| Well,
if you want me to tell you a story out of my own experience,
I will tell you of the first case I was ever engaged
upon. In some respects, as you will be able to judge
by the sequel, it was the most remarkable case I ever
had on my hands, and I think fully the most interesting.
I had gone into a private Detective Bureau because I
loved a mystery, and the solution of one, and I had
taken the step against the wishes of my family, particularly
of my uncle the Bishop, who fancied that I should have
taken holy orders. I had been about as idle for the
first three months as it is possible for a fellow to
be, and then I suddenly found myself in harness. It
was a morning in July, and I was looking over the paper
with slack interest, when my chief, who was similarly
employed, brought his open hand down on his desk with
a bang that made me jump. “At last,” he
exclaimed. I sat up, expecting to hear something, but
he rose, went to a cabinet, and brought out a file of
papers. He turned them over for so long that I lost
interest, and began to dawdle with the news again. A
moment after he spoke: “Arahill, look here.”
I read the advertisement which he pointed out to me.
“Wanted, a Tutor for a Young Girl, clergyman preferred.
Apply, stating terms, to Mrs. Margherita Skene, Red
Deeps, Denham.” “Well,” I said, “we
don’t supply clergymen as tutors.” “We
do for cases of this kind,” he said, meaningly.
“Twenty years or so ago,” he continued,
“I haunted that little village, and was much interested
in Mrs. Skene, but I could make nothing out of the case,
so that if you are anxious to win your spurs this is
your chance.” I was eager for a chance, as he
knew, and I waited for him to explain. “About
twenty years ago,” he said, “but no . .
. here are all the papers; they will tell you as well
as I can everything that there is to know, and as you
will have to read them you may do so now. If you decide
to take up the case, go ahead.”
I read and studied those documents
all morning; I was oblivious of everything, and I found
myself at two o’clock with luncheon missed, but
[Page 57] with a full command of all
the facts in the case, which I have called, “The
Mystery of the Red Deeps.” These facts were briefly
as follows:
Mr. Alexander Skene was a retired
officer of the Hudson’s Bay Company, who had spent
thirty years of his life in Canada. He retired when
he was forty-eight, with his life somewhat broken by
exposure and hardship. He had collected a considerable
fortune, and considering the life he had led he was
a man of culture and taste. He did not find his leisure
much to his liking, and he was restless, moving about
hither and thither, first in Scotland, then in Sweden,
then in Hungary. He was unmarried, and although he had
relatives in Scotland he had no ties. In the spring
of 1848 he went to Italy, and for a year there was no
record of his movements, but in the next year he landed
in New York and went on to Canada. He was accompanied
by his wife and child, his wife’s sister, and
a little lad, who was a sort of attendant. During his
sojourn in Italy he had married an Italian girl, Margherita
Corramboni. He may have spent a day or two in Montreal,
but he did not visit any of his former acquaintances,
and, after a short time, went to a house he owned in
the village of Denham, in Mississiquoi County, called
The Red Deeps. The party arrived on the evening of September
16th, 1848. The house had been opened, and a little
set to rights by a former servant of Skene’s,
Alberta Westwick.
The same night Skene
was taken violently ill, and died before the doctor
could reach him. When he came he pronounced death to
be due to a sudden collapse of the heart. He was buried
in the village churchyard. Everything was done decently
and in order. He was not well known in the village,
but there was much sympathy expressed for the young
wife in her great trial, a trial which she bore with
becoming resignation. She settled her husband’s
estate, and decided to remain in Denham, although she
had an ample fortune, and could have returned to her
home if she had been so minded. From that day to the
day I read the documents in the case, the life at Red
Deeps seemed to have gone on without variation. Only
once had that life attracted any attention from the
world, and this was quite unknown to the inmates of
the Denham mansion. They would have been unpleasantly
surprised to know that their history was being compiled
in a Detective Bureau, and that for more than a year
one of the cleverest men in the profession had endeavoured
in vain to penetrate the circle of their family life.
About a year after Mr. Skene’s death our bureau
had received a letter from a gentleman in Scotland,
a cousin of the deceased, Nicholas Thompson by name,
which set forth that on the morning of September 17th,
18[48], he had been visited by a vision of such distinctness
in some particulars that he had been constrained, when
he heard of his cousin’s death, to [Page
58] take more serious notice of it than he
would otherwise. When it was repeated in all its main
features three times in as many months he could not
fail to consider the warning.
He had been for some time confined
to his bed from an attack of sciatica, and on the morning
in question he had fallen into a light doze, when he
heard some one call him twice. He seemed to recognize
the voice as that of his favorite cousin, Alexander
Skene, but it was so changed that he could not arrive
at a certain conclusion. After a moment’s pause,
and the dream always unfolded itself in this sequence,
he heard a confusion of talk in the voices of women,
nothing of which could he comprehend. Then he saw the
picture of a room, half illuminated by a flickering
night light and the rays of the moon. On a low pallet
in the middle of the floor lay his cousin Alexander
Skene. He endeavoured to raise himself, and fell back
again and again. At the foot of the bed sat a lad with
the proportions of a dwarf, who seemed to preside over
the scene, and who never made a movement to assist the
sufferer. But at last, when his exhaustion seemed to
be complete, and he only had strength for a moan and
a weak fling of the hand, the lad called, “Alberta!”
There was a hurried footstep at the door, and the woman
entered; in a moment she was down at the bedside; with
a struggle, and with her assistance, he raised himself
on his elbow. He had the strength to say, “Ugo.
Call my wife, Margherita.” The lad left the room.
There was a silence. Skene supported himself, clinging
to the kneeling woman for a moment.
Then his hand relaxed
and slipped on her shoulder, and slipped further, and
fell nerveless on the coverlet. His shoulder gave with
his weight; his head fell, and the strong arm around
him laid him back—dead. His hand, as it slipped
from its hold on the woman’s shoulder, had left
a slip of paper there, which fell over her breast, and
lay on the bed beside the hand which had held it. The
woman Alberta picked it up, and slipped it between the
buttons of her waist. There was a pause, then the sound
of swift feet in the hall, and a terrible cry, “Alexander,
Alexander!” it rang; and then, as a figure with
a wild movement, flung itself along the floor by the
bed, and took the dead in its arms, again the cry, “Alexander,
Alexander! My God, have pity, . . . they have murdered
my husband!” Then there was a confusion of lights
and sounds, without form, that broke in upon the vision.
But after a while the dreamer saw the room again, very
clearly. The pallet bed was there, empty; the walls
were hung with bundles that looked like dresses covered
with linen bags; the night light was still on the mantel-shelf;
beside it was a blue cup. A small rocking chair was
at the foot of the bed, where the lad had been. Beside
the bed lay a slip of paper which had fallen [Page
59] from the woman’s dress. There was
not a soul in the room. Then the woman who had answered
to the name Alberta came in hurriedly, hid the paper
in her bosom, and went away.
This was the vision
which had occurred with such persistency, and although
in many particulars it was as clear cut as a cameo,
in others it was confused and obscure. For instance,
while the figures of his cousin and the boy were perfectly
clear, those of the women were shadowy and indistinct.
He was fully convinced that his cousin had been murdered,
but after a careful investigation there seemed to be
no foundation for such a belief. It may have been that
our officer had a half-hearted interest in his case,
but he never succeeded in penetrating the house. In
fact very little seemed to have been known of the family
life in the village of that day. It may have been that
Nicholas Thompson’s infrequent and somewhat unwilling
remittances tended to dampen our faith in his perfect
belief in the vision. However it might have been, nothing
came of the investigation. But, granted that there was
a reason for failure, and that it had been the impossibility
of reaching the inner recesses of the family life of
the Skenes, here at last was an opportunity of overcoming
that difficulty. Disguised as a young curate, I could
have perfect knowledge of everything that went on in
the house.
It was a quixotic enterprise
to set about uncovering a murder upon the wild dream
of a Scotchman, dead twenty years; but there was something
about the dream which stirred me, and there was just
sufficient mystery over the whole affair to make me
even eager to see the interior of the Red Deeps. I had
resolved. The next step was to gain the appointment.
I bethought myself of my uncle, the Bishop; a word from
him would surely be powerful. But I found it easier
to imagine his aid secured than to get it. I laid the
case before him, but he stormed: that having chosen
my calling against his wishes he was not going to assist
me . . . was not going to put a mock cassock on my back
when I had refused a real one. But at last, by proving
to him that he was probably retarding justice he gave
me a reluctant recommendation. Reluctant or not, it
was efficacious. The Bishop certifying to the character
of his nephew was all powerful. The word curate was
not mentioned, but I presented the letter in person,
and my meek face, and my clerical garb pronounced it
aloud. After a half-hour’s interview with Mrs.
Skene I obtained the appointment. I had no great preparations
to make, and in four days, accompanied by my professional
wardrobe and a few books, devotional and otherwise,
I found myself the single passenger in the stage for
Denham. The driver had been over the road for twenty
years, and knew the whole country side, but he knew
nothing of the Skenes. I plied him with questions vigorously.
“The’re almighty well off, [Page
60] I guess, but there’s no mixing with
them, . . . the furrin blood, maybe. They have a hired
boy there knows a thing or two about horses. Are you
agoing there?”
To an affirmative he
remarked inconsequently, “He’s about the
strongest boy I ever clapped eyes on.”
The boy seemed to oppress
his mind. Certainly he seemed to me a strong “boy,”
for he threw my trunk, heavy with books, across his
broad shoulders, and walked with it upstairs as if it
had been a bundle of hay. He dropped it lightly, too,
and stood grinning before me, a squat, square figure,
with arms too short even for his short body, with a
round rugged looking head, shaggy with a fell of hair.
But in that head there rolled two eyes that I thought
then and still think were lit with a devilish and malevolent
cunning.
Chapter
II: A Dream Out of the Ivory Gate
As
I lay in bed the first morning of my stay in Denham,
after a refreshing slumber, I revolved the matter in
my mind. Ostensibly I was a curate with the clergyman’s
sore throat, who was willing to act as tutor to a young
girl while he was awaiting his voice; really I harboured
the dark suspicion that in this house was a mysterious
room in which, years ago, one Alexander Skene was murdered.
And upon what were my suspicions founded? Upon the dream
of a man I had never seen, and who had long ago ceased
to dream dreams, which coincided in some particulars
with facts. There was the name of the attendant, Alberta,
there was the boy Ugo. That was all I had that was tangible.
What else had I? I had the slip of paper which might
be somewhere in existence: I had the description of
the room which I might discover; I had those terrible
words, “My God, have pity, they have murdered
my husband!” which had been heard by at least
two persons. This was supposing the dream to be a true
revelation. It was not much to go upon, and if events
did not help me out, I could soon cut short my career
as tutor.
I
was assigned a room in one corner of the spacious old
house. It looked into the broad yard or drive-way at
the side, and out upon the main road. The land fell
away into a miniature valley, and beyond that a maple
grove rose on the ridge. It was a charming landscape.
The house was ample, and was furnished in a comfortable,
though homely, style; deep chairs, ancient-looking sofas,
which seemed, after years of practice, to have mastered
the art of accommodating themselves to every curve of
the figure. There was [Page 61] much
native Indian work, which Skene had had ample opportunity
to collect, and this was companioned by Italian ware
from Naples, and curious pottery from Cairo and the
far East. Altogether the apartments with their furnishings
gave an impression of comfort, with a touch of strangeness
in decoration which was distinctive.
There
was also a strangeness in the domestic life which I
remarked before I had spent one day in the house, but
which may have arisen in great part from the peculiarities
of the members of the family. Mrs. Skene would have
been a study for any painter, and a subject for any
novelist. A master in either art would have delighted
in the splendid vigour of her face and form, and the
inflexible courage which looked from her eyes. Her hair
was as black as night, and her color was yet as fresh
as a young girl’s. She had a will of iron; if
there was any current coin of metaphor to describe a
harder, a more inflexible thing I would use it. That
house was ruled by her with absolute command; there
was no escaping from her decision.
Her
sister was her complete and perfect opposite. She seemed
as willless as an infant; her every movement shewed
her perfect subservience to the strong nature of Mrs.
Skene. Hypnotism was not a fashion in those days. If
it had been, I would have said that she was hypnotized.
Miss Skene, whose guide and preceptor I had engaged
to be, was a brown-eyed, sweet-faced girl without much
character, I at first thought. I changed this opinion
later on, but I should not overleap events.
Ugo
I have already partially described. He seemed to be
at once the menial and the factotum of Mrs. Skene. He
appeared to be omnipresent; wherever I went, in the
house or out of it, he was there. I soon came to the
conclusion that he was carefully watching me. There
was only one servant in the house, Sarah Westwick. She
was a half-witted creature of enormous size, with a
moustache like a man, and a voice of great power. Still
there was something human about her, and she was open
to be touched by kindness, as I soon found out. Ugo
spent a great deal of his time in teasing her; by striking
and pinching he had reduced her to a state of extreme
terror.
One
morning about a week after my arrival, I was coming
from the garden through the back hall when I saw Ugo
steal behind Sarah, who was leaving the dairy with a
pan of cream. He caught both her arms and pinched them,
but she still held the cream. Then he darted about,
snatched the dish from her, and began to drink from
it. I had entered the hall unnoticed by either, and
as I passed Ugo, whose face was in the pan, I gave it
a tilt with my elbow, and sent the contents streaming
over his neck and shoulders. The poor girl could hardly
believe her eyes when she saw her enemy covered [Page
62] with the cream, but she soon broke into
her hoarse, roaring laugh, and after that she would
have suffered for me, as her every action shewed.
The
morning was usually occupied by lessons, and I found
my pupil so intelligent that I had difficulty in keeping
pace with her. I had a call very early in my stay from
the rector, who gave me an uncomfortable quarter of
an hour by insisting that I should preach for him the
next Sunday, but my chronic sore throat was a sufficient
excuse for my refusal.
I
was constantly on the watch for a chance to trap Master
Ugo, for without some power over him I could not go
about unobserved. He watched me incessantly, and, I
thought, sometimes came to my door at night. He had
been hanging about more than usual one afternoon, and,
to my great relief, he disappeared after dinner. As
it was a fine evening I took my stick and hat and went
for a stroll through the fields. Denham consisted of
only one street, so that the garden at the rear of the
house adjoined the field.
As
I was returning home by starlight, intending to reach
the house by this rear garden, I saw a curious wavering
light upon the leaves of a rose tree that grew upon
the banks of the ravine, through which a brook ran in
spring, but which was then quite dry. I made my way
as cautiously as possible to the edge of the little
gorge, and looked down. There was a brilliant fire,
evidently made of hardwood chips, and a little kettle
over it. I could see no one in the circle of the fire,
but by some intuition I thought of Ugo. If he had built
the fire he was not far off, whatever he might be doing.
It was mere curiosity which made me wish to know what
was in the pot. I threw myself face downward, and reaching
with my walking-stick, I found that I could hook it
into the handle, and I carefully pulled it up. I had
hardly landed it when I heard some one coming up the
ravine, and peeping through the trees I saw Ugo. I did
not wait to see what he did or said. I snatched my prize
and ran to the house.
When
I reached my room I found that I had caught my man.
He had been melting the silver spoons. Here was a whip
that I could hold over his shoulders, which would force
him to play the spy less eagerly, for he feared his
mistress only, and I had caught him deliberately robbing
her. I put the pot in my trunk and locked it securely.
Then I found that in my hurry I had dropped by cane.
It
may have been about midnight when I was awakened by
a tapping at my window. I leaped out of bed. There was
Master Ugo hanging by his fingers. Under his arm he
held my cane.
“Something
of yours,” he said.
I took it from him. [Page
63]
“I have something of yours,”
I said, “which I will not give up, . . . unless
I give it to Mrs. Skene.”
To
my perfect surprise he let go his hold, and dropped
into the garden, which must have been twenty feet below,
and slipped around the corner of the house. I went back
to bed with curious thoughts.
So
soon as I had become acquainted with the house I had
made a plan of it, and as I found out the uses to which
each room was put, I carefully plotted it on the drawing.
I had gradually accounted for all the room[s] in the
main body of the house. There was a wing, however, and
to the rooms in the second story of this wing I could
not gain access. There was only one main stairway, and
the entrance to this wing in the second story would
have been to the left of the landing. I examined the
wall carefully one day, and came to the conclusion that
it had been built long after the main house was erected.
A beam appeared in the hall below, which could have
been needed for no other purpose than to support the
extra weight of this wall. How then was entrance had
to this new wing? If it was used at all there must be
some way to reach it.
My
fair pupil and I had formed the habit of a little polite
conversation outside the range of our studies, which
was all the more agreeable to me as I found her an entertaining
companion. So one day, turning the talk upon the subject
of the house, and expressing a great liking for it and
its arrangement, I asked her, as innocently as I could,
how access was obtained to the rooms over the wing.
“I
do not know,” she answered, simply, “I am
never allowed to go there.”
Now
a child will ramble over a house from cellar to attic,
and know every nook and corner, and it was strange that
this girl had never discovered how to reach these rooms.
I passed her answer without remark, but I set myself
assiduously to solve the mystery.
The
main part of the house was much higher than the wing,
and the attic was built with dormer windows. Mrs. Skene
had dropped the remark one day that there were some
old maps and charts in this attic, and on the pretext
that I was interested in such things, I obtained access
to it. It covered the whole extent of the main part
of the house; from the dormer windows I could look down
on the flat roof of the wing. I saw that this roof was
pierced by a man-hole covered in the usual way. One
of the windows was directly over the roof, and to reach
the man-hole I would have to creep out on the eave from
the dormer and drop to the roof of the wing. I formed
a plan of action, and only waited a favourable opportunity
to carry it out. [Page 64]
At
length, one dark, still night, when rain threatened,
I left my room at midnight and crept up to the attic.
I had provided myself with a stout rope, and a heavy
steel poker which I found in the attic, which took the
place of a crowbar; I also had my revolver and my dark
lantern. Fixing the rope securely to a beam of the roofing
I let myself down cautiously. To my surprise and relief
I found that the cap on the man-hole could be partly
raised, and with a good, steady pull the hook which
held it gave way. By feeling about I found that the
eye of the other hook was missing. A ladder led down
into the darkness. I followed it rung by rung. When
I reached the floor I paused a moment for breath. Then
I slipped the slide of my lantern. I was in the low
attic over the wing. The head of the stair was at my
hand. I carefully went down, and I found myself in a
long hall, with rooms on one side only. The passage
terminated at the blank wall which separated the wing
from the main body of the house.
Now
for the rooms. The first one was empty. The door of
the second had been removed; there was nothing in it.
The last one remained. The door was ajar; I pushed it
open and entered. There was a low pallet bed in the
centre; hanging upon the walls were bundles that looked
like dresses protected by linen coverings; at the foot
of the bed was a small rocking-chair; on the mantel
was a blue cup and a night light. I made my way back
as quickly as I could, but not too quickly to notice
the stair that came from the flat below. I replaced
the cap, hand over hand climbed the rope, and soon found
myself in my own room.
I
went to bed and reflected upon my discovery, checking
it against the vision of the Scotchman, and recalling
all the particulars with a vividness almost unbearable
in my excited condition. If I was to have success, certainly
I had taken the first step.
Chapter
III: The Ghost of Memory
I
had been at the Red Deeps for a month, and my researches
had perhaps been comparatively fruitless, but I had
established the existence of the mysterious room described
by Nicholas Thompson, and this to me was a matter of
first importance. It gave me added faith in the dream,
and the dream was the most substantial evidence I had.
Now, I had something positive to confirm and enforce
it. In the meantime I had spent a most enjoyable month,
for I did not allow my secret suspicion to interfere
with either my duties or my pleasure. My pupil, Janet
Skene, had a very pretty voice, and a Scotch way of
singing Scotch songs, and I know of nothing so [Page
65] charming as that. I could manage in those
days to make a tolerable accompaniment, and frequently
of an evening we got together and made music, which
seemed to be acceptable to the girl’s mother and
her aunt. They enjoyed it, each in her own way, Mrs.
Skene sitting bolt upright in her chair, with her glittering
eyes fixed upon us, and giving no sign of pleasure,
and her sister hidden somewhere in the shadow, effacing
herself as usual, and sometimes, I believed, weeping
a little over “Auld Robin Grey”; although
it was oftener the stirring songs we sang, “There
was a lad was born in Kyle,” or “The Rover
of Loch Ryan.”
The more I saw of the relationship
of these sisters the more I was puzzled, and the feeling
culminated one night when Mrs. Skene offered to sing
a Neapolitan song for us, which was surprising enough
in itself, but the result of which was still more so[.]
She had a hard voice, and I had to force praise of her
performance, but the effort was cut short by a strange
noise from the corner where Miss Vittoria sat. We found
she had fainted dead away, and she had to be carried
to her room. She made a remark to me the next day to
excuse herself, but I got it into my head that the singing
of that song had more to do with her faint than the
closeness of the room.
Two or three nights after that
something occurred that gave me food for reflection.
I remember that night well; it was wild with wind and
alive with lightning, but the storms were aloof, and
no rain had fallen in the village. I had gone to bed,
and had fallen into my first slumber when I was awakened
by a thunderous hammering on some door, followed by
a shriek, and words yelled out in a most agonized voice.
I leaped out of bed and went to the window. The shrieks
continued, growing in fury, and were mixed with indescribable
sounds which seemed like the maledictions of some distressed
fiend. I lifted my window and opened the blind. It was
so dark that I could see nothing, but I found that the
noise was coming from the yard, and the hammering was
upon the side door. Suddenly a flash of lightning gave
me sight of the figure of a woman standing there. She
was clothed in a motley of rags, and when the flash
came she had raised a club for another assault on the
door. The darkness came back, and the club fell on the
panels with a force which would have broken them had
they not been of solid oak.
She had hardly time for another
blow when the door was thrown open, and Ugo appeared
with the lantern. He roared and swore, and there was
a high war of words; then, as the woman tried to strike
him, he parried her stroke, and made a thrust at her
with a red-hot iron that some one seemed to hand him
from behind. There was a horrid screech of pain, and
the lightning shewed me the woman retreating from the
doorstep. But she was back again in a moment, only to
be burned once more with the iron. Then Ugo [Page
66] made an advance from the door, and the
woman gave way before him. I noticed that some one was
holding the lantern, and a moment later, as the light
advanced with Ugo, I saw that it was Miss Vittoria.
She looked like a ghost as the light from the lantern,
which she held high above her head, fell over her features.
I never before saw a face of such abject terror. Ugo
was driving the intruder from the yard, and she finally
withdrew down the road, cursing and screaming. I shut
the blind softly and the window, but even then I could
hear those terrible sounds.
The next morning Mrs. Skene
asked me if I had been disturbed during the night, but
I assured her I had slept soundly, “despite the
storm,” I added. Later in the morning, when Janet
and I were at our work, she looked up at me with frightened
eyes, and asked, “Did you really not hear any
noise in the night? It was that crazy woman, Alberta
Westwick, Sarah’s mother, you know. She used to
be a servant of Mamma’s, and she is sometimes
very violent. Once or twice she has had to go the Asylum,
and I am afraid that Mamma will have to send her there
again.” I asked where she lived. “In a little
house behind the sugar-bush.” This was all I wanted
to know, so I proceeded with the lesson. But I made
up my mind to see Alberta Westwick before Mrs. Skene
had had a chance to send her to the Asylum.
The next afternoon a favorable
opportunity offered, and I set out to find the unfortunate
creature. Ugo had driven his mistress over the hills
to take the air, so I was sure that he would not trouble
me. I walked through the fields and into the sugar-bush,
a pleasant place in the summer, with its well separated
trees, and the cleanness of the spaces covered with
dead leaves. There was a gradual rise of the ground
on which the bush grew, and I was surprised to find
that instead of descending similarly on the other side
it fell away abruptly, and I had to search for a safe
path. I soon found one. When I had reached the level
ground the whole aspect of nature was so changed that
a less acute observer could hardly have passed it over.
The ground was lumpy, uneven, and destitute of trees;
before I had gone fifty feet I noticed water between
the hummocks. It was evidently the beginning of the
swamp where the tamaracks, which I could see some distance
off, grew. I had to be careful of my footing, and I
skirted close to the miniature precipice down which
I had clambered. I had not gone very far before I came
to a little hut built beside a detached rock. There
was an iron spring not far off, and the red oxidation
had spread along the course of the stream, leaving a
grewsome stain on the grassy hummock.
I knocked at the door of the
shanty, and a moment later it was thrown open. The figure
which stood in the light was the same I had last seen
by [Page 67] the flash of lightning.
The face was haggard with pain; one hand was bound up
in a dirty cloth. Her dress was indescribable; she seemed
to be a bunch of clothes, of varied colors. She stood
a moment looking at me. I called her by name. She would
not let me within the door, but came out and sat upon
a stone. I asked her how she had hurt her hand, but
she at once became sulky, and a reference to Mrs. Skene
made her more so. Then, without more ado, I pronounced
words which, if there was to be a continuation of truth
in the vision, would have a strange power over her.
“My God, have pity, they have murdered my husband.”
I have since seen the change
wrought by many a momentous sentence, on many a face,
but that was the strangest of all. She looked at me
as if I was one of the demons that had haunted her madness.
Then a cunning look overspread her face; then she made
a low sound of fear, and covered her face with her hands.
“She said it,” she
cried, “she said it.”
“Who said it?” I
asked.
“I don’t know now.
She said it—my mistress. But now everything is
changed.”
“Tell me, Alberta. I am
your friend, and Sarah’s friend.”
“He was sick—sick—and
he died, and that’s what she said—but I
would not give it up—Alberta would not—for
she could read once—then Sarah came, and I was
dead for years, and they killed me, but I would not
give it up.”
“You mean the little slip
of paper; it was on your shoulder, and it slipped to
the bed, and you put it in your dress, and when you
found you had lost it you came back and picked it up.”
She looked at me vaguely. “Were
you there?” she said.
“No, but I have heard
about it. Tell me more.”
“I have forgotten only
what you tell me.”
“Well, there was the little
blue cup, what was in it?”
“The cup, —yes—it
had the medicine.”
“And Ugo had a little
chair by the bed—little Ugo, not big Ugo.”
“You were there—you
tell me, who gave him the medicine.”
I was surprised at her question,
“You must show me the paper first,” I said.
I had obtained complete control over her[.] She went
into the hovel, and I followed. There she dug in the
earth, and uncovered a little jar. In this was an old
leather purse, and from the purse she produced a slip
of paper. My hand trembled as I unfolded it. The words
written there were faint, and scrawled with a failing
hand. [Page 68]
“It was Vittoria who gave
him the poison,” I said quickly. She shook her
head. “Well, it was Ugo?”
“Everything is changed,”
she said, “I could read once, but not now.”
I read her the words written
on the paper: “Ugo—the blue cup—Vittoria—
poisoned.”
“That is it,” she
said, “that is what it says, I remember. But who
is Vittoria?”
“Why you know, Alberta,
Mrs. Skene’s sister. You know Miss Vittoria?”
“No,” she cried
out, confusedly. “Everything is dark because I
went mad; but you were there, although I did not see
you.”
She went on raving for a while,
but she would not let me take the paper from her. As
I knew she had guarded it for twenty years, and that
it would be safe, I contented myself with taking a careful
copy of it.
On my way home I noticed that
the field on the other side of the bush was full of
blue violets, and I picked a handful to present to Miss
Janet.
That night I sat in the room
with those two women, listening to Miss Janet sing,
and I had strange thoughts. One of them was a murderess.
Of that I was now convinced; and the other, for some
strange reason known only to herself, had aided in concealing
the crime. “I will solve this mystery,”
I said to myself, but I had hardly formed the resolve
when I thought of Janet—the shame and disgrace
my success would bring upon her, and I shuddered. For
a moment I faltered, but instead of resolving to go
away and never see the Red Deeps again, I commenced
to dream of how I could aid her if she had to face a
trouble of my bringing.
Chapter
IV: The Advance in Shadow
I had succeeded
in verifying the strange vision of Nicholas Thompson.
But how was I to bring that to bear upon the solution
of the mystery? I might arrest Ugo and the two women,
but how could I bring any evidence to bear against them?
I had the words of a mad woman, whose memory was broken
by her malady, and I had a scrap of paper which might
have been written by anyone able to write. No, it would
never do for me to risk such a move.
One
thing which gave me cause for much reflection was the
relationship which existed between these two women.
Vittoria was moved by Margherita as a queen is moved
by the hand of a master chess-player. Was it that the
wife had taken this means of punishing her husband’s
murderess, [Page 69] and for her revenge
was slowly torturing her with fear of exposure? I was
thinking such thoughts one evening, as I was lost in
one of the great chairs in the parlor. I had been listening
while Miss Janet was playing. That evening she had dressed
herself in an old-fashioned gown of her aunt’s,
had done her hair in the manner of a by-gone time and
had made herself a very picture of quaintness. Mrs.
Skene had not made her appearance, and this was intended
as a surprise for her. Miss Vittoria seemed hugely pleased
by the disguise, and took more interest in it than in
anything which had occurred since my arrival. I had
given way to my own thoughts for a moment, when Mrs.
Skene came in. The scene had a wonderful effect upon
her. As she entered Janet turned and gave a demure courtesy;
the light fell upon her. Now, whatever she saw in that
pretty figure I know not, but she turned the color of
ashes, and clung to the side of the door for support.
I was about to go to her assistance when she recovered
herself and tried to speak. Her voice was broken with
rage. “Janet, how dare you!” she cried.
“Without my permission—go to your room this
instant.” The poor girl was dashed by this outbreak,
and as quickly as she could she passed her mother and
disappeared. I saw that there was to be a scene between
the sisters, so I remained quiet. I was amazed at what
occurred. Mrs. Skene continued to advance slowly, without
speaking, her eyes fixed upon Miss Vittoria. She approached
her gradually, almost leisurely, with a sort of malevolent
movement, gazing all the time as a snake transfixes
its victim. She reached her at last, and laid her hand
on her arm. Miss Vittoria shrank as if the touch had
been hot iron. Neither of them spoke, but they began
to move slowly toward the door. When they reached it
Miss Vittoria gave a shriek that made me cold, but they
went on slowly as before and disappeared.
I
did not see Miss Vittoria again for days, but I was
always on the watch for her, and always endeavoring
to find her hiding place. I argued that if she was ill
in the house she would have to take her meals in her
room, and so I watched as carefully as I could without
arousing suspicion. I could vouch that nothing had been
brought into the main part of the house, and she was
evidently not hidden there. Lingering, one day, in the
dining-room, I saw Ugo, carrying a tray, go into Mrs.
Skene’s room, which was on the ground floor. I
reached two conclusions at once. The stairway that I
had noticed the night that I had discovered the room,
led up to Mrs. Skene’s chamber, and Miss Vittoria
was hidden in the disused wing.
I
was now thoroughly perplexed, and my confusion was complete
when I found out that Ugo had broken into my trunk and
escaped with the smelting pot. I had noticed that for
a day or two previously, he had appeared highly elated,
and when he knew by my demeanor that I had found out
his [Page 70] success he broke all
bounds. He followed me about and mocked me, and seemed
bent upon paying me what I had escaped during the interval
of my supremacy. In vain I threatened him. He only put
his tongue in his cheek and squinted. He evidently felt
sure of his ground, and I was not certain of mine, unfortunately.
I was afraid to denounce him to his mistress for fear
that I might be the one dismissed, and, if I left the
house, I would have small hope of entering it again.
In my desperation I resolved to take a step which might
lead to further developments. I traced upon a slip of
paper the words that had been pencilled by the dying
man. I gave it to Sarah, and told her to place it at
lunch under the claret jug which stood at Mrs. Skene’s
right hand. I had observed that her first action at
lunch was to pour out a glass of claret.
After
grace, which I always pronounced, Mrs. Skene lifted
the claret jug. I tried to watch her without being noticed,
but her suppressed exclamation of surprise at seeing
the bit of paper under the jug gave me sufficient excuse
for watching her closely. Janet also looked up. Mrs.
Skene drew the paper toward her and read it. I saw her
face set hardly as she clenched her teeth. The effort
for control was past in a moment, and she let the paper
fall into her lap; but before luncheon was over she
turned deadly pale, and went to the window overlooking
the garden. I did not see her face again until dinner-time,
and then every trace of her emotion had vanished. I
was aware that she had never seen the words before,
and did not know who had originally written them, but
I was confident she was too shrewd not to have a suspicion
that they were written by her husband. It was not to
be wondered at that she should have a keen emotion,
when the scene was recalled to her in this mysterious
way. She did not seem to have any suspicion that I was
the person who had given her the shock, but I wished
her to betray her knowledge of the crime more plainly
before I threw off my disguise and told her that she
could not longer keep her sister’s guilt concealed.
Accordingly, the next day, I had a favorable moment
with Sarah, and instructed her that as she was removing
the soup plates at dinner, she should say, just as she
laid the first plate upon the waiter, “My God,
have pity, they have murdered my husband.” She
did it well, and even I was startled by the hollow sound
of it. As for Mrs. Skene, she reeled in her chair, and
would have fallen if I had not caught her. Janet and
I assisted her to the sofa, and she gasped and looked
fearfully at us, as if she was half beside herself,
and it was an hour before she regained her composure.
Dinner was spoiled, and Mrs. Skene had to be helped
to bed. I assisted at this function and gave the poor
lady my arm, for I was keen to see the stairway which
led to the disused wing. But when I reached the door,
my arm was disengaged, [Page 71] and
I was thanked for my services; at which I was mightily
disappointed.
When
I returned to my room I found a note from Janet. “Will
Mr. Arahill come to the arbor at once? J.S.”
I went and found her waiting;
she was highly excited. “Did you hear what Sarah
said at dinner, and see how my mother behaved? O, Mr.
Arahill, something terrible is going to happen. I feel
it. I know it. I have had a presentiment all my life
that we were not like other people, and now I am sure
of it.”
I tried to calm her. “Be
sure, you can trust me,” I said, “no matter
what happens. I will guard you with my life. There may
be something behind this, and you must be brave.”
I took her hand, and she let me retain it. Just then
I heard Ugo whistle in the garden.
“There’s Ugo,”
she said, coming closer to me, and shivering. “How
I loathe him!”
When I felt her so close to
me I wanted to tell her that I loved her, but I could
not do it honestly so long as I was disguised, so I
kept it to myself.
“You need not fear him,”
I said, “he is spying upon us, but we need not
care for that now. I want you to promise me to keep
your room to-morrow afternoon, from five until I come
to you.”
She gave her promise. “Tell
me,” she said, breathlessly, “what is this
dreadful mystery? Do you know? Can you tell?”
“I believe I know,”
I answered, “but at present I cannot tell. You
must be patient.”
“It must be something
about Aunt Vittoria, for why should she hide away like
this? She has done it many times since I can remember.
She seems so frightened of something or somebody.”
“It will all be explained,”
I said “—and before long.”
“I hope,” she said,
“it will make her different, for I have always
loved her so, and it has been terrible to see her suffer
in this way.” My heart sank with its weight of
suspicion when I heard this dear girl say these words.
I had not time to answer her, for Ugo’s whistle
sounded nearer, and she begged me to let her go, which
I did reluctantly enough.
I had a restless night, and
was busy with plans and forecastings, but they were
all dispersed by a letter from Mrs. Skene, which I found
on my dressing table when I woke. She had had time to
collect herself, and to think the matter over. Presumably,
her line of argument had been that, such disturbing
occurrences never having happened before my advent,
I must be in some way connected with them, and she accordingly
dismissed me. The letter bowed me out courteously. I
was alone at breakfast. Not even Janet [Page
72] was there. During the morning I wrote Mrs.
Skene a note accepting my dismissal, and requesting
an interview. I gave this to Ugo to deliver, and went
into the village. I did not return for luncheon, but
came back about three o’clock, commenced to pack,
and made every show of departure. My plans were perfectly
well formed. At five I received a note, almost insolent
in its wording, denying me the requested interview,
and saying that it would be advisable for me to leave
at once. I finished packing, and requested Ugo to leave
an order for the stage to call for my baggage, on which
errand he departed with alacrity, as he no doubt thought
he was doing his mistress a service. Now, I said to
myself, as I descended the stairs, you and I, Mrs. Skene,
in a moment will be face to face.
Chapter
V: The Mill of the Gods
I had expected
to find Mrs. Skene in her own chamber, and I was prepared
for a sight of the ascent to the disused wing. But I
was disappointed again, for I found her seated at the
window of the dining-room, which overlooked the garden.
She saw me before I perceived her, and her cry for Ugo
first attracted my attention.
“You
must pardon my intrusion, Mrs. Skene,” I said.
“I have been in your house now for nearly three
months, and it would ill requite your kindness were
I to leave without an acknowledgment of it.” She
glared at me, and continued to call for Ugo. “He
is delivering a message for me; in fact, ordering the
stage to call this evening.”
“And
in his absence you come to disturb and insult me.”
“Not at all—“
I began, but she went on fiercely—
“You do. You talk about
requiting kindness, but you have used your time in making
love to my daughter, and disgracing your cloth by tampering
with my servants, and by ferreting out my family history.
All that I ask is that you leave me at once.”
“I
am sorry that I cannot comply,” I answered, “for
I have something to ask.” She made a movement
in her chair, and called for Ugo again. “I must
speak plainly. When I first came to your house my mind
had no suspicion. Now, I have more than a suspicion.
I am certain. Twenty years ago your husband died in
this house; but he was murdered—poisoned.”
“You
lie!” she cried passionately, rising in her chair.
“My husband died in his bed, as I hope to die.”
[Page 73]
“I
have the death-scene before me, and I could rehearse
it if I chose; but I know you have shielded the murderess
for years, for your own private and diabolical revenge,
and now I demand that you give her up.”
“Never!”
she cried. “You will pass over my dead body and
the body of my man Ugo, before you reach her.”
“You
will neither deny the crime nor affirm it, but it is
needless to play this game longer. Mrs. Skene, I am
not the Rev. Oliver Arahill. I am plain Oliver Arahill,
of the detective bureau of Ainsley & Cumming. In
twenty minutes the stage will bring three of my men
to the door, and the house will be searched.”
She dropped back in her chair and made no effort to
conceal her fear and rage.
“Devil—devil!”
she hissed. “This is what you call requiting kindness,
you spy! But Ugo will reckon with you before you have
time to carry out your insult.”
“I
fear neither your threat nor your servant. I am simply
here to do my duty, come what may.” With that,
I went to my room.
In
a few moments I saw Ugo come down the street, and I
secured my door. It was yet ten minutes from stage time,
and I felt some apprehension, lest my morning’s
telegram had gone astray, and my expected strength would
not arrive. The moments passed, and Ugo made no attempt
on my door; evidently, I thought, Mrs. Skene has changed
her plans. Then I heard the rattle of wheels, and, looking
out, I saw my men, Smith, Apthorpe, and Newdale, in
the stage. I was just on the point of opening the door
when the suspicion seized me that Ugo might be in ambush.
So I raised the window, and let myself drop into the
garden. A moment later I rapped at Mrs. Skene’s
door and entered, followed by Smith. Apthorpe I had
left in the garden, Newdale I had posted to watch the
front of the house.
Mrs.
Skene was seated in a large chair, and had summoned
all her resolution to meet this trial.
“And
to what am I indebted for this visit?” she said,
drawing herself up, and looking a very queen.
“I
must apologize,” I said, “I would not have
entered your room, had it not been the only entrance
to the rooms above.” As I spoke, I turned to where
I expected to find the stairway, but it was not there.
The room was wainscoted with oak, and the wood was solid
and continuous on the four walls. “Smith,”
I said, “there must be a stairway here somewhere.”
And, with that, I proceeded to rap the wainscoting.
One panel gave a hollow sound, but we could not move
it.
“Will
you tell us how to open this panel?” I said, turning
to Mrs. Skene. [Page 74]
“You are so sure of everything,
you should be sure of that,” she said, deliberately.
“You have made ill use of your time not to have
discovered it.”
“Smith, keep watch here,
and I will approach from the other side.”
I
had formed a sudden plan of repeating my visit through
the man-hole on the roof. I was taking a risk, I knew,
as Ugo might face me in the dusk, but then I had everything
to gain. I made my descent to the roof in the same manner
as before. I had my pistol and the iron poker, in case
I should have to use it in prying up the cover. It had
not been fastened, however, and I found myself in the
attic, where it was perfectly dark. I groped for the
stairhead, and stumbled on the first step, making noise
enough to arouse the Seven Sleepers, but I recovered
myself and went on. When I was half way down I heard
hurried steps below, and when I reached the bottom I
saw Ugo ascending the secret stairs. He came up with
a tumble and a rush, evidently surprised at an attack
from above. I knew I had not a chance with him in strength,
and, as his shoulders appeared above the floor, I fired
down at him. I did not know whether I had hit him, and
I had not time to fire again before he was upon me.
I struck him in the face with my pistol, but he hit
me somewhere in the arm and grappled with me. He had
me about the waist and lifted me from the floor. All
this was done from the impetus of his rush up the stairs,
and I was borne back against the wall with terrific
force. The breath was nearly out of my body, but I wound
my hand in his hair, and tried to force his head back.
At the same time I curled my leg inside his, so I was
at least grappled to him, although I felt I had no power
when he wanted to move. Suddenly he lifted me, and commenced
to climb the stair to the attic. Every inch of the way
I struggled, but I found I had no power in my right
arm, and he rose step after step. I was almost across
his shoulder now, like a sack of flour, and had no control
over him. When he came to the ladder which led out upon
the roof I pushed my leg through and hung on, but he
forced my hold there, and the only advantage it gave
me was to throw me off his shoulder. I took him by the
hair so suddenly and fiercely that I forced his head
back for a moment, but he went on crowding me up the
ladder and forcing me through the man-hole. I knew now
that he intended to hurl me off the roof, and I clutched
him with the strength of despair. We rose slowly until
he stood clear on the roof. Then he tried to shake me
free, but I had him by the hair and held on. Then he
dropped me for a moment, and twisted my arm until I
was compelled to let go. Then with a sudden dart he
seized me by the waist and brandished me over his head.
I thought it was all up with me, and shut my eyes, but
suddenly there was a loud cry, and I felt that we were
jerked back from the [Page 75] edge
of the roof, and with such force that I fell in a heap.
I was half dazed with the shock, but I saw Sarah towering
over me, muttering and growling in her language of hatred
and rage. Then she grappled with her old enemy, and
with terrible strength she forced him to the edge of
the roof, and shaking him free, she hurled him off.
He went down with a fearful cry, but no sound followed
the shock with which he struck the earth.
A
moment later Smith appeared above the man-hole, and
when I had recovered myself sufficiently to discover
that my right arm was broken between the shoulder and
the elbow, we all went down. In the dusk I found Miss
Vittoria, who had been concealed in the second room
of the wing; she was in a dead faint, and I left Smith
to guard her and Sarah to bring her to. Descending the
secret stair I found myself in Mrs. Skene’s room.
She was sitting by the window in the last light. She
did not move as I came in, and did not answer me when
I spoke to her. I thought the strain had been too great
for her, and that she had fainted. I looked at her face,
which seemed to gather all the light there was in the
room. I started. Was that pallor natural? I reached
her side and took her lax wrist. It was stone. She was
dead. I soon had a lamp, and Apthorpe discovered a glass
phial on the floor beneath her chair, where it had rolled
from her hand. Here was a mystery indeed. Just as I
had caught the murderess, and just as I was about to
succeed in forcing her sister to throw off the mask,
I found her dead by her own hand. My one thought now
was to prevent Miss Vittoria from slipping through my
fingers in the same way. I had her brought downstairs
and taken to her own room, and I put a double guard
over her. Then I began to think of my arm, and, although
I was wild to release Janet, and bring to her the terrible
and inexplicable news of her mother’s death, I
was constrained to have the doctor attend to my fracture.
While we were waiting for him I sent Smith to look for
Ugo’s body, for I was sure he was dead. He found
him in a heap on the stones of the garden path, with
his neck broken. While the doctor was setting my arm
I learned that Sarah, seeing me disappear down the man-hole,
had known my danger, and had rushed into Mrs. Skene’s
room, had struggled with her mistress, who had attempted
to oppose her, and had finally opened the panel, the
secret spring of which she well knew, and had rushed
to my rescue, followed by Smith. Mrs. Skene must have
taken the poison when she saw Ugo fall in a heap on
the garden walk.
Janet
had kept her promise, and had never left her room. Her
momentary anxiety over my hurt gave me a cruel pleasure,
but I went to my work without flinching. She stood the
shock better than I had expected.
“Tell
me, tell me, what does it all mean?” she cried.
[Page 76]
“There is only person
who knows,” I replied, “and she will soon
have an opportunity of telling.”
“Aunt Vittoria?”
“Yes,”
I said, “and you must be strong to bear what you
have to learn.”
Chapter
VI: The Wheel of Fire
What Janet
had to learn was as much a revelation to me as it was
to her, and we heard the story together, related in
broken fragments, as the strength of the narrator permitted.
Shorn of the constant digression which she allowed herself,
this is her story as she spoke it.
“My
sister and myself were the only children of Tomasso
Accoromboni, who kept a small print and image shop in
Milan. Our mother died when we were quite young, and
our father was killed in a street brawl. This left us
defenceless, but we continued the shop, and added to
our small income by furnishing rooms for travellers,
for we had a pleasant apartment over the store. My sister
managed everything; she was wonderful to me in all that
she did, but she chafed at our poverty. In the winter
of 1846, a gentleman by the name of Alexander Skene
secured our rooms. He seemed a lonely man, without any
tics. He had plenty of money, and could have had much
better lodgings if he had so desired. My sister fell
in love with him, and confided in me, and when I knew
that her happiness depended on a return of her affection,
I tried to crush out my own regard for him. But I found
I had failed when he asked me to be his wife. It was
a bitterness for us both, but my sister nobly refused
to allow me to suffer. Her sacrifice, however, only
sowed a desperate hate in her heart. So we were married.
“But,”
I interrupted, “Alexander Skene married Margherita?”
“Yes, and I am Margherita.”
“And my mother,”
said Janet, falling on her knees beside the bed.
“The
only condition that I made was that Vittoria should
live with us, and my husband readily consented to that.
So we travelled, the three of us, and Ugo, a little
boy who had served in the shop, to whom Mr. Skene had
taken a fancy. In Vienna you were born, my dear, and
we called you after your father’s mother. I think
I was perfectly happy in those days, and every one seemed
to be, but I know now that Vittoria was only feigning,
and that she had a blackness at her heart that was to
ruin us all. When I was strong and well again, Alexander
proposed that we should visit Canada, where he had so
long made his home, and I was eager to see the country
which I had heard so much about. Our arrangements were
made, and we landed in New [Page 77]
York, having come in a vessel from Genoa. From New York
we went to Montreal, and we had only been there a week
when my husband took a sudden notion to visit a country
house he owned, in a place called Denham. So he wrote
to have it made ready. He had shaved all the hair from
his face, and was enjoying seeing the people he had
known well—some of whom were his correspondents—without
revealing his identity, and all the time we were in
Montreal we remained unknown. On the 14th of September
we started out to drive to Denham, and the journey took
us two days. There was something about my sister’s
manner on this journey which I did not like, and my
thoughts were almost presentiments. But I shook them
off easily, and blamed my timid nature for something
which was so ill-formed and unfounded. We arrived here
on the evening of the 16th September, a little before
dusk. Alberta Westwick had opened the house, lighted
fires, and prepared the supper. We had brought a box
of supplies with us, and from this store Vittoria insisted
on extracting some macaroni, and making a dish of it
for supper. Shortly after, my husband was taken strangely
ill. I remember that Vittoria had not partaken of her
dish, and my husband had been the only one who had eaten
of it. He grew much worse so rapidly that I was fairly
paralyzed with terror, and from that moment Vittoria
took complete control of everything. The woman Westwick
had not the keys of the linen closets, so the beds were
not prepared. Vittoria had a couch quickly ready in
one of the rooms of the wing. Everything was so hurried
and confused that I could never remember exactly what
occurred. I think we sent for the doctor, and found
he was not at home. He did not come until afterwards,
and I never saw him at all. I did not see Alexander
alone; Ugo or Vittoria were always there.
“There
must have been poison,” he said, once, but Vittoria
made such an outcry and confusion that I could not hear
anything more. I left the room for a moment, and when
I returned he was worse. In my despair I rushed away
to get something—I don’t know what, now—but
they called me back, and he was dead, and could not
speak to me. I don’t remember anything that occurred
for months. I know now Vittoria must have kept me drugged,
and when I woke the world was all changed. As soon as
I tried to take my place in the house, I saw the terrible
trap I was in. Vittoria had usurped me; to the servants
and the villagers she had announced herself as Mrs.
Skene. No one knew us there. We had only been in the
village a few hours, and nothing had occurred to shew
Alberta Westwick plainly that I was the wife, although
she must have had a suspicion, for after she went mad
she always confused us, and Vittoria had her taken away
to an asylum. I struggled at first, but Ugo, in my presence,
swore that I had given my husband [Page 78]
the poison, and I saw that I was in their power. At
first, if I had broken away from them, I might have
conquered, but I was watched night and day, and after
I had an illness of years, as it seemed to me, my will
gave out, and ever after that I obeyed. If I shewed
any sign of rebellion I was locked up in the wing, which
was constructed as a sort of prison for me, and every
detail of that terrible night was brought vividly before
me. One of Vittoria’s fears was that some one
would notice the likeness between Janet and I, and when
she saw it so plainly that night when Janet had put
on one of my gowns, and looked just as I did when I
was a girl, her fury was visited upon me again. The
night I fainted, when she sang that song, my whole life
was brought back to me, and I saw the streets of Milan
once more. In every way she strengthened her diabolical
revenge, and in the end I did not suffer. If I had died,
it would have been better, but in the end she defeated
her own purpose. I became a creature who had no will,
no feelings, and it was only something like the old
song, or Janet in my youthful dress, that brought back
the past, and gave me pain. Then I seemed to awaken
from some horrible dream, and for a day I would suffer
what I can never describe. But my nerves would soon
give out. I could bear no more, and I was willing again
to forget. She was afraid to let one of us out of her
sight, and so she determined to get a tutor for Janet,
instead of sending her away to school, and so everything
was found out. You were the first person from the world
who had entered our life, and twice I thought of you
as a deliverer; once, when I explained why I fainted,
I thought the look in your eyes was in some way a salvation
for me; and again, when you played and Janet sang I
seemed to feel that you would find out that all our
relations had been perverted.”
This
was the end of her story. I was pained when I thought
of how I had suspected her, but my suspicions had led
to a happy result. Ugo had only received his deserts,
and the woman who had a heart wicked enough, and a will
strong enough to plot and carry out this fiend’s
work had died by her own act, being constantly ready,
as I supposed, to slip away and play the coward should
she ever be discovered.
Many
times have I talked it over with my wife, and we tried
to make amends for those years of suffering and darkness
which filled her mother’s life, and the Red Deeps
was full of brightness and sunshine, and is yet, for
that matter, for although she has passed away, our children
remember her, and, not knowing her tragedy, recall her
only by the affections of her broken heart, and the
winning power of her gentleness. [Page 79]
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