But it is to facts I have to call your attention, rather than to their effects. A flutter of white muslin in the moonlit distance was all that was visible of the retreating girl when I started mechanically, and without any particular purpose in view, in pursuit of her. My path lay by the banyan tree under which we had so often sat, but every air-root seemed changed to a writhing serpent. As I threaded my way among them, a man stepped from behind the trunk and disputed my passage. His gigantic form was silhouetted against the mass of rock forming the entrance to the little cave. The bright moonlight did what it could to illumine that sinister face. It was Rama Ragobah! For fully a minute we stood silently face to face, each expecting the assault of the other. It was Ragobah who spoke first. “She is mine, body and soul; and the English cur may find a mate in his own kennel!” He bent toward me and hissed these words in my very face. His hot breath seemed to poison me. It made me beside myself. I knew he meant to take advantage of his physical superiority and attack me, by the narrow watch he kept upon the heavy walking-stick I still carried in my right hand. He had expected I would attempt to strike with this, but my constant practice at boxing had made my fists the more natural weapon. I was so enraged I did not notice he was too close to use my stick to advantage. I simply acted without any thought whatever. His attitude was such, as he hissed his venom into my face, as to enable me to give him a powerful “upper cut” under the jaw. This, as I was so much lighter than he, was the most effective blow I could deliver; yet, although it took him off his feet, it did not disable him. I had not succeeded in placing it as I had intended, and it had only the effect of rendering him demoniacal. In an instant he was again upon his feet, and unsheathing a long knife. I knew it meant death for me if he were able to close with me. It was useless for me to call for help, for in those days this part of Malabar Hill was as deserted as a wilderness. Now, the very spot on which we stood is highly cultivated, and forms a part of the garden of the Blasehek villa. There, early in the eighties, as the guest of the hospitable Herr Blasehek, Professor Ernst Haeckel botanised a week, on his way to Ceylon. Now, in response to a cry from his intended victim, an assassin might be frustrated by assistance from a dozen bungalows, but at the time of which I write, the victim, if he were wise, saved his breath for the struggle which he knew he must make unaided.
Ragobah paused, and coolly bared his right arm to the elbow. There was
a studied deliberation in his movements, which said only too plainly:
“There is no hurry in killing you, for you cannot escape.” I grasped my
stick firmly as my only hope, and awaited his onslaught. My early mili
my life. Without the knowledge which I had derived from the use of
the broadsword, I should have been all but certain to have attempted
to strike him a downward blow upon the head. This is just what he was
expecting, and it would have cost me my life. He would have had only to
throw up his left arm to catch the blow, while with his right hand he
plunged the knife into my heart. My experience had taught me how much
easier it is to protect one’s self from a cutting blow than from a
thrust, and I determined to adopt this latter means of assault. Ragobah
advanced upon me slowly, much as a cat steals upon an unsuspecting bird.
I raised my stick as if to strike him, and he instinctively threw up his
left arm, and advanced upon me. My opportunity had come; I lowered the
point of my cane to the level of his face, and made a vigorous lunge
forward, throwing my whole weight upon the thrust. As nearly as I could
tell, the point of my stick caught him in the socket of the left
eye, just as he sprang forward, and hurled him backward, blinded and
stupefied. Before he had recovered sufficiently to protect himself, I
dealt him a blow upon the head that brought him quickly to the earth.
Without stopping to ascertain whether or not I had killed him, I fled
precipitately to my lodgings, hastily packed my belongings, and set out
for Matheron Station by the same train I had so fondly believed would
convey Lona and me to our nuptial altar. Words cannot describe the
suffering I endured upon that journey. For the first time since my
terrible desertion I had an opportunity to think, and I did think, if
the pulse of an overwhelming pain, perpetually recurring like the beat
of a loaded wheel, can be called thought. Although there is no insanity
in our family nearer than a great-uncle, I marvel that I retained my
wits under this terrible blow. I seriously contemplated suicide, and
probably should have taken my life had not my mental condition gradually
undergone a change. I was no longer conscious of suffering, nor of a
desire to end my life. I was simply indifferent. It was all one to me
whether I lived or died. The power of loving or caring for anything
or anybody had entirely left me, and when I would reflect how utterly
indifferent I was even to my own father and mother, I would regard
myself as an unnatural monster. I tried to conceal my lack of affection
by a greater attention to their wishes, and it was in this way that
I yielded, without remonstrance, to those same views regarding my
marriage, to which, but a little while before, I had made such strenuous
objections as to quite enrage my father. I was an only child, and (as
often happens in such cases) my father never could be brought to realise
that I had many years since attained my majority. It had been his wish,
ever since my boyhood, that I should marry your mother, and he made use,
when I was nearly forty, of the selfsame insistent and coercive methods
with which he had sought to subdue my will when I was but twenty, and at
last he attained his end. I had learned from friends in Bombay that
not only had Rama Ragobah recovered from the blows I had given him, but
that, shortly after my encounter with him, he had married Lona, she whom
I had loved, God only knows how madly! It was all one to me now whether
I was married or single, living or dead. So it was all arranged. I
myself told the lady that, so far as I then understood my feelings, I
had no affection for any person on earth; but it seemed only to pique
her, and I think she determined then and there to make herself an
exception to this universal rule. This is how I came to marry your
mother. There was not the slightest community of thought, sentiment, or
interest between us. The things I liked did not interest her; what she
liked bored me; yet she was pre-eminently a sensible woman, and when she
learned the real state of affairs was the first to suggest a separation,
which was effected. We parted with the kindliest feelings, and, as you
know, remained fast friends up to her death.
It was nearly a year after the affair on Malabar Hill before I had the heart to return with your mother to Bombay. I had thought all emotion forever dead within me, but, ah! how little do we understand ourselves. Twelve months had not passed, and already I was conscious of a vague ache—a feeling that something, I scarcely knew what, had gone wrong, so terribly wrong! I told myself that I was now married, and had a duty both to my wife and society, and I tried hard to ignore the ache, on the one hand, and not to permit myself to define and analyse it on the other. But a man does not have to understand anatomy in order to break his heart, and so my longing defined itself even by itself. The old fire, built on a virgin hearth, was far from out. Society had heaped a mouthful of conventional ashes upon it, but they had served only to preserve it. From the fiat of the human heart there is no court of appeal.
One night, to my utter amazement, I received a letter from Lona which you will find filed away among my other valuable documents.
It was addressed in her own quaint little hand, and I trembled violently as I opened the envelope. It was but a brief note, and ran as follows:
“I am dying, and have much to explain before I go. Be generous, and do not think too harshly of me. Suspend your judgment until I have spoken. You must come by stealth, or you will not be permitted to see me. Follow my directions carefully and you will have no trouble in reaching me. Go at once to the cave on Malabar Hill, whistle thrice, and one will appear who will conduct you safely to me. Follow him, and whatever happens, make no noise. Do not delay—I can last but little longer.
“LONA.”
I did not even pause to re-read the letter, or to ask why it was necessary to follow such singular directions in order to be led to her. I simply knew she had written to me; that she was dying; that she wanted me; that was all, but it was enough. Dazed, filled with a strange mixture of dread and yearning, I hurried to the cave. It was already night when I reached it—just such a moonlit night as that on which, nearly a year before, Lona and I had planned our elopement; and now that heart, which then had beaten so wildly against mine, was slowly throbbing itself into eternal silence,—and I—I had been more than dead ever since.
I looked about on all sides, but no human being was visible. I whistled thrice, but no sound came in response. Again I whistled, with the same result. Where was my guide? Perhaps he was in the cave and had not heard me. I entered it to see, but had barely passed the narrow portal when a voice said close behind me: “Did you whistle, Sahib?” The suddenness, the strangeness of this uncanny appearance, so close to me that I felt the breath of the words upon my neck, sent a chill over me. I shall never forget that feeling! Many times since then have I dreamt of a hand that struck me from out the darkness, while the same unspeakable dread froze up my life, until, by repetition, it has sunk deep into my soul with the weight of a positive conviction. I know, as I now write, that this will be my end, and his will be the hand that strikes. The fibre of our lives is twisted in a certain way, and each has its own fixed mode of unravelling,—this will be mine.
When I had recovered from the first momentary shock I turned and looked behind me. There, close upon me, with his huge form blocking the narrow entrance, stood Rama Ragobah, my rival, his face hideous with malignant triumph! I was trapped, and that, too, by a man whom my hatred, could it have worked its will, would have plunged into the uttermost hell of torment. I felt sure my hour had come, but my assassin should not have the satisfaction of thinking I feared him. I did not permit myself to betray the slightest concern as to my position—indeed, after the shock of the first surprise, I did not care so very much what fate awaited me. Why should I? Had I not seriously thought of taking my own life? Was it not clear now that Lona, whose own handwriting had decoyed me, had most basely betrayed me into her husband’s hands? If I had wished to end my own life before, surely now, death, at the hands of another, was no very terrible thing. Could I have dragged that other down with me, I would have rejoiced at the prospect!