That was why the resemblance was so startling.” Then she remembered that Roger’s father had been of swarthier skin, like Andrew, with a dark, forbidding face, handsome, yet repelling. Mary had often told Victoria how like to his father Andrew was, and their pictures hanging side by side in the gallery demonstrated the fact. Again the cold perspiration gathered upon her body. She must discover this mystery or she should go mad. She turned to the mulatto who was stolidly regarding her. “What is this man’s name? Can you tell me?”
He bowed his head.
“Is it—is it—” Victoria steadied herself by grasping his arm—“Roger?”
The man smiled and nodded. Victoria thought she must have died and then returned to life, such a rush of emotion swept over her, such a flood of darkness, and then the light again. Ah, if she could only die, but she must ask one more question. Only one more. The answer to that would either confirm or deny her suspicions. With an imploring look on her white drawn face, as if she were begging him to say “No,” she asked: “Is he blind?”
Again the man bowed his head, and with a cry which disturbed the sleeper, she threw herself upon the bed, and clasped him in her arms. This was her Roger alive, she knew not how, or by what means he had been restored to life, but it was surely he, the husband of her youth, the man whom she had loved so tenderly, and whose loss she still deeply mourned. Forgetting the wondering child by her side who was now beginning to cry; forgetting the wretched man below who had called her wife for so many years; forgetting everything but the sightless lover of her youth, she laid her cheek against that of the white-haired man, and called him by all the fond endearing names which once had made sweet music for his ears.
“Roger, my best beloved, my own husband, it is your Victoria who speaks to you; your sweet wife. Awaken, and unravel all this mystery. Do you not hear? Speak to me, call me your darling. Say anything, anything.”
Her voice ended in a sob. She kissed his eyelids, his white hair, while the blessed tears fell unrestrainedly from her eyes. How good it seemed to be able to weep. He had evidently awakened, for his eyelids were now open, and a puzzled expression was on his face.
“Adam,” he called petulantly, “what is all this noise about? How do you suppose I can sleep? Tell all those people to go away? Oh, my head, my poor head. It’s buzzing again, Adam, buz, buz, buzzing.” He raised his hands and placed them to his temples.
Victoria softly kissed his forehead. “Roger, your loving wife, from whom you have been cruelly separated for so long, is here, right here by your side. Can you not understand what I am saying?”
“Go away,” cried Roger, pushing her from him. “I want Adam.” He began to whimper like a child. “I want Adam, I tell you.”
Victoria shrank from him in horror. Was he mad? Ah, no, God would not have restored him to her only to have her find him an imbecile.
The mulatto now approached the bedside, and laid his hand upon the sick man’s forehead, while he made a gutteral humming sound in his throat. Roger’s cries subsided, and his face resumed its former placid expression.
“That’s a good Adam,” he said, after a while. “A very good Adam. Such a kind Adam.”
Victoria stood in silence gazing upon the mental wreck before her. A thousand thoughts flashed through her brain, most of them wild, vague, and full of terror. “Roger was alive, without a doubt, but that was all. In all things pertaining to the past he was as dead as though he were indeed within his grave; but the fact remained that he was her husband. Then what was the wretched man waiting for her below?” She glanced at Mary, who had sobbed herself asleep upon the floor—“and what was her child, her innocent child who had never harmed anybody?” With the cry of a wounded tigress, she snatched up the child and swiftly descended the stairs, forgetful of Roger lying helpless in that other room. All her thoughts were centered on the man who had wrecked her life, and that of her child. “He shall confess,” she whispered, pressing her lips to those of the sleeping child. “I will strangle him; yes, I will even commit murder, but he shall account to me for every day of that wretched time when I supposed Roger to be dead!”
She stepped into the study. Andrew lay on the spot where he had fallen. She placed Mary upon the couch and approached the prostrate figure. She touched it with her foot. Her face was hard and resolute. Not an atom of mercy would she show him. Was he not deserving of the most withering scorn? “Wretch!” she said, “I have discovered your secret. At last the truth has been made known. Get up and let me see your miserable guilty face. Come, confess your sin.”
There was no answer, not even a muscle moved under her foot. She caught sight of the half-finished letter lying upon the desk, the revolver beside it. She devined at once what had been his intention. She caught up the letter and read it. The erased words, “My Darling Wife,” touched her deeply. The significance of the erasure was fully understood by her. She groaned as she read it, but the next words brought the tears to her eyes. “No woman on this earth was ever loved with the worship and adoration, which I have lavished upon you.” When she had finished reading the few remaining words Victoria knelt in tender pity beside the guilty man, whom she had just cause for hating. There was no hatred in her heart now. Nothing but sorrow, and a desire to shield and forgive his sin. She turned his face toward her. It was ashen pale and cold as one dead, and bore marks of great suffering. Indeed, for a moment she thought his soul had forever fled, and perhaps even now was being judged by Him who never errs.
“God is just,” she murmured, as she placed her ear at his heart. “He will judge Andrew rightly. What right have I to pass judgment upon this man who has gone to meet his Maker?”
She started to her feet. She had felt just the least motion of the heart, but it had been enough to tell her that life still remained. She hastily rang the bell and bade the servant who answered it to send two men to her without delay, and to go himself for a physician.
When the men came she assisted them in getting Andrew to bed. He knew nothing, and she watched beside him, applying all sorts of restoratives, but without avail, until the doctor came. Andrew moaned incessantly, but further than that had shown no signs of consciousness. The doctor took several moments in thoroughly examining his patient, while Victoria watched him breathlessly. Those few moments seemed like hours to her.
“This has been coming on him for some time,” said the doctor at last. “His brain shows a severe mental strain. I would not like to express my opinion too hastily. To-morrow will determine it, but I fear, Mrs. Willing, that your husband will have an attack of brain fever, and it will be almost certain death, owing to the overworked state of the brain.”
And so it proved. Andrew became violent through the night, and as morning dawned his ravings were such that Victoria had to be taken from the room prostrated. She had confided in the doctor as they watched beside the sick man, and he had at once shown her that now was not the time to disclose to the world the skeleton which had been concealed for so long. Andrew’s severe illness could be a pretext for shutting the doors against all intruders, and with the help of two faithful nurses, they could still retain the secret until a more suitable time, and if Andrew should die, the doctor saw no use of ever unfolding a tale which could only bring upon the survivors shame and ridicule, and upon the name of the dead a tarnished reputation; whereas, keeping the secret could injure nobody. Together they read the few words which expressed so much of what was in Andrew’s heart; which told of the boundless love for the woman whom he had called wife, and of the terrible remorse which haunted him day and night, and which, like an incurable disease, was slowly eating his life away.
“The man has suffered agonies,” said the doctor, holding Andrew’s hand firmly as he struggled and writhed with the pain. “If he were tortured with knives, or his body was put to the rack, he could not begin to suffer what he has undergone mentally during these few past years. The wonder is, how he has borne up so long. Most men would have succumbed long ere this.” And then, as Andrew’s ravings became more violent, they used their united strength in quieting him, until Victoria succumbed to a nervous fit, and the doctor ordered her to be taken from the room.
In a few hours she was again herself, and insisted upon returning to Andrew, who had become more quiet, and seemed to rest contented while her hand was within his. The sick room being next to the study made deception more easy, as the doctor took the study for his retiring room, having promised Victoria not to leave her so long as Andrew lived, for they looked upon his death as a certainty. Here all the doctor’s meals were sent, and much comment was indulged in by the servants in the kitchen over the enormous appetite of the “medicine man,” as he was called.
“I tought Marse Andrew had a comin’ appetite,” said old Chloe, the cook, as she was one day arranging the doctor’s dinner on a tray, “but golly me! I neber did see sech a gormad as dat yer medicine man. Nuffin eber comes back. Now, Marse Andrew, his midnight supper was de only one he car’d fer. He neber teched anythin’ trough de day scasely, but de Lord save us! dis yer man ull eat us yout o’ house an’ home. Heyar yo’ Sam, stir yer stumps lively now, an’ flax roun’ an’ kill two more o’ dem settin’ chicks. We’ll need em all fo’ mawnin. Ya, ya, ya.”
Aunt Chloe chuckled as she placed a plate of steaming hoe cake on the tray, beside a delicately broiled steak garnished with plenty of vegetables. “Don’t spose dar’s nigh ’nough,” she added, thoughtfully, “bet a cookie he’ll be sendin’ down fer mo’; he gen’lally do. Heyar, you Pete, lazy bones, tak’ dis up to Marse Doctor, un don’ drap it on yo’ big feet.”
Pete took the tray, and with a flourish which bid fair to land the whole contents just where Aunt Chloe had admonished him not, he placed it on his head, laughing at her horrified gestures and loud exclamations.
“I is all hunkey, Aunty; don’ you go for to cuttin’ up like dat now. You’ll git de runktums agin suah, hark wat I’se tellin’ ye. Ef dat ar docta wants mo’ stuff, he kin jes’ ma’ch down an’ git it fer hisself. Don’ he tink I’se got nuffin else to do, ’cept wait on his bread basket? Well, I reckon I has. As fer totin’ up and down star’s mor’en fifty times, ter fetch tings ter stuff inter his big jaw, I’se done. Why don’ he keep me dar till he’s done? Den I could go arfter wat he wants, but no, he jes’ sayes, ‘Lay de cloth, Pete, dat’s a good boy; and den yer kin detire.’ In five minutes he wants mo’ bread. In five minutes mo’ he dequests mo’ coffee, and den he only opens de do’ a little teenty crack, jes’ ’nough to git my han’ in. You’se hearn o’ tape-worms, Aunt Clo? By gollys! I tinks dat yer mans got a dozen.”
“Go long wid your tape-worms,” cried Aunt Chloe, “de blessed dinner’s all gettin’ cold, while you’se shootin’ off dat trap o’ your’n. Spect I want ter stan’ all day cookin’ tings fer yer ter leave ston’ cold, yer soft headed nigger? Start yer stumps now.” She emphasized her remarks by vigorous whacks with the wet dish cloth in her hand, and Pete started on a trot, rattling the dishes together, while Aunt Chloe followed him with anxious eyes, expecting every moment to see a grand tumble of viands from their lofty perch; but a mysterious providence guarded his footsteps, and brought the tray safely to the study door, which was opened by the grave doctor, who took the tray from Pete, saying kindly: “You need not enter, my boy. I can arrange things myself very well without you.”
Pete, not to be outdone in courtesy, bobbed his head and made an elaborate gesture with his arms, thereby causing the doctor to nearly lose his grasp of the tray. As it was, a cup and saucer balanced perilously near the edge, and the doctor loosened his hold of the door to catch it. The door slowly swung open, and to Pete’s utter astonishment he saw standing near the window, a tall, powerful mulatto whom he had never seen before, and who looked at him curiously. The doctor saw the whites of Pete’s eyes grow until the pupils disappeared, and divining the cause he said, nodding at Adam: “You have not seen my new body servant before, Pete? He has just come to bring me some fresh linen,” and a moment later Pete found himself in the hall looking at the closed door.
“Huh!” he grunted, “de docta tinks heself might cute, he do, but I tinks I knows a heap. I’ll jes watch for massa body servant w’en he comes out, and scrap’ quaintance with him. I’se had my ’spicions dat de docta nebber eat all dat stuff. I recon de body servant done help. Ya, ya.”
But Pete, although he sat on the top stair and kept his eyes on the study door, never saw the body servant again much to his chagrin, for in some way he had begun to suspect that all was not as it should be behind the closed door.