Neither Mr. Saltus nor those nearest to him realized that his nervous system was undergoing a change. Had this been recognized, the episode which followed would in all probability never have occurred. Mention of it is made because a great deal was said about it at the time, it being given out that Mr. Saltus had tried to kill me. This episode, unpleasant as it is, marked the last time that he ever lost control of himself.
It began in the dining-room after dinner while Mr. Saltus was enjoying his usual cigar. Some chance remark,—a hasty answer, more fuel, and the fuse was fired. Once again he was an It,—a Thing,—a submerged entity, deprived of his child and acting as a nursemaid to dogs. The more I tried to soothe him the more vehement he became. Distressed beyond words Auntie left the room and went upstairs, declaring that she would pack her things and leave the house the next morning, and that we could fight it out and find each other out,—she was done. Repeated efforts to calm him had only the contrary effect. To leave him alone for a time seemed the only solution. Picking up the leash to fasten it to Toto's collar, with the idea of going for a walk while Mr. Saltus cooled down, was misunderstood by him. Seizing a carving knife from the serving table, and pulling the leash suddenly out of my hands, he dragged Toto behind him into the butler's pantry and locked the door. It was the cook's evening off. From his place of security he announced that he was going to cut Toto's throat and then his own. Turning on a faucet so that the water would trickle ever so slightly and suggest the dripping of blood, he became silent.
Had I argued or pleaded with him one cannot know what the result would have been. Silence on my part,—silence absolute and unbroken,—was the only course. A more horrible half-hour than that, Dante and Goya together could not have imagined. At the end of that time the door opened and Mr. Saltus, with Toto wagging her tail behind him, reappeared. Relief at knowing that a tragedy was averted was such that I could only sink into a seat. Thereupon, possibly because I had said nothing, Mr. Saltus picked up tumblers and decanters from the sideboard and smashed them against the walls like so many eggshells, still vowing that he was going to kill himself. While in the pantry he had, instead of cutting his throat, consumed a whole bottle of gin. That strengthened his arm and his courage.
To leave him in such a condition would have been brutal. To remain was hazardous, for he brandished the knife and went on screaming. The night wore on, and the effects of the gin began to change their character. Deciding the time had come for a determined stand, I went up to him, and took the knife out of his hand. In his amazement at my effrontery he offered little resistance, although he still screamed of his wrongs. It was no time to argue. Neighbours hearing the racket telephoned to the police that a lunatic was in the house and was trying to kill some one. An officer was sent to the door to inquire. That had a sobering effect. Kicking the broken glass out of his way Mr. Saltus finally decided to go to his room. By this time the sun was rising (not setting) upon his wrath.
At noon I went to consult our friend Dr. Hazeldine, a metaphysician as well as a physician, and he returned with me to the house. Mr. Saltus, he said, was in a very critical condition. Unable to eat, thrashing about in his bed like a spirit in torture, he presented a tragic picture, and the doctor decided to remain at the house until he could bring him around. This he did; but when the bringing was accomplished, bag, baggage and dog, I left the house, and saying "Good-bye forever," went down to San Diego.
That was more effectual than the visit of the police had been, knowing as he did that threats were not in my line. Letters and telegrams followed like shadows of sin. They were answered, but in no way to offer encouragement. Clearly and firmly he was told that his conduct justified much that had been said against him, and though two women had escaped with their lives and sanity a third would be walking into a padded cell and taking on a life sentence voluntarily.
The reaction on Mr. Saltus was serious. He became really ill and his letters frantic. A novice still in Theosophy, accepting its theory of life, but ignoring its personal application, this lapse of his acted like an auger. It cut its way into the center of his consciousness, and in the realization of his failure, there was stimulated the dormant aspiration to re-create himself. A page from one of his letters is indicative of this:
".... De profundis clamavi. Don't make me die insane. In writing to you I have said everything that a human being can. If there was an assurance unexpressed it was through no fault of mine. Your answer was that your faith in me is shattered. I once said that if you had a child by a negro I would forgive you and console you too. Yet your faith in me is shattered. Child——child,—you are not to blame. If after all my love and care of you, you could write me that, it is because I have in the past betrayed the faith of other people. No,—you are not to blame. You are my own hands striking me in the face. As I measured it to others it is meted now to me. I may be your cross but you are crucified to me, and death alone can tear the nails from your hands. Even then it will leave the stigmata."
It was a difficult situation to cope with, for what he said was quite true. The ties which bind one to another are spun out of threads like cobwebs,—so gossamer in texture, so frail and unsubstantial, that they seem a thing one can brush aside with a touch. They are so fine,—they appear to have emerged from nothing,—a memory, an incident, a sorrow shared and forgotten,—but they persist. Delicate as they are, they are spun from the center of one's being. Turned, twisted and plaited by the hand of fate, they become cables of steel. Reason may tell one they can be broken, but the soul knows better. Nothing in life can tear them completely asunder.
It was one of these frail threads which held now. Stronger ones by far, fashioned during the years, were there, but they fell apart. It was the frailest one which persisted. On the walls of memory was a picture. It was that of a man sitting on the top of a 'bus, sad and silent at the thought of returning to the States in a few days. It was early evening and we were going out to the extreme end of London,—Muswell Hill,—to compel distraction from the thoughts which pressed upon him from all sides. The 'bus was crowded, and we could not get a seat together. Mr. Saltus' however was directly behind my own, so we could talk to one another. Going up the hill toward Islington the 'bus swayed a bit, and I found myself swinging from side to side. In so doing a slight pull seemed to come from behind. Looking down I saw that Mr. Saltus was leaning forward and holding a piece of my frock in his hands. He was unaware that I noticed it, nor did we ever refer to it later. It was such a little thing. Nothing worth speaking about, but it was his hand on the fold of my frock that held,—had held during the years, and held now.