But here is Dora, watching from the kitchen door. She cannot be allowed to escape; Simon chases her around the house, corners her in the scullery, and sticks her like a pig, with Rachel trembling and fainting, but then pulling herself together like a true heroine and coming to his aid. Dora requires more digging, a deeper hole, followed by an orgiastic scene on the kitchen floor.
So much for the midnight burlesque. Then what? Then he'll be a murderer, with Rachel as the only witness. He'll be wedded to her; chained to her; melded to her, which is what she wants. He will never be free. But here's the part she has surely failed to imagine: once they're in the States, she'll be incognito. She'll be without a name. She'll be an unknown woman, of the kind often found floating in canals or other bodies of water: Unknown Woman Found Floating In Canal. Who would suspect him?
What method will he use? In bed, at the moment of delirium, her own hair coiled around her neck, only a slight pressure. That has a definite frisson, and is worthy of the genre.
She'll have forgotten all about it, in the morning. He turns to her again, arranges her. He strokes her neck.
Sunlight wakens him; he's still beside her, in her bed. He forgot to return to his own room last night, and no wonder: he was exhausted. From the kitchen he can hear Dora, clattering and thumping. Rachel is lying on her side, propped on one arm, watching him; she's naked, but has twined herself in the sheet. There's a bruise on her upper arm, which he can't remember making.
He sits up. "I must go," he whispers. "Dora will hear."
"I don't care," she says.
"But your reputation ..."
"It doesn't matter," she says. "We'll only be here for two more days." Her tone is practical; she regards it as settled, like a business arrangement. It occurs to him - and why for the first time only? - that she may be insane, or verging on it; or a moral degenerate, at the very least.
Simon creeps up the stairs, carrying his shoes and jacket, like a naughty undergraduate returning from a romp. He feels chilled. What he's viewed as merely a kind of acting, she's mistaken for reality. She truly thinks that he, Simon, is going to murder her husband, and out of love for her. What will she do when he refuses? There's a swirling in his head; the floor under his feet seems unreal, as if it's about to dissolve.
Before breakfast, he seeks her out. She's in the front parlour, on the sofa; she rises, greets him with a passionate kiss. Simon detaches himself, and tells her that he's ill; it's a recurrent malarial fever, which he contracted in Paris. If they are to fulfil their intentions - he puts it that way, to disarm her - he will have to have the proper medicine for it, at once, or he can't answer for the consequences.
She feels his forehead, which he's taken the precaution of dampening with his sponge, upstairs. She's suitably alarmed, yet there's an undertone of elation as well: she's getting ready to nurse him, to indulge herself in yet another role. He can see what's in her mind: she'll make beef tea and jellies, she'll pack him in blankets and mustard, she'll bandage any part of him that sticks out or looks likely. He will be weakened, he will be enfeebled and helpless, he will be firmly in her possession: that is her goal. He must save himself from her while there's still time.
He kisses the tips of her fingers. She must help him, he says tenderly. His life depends on her. Into her hand he presses a note, addressed to the Governor's wife: it requests the name of a doctor, as he knows no one locally. Once she has the name, she must hurry to the doctor and obtain the medicine. He's written down the prescription, in an illegible scribble; he gives her the money for it. Dora can't go, he says, as she can't be trusted to hurry. Time is of the essence: his treatment must begin immediately. She nods, she understands: she will do anything, she tells him fervently.
White-faced and trembling, but with lips set, she puts on her bonnet and hurries away. As soon as she's out of sight, Simon dries off his face and begins to pack. He sends Dora for a hired carriage, bribing her with a generous tip. While waiting for her return he composes a letter to Rachel, bidding her a polite farewell, pleading the health of his mother. He doesn't address her as Rachel. He includes several banknotes, but no terms of endearment. He's a man of the world, and won't be trapped that way, or blackmailed either: no Breach of Promise suit for him in case her husband dies. Perhaps she'll kill the Major herself; she's more than capable of it.
He thinks of writing a note to Lydia as well, but thinks better of it. It's a good thing he's never made a formal declaration.
The carriage arrives - it's more like a cart - and he hurls his two valises into it. "To the railway station," he says. Once he's safely away he will write to Verringer, promising some sort of report, stalling for time. He may after all be able to work up something; something that will not entirely discredit him. But above all he must put this disastrous interlude firmly behind him. After a quick visit to his mother, and a rearrangement of his economies, he will go to Europe. If his mother can manage on less - and she can - he can just barely afford it.
He doesn't begin to feel safe until he's in the railway carriage, with the doors firmly shut. The presence of a train conductor, in a uniform, is reassuring to him. Order of a sort is reasserting itself.
Once in Europe, he'll continue his researches. He will study the many prevailing schools of thought, but he will not add to them; not yet. He has gone to the threshold of the unconscious, and has looked across; or rather he has looked down. He could have fallen. He could have fallen in. He could have drowned.
Better, perhaps, to abandon theories, and concentrate on ways and means. When he returns to America he will bestir himself. He'll give lectures, he'll attract subscribers. He'll build a model Asylum, with well-tended grounds and the very best sanitation and drainage. What Americans prefer above all is the appearance of comfort, in any sort of institution at all. An Asylum with large comfortable rooms, facilities for hydrotherapy, and a good many mechanical devices, could do very well. There must be little wheels that go around with a whirring sound, there must be rubber suction cups. Wires to attach to the cranium. Apparatus for measuring. He will include the word "electrical" in his prospectus. The main thing must be to keep the patients clean and docile - drugs will be a help - and their relatives admiring and satisfied. As in schools for children, those who must be impressed are not the actual inmates, but those who pay the bills.
All of this will be a compromise. But he has now - very abruptly it seems - reached the right age for it.
The train moves out of the station. There's a cloud of black smoke, and then a long plaintive wail, which follows him like a baffled phantom along the track.
Not until he's halfway to Cornwall does he allow himself to consider Grace. Will she think he's deserted her? Lost faith in her, perhaps? If she is indeed ignorant of last evening's events, she will be justified in so thinking. She'll be bewildered by him, as he has been by her.
She can't know yet that he's left the city. He pictures her sitting in her accustomed chair, sewing at her quilt; singing, perhaps; waiting for his footfall at the door.
Outside it's begun to drizzle. After a time the motion of the train lulls him to sleep; he slumps against the wall. Now Grace is coming towards him across a wide lawn in sunshine, all in white, carrying an armful of red flowers: they are so clear he can see the dewdrops on them. Her hair is loose, her feet bare; she's smiling. Then he sees that what she walks on is not grass but water; and as he reaches to embrace her, she melts away like mist.
He wakes; he's still on the train, with the grey smoke blowing past the window. He presses his mouth to the glass.
XIV.
THE LETTER X
April 1, 1863. The convict Grace Marks has been guilty of a double or I may say (Bible) Murder. Her boldness does not show that she is a sensitive person and her want of gratitude is a convincing proof of her unfortunate disposition.
August 1, 1863. This unfortunate woman has become a dangerous creature, and I much fear that she will yet show us what she is capable of doing. Unfortunately
, she has parties assisting her. She would not dare to lie as she does unless aided by parties near her.
- The Warden's Daybook,
Provincial Penitentiary,
Kingston, Canada West, 1863.
... her exemplary conduct during the whole of her thirty years incarceration in the penitentiary the later portion of which she spent as a trusted inmate of the home of the Governor, and that so large a number of influential Gentlemen in Kingston should think that she merited and deserved a pardon, all tend to show that there is room for grave doubts as to her having been the awful female demon incarnate, that McDermott tried to make the public believe that she was.
- William Harrison,
"Recollections of the Kinnear Tragedy,"
written for the Newmarket Era, 1908.
My letters! All dead paper, mute and white!
And yet they seem alive and quivering
Against my tremulous hands which loose the string....
- Elizabeth Barrett Browning,
Sonnets from the Portuguese, 1850.
50.
To Mrs. C. D. Humphrey; from Dr. Simon Jordan,
Kingston, Canada West.
August 15th, 1859.
Dear Mrs. Humphrey:
I write in haste, having been summoned home most urgently by a family matter which it is imperative I respond to at once. My dear Mother has suffered an unforeseen collapse in her always imperfect health, and is presently at death's door. I only pray that I may be in time to attend her in her last moments.
I am sorry I could not stay to bid you farewell in person, and to thank you for your kind attentions to me whilst I was a lodger at your house; but I am certain that with your woman's heart and sensibility, you will quickly divine the necessity of my instant departure. I do not know how long I may be away, or if indeed I shall ever be able to return to Kingston. Should my Mother pass away, I will be needed to tend to the family affairs; and should she be spared to us for a time, my place is by her side. One who has sacrificed so much for her son, must surely deserve some not inconsiderable sacrifice from him in return.
My return to your city in future is most unlikely; but I will always preserve the memories of my days in Kingston - memories of which you form an esteemed part. You know how I admire your courage in the face of adversity, and how I respect you; and I hope you will find it in your heart to feel the same, towards,
Your most sincere,
Simon Jordan.
P.S. In the attached envelope I have left you a sum which I assume will cover any little amounts which remain outstanding between us.
P.P.S. I trust that your husband will soon be happily restored to you.
- S.
From Mrs. William P. Jordan, Laburnum House, Loomisville,
Massachusetts, The United States of America; to Mrs. C. D.
Humphrey, Lower Union Street, Kingston, Canada West.
September 29th, 1859.
Dear Mrs. Humphrey:
I take the liberty of returning to you the seven letters addressed by you to my dear Son, which have accumulated here in his absence; they were opened in mistake by the Servant, which will account for the presence of my own seal upon them, in place of yours.
My Son is at present making a tour of Private Mental Asylums and Clinics in Europe, an investigation very necessary to the work he is engaged upon - work of the utmost significance, which will alleviate human suffering, and which must not be interrupted for any lesser considerations, however pressing these may appear to others who do not understand the importance of his mission. As he is constantly travelling, I was unable to forward your letters to him; and I return them now, supposing that you would wish to know the reason for the lack of reply; although I beg to observe, that no reply is in itself a reply.
My Son had mentioned that you might make some attempt to re-establish your acquaintance with him; and although he very properly did not elaborate, I am not such an invalid, nor so cloistered from the world, that I was unable to read between the lines. If you will accept some frank but well-intentioned advice from an old woman, permit me to observe, that in permanent unions between the sexes, discrepancies in age and fortune must always be detrimental; but how much more so, are discrepancies in moral outlook. Rash and ill-advised conduct is understandable in a woman placed as you have been - I fully realize the unpleasantness of not knowing where one's husband may be located; but you must be aware, that in the event of the demise of such a husband, no man of principle would ever make his wife, a woman who had anticipated that position prematurely. Men, by nature and the decree of Providence, have a certain latitude allowed them; but fidelity to the marriage vow is surely the chief requirement in a woman.
In the early days of my widowhood, I found a daily reading of the Bible quite soothing to the mind; and some light needlework also helps to occupy one's thoughts. In addition to these remedies, perhaps you have a respectable female friend, who may comfort you in your distress without wishing to know the cause of it. What is believed in society, is not always the equivalent of what is true; but as regards a woman's reputation, it amounts to the same thing. It is as well to take all steps to preserve that reputation, by not spreading one's misery abroad where it may become the subject of malicious gossip; and to that end, it is wise to avoid the expression of one's feelings in letters, which must run the gauntlet of the public posts, and may fall into the hands of persons who may be tempted to read them unbeknownst to the sender.
Please accept, Mrs. Humphrey, the sentiments I have expressed, in the spirit of a genuine desire for your future well-being, in which they are offered, by,
Yours most sincerely,
(Mrs.) Constance Jordan.
From Grace Marks, The Provincial Penitentiary, Kingston,
Canada West; to Dr. Simon Jordan.
December 19th, 1859.
Dear Dr. Jordan:
I am writing to you with the help of Clarrie, who has always stood my friend, and got this paper for me, and will post it when the time comes in return for extra help with the laces and stains. The trouble is that I don't know where to send it, as I am ignorant of where you have gone. But if I find it out, then I will send this. I hope you can read my writing, as I am not much accustomed to it; and can only spend a short time at it each day.
When I heard you went off so quick, and without sending any word to me, I was very distressed, as I thought you must have been taken ill. I could not understand it, that you would go without a goodbye, after all the talking we had done together; and I fainted dead away in the upstairs hall, and the chambermaid went into a panic, and threw a vase of flowers over me, water, vase and all; which quickly brought me round, although the vase broke. She thought I was going off into fits, and would run mad again; but this was not the case, and I took very good control of myself, and it was just the shock of hearing about it in that sudden manner, and the palpitations of the heart which I have often been troubled from. I suffered a gash on my forehead from the vase. It is astonishing what a great quantity of blood may flow from a wound to the head, even if it is a shallow one.
I was unhappy that you left, as I was enjoying our talks; but also they said you were to write a letter to the Government on my behalf, to set me free, and I was afraid that now you would never do so. There is nothing so discouraging as hopes raised and then dashed again, it is almost worse than not having the hopes raised in the first place.
I do very much hope you will be able to write the letter in my favour, which I would be very thankful for, and hope you are keeping well,
From,
Grace Marks.
From Dr. Simon P. Jordan, care of Dr. Binswanger, Bellevue,
Kreutzlinger, Switzerland; to Dr. Edward Murchie, Dorchester,
Massachusetts, The United States of America.
January 12th, 1860.
My dear Ed:
Forgive me for having taken so long to write to you, and to acquaint you with my change of address. The fact is that things have b
een somewhat muddled, and it has taken me some time to straighten myself out. As Burns has remarked, "The best laid schemes o' mice and men gang aft a-gley," and I was forced to make a hasty escape from Kingston, as I found myself in complicated circumstances which could rapidly have become quite damaging, both to myself and to my future prospects. Someday over a glass of sherry I may tell you the whole story; although it seems to me at present less a story, than a troubled dream.
Among its elements is the fact that my study of Grace Marks took such an unsettling turn at the last, that I can scarcely determine whether I myself was awake or asleep. When I consider with what high hopes I commenced upon this undertaking - determined, you may be sure, on great revelations which would astonish the admiring world, I have cause almost for despair. Yet, were they indeed high hopes, and not mere self-seeking ambition? From this vantage point I am not altogether sure; but if only the latter, perhaps I have been well repaid, as in the whole affair, I may have been engaged on a wild goose chase, or a fruitless pursuit of shadows, and have come near to addling my own wits, in my assiduous attempts to unpick those of another. Like my namesake the apostle, I have cast my nets into deep waters; though unlike him, I may have drawn up a mermaid, neither fish nor flesh but both at once, and whose song is sweet but dangerous.
I do not know whether to view myself as an unwitting dupe, or, what is worse, a self-deluded fool; but even these doubts may be an illusion, and I may all along have been dealing with a woman so transparently innocent that in my over-subtlety I did not have the wit to recognize it. I must admit - but only to you - that I have come very close to nervous exhaustion over this matter. Not to know - to snatch at hints and portents, at intimations, at tantalizing whispers - it is as bad as being haunted. Sometimes at night her face floats before me in the darkness, like some lovely and enigmatic mirage -