Julius thought this the likely explanation. Geoffrey went down
sulkily to the gate to lock it, and returned to them, with the
key in his pocket.
"I'm obliged to be careful of the gate," he said. "The
neighborhood swarms with beggars and tramps. If you want to go
out," he added, turning pointedly to Anne, "I'm at your service,
as a good husband ought to be."
After a hurried breakfast Julius took his departure. "I don't
accept your refusal," he said to his brother, before Anne. "You
will see me here again." Geoffrey obstinately repe ated the
refusal. "If you come here every day of your life," he said, "it
will be just the same."
The gate closed on Julius. Anne returned again to the solitude of
her own chamber. Geoffrey entered the drawing-room, placed the
volumes of the Newgate Calendar on the table before him, and
resumed the reading which he had been unable to continue on the
evening before.
Hour after hour he doggedly plodded through one case of murder
after another. He had read one good half of the horrid chronicle
of crime before his power of fixing his attention began to fail
him. Then he lit his pipe, and went out to think over it in the
garden. However the atrocities of which he had been reading might
differ in other respects, there was one terrible point of
resemblance, which he had not anticipated, and in which every one
of the cases agreed. Sooner or later, there was the dead body
always certain to be found; always bearing its dumb witness, in
the traces of poison or in the marks of violence, to the crime
committed on it.
He walked to and fro slowly, still pondering over the problem
which had first found its way into his mind when he had stopped
in the front garden and had looked up at Anne's window in the
dark. "How?" That had been the one question before him, from the
time when the lawyer had annihilated his hopes of a divorce. It
remained the one question still. There was no answer to it in his
own brain; there was no answer to it in the book which he had
been consulting. Every thing was in his favor if he could only
find out "how." He had got his hated wife up stairs at his
mercy--thanks to his refusal of the money which Julius had
offered to him. He was living in a place absolutely secluded from
public observation on all sides of it--thanks to his resolution
to remain at the cottage, even after his landlady had insulted
him by sending him a notice to quit. Every thing had been
prepared, every thing had been sacrificed, to the fulfillment of
one purpose--and how to attain that purpose was still the same
impenetrable mystery to him which it had been from the first!
What was the other alternative? To accept the proposal which
Julius had made. In other words, to give up his vengeance on
Anne, and to turn his back on the splendid future which Mrs.
Glenarm's devotion still offered to him.
Never! He would go back to the books. He was not at the end of
them. The slightest hint in the pages which were still to be read
might set his sluggish brain working in the right direction. The
way to be rid of her, without exciting the suspicion of any
living creature, in the house or out of it, was a way that might
be found yet.
Could a man, in his position of life, reason in this brutal
manner? could he act in this merciless way? Surely the thought of
what he was about to do must have troubled him this time!
Pause for a moment--and look back at him in the past.
Did he feel any remorse when he was plotting the betrayal of
Arnold in the garden at Windygates? The sense which feels remorse
had not been put into him. What he is now is the legitimate
consequence of what he was then. A far more serious temptation is
now urging him to commit a far more serious crime. How is he to
resist? Will his skill in rowing (as Sir Patrick once put it),
his swiftness in running, his admirable capacity and endurance in
other physical exercises, help him to win a purely moral victory
over his own selfishness and his own cruelty? No! The moral and
mental neglect of himself, which the material tone of public
feeling about him has tacitly encouraged, has left him at the
mercy of the worst instincts in his nature--of all that is most
vile and of all that is most dangerous in the composition of the
natural man. With the mass of his fellows, no harm out of the
common has come of this, because no temptation out of the common
has passed their way. But with _him,_ the case is reversed. A
temptation out of the common has passed _his_ way. How does it
find him prepared to meet it? It finds him, literally and
exactly, what his training has left him, in the presence of any
temptation small or great--a defenseless man.
Geoffrey returned to the cottage. The servant stopped him in the
passage, to ask at what time he wished to dine. Instead of
answering, he inquired angrily for Mrs. Dethridge. Mrs. Dethridge
not come back.
It was now late in the afternoon, and she had been out since the
early morning. This had never happened before. Vague suspicions
of her, one more monstrous than another, began to rise in
Geoffrey's mind. Between the drink and the fever, he had been (as
Julius had told him) wandering in his mind during a part of the
night. Had he let any thing out in that condition? Had Hester
heard it? And was it, by any chance, at the bottom of her long
absence and her notice to quit? He determined--without letting
her see that he suspected her--to clear up that doubt as soon as
his landlady returned to the house.
The evening came. It was past nine o'clock before there was a
ring at the bell. The servant came to ask for the key. Geoffrey
rose to go to the gate himself--and changed his mind before he
left the room. _Her_ suspicions might be roused (supposing it to
be Hester who was waiting for admission) if he opened the gate to
her when the servant was there to do it. He gave the girl the
key, and kept out of sight.
* * * * * *
"Dead tired!"--the servant said to herself, seeing her mistress
by the light of the lamp over the gate.
"Dead tired!"--Geoffrey said to himself, observing Hester
suspiciously as she passed him in the passage on her way up
stairs to take off her bonnet in her own room.
"Dead tired!"--Anne said to herself, meeting Hester on the upper
floor, and receiving from her a letter in Blanche's handwriting,
delivered to the mistress of the cottage by the postman, who had
met her at her own gate.
Having given the letter to Anne, Hester Dethridge withdrew to her
bedroom.
Geoffrey closed the door of the drawing-room, in which the
candles were burning, and went into the dining-room, in which
there was no light. Leaving the door ajar, he waited to intercept
his landlady on her way back to her supper in the kitchen.
Hester wearily secured her door, wearily li
t the candles, wearily
put the pen and ink on the table. For some minutes after this she
was compelled to sit down, and rally her strength and fetch her
breath. After a little she was able to remove her upper clothing.
This done she took the manuscript inscribed, "My Confession," out
of the secret pocket of her stays--turned to the last leaf as
before--and wrote another entry, under the entry made on the
previous night.
"This morning I gave him notice to quit, and offered him his
money back if he wanted it. He refuses to go. He shall go
to-morrow, or I will burn the place over his head. All through
to-day I have avoided him by keeping out of the house. No rest to
ease my mind, and no sleep to close my eyes. I humbly bear my
cross as long as my strength will let me."
At those words the pen dropped from her fingers. Her head nodded
on her breast. She roused herself with a start. Sleep was the
enemy she dreaded: sleep brought dreams.
She unfastened the window-shutters and looked out at the night.
The peaceful moonlight was shining over the garden. The clear
depths of the night sky were soothing and beautiful to look at.
What! Fading already? clouds? darkness? No! Nearly asleep once
more. She roused herself again, with a start. There was the
moonlight, and there was the garden as bright under it as ever.
Dreams or no dreams, it was useless to fight longer against the
weariness that overpowered her. She closed the shutters, and went
back to the bed; and put her Confession in its customary place at
night, under her pillow.
She looked round the room--and shuddered. Every corner of it was
filled with the terrible memories of the past night. She might
wake from the torture of the dreams to find the terror of the
Apparition watching at her bedside. Was there no remedy? no
blessed safeguard under which she might tranquilly resign herself
to sleep? A thought crossed her mind. The good book--the Bible.
If she slept with the Bible under her pillow, there was hope in
the good book--the hope of sleeping in peace.
It was not worth while to put on the gown and the stays which she
had taken off. Her shawl would cover her. It was equally needless
to take the candle. The lower shutters would not be closed at
that hour; and if they were, she could lay her hand on the Bible,
in its place on the parlor book-shelf, in the dark.
She removed the Confession from under the pillow. Not even for a
minute could she prevail on herself to leave it in one room while
she was away from it in another. With the manuscript folded up,
and hidden in her hand, she slowly descended the stairs again.
Her knees trembled under her. She was obliged to hold by the
banister, with the hand that was free.
Geoffrey observed her from the dining-room, on her way down the
stairs. He waited to see what she did, before he showed himself,
and spoke to her. Instead of going on into the kitchen, she
stopped short, and entered the parlor. Another suspicious
circumstance! What did she want in the parlor, without a candle,
at that time of night?
She went to the book-case--her dark figure plainly visible in the
moonlight that flooded the little room. She staggered and put her
hand to her head; giddy, to all appearance, from extreme fatigue.
She recovered herself, and took a book from the shelf. She leaned
against the wall after she had possessed herself of the book. Too
weary, as it seemed, to get up stairs again without a little
rest. Her arm-chair was near her. Better rest, for a moment or
two, to be had in that than could be got by leaning against the
wall. She sat down heavily in the chair, with the book on her
lap. One of her arms hung over the arm of the chair, with the
hand closed, apparently holding something.
Her head nodded on her breast--recovered itself--and sank gently
on the cushion at the back of the chair. Asleep? Fast asleep.
In less than a minute the muscles of the closed hand that hung
over the arm of the chair slowly relaxed. Something white slipped
out of her hand, and lay in the moonlight on the floor.
Geoffrey took off his heavy shoes, and entered the room
noiselessly in his stockings. He picked up the white thing on the
floor. It proved to be a collection of several sheets of thin
paper, neatly folded together, and closely covered with writing.
Writing? As long as she was awake she had kept it hidden in her
hand. Why hide it?
Had he let out any thing to compromise himself when he was
light-headed with the fever the night before? and had she taken
it down in writing to produce against him? Possessed by guilty
distrust, even that monstrous doubt assumed a look of probability
to Geoffrey's mind. He left the parlor as noiselessly as he had
entered it, and made for the candle-light in the drawing-room,
determined to examine the manuscript in his hand.
After carefully smoothing out the folded leaves on the table, he
turned to the first page, and read these lines.
CHAPTER THE FIFTY-FOURTH.
THE MANUSCRIPT.
1.
"MY Confession: To be put into my coffin; and to be buried with
me when I die.
"This is the history of what I did in the time of my married
life. Here--known to no other mortal creature, confessed to my
Creator alone--is the truth.
"At the great day of the Resurrection, we shall all rise again in
our bodies as we have lived. When I am called before the Judgment
Seat I shall have this in my hand.
"Oh, just and merciful Judge, Thou knowest what I have suffered.
My trust is in Thee.
2.
"I am the eldest of a large family, born of pious parents. We
belonged to the congregation of the Primitive Methodists.
"My sisters were all married before me. I remained for some years
the only one at home. At the latter part of the time my mother's
health failed; and I managed the house in her place. Our
spiritual pastor, good Mr. Bapchild, used often to dine with us,
on Sundays, between the services. He approved of my management of
the house, and, in particular, of my cooking. This was not
pleasant to my mother, who felt a jealousy of my being, as it
were, set over her in her place. My unhappiness at home began in
this way. My mother's temper got worse as her health got worse.
My father was much away from us, traveling for his business. I
had to bear it all. About this time I began to think it would be
well for me if I could marry as my sisters had done; and have
good Mr. Bapchild to dinner, between the services, in a house of
my own.
"In this frame of mind I made acquaintance with a young man who
attended service at our chapel.
"His name was Joel Dethridge. He had a beautiful voice. When we
sang hymns, he sang off the same book with me. By trade he was a
paper-hanger. We had much serious talk together. I walked with
him on Sundays. He was a good ten years younger than I was; and,
being only a journeyman, his worldly station was below mine. My
mother found out the liking that had grown up between us. She
told my father the next time he was at home. Also my married
sisters and my brothers. They all joined together to stop things
from going further between me and Joel Dethridge. I had a hard
time of it. Mr. Bapchild expressed himself as feeling much
grieved at the turn things were taking. He introduced me into a
sermon--not by name, but I knew who it was meant for. Perhaps I
might have given way if they had not done one thing. They made
inquiries of my young man's enemies, and brought wicked stories
of him to me behind his back. This, after we had sung off the
same hymn-book, and walked together, and agreed one with the
other on religious subjects, was too much to bear. I was of age
to judge for myself. And I married Joel Dethridge.
3.
"My relations all turned their backs on me. Not one of them was
present at my marriage; my brother Reuben, in particular, who led
the rest, saying that they had done with me from that time forth.
Mr. Bapchild was much moved; shed tears, and said he would pray
for me.
"I was married in London by a pastor who was a stranger; and we
settled in London with fair prospects. I had a little fortune of
my own--my share of some money left to us girls by our aunt
Hester, whom I was named after. It was three hundred pounds.
Nearly one hundred of this I spent in buying furniture to fit up
the little house we took to live in. The rest I gave to my
husband to put into the bank against the time when he wanted it
to set up in business for himself.
"For three months, more or less, we got on nicely--except in one
particular. My husband never stirred in the matter of starting in
business for himself.
"He was once or twice cross with me when I said it seemed a pity
to be spending the money in the bank (which might be afterward
wanted) instead of earning more in business. Good Mr. Bapchild,
happening about this time to be in London, staid over Sunday, and
came to dine with us between the services. He had tried to make
my peace with my relations--but he had not succeeded. At my
request he spoke to my husband about the necessity of exerting
himself. My husband took it ill. I then saw him seriously out of
temper for the first time. Good Mr. Bapchild said no more. He
appeared to be alarmed at what had happened, and he took his
leave early.
"Shortly afterward my husband went out. I got tea ready for
him--but he never came back. I got supper ready for him--but he
never came back. It was past twelve at night before I saw him
again. I was very much startled by the state he came home in. He
didn't speak like himself, or look like himself: he didn't seem
to know me--wandered in his mind, and fell all in a lump like on
our bed. I ran out and fetched the doctor to him.
"The doctor pulled him up to the light, and looked at him;
smelled his breath, and dropped him down again on the bed; turned
about, and stared at me. 'What's the matter, Sir?' I says. 'Do
you mean to tell me you don't know?' says the doctor. 'No, Sir,'
says I. 'Why what sort of a woman are you,' says he, 'not to know
a drunken man when you see him!' With that he went away, and left
me standing by the bedside, all in a tremble from head to foot.
"This was how I first found out that I was the wife
of a drunken man.
4.
"I have omitted to say any thing about my husband's family.
"While we were keeping company together he told me he was an
orphan--with an uncle and aunt in Canada, and an only brother
settled in Scotland. Before we were married he gave me a letter
from this brother. It was to say that he was sorry he was not
able to come to England, and be present at my marriage, and to
wish me joy and the rest of it. Good Mr. Bapchild (to whom, in my
distress, I wrote word privately of what had happened) wrote back
Man and Wife Page 67
