by Grant Allen
“You are wet,” I said, trembling. “Change your things, Césarine.” I could not pretend to speak gently to her.
She turned upon me with a fierce look in her big black eyes. Her instinct showed her at once I had discovered her secret. “Tell them, and hang me,” she cried fiercely.
It was what the law required me to do. I was otherwise the accomplice of murder and cannibalism. But I could not do it. Profoundly as I loathed her and hated her presence, now, I couldn’t find it in my heart to give her up to justice, as I knew I ought to do.
I turned away and answered nothing.
Presently, she came out again from her bedroom, with her wet things still dripping around her. “Smoke that,” she said, handing me a tiny cigarette rolled round in a leaf of fresh tobacco.
“I will not,” I answered with a vague surmise, taking it from her fingers. “I know the smell. It is manchineal. You cannot any longer deceive me.”
She went back to her bedroom once more. I sat, dazed and stupefied, in the bamboo chair on the front piazza. What to do, I knew not, and cared not. I was tied to her for life, and there was no help for it, save by denouncing her to the rude Haitian justice.
In an hour or more, our English maid came out to speak to me. “I’m afraid, sir,” she said, “Mrs. Tristram is getting delirious. She seems to be in a high fever. Shall I ask one of these poor black bodies to go out and get the English doctor?”
I went into my wife’s bedroom. Césarine lay moaning piteously on the bed, in her wet clothes still; her cheeks were hot, and her pulse was high and thin and feverish. I knew without asking what was the matter with her. It was yellow fever.
The night’s exposure in that terrible climate, and the ghastly scene she had gone through so intrepidly, had broken down even Césarine’s iron constitution.
I sent for the doctor and had her put to bed immediately. The black nurse and I undressed her between us. We found next her bosom, tied by a small red silken thread, a tiny bone, fresh and ruddy-looking. I knew what it was, and so did the negress. It was a human finger-bone — the last joint of a small child’s fourth finger. The negress shuddered and hid her head. “It is Vaudoux, Monsieur!” she said. “I have seen it on others. Madame has been paying a visit, I suppose, to her grandmother.”
For six long endless days and nights I watched and nursed that doomed criminal, doing everything for her that skill could direct or care could suggest to me: yet all the time fearing and dreading that she might yet recover, and not knowing in my heart what either of our lives could ever be like if she did live through it.
A merciful Providence willed it otherwise.
On the sixth day, the fatal vomito negro set in — the symptom of the last incurable stage of yellow fever — and I knew for certain that Césarine would die. She had brought her own punishment upon her. At midnight that evening she died delirious.
Thank God, she had left no child of mine behind her to inherit the curse her mother’s blood had handed down to her!
IX.
On my return to London, whither I went by mail direct, leaving the yacht to follow after me, I drove straight to the Lathams’ from Waterloo Station. Mrs. Latham was out, the servant said, but Miss Irene was in the drawing-room.
Irene was sitting at the window by herself, working quietly at a piece of crewel work. She rose to meet me with her sweet simple little English smile. I took her hand and pressed it like a brother.
“I got your telegram,” she said simply. “Harry, I know she is dead; but I know something terrible besides has happened. Tell me all. Don’t be afraid to speak of it before me. I am not afraid, for my part, to listen.”
I sat down on the sofa beside her, and told her all, without one word of excuse or concealment, from our last parting to the day of Césarine’s death in Haiti: and she held my hand and listened all the while with breathless wonderment to my strange story.
At the end I said, “Irene, it has all come and gone between us like a hideous nightmare. I cannot imagine even now how that terrible woman, with all her power, could ever for one moment have bewitched me away from you, my beloved, my queen, my own heart’s darling.”
Irene did not try to hush me or to stop me in any way. She merely sat and looked at me steadily, and said nothing.
“It was fascination,” I cried. “Infatuation, madness, delirium, enchantment.”
“It was worse than that, Harry,” Irene answered, rising quietly. “It was poison; it was witchcraft; it was sheer African devilry.”
In a flash of thought, I remembered the cup of coffee at Seymour Crescent, the curious sherry at Port-au-Prince, the cigarette with the manchineal she had given me on the mountains, and I saw forthwith that Irene with her woman’s quickness had divined rightly. It was more than infatuation; it was intoxication with African charms and West Indian poisons.
“What a man does in such a woman’s hands is not his own doing,” Irene said slowly. “He has no more control of himself in such circumstances than if she had drugged him with chloroform or opium.”
“Then you forgive me, Irene?”
“I have nothing to forgive, Harry. I am grieved for you. I am frightened.” Then bursting into tears, “My darling, my darling; I love you, I love you!”
LUCRETIA.
I will acknowledge that I was certainly a very young man in the year ‘67; indeed, I was only just turned of twenty, and was inordinately proud of a slight downy fringe on my upper lip, which I was pleased to speak of as my moustache. Still, I was a sturdy young fellow enough, in spite of my consumptive tendencies, and not given to groundless fears in a general way; but I must allow that I was decidedly frightened by my adventure in the Richmond Hotel on the Christmas Eve of that aforesaid year of grace. It may be a foolish reminiscence, yet I dare say you won’t mind listening to it.
When I say the Richmond Hotel, you must not understand me to speak of the Star and Garter in the town of that ilk situated in the county of Surrey, England. The Richmond where I passed my uncomfortable Christmas Eve stands on the banks of the pretty St. Francis River in Lower Canada. I had gone out to the colony in the autumn of that year, to look after a small property of my mother’s near Kamouraska; and I originally intended to spend the winter in Quebec. But as November and December wore away, and the snow grew deeper and deeper upon the plains of Abraham, I became gradually aware that a Canadian winter was not the best adapted tonic in the world for a hearty young man with a slight hereditary predisposition to consumption. I had seen enough of Arctic life in Quebec during those two initial months to give me a good idea of its pleasures and its drawbacks. I had steered by taboggan down the ice-cone at the Falls of Montmorenci; I had driven a sleigh, tête-à-tête with a French Canadian belle, to a surprise picnic in a house at Sainte Anne; I had skated, snow-shoed, and curled to my heart’s content; and I had caught my death of cold on the frozen St. Lawrence, not to mention such minor misfortunes as getting my nose, ears, and feet frostbitten during a driving party up the banks of the Chaudière. So a few days before Christmas, I determined to strike south. I would go for a tour through Virginia and the Carolinas, to escape the cold weather, waiting for the return of the summer sun to catch a glimpse of Niagara and the great lakes.
For this purpose I must first go to Montreal; and, that being the case, what could be more convenient than to spend Christmas Day itself with the rector at Richmond, to whom I had letters of introduction, his wife being in fact a first cousin of my mother’s? Richmond lies half-way on the Grand Trunk line between Quebec and Montreal, and it would be more pleasant, by breaking my journey there, to eat my turkey and plum-pudding in a friend’s family than in that somewhat cheerless hotel, the Dominion Hall. So off I started from the Point Levy station, at four o’clock on the twenty-fourth of December, hoping to arrive at my journey’s end about one o’clock on Christmas morning.
Now, those were the days, just after the great American civil war, when gold was almost unknown either in the States or Canada, and
everybody used greasy dollar notes of uncertain and purely local value. Hence I was compelled to take the money for expenses on my projected tour in the only form of specie which was available, that of solid silver. A hundred and fifty pounds in silver dollars amounts to a larger bulk and a heavier weight than you would suppose; and I thought it safer to carry the sum in my own hands, loosely bundled into a large leather reticule. Hinc illœ lacrimœ: — that was the real cause of my night’s adventure and of the present story.
When I got into the long open American railway-carriage, with its comfortable stove and warm foot-bricks, I found only one seat vacant, and that was a red velvet sofa, opposite to another occupied by a girl of singular beauty. I can remember to this day exactly how she was dressed. I dare say my lady readers will think it horribly old-fashioned at the present time, but it was the very latest and most enchanting style in the year ‘67. On her head was a coquettish little cheese-plate bonnet, bound round with one of those warm, soft, fleecy woollen veils or head-wraps which Canadian girls know as Nubias. Her dress was a short winter walking costume of the period, trimmed with fur, and vandyked at the bottom so as to show a glimpse of the quilted down petticoat underneath. Her little high-heeled boots, displayed by the short costume, were buttoned far above the ankle, and bound with fur to match the dress; while a tiny tassel at the side added just a suspicion of Parisian coquetry. Her cloak was lined with sable, or what seemed so to my undiscriminating eyes; and her rug was a splendid piece of wolverine skins. As to her eyes, her lips, her figure, I had rather not attempt them. I can manage clothes, but not goddesses. Altogether, quite a dream of Canadian beauty, not devoid of that indefinable grace which goes only with the French blood.
I was not bold in ‘67, and I would have preferred to take any other seat rather than face this divine apparition; but there was no help for it, since all the others were filled: so I sat down a little sheepishly, I dare say. Almost before we were well out of the station we had got into a conversation, and it was she who began it.
“You are an Englishman, I think?” she said, looking at me with a frank and pleasant smile.
“Yes,” I answered, colouring, though why I should have been ashamed of my nationality for that solitary moment of my life I cannot imagine, — unless, perhaps, because she was a Canadian; “but how on earth did you discover it?”
“You would have been more warmly wrapped up if you had lived long in Canada,” she replied. “In spite of our stoves and hot bricks, you’ll find yourself very cold before you get to your journey’s end.”
“Yes,” I said; “I suppose it’s rather chilly late at night in these big cars.”
“Dreadfully; oh, quite terribly. You ought to have a rug, you really ought. Won’t you let me lend you one? I have another under the seat here.”
“But you brought that for yourself,” I interposed. “You will want it by-and-by, when it gets a little colder.”
“Oh no, I shan’t. This is warm enough for me; it’s wolverine. You have a mother?”
What an extraordinary question, I thought, and what an unusually friendly girl! Was she really quite as simple-minded as she seemed, or could she be the “designing woman” of the novels? Yes, I admitted to her cautiously that I possessed a maternal parent, who was at that moment safely drinking her tea in a terrace at South Kensington.
“I have none,” she said, with an emphasis on the personal pronoun, and a sort of appealing look in her big eyes. “But you should take care of yourself, for her sake. You really must take my rug. Hundreds, oh, thousands of young Englishmen come out here, and kill themselves their first winter by imprudence.”
Thus adjured, I accepted the rug with many thanks and apologies, and wrapped myself warmly up in the corner, with a splendid view of my vis-à-vis.
Exactly at that moment, the ticket collector came round upon his official tour. Now, on American and Canadian railways, you do not take your ticket beforehand, but pay your fare to the collector, who walks up and down through the open cars from end to end, between every station. I lifted up my bag of silver, which lay on the seat beside me, and imprudently opened it to take out a few dollars full in sight of my enchanting neighbour. I saw her look with unaffected curiosity at the heap of coin within, and I was proud at being able to give such an unequivocal proof of my high respectability — for what better guarantee of all the noblest moral qualities can any man produce all the world over than a bag of dollars?
“What a lot of money!” she said, as the collector passed on. “What can you want with it all in coin?”
“I’m going on a tour in the Southern States,” I confided in reply, “and I thought it better to take specie.” (I was very proud ten or twelve years ago of that word specie.)
“And I suppose those are your initials on the reticule? What a pretty monogram! Your mother gave you that for a birthday present.”
“You must be a conjurer or a clairvoyant,” I said, smiling. “So she did;” and I added that the initials represented my humble patronymic and baptismal designations.
“My name’s Lucretia,” said my neighbour artlessly, as a child might have said it, without a word as to surname or qualifying circumstances; and from that moment she became to me simply Lucretia. I think of her as Lucretia to the present day. As she spoke, she pointed to the word engraved in tiny letters on her pretty silver locket.
I suppose she thought my confidence required a little more confidence in return, for after a slight pause she repeated once more, “My name’s Lucretia, and I live at Richmond.”
“Richmond!” I cried. “Why, that’s just where I’m going. Do you know the rector?”
“Mr. Pritchard? Oh yes, intimately. He’s our greatest friend. Are you going to stop with him?”
“For a day or two at least, on my way to Montreal. Mrs. Pritchard is my mother’s cousin.”
“How delightful! Then we may consider ourselves acquaintances. But you don’t mean to knock them up to-night? They’ll all be in bed long before one o’clock.”
“No, I haven’t even written to tell them I was coming,” I answered. “They gave me a general invitation, and said I might drop in whenever I pleased.”
“Then you must stop at the hotel to-night. I’m going there myself. My people keep the hotel.”
Was it possible! I was thunderstruck. I had pictured Lucretia to myself as at least a countess of the ancien régime, a few of whom still linger on in Montreal and elsewhere. Her locket, her rugs, her eyes, her chiselled features, all of them seemed to me redolent of the old French noblesse. And here it turned out that this living angel was only the daughter of an inn-keeper! But in that primitive and pleasant Canadian society such things, I thought, can easily be. No doubt she is the petted child of the house, the one heiress of the old man’s savings; and after spending a winter holiday among the gaieties of Quebec, she is now returning to pass the Christmas season with her own family. I will not conceal the fact that I had already fallen over head and ears in love with Lucretia at first sight, and that frank avowal made me love her all the more. Besides, these Canadian hotel-keepers are often very rich; and was not her manner perfect, and was she not an intimate friend of the rector and his wife? All these things showed at least that she was accustomed to refined society. I caught myself already speculating as to what my mother would think of such a match.
In five minutes it was all arranged about the hotel, and I had got into the midst of a swimming conversation with Lucretia. She told me about herself and her past; how she had been educated at a convent in Montreal, and loved the nuns, oh so dearly, though she was a Protestant herself, and only French on her mother’s side. (This, I thought, was well, as a safeguard against parental prejudice.) She told me all the gossip of Richmond, and whom I should meet at the rector’s, and what a dull little town it was. But Quebec was delightful, and Montreal — oh, if she could only live in Montreal, it would be perfect bliss. And so I thought myself, if only Lucretia would live there with me; but I prudently refra
ined from saying so, as I thought it rather premature. Or perhaps I blushed and stammered too much to get the words out. “Had she ever been in Europe?” No, never, but she would so like it. “Ah, it would be delightful to spend a month or two in Paris,” I suggested, with internal pictures of a honeymoon floating through my brain. “Yes, that would be most enjoyable,” she answered. Altogether, Lucretia and I kept chatting uninterruptedly the whole way to Richmond, and the other passengers must have voted us most unconscionable bores; for they evidently could not sleep by reason of our incessant talking. We did not sleep, nor wish to sleep. And I am bound to say that a more frankly enchanting or seemingly guileless girl than Lucretia I have never met from that day to this.
At last we reached Richmond Depôt (as the Canadians call the stations), very cold and tired externally, but lively enough as regards the internal fires. We got out, and looked after our luggage. A sleepy porter promised to bring it next morning to the hotel. There were no sleighs in waiting — Richmond is too much of a country station for that — so I took my reticule in my hand, threw Lucretia’s rug across her shoulders, and proceeded to walk with her to the hotel.
Now, the “Depôt” is in a suburb known as Melbourne, while Richmond itself lies on the other side of the river St. Francis, here crossed by a long covered bridge, a sort of rough wooden counterpart of the famous one at Lucerne. As we passed out into the cold night, it was snowing heavily, and the frost was very bitter. Lucretia took my arm without a word of prelude, as naturally as if she were my sister, and guided me through the snow-covered path to the bridge. When we got under the shelter of the wooden covering, we had to pass through the long dark gallery, as black as night, heading only for the dim square of moonlight at the other end. But Lucretia walked and chatted on as unconcernedly as if she had always been in the habit of traversing that lonely tunnel-like bridge with a total stranger every evening of her life. I confess I was surprised. I fancied a prim English girl in a similar situation, and I began to wonder whether all this artlessness was really as genuine as it looked.
