HOW HECTOR HAD HIS REVENGE
THIS direct charge so astonished her that for a few moments she did not recognize its full significance. She sat wildly staring at him, completely overwhelmed.
He watched; her terror fascinated him, he could not take his eyes off her.
She tried to speak and failed, seemed on the point of fainting. He let down the window; the cool air revived her, but she was in a deplorably nervous condition.
At last the words came.
"I pulled the trigger?" she said. "What do you mean, how can you possibly know what happened?"
"I said you pulled the trigger. It is true, is it not?"
"No; Hector Woodridge shot my husband," she said in a low voice. She was afraid of him; his knowledge seemed uncanny—or was it merely guesswork?
"That is a lie," he said.
"How dare you say that!" she said, her courage momentarily flashing out.
He smiled.
"I thought this was to be a full confession," he said.
"I will say no more; you do not believe me," she said.
"Then I will continue it," he said, and she seemed petrified with fright. He gave her no chance. He related the history of the trial; so minute were his particulars that she wondered if he were a man, or a being possessed of unearthly knowledge.
"Hector Woodridge was condemned to be hanged, and you spoke no word to save him. Your evidence damned him, almost hanged him, sent him to a living tomb."
"I could not lie; I had sworn to speak the truth," she faltered.
"You did not speak the truth," he almost shouted; and she shrank back, cowering on her seat. She wondered if he had suddenly gone mad. Impossible. His knowledge was uncanny.
"Had you spoken the truth you would have saved him; but you dared not. Had you told all he would have been set free, you would have been sentenced. You were too much of a coward to speak, fearing the consequences; but he, what did he do? He remained silent, when he might have saved himself and proved you guilty."
"It is not true," she murmured faintly.
"It is true," he said fiercely. "Think what he has suffered, think and tremble when you imagine his revenue. I will tell you something more. You were in Torquay when he escaped. You were at supper one night; there was a chink in the blind; footsore, hunted, his hands torn by the hound, his body all bruised and battered, hungry, thirsty, every man's hand against him. Hector Woodridge looked through it, he saw you feasting with your friends."
"Stop!" she cried in an agonized voice. "Stop! I can bear no more. I saw his face, I have never had a peaceful moment since."
"I shall not stop," he said harshly. "Outside he cursed you, prayed for justice, and another chance in life."
"How do you know all this?" she asked in a voice trembling with dread.
"Never mind how I know; sufficient that I know," he said. "Hector Woodridge, thanks to an old boatman, escaped and boarded the Sea-mew, his brother's yacht, lying in Torbay."
Her agitation was painful, her face became drawn and haggard, she looked an old woman. Rising from her seat, she placed her hands on his shoulders, looking long and searchingly into his face.
"Sit down," he said sternly, and she obeyed.
"He was taken away on the Sea-mew. He went mad, was insane for some time, then he fell dangerously ill; when he recovered he was so changed that even the servants at Haverton, who had known him all his life, failed to recognize him."
"He went to Haverton?" she said.
"Yes; he is alive and well. No one recognizes him as Hector Woodridge; he has assumed another name and once more taken a place in the world. To all who knew him he is dead, with two or three exceptions. The prison authorities think he is dead; they have given up the search for him. He is safe, able to carry out his scheme of revenge against the woman who so cruelly wronged him. You are that woman, Lenise Elroy."
"And what does he purpose doing with me?" she asked faintly. "You cannot know that."
"I do; I am his most intimate friend."
She started; a weird, unearthly look came into her face.
"His one object in life is to prove his innocence. He cannot do that unless you confess," he said.
"Confess!" she laughed mockingly. "There is nothing to confess."
"You know better, and you will be forced to confess or else—"
"What?"
"If you do not prove his innocence he will—"
"Kill me?"
"That may happen, under certain circumstances, but he wishes to give you a chance."
"He has asked you to speak to me?"
"Yes; he was at Doncaster."
"At the races?"
"He saw you there. Something of the old fascination you exercise over him came back, and for a moment he wavered in his desire for revenge."
He saw a faint smile steal over her face.
"He told you this?"
"Yes, and more; but I have said enough."
"You have indeed. You have brought a terrible indictment against me, Mr. Rolfe; if it were true I ought to die of shame and remorse, but it is not true, not all of it," she said.
"Lenise, look at me. Do you love me after all I have said?"
"I do. Nothing you can say or do will ever alter that."
"And you will marry me?" he asked. "It is a strange wooing."
"I will be your wife. You will save me from him; you will try and persuade him I am not deserving of a terrible revenge," she said.
"Are you afraid of him—of—Hector Woodridge?"
She shuddered.
"Yes," she said, "I am."
"Supposing he were here, in this carriage in my place?"
"I should fling myself out," she said. "I should be afraid of him; it would be terrible, awful. I could not bear it."
"Because you know you have wronged him. Do the right thing, Lenise. Confess, prove his innocence, think how he has suffered for your sake, how he has kept silent all these years," he said.
"Why do you torture me? If he has suffered, so have I. Do you think the knowledge of his awful position has not made me shudder every time I thought of it? I have pictured him there and wished I could obtain his release."
"You can prove his innocence," he said.
"Supposing I could, what then? What would happen? I should have to take his place."
"And you dare not."
"I am a woman."
"Then you will not help to prove his innocence?"
"I cannot."
Hector got up quickly, took her by the wrists and dragged her up.
"Look at me, Lenise. Look well. Do you not know me?"
He felt her trembling; she marked every feature of his face. Gradually it all came back to her, overwhelmed her. She traced feature by feature—the eyes were his eyes, yes, the face was his face. He saw the dawn of recognition come over her and break into full light. She knew him; her eyes dilated with terror, her cheeks went ashen pale, her lips were colorless, her limbs trembled, she could hardly stand.
"Yes," he said. "It is I, Lenise, Hector Woodridge, and you are alone with me in this carriage."
"Mercy, Hector, mercy, I am only a woman."
"And you love me, you said so, you love William Rolfe?"
She sank on her knees, she clasped his limbs, looking piteously into his face. He saw how she suffered.
"Get up," he said; "do not kneel there."
She hid her face between her arms, he heard her sobs, saw they shook her frame. The train rattled on, whirling at a great pace, drawing nearer and nearer to London. She moaned, it cut him to the heart to hear her. A fierce struggle went on within him, a battle with his strong will. He placed in the front rank the memory of all he had suffered, then brought up his father's death, the cruel disgrace, as a reserve to support it. He had his enemy beaten at his feet, he was victor, it was a humiliating defeat for her.
"The quality of mercy is not strained."
Strange how the line should come into his mind at this moment. He had always been a student of Shakespeare, he knew much of it by heart, in prison he repeated whole parts, and it solaced him.
"Lenise, get up."
His tone had changed, she raised her tear-stained face. What she saw in his look made her cry out:
"Hector, is it possible? Speak to me, Hector! I know you now. Oh, what a fool I have been! I have always loved you, but I was a coward. It was you, not William Rolfe, I loved again when we met. You were Hector Woodridge and my soul went out to you. Do with me as you will. I am strong now, for I believe you love me. I will confess, make it public, tell everything. You know I did it. The revolver was in your hand, your finger on the trigger, I pulled your hand and it went off. I will make it known if only you will forgive me. God, what a fiend I have been to let you suffer so! And you have kept silence all these years for my sake!"
She spoke rapidly; he knew she was in earnest and his heart softened. He had loved her deeply, he loved her now, he had always loved her, even in his bitterest moments in prison, when he had framed a terrible revenge. It had been his intention to marry her in his assumed name, and on their wedding night tell her he was Hector Woodridge and then—well he shuddered at the mere thought of how near a brute he had been.
Hector was never more of a man than at this moment. He had won a great victory over himself, far greater than over the woman at his feet. He had conquered revenge, utterly crushed it, cast it out forever.
He stooped down and raised her gently.
The train hissed on, carrying its living freight, drawing nearer to London.
She hung her head; he raised it, looked straight into her eyes, then kissed her.
From that moment Lenise Elroy was another woman. She felt the change instantaneously; she was transformed, she knew whatever happened she would be true to him, that she would love him with a devotion that could not be surpassed.
He kissed her again as he held her in his arms.
"This is my revenge, Lenise," he said.