The Big Book of Victorian Mysteries

by The Big Book of Victorian Mysteries (retail) (epub)

  It was pitch dark within. When I entered I said, “Good evening,” but no answer came. “The devil!” I said to myself. “Is my traveling companion deaf, dumb, or asleep?” Then I said in a louder tone: “Good evening,” but no answer came.

  All this time the stagecoach was whirling along, drawn by ten horses.

  I was puzzled. Who was my companion? Was it a man? Was it a woman? Who was the silent No. 1, and, whoever it might be, why did he or she not reply to my courteous salutation? It would have been well to have lit a match, but I was not smoking then and had none with me. What should I do? I concluded to rely upon my sense of feeling, and stretched out my hand to the place where No. 1 should have been, wondering whether I would touch a silk dress or an overcoat, but there was nothing there. At that moment a flash of lightning, herald of a quickly approaching storm, lit up the night, and I perceived that there was no one in the coach excepting myself. I burst out into a roar of laughter, and yet a moment later I could not help wondering what had become of No. 1.

  A half hour later we arrived at the first stop, and I was just about to ask the guard who flashed his lantern into the compartment why there was no No. 1, when she entered. In the yellow rays I thought it was a vision: a pale, graceful, beautiful woman, dressed in deep mourning.

  Here was the fulfillment of my dream, the widow I had hoped for.

  I extended my hand to the unknown to assist her into the coach, and she sat down beside me, murmuring: “Thank you, sir. Good evening,” but in a tone that was so sad that it went to my very heart.

  “How unfortunate,” I thought. “There are only fifty miles between here and Malaga. I wish to heaven this coach were going to Kamschatka.” The guard slammed the door, and we were in darkness. I wished that the storm would continue and that we might have a few more flashes of lightning. But the storm didn’t. It fled away, leaving only a few pallid stars, whose light practically amounted to nothing. I made a brave effort to start a conversation.

  “Do you feel well?”

  “Are you going to Malaga?”

  “Did you like the Alhambra?”

  “You come from Granada?”

  “Isn’t the night damp?”

  To which questions she respectively responded:

  “Thanks, very well.”

  “Yes.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Yes!”

  “Awful!”

  It was quite certain that my traveling companion was not inclined to conversation. I tried to think up something original to say to her, but nothing occurred to me, so I lost myself for the moment in meditation. Why had this woman gotten on the stage at the first stop instead of at Granada? Why was she alone? Was she married? Was she really a widow? Why was she so sad? I certainly had no right to ask her any of these questions, and yet she interested me. How I wished the sun would rise. In the daytime one may talk freely, but in the pitch darkness one feels a certain oppression, it seems like taking an unfair advantage.

  My unknown did not sleep a moment during the night. I could tell this by her breathing and by her sighing. It is probably unnecessary to add that I did not sleep either. Once I asked her: “Do you feel ill?” and she replied: “No, sir, thank you. I beg pardon if I have disturbed your sleep.”

  “Sleep!” I exclaimed disdainfully. “I do not care to sleep. I feared you were suffering.”

  “Oh, no,” she exclaimed, in a voice that contradicted her words, “I am not suffering.”

  At last the sun rose. How beautiful she was! I mean the woman, not the sun. What deep suffering had lined her face and lurked in the depths of her beautiful eyes!

  She was elegantly dressed and evidently belonged to a good family. Every gesture bore the imprint of distinction. She was the kind of a woman you expect to see in the principal box at the opera, resplendent with jewels, surrounded by admirers.

  We breakfasted at Colmenar. After that my companion became more confidential, and I said to myself when we again entered the coach: “Philip, you have met your fate. It’s now or never.”

  II

  I regretted the very first word I mentioned to her regarding my feelings. She became a block of ice, and I lost at once all that I might have gained in her good graces. Still she answered me very kindly: “It is not because it is you, sir, who speak to me of love, but love itself is something which I hold in horror.”

  “But why, dear lady?” I inquired.

  “Because my heart is dead. Because I have loved to the point of delirium, and I have been deceived.”

  I felt that I should talk to her in a philosophic way and there were a lot of platitudes on the tip of my tongue, but I refrained. I knew that she meant what she said. When we arrived at Malaga, she said to me in a tone I shall never forget as long as I live: “I thank you a thousand times for your kind attention during the trip, and hope you will forgive me if I do not tell you my name and address.”

  “Do you mean then that we shall not meet again?”

  “Never! And you, especially, should not regret it.” And then with a smile that was utterly without joy she extended her exquisite hand to me and said: “Pray to God for me.”

  I pressed her hand and made a low bow. She entered a handsome victoria which was awaiting her, and as it moved away she bowed to me again.

  * * *

  —

  Two months later I met her again.

  At two o’clock in the afternoon I was jogging along in an old cart on the road that leads to Cordoba. The object of my journey was to examine some land which I owned in that neighborhood and pass three or four weeks with one of the judges of the Supreme Court, who was an intimate friend of mine and had been my schoolmate at the University of Granada.

  He received me with open arms. As I entered his handsome house I could but note the perfect taste and elegance of the furniture and decorations.

  “Ah, Zarto,” I said, “you have married, and you have never told me about it. Surely this was not the way to treat a man who loved you as much as I do!”

  “I am not married, and what is more I never will marry,” answered the judge sadly.

  “I believe that you are not married, dear boy, since you say so, but I cannot understand the declaration that you never will. You must be joking.”

  “I swear that I am telling you the truth,” he replied.

  “But what a metamorphosis!” I exclaimed. “You were always a partisan of marriage, and for the past two years you have been writing to me and advising me to take a life partner. Whence this wonderful change, dear friend? Something must have happened to you, something unfortunate, I fear?”

  “To me?” answered the judge somewhat embarrassed.

  “Yes, to you. Something has happened, and you are going to tell me all about it. You live here alone, have practically buried yourself in this great house. Come, tell me everything.”

  The judge pressed my hand. “Yes, yes, you shall know all. There is no man more unfortunate than I am. But listen, this is the day upon which all the inhabitants go to the cemetery, and I must be there, if only for form’s sake. Come with me. It is a pleasant afternoon and the walk will do you good, after riding so long in that old cart. The location of the cemetery is a beautiful one, and I am quite sure you will enjoy the walk. On our way, I will tell you the incident that ruined my life, and you shall judge yourself whether I am justified in my hatred of women.”

  As together we walked along the flower-bordered road, my friend told me the following story:

  * * *

  —

  Two years ago when I was Assistant District Attorney in——, I obtained permission from my chief to spend a month in Sevilla. In the hotel where I lodged there was a beautiful young woman who passed for a widow but whose origin, as well as her reasons for staying in that town, were a mystery to all. Her in
stallation, her wealth, her total lack of friends or acquaintances and the sadness of her expression, together with her incomparable beauty, gave rise to a thousand conjectures.

  Her rooms were directly opposite mine, and I frequently met her in the hall or on the stairway, only too glad to have the chance of bowing to her. She was unapproachable, however, and it was impossible for me to secure an introduction. Two weeks later, fate was to afford me the opportunity of entering her apartment. I had been to the theater that night, and when I returned to my room I thoughtlessly opened the door of her apartment instead of that of my own. The beautiful woman was reading by the light of the lamp and started when she saw me. I was so embarrassed by my mistake that for a moment I could only stammer unintelligible words. My confusion was so evident that she could not doubt for a moment that I had made a mistake. I turned to the door, intent upon relieving her of my presence as quickly as possible, when she said with the most exquisite courtesy: “In order to show you that I do not doubt your good faith and that I’m not at all offended, I beg that you will call upon me again, intentionally.”

  Three days passed before I got up sufficient courage to accept her invitation. Yes, I was madly in love with her; accustomed as I am to analyze my own sensations, I knew that my passion could only end in the greatest happiness or the deepest suffering. However, at the end of the three days I went to her apartment and spent the evening there. She told me that her name was Blanca, that she was born in Madrid, and that she was a widow. She played and sang for me and asked me a thousand questions about myself, my profession, my family, and every word she said increased my love for her. From that night my soul was the slave of her soul; yes, and it will be forever.

  I called on her again the following night, and thereafter every afternoon and evening I was with her. We loved each other, but not a word of love had ever been spoken between us.

  One evening she said to me: “I married a man without loving him. Shortly after marriage I hated him. Now he is dead. Only God knows what I suffered. Now I understand what love means; it is either heaven or it is hell. For me, up to the present time, it has been hell.”

  I could not sleep that night. I lay awake thinking over these last words of Blanca’s. Somehow this woman frightened me. Would I be her heaven and she my hell?

  My leave of absence expired. I could have asked for an extension, pretending illness, but the question was, should I do it? I consulted Blanca.

  “Why do you ask me?” she said, taking my hand.

  “Because I love you. Am I doing wrong in loving you?”

  “No,” she said, becoming very pale, and then she put both arms about my neck and her beautiful lips touched mine.

  Well, I asked for another month and, thanks to you, dear friend, it was granted. Never would they have given it to me without your influence.

  My relations with Blanca were more than love; they were delirium, madness, fanaticism, call it what you will. Every day my passion for her increased, and the morrow seemed to open up vistas of new happiness. And yet I could not avoid feeling at times a mysterious, indefinable fear. And this I knew she felt as well as I did. We both feared to lose one another. One day I said to Blanca:

  “We must marry, as quickly as possible.”

  She gave me a strange look. “You wish to marry me?”

  “Yes, Blanca,” I said, “I am proud of you. I want to show you to the whole world. I love you and I want you, pure, noble, and saintly as you are.”

  “I cannot marry you,” answered this incomprehensible woman. She would never give a reason.

  Finally my leave of absence expired, and I told her that on the following day we must separate.

  “Separate? It is impossible!” she exclaimed. “I love you too much for that.”

  “But you know, Blanca, that I worship you.”

  “Then give up your profession. I am rich. We will live our lives out together,” she said, putting her soft hand over my mouth to prevent my answer.

  I kissed the hand and then, gently removing it, I answered: “I would accept this offer from my wife, although it would be a sacrifice for me to give up my career; but I will not accept it from a woman who refuses to marry me.”

  Blanca remained thoughtful for several minutes; then, raising her head, she looked at me and said very quietly, but with a determination which could not be misunderstood: “I will be your wife, and I do not ask you to give up your profession. Go back to your office. How long will it take you to arrange your business matters and secure from the government another leave of absence to return to Sevilla?”

  “A month.”

  “A month? Well, here I will await you. Return within a month, and I will be your wife. To-day is the fifteenth of April. You will be here on the fifteenth of May?”

  “You may rest assured of that.”

  “You swear it?”

  “I swear it.”

  “You love me?”

  “More than my life.”

  “Go, then, and return. Farewell.”

  I left on the same day. The moment I arrived home I began to arrange my house to receive my bride. As you know I solicited another leave of absence, and so quickly did I arrange my business affairs that at the end of two weeks I was ready to return to Sevilla.

  I must tell you that during this fortnight I did not receive a single letter from Blanca, though I wrote her six. I started at once for Sevilla, arriving in that city on the thirtieth of April, and went at once to the hotel where we had first met.

  I learned that Blanca had left there two days after my departure without telling anyone her destination.

  Imagine my indignation, my disappointment, my suffering. She went away without even leaving a line for me, without telling me whither she was going. It never occurred to me to remain in Sevilla until the fifteenth of May to ascertain whether she would return on that date. Three days later I took up my court work and strove to forget her.

  * * *

  —

  A few moments after my friend Zarco finished the story, we arrived at the cemetery.

  This is only a small plot of ground covered with a veritable forest of crosses and surrounded by a low stone wall. As often happens in Spain, when the cemeteries are very small, it is necessary to dig up one coffin in order to lower another. Those thus disinterred are thrown in a heap in a corner of the cemetery, where skulls and bones are piled up like a haystack. As we were passing, Zarco and I looked at the skulls, wondering to whom they could have belonged, to rich or poor, noble or plebeian.

  Suddenly the judge bent down, and picking up a skull, exclaimed in astonishment:

  “Look here, my friend, what is this? It is surely a nail!”

  Yes, a long nail had been driven in the top of the skull which he held in his hand. The nail had been driven into the head, and the point had penetrated what had been the roof of the mouth.

  What could this mean? He began to conjecture, and soon both of us felt filled with horror.

  “I recognize the hand of Providence!” exclaimed the judge. “A terrible crime has evidently been committed, and would never have come to light had it not been for this accident. I shall do my duty, and will not rest until I have brought the assassin to the scaffold.”

  III

  My friend Zarco was one of the keenest criminal judges in Spain. Within a very few days he discovered that the corpse to which this skull belonged had been buried in a rough wooden coffin which the grave digger had taken home with him, intending to use it for firewood. Fortunately, the man had not yet burned it up, and on the lid the judge managed to decipher the initials: “A. G. R.” together with the date of interment. He had at once searched the parochial books of every church in the neighborhood, and a week later found the following entry:

  “In the parochial church of San Sebastian of the v
illage of——, on the 4th of May, 1843, the funeral rites as prescribed by our holy religion were performed over the body of Don Alfonso Gutierrez Romeral, and he was buried in the cemetery. He was a native of this village and did not receive the holy sacrament, nor did he confess, for he died suddenly of apoplexy at the age of thirty-one. He was married to Doña Gabriela Zahura del Valle, a native of Madrid, and left no issue him surviving.”

  * * *

  —

  The judge handed me the above certificate, duly certified to by the parish priest, and exclaimed: “Now everything is as clear as day, and I am positive that within a week the assassin will be arrested. The apoplexy in this case happens to be an iron nail driven into the man’s head, which brought quick and sudden death to A. G. R. I have the nail, and I shall soon find the hammer.”

  According to the testimony of the neighbors, Señor Romeral was a young and rich landowner who originally came from Madrid, where he had married a beautiful wife; four months before the death of the husband, his wife had gone to Madrid to pass a few months with her family; the young woman returned home about the last day of April, that is, about three months and a half after she had left her husband’s residence to go to Madrid; the death of Señor Romeral occurred about a week after her return. The shock caused to the widow by the sudden death of her husband was so great that she became ill and informed her friends that she could not continue to live in the same place where everything recalled to her the man she had lost, and just before the middle of May she had left for Madrid, ten or twelve days after the death of her husband.

  The servants of the deceased had testified that the couple did not live amicably together and had frequent quarrels; that the absence of three months and a half which preceded the last eight days the couple had lived together was practically an understanding that they were to be ultimately separated on account of mysterious disagreements which had existed between them from the date of their marriage; that on the date of the death of the deceased, both husband and wife were together in the former’s bedroom; that at midnight the bell was rung violently and they heard the cries of the wife; that they rushed to the room and were met at the door by the wife, who was very pale and greatly perturbed, and she cried out: “An apoplexy! Run for a doctor! My poor husband is dying!” That when they entered the room they found their master lying upon a couch, and he was dead. The doctor who was called certified that Señor Romeral had died of cerebral congestion.