CHAPTER XI.—“HOW SHE ENDEAVORED TO EXPLAIN HER LIFE.”
THURSDAY morning it rained. Hetzel was seated in Mrs. Hart’sdining-room, making such an apology for a breakfast as, under thecircumstances, could be expected of him, when the waitress announcedthat Josephine was in the kitchen, and wished to speak with her master.
“All right,” said Hetzel; “ask her to step this way.”
Josephine presented herself. Not without some embarrassment, shedeclared that she had heard what rumor had to say of Mrs. Ripley’simprisonment and of Mr. Ripley’s sickness, and that she was anxious tolearn the very truth of the matter from Hetzel’s lips. Hetzel repliedgood-naturedly to her interrogations; and at length Josephine rose to goher way. But having attained the door, she halted and faced about.
“Ach Gott!” she exclaimed. “I was forgetting about these.” Shedrew a bunch of letters from her pocket, and deposited them upon thetable beside Hetzel’s plate.
Alone, Hetzel picked the letters up, and began to study theirsuperscriptions. One by one, he threw them aside without breaking theirseals, till at last “Hello!” he cried, “who has been writing abook for me to read? Half an inch thick, as I’m alive; looks likea lady’s hand, too; seems somehow as though I recognized it. Let mesee.—Ah! I remember. It must be from her!”
Without further preliminary, he pushed back his chair, tore the envelopeopen, and set out to read the missive through.
“Dear Mr. Hetzel: I received a very kind note from you last night,and I should have answered it at once, only I had so much to say that Ithought it would be better to wait till morning, in order to beginand finish it at a sitting. The lights are turned off here at nineo’clock: and therefore if I had begun to write last evening, I shouldhave been interrupted in the midst of it; and that would have rendereddoubly difficult what in itself is difficult enough.
“I have much to explain, much to justify, much to ask forgiveness for.I am going to bring myself to say things to you, which, a few days ago,I believed it would be impossible for me to say to any living being,except my husband; and it would have been no easy matter to say them tohim. But a great change has happened in the last few days. Now I can notsay those things to my husband—never can. Now my wretched failure of alife is nearly ended. I am going to a prison where, I know very well, Ishall not survive a great while.
“And something, which there is no need to analyze, impels me to put inwriting such an explanation of what I have done and left undone in thisworld, as I may be able to make. Perhaps I am prompted to this course bypride, or if you choose, by vanity. However that may be, I do feel thatin justice to myself as well as to my friends, I ought to try to statethe head and front of my offending so as to soften the judgment thatpeople aware only of my outward acts, and ignorant of my inner motives,would be disposed to pass upon me. I have ventured to address myself toyou, instead of to Mrs. Hart, out of consideration for her. It would betoo hard for her to have to read this writing through. You, having readit, can repeat its upshot to her in such a manner as to make it easierfor her to bear. I know that you will be willing to do this, because Iknow that both she and I have always had a friend in you.
“For my own assistance, let me state clearly beforehand the pointsupon which I must touch in this letter. First, I must explain why,having a blot upon my life—being, that is to say, who I am—I allowedArthur Ripley to marry me. Then I must go on to perform that mostpainful task of all—tell the story of the death of Bernard Peixada andEdward Bolen. Next, I must justify—what you appear to misunderstand,though the grounds of it are really very simple—the deep resentmentwhich I can not help cherishing against your bosom friend, my husband.Finally, I must give the reasons that induced me to plead guilty ofmurder an hour ago in court.
“But no. I have put things in their wrong order at the outset. It willnot be possible for me to explain why I consented to become Arthur’swife, until I have given you the true history of Bernard Peixada’sdeath. I must command my utmost strength to do this. I must forgetnothing.
“I must force myself to recount every circumstance, hateful as thewhole subject is. I must search my memory, subdue my feelings, and asdispassionately as will be possible, put the entire miserable tale inwriting. I pray God to help me.
“I am just twenty-six years old—ten months younger than Arthur. Mybirthday fell while he and I were at New Castle together—August 4th.How little I guessed then that in ten days every thing would be soaltered! It is strange. I trusted him as I trusted myself. I could notconceive the possibility of his deceiving me. He seemed so sincere, sosimple-minded, so single-hearted, I could as easily have fancied a toadissuing from his mouth, as a lie. Yet all the time—even while we werealone together there in New Castle—he was lying to me. That wholefortnight—that seemed so wonderfully serene and pure and light—wasone dark falsehood. Even then, he was having my career investigated herein New York, behind my back. And I—I had offered to tell him everything. Painful as it would have been, I should have told him the wholestory; but he would not let me.
“He preferred to hear Benjamin Peixada’s—my enemy’s—versionof it. Even now, when I have—plenty—to remind me of the truth, evennow, I can scarcely believe it.
“But I must not deviate. As I was saying, I am twenty-six years old.More than six years ago, when I was nineteen, nearing twenty, my fathersaid to me one day, ’Mr. Peixada has done us the honor to ask for yourhand in marriage. We have accepted. So, on the eighth of next August,you will be married to him.’
“You can not realize, Mr. Hetzel, a tithe of the horror I experiencedwhen my father spoke those words to me, until I have gone back furtherstill, and told something of my life up to that time. At this moment, asI recall the occasion of my father’s saying that to me, my heart turnsto ice, my cheeks burn, my limbs quake, my nature recoils with disgustand loathing. It is painful to have to go over it all again, to have tolive through it all again; yet that is what I have started out to do.
“You must know, to begin with, that my father was a watchmaker, andthat he kept a shop on Second Avenue, between Sixth and Seventh Streets.He was a man of great intelligence, of uncommon cultivation, and ofa most gentle and affectionate disposition; but he was a Jew of thesternest orthodoxy, and he held old-fashioned, orthodox notions of theobedience children owe to their parents. My father in his youth hadintended to become a physician; but while he was a student in Berlin, in1848, the revolution broke out; he took part in it; and as a consequencehe had to leave Germany and come to America before he had won hisdiploma. Here, friendless, penniless, he fell in with a jeweler,named Oppenhym, who offered to teach him his trade. Thus he became anapprentice, then a journeyman, finally a proprietor. I was born in thehouse on Second Avenue, in the basement of which my father kept hisshop. We lived up stairs. Our family consisted only of my father andmother, myself, and my father’s intimate friend, Marcus Nathan.Mr. Nathan was a very learned gentleman, who had been a widower andchildless for many years, and who acted as chazzan in our synagogue.It was to him that my father confided my education. It was he who firsttaught me to read and write and to care for books and music. How goodand loyal a friend he was to me you will learn later on. He died earlyin 1880.... I did not go to school till I was thirteen years old. ThenI was sent to the public school in Twelfth Street, and thence to theNormal College, where I graduated in 1876. I studied the piano at homeunder the direction of a woman named Emily Millard—an accomplishedmusician, but unkind and cruel. She used to pull my hair and pinch me,when I made mistakes; and afterward, when they tried me in the court ofGeneral Sessions for Bernard Peixada’s murder, Miss Millard came andswore that I was bad.
“Bernard Peixada—whom the newspapers described as ’a retiredJewish merchant’—was a pawnbroker. His shop was straight across thestreet from ours. I never in my life saw another structure of brick andmortar that seemed to frown with such sinister significance, with suchominous suggestiveness, upon the street in front of it as did thathouse of Bernard Peixa
da’s. It was a brick house; but the bricks wereconcealed by a coat of dark gray stucco, with blotches here and therethat were almost black. The shop, of course, was on the ground floor.Its broad windows were protected, like those of a jail, by heavy ironbars. Within them was exhibited an assortment of such goods and chattelsas the pawnbroker had contrived to purchase from distress—musicalinstruments, household ornaments, kitchen utensils, firearms, tarnishedsuits of uniform, faded bits of women’s finery—ex voto offerings atthe shrine of Mammon. Behind these, all was darkness, and mystery, andgloom. Over the door, three golden balls—golden they had been once,but were no longer, thanks to the thief, Time, abetted by wind andweather—the pawnbroker’s escutcheon, swayed in the breeze. Higher upstill—big, white, ghastly letters on a sable background—hung a sign,bearing a legend like this: B. PEIXADA.
MONEY LENT ON WATCHES, JEWELRY, PRECIOUS STONES, AND ALL VARIETIES OFPERSONAL PROPERTY.
“And on the side door, the door that let into the private hallwayof the house, was screwed a solemn brass plate, with ’B. Peixada’engraved in Old English characters upon it. (When Bernard Peixadaretired from business, he was succeeded by one B. Peinard. On takingpossession, Mr. Peinard, for economy’s sake, caused the last fourletters of Bernard Peixada’s name on the sign to be painted out, andthe corresponding letters of his own name to be painted in: so that, tothis day, the time-stained PEI stands as it used to stand years ago, andcontrasts oddly with the more recent word that follows.) As I havesaid, the shop windows were defended by an iron grating. The otherwindows—those of the three upper stories—were hermetically sealed.I, at least, never saw them open. The blinds, once green, doubtless, butblackened by age, were permanently closed; and the stucco beneath themwas fantastically frescoed with the dirt that had been washed from themby the rain.
“I think it was partly due to these black blinds, and’ to the queershapes that the dirt had taken on the wall, that the house had thatpeculiarly sinister aspect that I have spoken of. At all events,you could not glance at its façade without shuddering. As early arecollection as any that I have, is of how I used to sit at our frontwindows, and gaze over at Bernard Peixada’s, and work myself into avery ecstasy of fear by trying to imagine the dark and terrible thingsthat were stored behind them. My worst nightmares used to be that I wasa prisoner in Bernard Peixada’s house. I never dreamed that some timemy most hideous nightmare would be surpassed by the fact.
“But if I used to terrify myself by the sight of Bernard Peixada’sdwelling, much keener was the terror with which Bernard Peixada’sperson inspired me. Picture to yourself a—creature—six feet tall,gaunt as a skeleton, always dressed in black—in black broadcloth, thatglistened like a snake’s skin—with a head—my pen revolts froman attempt to describe it. Yet I must describe it, so that you mayappreciate a little what I endured when my father said that he hadchosen Bernard Peixada for my husband. Well, Bernard Peixada’s headwas thus: a hawk’s beak for a nose, a hawk’s beak inverted for achin; lips, two thin, blue, crooked lines across his face, with yellowfangs behind them, that shone horribly when he laughed; eyes, two black,shiny beads, deep-set beneath prominent, black, shaggy brows, with themalevolence of a demon aflame deep down in them; skull, destitute ofhonest hair, but kept warm by a curling, reddish wig; skin, dryand sallow as old parchment, on which dark wrinkles were traced—acryptogram, with a meaning, but one which I could not perfectlydecipher; these were the elements of Bernard Peixada’sphysiognomy—fit features for a bird of prey, were they not? Have youever seen his brother, Benjamin? the friend of Arthur Ripley? Benjaminis corpulent, florid, and on the whole not ill-looking—morally andphysically vastly superior to his elder brother. But fancy Benjaminpumped dry of blood, shrunken to the dimensions of a mummy, thenbewigged, then caricatured by an enemy, and you will form a tolerablyvivid conception of how Bernard Peixada looked. But his looks were notall. His voice, I think, was worse. It was a thin, piercing voicethat, when I heard it, used to set my heart palpitating with a hundredhorrible emotions. It was a dry, metallic voice that grated like afile. It was a sharp, jerky voice that seemed to chop the air, eachword sounding like a blow from an ax. It was a voice which could not beforced to say a kind and human thing. Cruelty and harshness were naturalto it. I can hear it ringing in my ears, as I am writing now; and itmakes my heart sink and my hand tremble, as it used to do when Iindeed heard it, issuing from his foul, cruel mouth. Will you besurprised—will you think I am exaggerating—when I say that BernardPeixada’s hideousness did not end with his voice? I should do hisportrait an injustice if I were to omit mention of his hands—hisclaws, rather, for claws they were shaped like; and, instead of fingers,they were furnished with long, brown, bony talons, terminated by black,untrimmed nails. I do not believe I ever saw Bernard Peixada’s handsin repose. They were in perpetual, nervous motion—the talons clutchingat the air, if at nothing more substantial—even when he slept. Themost painful dreams that I have had, since God delivered me of him, havebeen those in which I have seen his hands, working, working, the fingerswrithing like serpents, as they were wont to do in life. Oh, such amonstrosity! Oh, such a wicked travesty of man! This, Mr. Hetzel, wasthe person to f-whom my father proposed to marry me. There was no one toplead for me, no one to interfere in my behalf. And I was a young girl,nineteen years old.
“How could my father do it? How could he bring himself to do thisthing? It is a long story.
“In the first place, Bernard Peixada was accounted a most estimablemember of society. He was rich; he was pious; he was eminentlyrespectable. His ill-looks were ignored. Was he to blame for them?people asked. Did he not close his shop regularly on every holiday? Whowas more precise than he in observing the feasts and fasts of the Hebrewcalendar? or in attending services at the Synagogue? Was smoke ever tobe seen issuing from his chimneys on the Sabbath? Old as he was, did henot abstain from food on the fast of Gedalia, and on that of Tebeth, andon that of Tamuz, as well as on the Ninth of Ab and on Yom Kippur? Hadhe not, year after year, been elected and re-elected Parnass of thecongregation? All honor to him, then, for a wise man and an uprightman in the way of the law! It was thus that public opinion in our smallworld treated Bernard Peixada. On the theory that handsome is thathandsome does, he got the credit of being quite a paragon of beauty.To be sure, he lacked social qualities—he was scarcely ahail-fellow-well-met. He cared little for wine and tobacco—he abhorreddominoes—he could not be induced to sit down to a game of penacle; butall the better! The absence of these frivolous interests proved him tobe a man of responsible weight and gravity. It was a pity he had nevermarried. Perhaps it was not yet too late. Lucky the girl upon whom hiseye should turn with favor. If he had not youth and bodily grace tooffer her, he had, at least, wealth, wisdom, and respectability.
“Bernard Peixada had been the black beast of my childhood. WhenI would go with my mother to the Synagogue, and sit with her in thewomen’s gallery, I could not keep my eyes off Bernard.. Peixada, whooccupied the president’s chair downstairs. The sight of him had anuncanny fascination for me. As I grew older, it was still the same.Bernard Peixada personified to me all that was evil in human nature.He was the Ahriman, the Antichrist, of my theology. He made my fleshcreep—gave me a sensation similar to that which a snake givesone—only incomparably more intense.
“Well, one evening in the early spring of 1878, I was seated in ourlittle parlor over the shop, striving to entertain a very dull youngman—a Mr. Rimo, Bernard Peixada’s nephew—when the door opened,and who should come gliding in but Bernard Peixada himself? I had neverbefore seen him at such close quarters, unless my father or mother orMr. Nathan was present too; and then I had derived a sense of securityfrom realizing that I had a friend near by. But now, here he was in thevery room with me, and I all alone, except for this nephew of his, Mr.Rimo. I had to catch for my breath, and my heart grew faint within me.
“Bernard Peixada simply said good evening and sat down. I do notremember that he spoke another word until he rose to go away. But fo
rtwo hours he sat there opposite me, and not for one instant did he takehis eyes from off my face. He sat still, like a toad, and leered at me.His blue lips were curled into a grin, which, no doubt, was intendedto be reassuring, but which, in fact, sent cold shivers chasing down myback. He stared at me as he might have stared at some inanimate objectthat had been offered to him in pawn. Then at last, when he must havelearned every line and angle of my face by rote, he got up and wentaway, leading Mr. Rimo after him.
“I lay awake all that night, wondering what Bernard Peixada’s visitmeant, hoping that it meant nothing, fearing—but it would taketoo long for me to tell you all I feared. Suffice it that the nextafternoon—I was seated in my bed-room, trying to divert my imaginationwith a tale of Hawthorne’s—the next afternoon my father called meinto his office behind the shop, and there in the presence of my motherhe corroborated the worst fears that had beset me during the night.
“‘Judith,’ he said, ’our neighbor, Mr. Peixada, has done usthe honor of proposing for your hand. Of course we have accepted. Hedesignates the eighth of August for the wedding-day. That will give youplenty of time to get ready in; and on Sundays you will stay at home toreceive congratulations.
“It took a little while, Mr. Hetzel, for the full meaning ofmy father’s speech to penetrate my mind. At first I did notcomprehend—I was stupefied, bewildered. My senses were benumbed.Mechanically, I watched my father’s canary-bird hop from perch toperch in his cage, and listened to the shrill whistle that he utteredfrom time to time. I was conscious of a dizziness in my head, of asickness and a chill over all my body. But then, suddenly, the horrorshot through me—pierced my consciousness like a knife. Suddenly mysenses became wonderfully clear. I saw the black misery that they hadprepared for me, in a quick, vivid tableau before my eyes. I trembledfrom head to foot. I tried to speak, to cry out, to protest. If I couldonly have let the pain break forth in an inarticulate moan, it wouldhave been some relief. But my tongue clove to the roof of my mouth.I could not utter a sound. ’Well, Judith,’ said my father, ’whydon’t you speak?’
“His words helped me to find my voice.
“‘Speak!’ I cried. ’What is there to say? Marry Bernard Peixada?Marry that monster? I will never marry him. I would a thousand timesrather die.’
“My mother and father looked at me and at each other in dismay.
“‘Judith,’ said my father, sternly, ’that is not the languagethat a daughter should use toward her parents. That is not the way ayoung lady should feel, either. Of course you will marry Mr. Peixada.Don’t make a scene about it. It has all been arranged between us; andyour betrothed is coming to claim you in half an hour.’
“‘Father,’ I answered, very calmly, ’I am sorry to rebel againstyour authority, but I tell you now, once for all, I will not marryBernard Peixada.’ ’Judith,’ rejoined my father, imitating mymanner, ’I am sorry to contradict you, but I tell you now, once forall, you will.’
“‘Never,’ said I.
“‘On the eighth of August,’ said my father.
“‘Time will show,’ said I.
“‘Time will show,’ said he, ’in less than fifteen minutes.Judith, listen.’
“It was an old story that my father now proceeded to tell me—old,and yet as new as it is terrible to the girl who has to listen to it.It does not break the heart in two, like the old, old story of Heine’ssong: it inflames the heart with a dull, sullen anguish that is theworst pain a woman can be called upon to endure. My father told me howfor two years past his pecuniary affairs had been going to the dogs;how he had been getting poor and poorer; how he had become BernardPeixada’s debtor for sums of money that he could never hope to pay;how Bernard Peixada owned not only the wares in our shop, but the verychairs we sat on, the very beds we slept in, the very plates off whichwe ate; how, indeed, it was Bernard Peixada who paid for the daily breadthat kept our bodies and souls together. My father explained all this tome, concluding thus: ’I was in despair, Judith. I thought I should gocrazy. I saw nothing but disgrace and the poor-house before your motherand you and me. I could not sleep at night. I could not work during theday. I could do nothing but think, think, think of the desperate pass towhich my affairs had come. It was an agony, Judith. It would soon havekilled me, or driven me mad. Then, all at once, the darkness of my—skyis lightened by this good man, whom I have already to thank for so much.He calls upon me. He says he will show me a way out of my difficulties.
“I ask what it is. He answers, why not unite our families, accept himas my son-in-law? and adds that between son-in-law and father-in-lawthere can be no question of indebtedness. In other words, he told methat he loved you, Judith; that he wished to marry you; and that, oncemarried to you, he would consider my debts to him discharged. Try,Judith, to realize his generosity. I—I owe him thousands. But forhim we should have starved. But for him, we should starve to-morrow.Ordinary gratitude alone would have been enough to compel me to say yesto his proposition. But by saying yes, did I not also accomplish our ownsalvation? Now that you have heard the whole story, Judith, now, like agood girl, promise to make no opposition.’
“‘So that,’ I retorted, indignantly, ’I am to be your ransom—Iam to be sacrificed as a hostage. The pawnbroker consents to receiveme as an equivalent for the money you owe him. A woman to be literallybought and sold. Oh, father, no, no! There must be some other way. Letme go to work. Have I not already earned money by giving lessons? I willteach from morning to night each day; and every penny that I gain, Iwill give to you to pay Bernard Peixada with. I will be so industrious!I would rather slave the flesh from my bones—any thing, rather thanmarry him.’
“‘The most you could earn,’ my father answered, ’would be nomore than a drop in the bucket, Judith.’
“‘Well, then,’ I went on, ’there is Mr. Nathan. He has money.Borrow from him. He will not refuse. I know that he would gladly givemuch money to save me from a marriage with Bernard Peixada. I will askhim.’
“Judith, you must not speak of this to Mr. Nathan,’ cried my father,hastily. ’He must not know but that your marriage to Mr. Peixada isan act of your own choice. I—to tell you the truth—I have alreadyborrowed from Mr. Nathan as much as I dare to ask for.’
“To cut a long story short, Mr. Hetzel, my father drew for me sucha dark picture of his misfortunes, he argued so plausibly that alldepended upon my marrying Bernard Peixada, he pleaded so piteously, thatin the end I said, ’Well, father, I will do as you wish.’——
“I do not think it is necessary to dwell upon what followed: how myfather and mother embraced me, and wept over me, and thanked me, andgave me their benediction; how Bernard Peixada came from his lairacross the street, and kissed my hand, and leered at me, and called me’Judith’ in that voice of his; how then, for weeks afterward, mylife was one protracted, hopeless horror; how the sun rose morning aftermorning, and brought neither warmth nor light, but only a reminder thatthe eighth of August was one day nearer still; how I could speak ofit to no one, but had to bear it all alone in silence; how at nightmy sleep was constantly beset by nightmares, in which I got a bitterforetaste of the future; how evening after evening I had to spend inthe parlor with Bernard Peixada, listening to his voice, watching hisfingers writhe, feeling the deadly light of his eyes upon me, breathingthe air that his presence tainted; how every Sunday I had to receivepeople’s congratulations! the good wishes of all our familyfriends—I need not dwell upon these things. My life was a longheart-ache. I had but one relief—hoping that I might die. I did notthink of putting an end to myself; but I did pray that God, in hismercy, would let me die before the eighth of August came. Indeed, myhealth was very much broken. Our family doctor visited me twice a week.He told my father that marriage would be bad for me. But my father’shands were tied.
“The people here tell me that there is a man confined in this prisonunder sentence to be hanged. The day fixed for his execution is thefirst Friday of next month. Well, I think that that man, now, as helooks forward to
the first Friday of September, may feel a little as Ifelt then, when I would look forward to the eighth of August—only hehas the mitigation of knowing that afterward he will be dead, whereas Iknew that I should have to live and suffer worse things still. As Isaw that day steadily creeping nearer and nearer to me, the horror thatbound my heart intensified. It was like the old Roman spectacle. I hadbeen flung ad bestias. I stood still, defenseless, beyond the reach ofrescue, hopeless of escape, and watched the wild beast draw closer andcloser to me, and all the while endured the agony of picturing to myselfthe final moment, when he would spring upon me and suck my blood: only,again there was this difference—the martyr in the arena knew thatafter that final moment, all would be over; but I knew that the worstwould then just be begun. Yet, at last—toward the end—I actuallyfell to wishing that the final moment would arrive. The torture, longdrawn out, of anticipation was so unbearable that I actually wished thewild beast would fall upon me, in order that I might enjoy the reliefof change. Nothing, I felt, could be more painful than this waiting,dreading, imagining. The eighth of August could bring no terror that Ihad not already confronted in imagination.
“Well, this one wish of mine was granted. The eighth of August came. Iwas married to Bernard Peixada. I stood up in our parlor, decked out inbridal costume, holding Bernard Peixada’s hand in mine, and took thevows of matrimony in the presence of a hundred witnesses. The canopy wasraised over our heads; the wine was drunken and spilled; the glass wasbroken. The chazzan sang his song; the rabbi said his say; and I,who had gone through the performance in a sort of stupor—dull, halfconscious, bewildered—I was suddenly brought to my senses by a clamorof cheerful voices, as the wedding-guests trooped up around us, tofelicitate the bridegroom and to kiss the bride. I realized—no, Idid not yet realize—but I understood that I was Bernard Peixada’swife—his wife, for good and all, for better or for worse! I don’tremember that I suffered any new pain. The intense suffering of the lastfew months had worn out my capacities for suffering. My brain was dazed,my heart deadened.
“The people came and came, and talked and talked—I remember it as Iremember the delirium I had when I was sick once with fever. And afterthe last person had come and talked and gone away, Bernard Peixadaoffered me his arm, and said, ’We must take our places at the weddingfeast.’ Then he led me up-stairs, where long tables were laid out forsupper.
“A strange sense of unreality possessed me. In a vague, dreamy,far-off way, I saw the guests stand up around the tables; saw the mencover their heads with hats or handkerchiefs; heard the voice of Mr.Nathan raised in prayer; heard the company join lustily in his ’BaruchAdonai,’. and reverently in his final ’Amen’ saw the head-geardoffed, the people sink into their seats; heard the clatter of knivesand forks mingle with the tinkling of glasses, the bubble of pouringwine, the uproar of talk and laughter; was conscious of glaring lights,of moving forms, of the savor of food, mixed with the perfume of flowersand the odor of cologne on the women’s handkerchiefs: felt hot,dazzled, suffocated, confused—an oppression upon my breast, a ringingin my ears, a swimming in my head: the world was whirling around andaround—I alone, in the center of things, was motionless.
“So on for I knew not how long. In the end I became aware thatspeeches were being made. The wedding feast, that meant, was nearlyover. I did not listen to the speeches. But they reminded me ofsomething that I had forgotten. Now, indeed, my heart stood still. Theyreminded me that the moment was not far off when Bernard Peixada, whenmy husband, would lead me away with him!
“The speeches were wound up. Mr. Nathan began his last grace. Mymother signaled me to be ready to come to her as soon as Mr. Nathanshould get through.
“‘Judith,’ she said, when I had reached her side, ’we had bettergo up-stairs now, and change your dress.’
“We went up-stairs. When we came down again, we found Bernard Peixadawaiting in the hall. Through the open door of the parlor, I could hearmusic, and see young men and women dancing. Oh, how I envied them! Mymother and father kissed me. Bernard Peixada grasped my arm. We left myfather’s house. We crossed the street. Bernard Peixada kept hold of myarm, as if afraid that I might make a dash for liberty—as, indeed, myimpulse urged me to do. With his unoccupied hand, Bernard Peixada drewa key from his pocket, and opened the side door of his own darkabode—the door that bore the brass plate with the Old English letters.
“‘Well,’ he said, ’come in.’
“With a shudder, I crossed the threshold of that mysterious, sinisterhouse—of that house which had been the terror of my childhood, and wasto be—what? In the midst of my fear and my bewilderment, I could notsuppress a certain eagerness to confront my fate and know the worst atonce—a certain curiosity to learn the full ghastliness of my doom. Inless time than I had bargained for, I had my wish.”
Thus far Hetzel had read consecutively. At this point he was interruptedby the entrance of Mrs. Hart.
“Are you busy?” she asked. “Because, if you’re not, I think youhad better go up-stairs and sit with Arthur. The nurse wants to eather breakfast and lie down for a while. And I, you know, am expected byRuth.”
“Oh, to be sure,” Hetzel replied, with a somewhat abstracted manner.“Oh, yes—I’ll do as you wish at once. But it is a pity that youshould have to go down-town alone—especially in this weather.”
“Oh, I don’t mind that. Good-by.”
Hetzel gained the sick-room. The nurse said, “You won’t have much todo, except sit down and keep quiet.”
Arthur lay motionless, for all the world as if asleep, save that hiseyes were open. The room was darkened. Hetzel sat down near to thewindow, and returning to Ruth’s letter, read on by the light thatstole in through the chinks in the blinds. The wind and rain played adreary accompaniment.
“To detain you, Mr. Hetzel, with an account of my married life wouldbe superfluous. It was as bad as I had expected it to be, and worse. Itbore that relation to my anticipations which pain realized must alwaysbear to pain conjectured. The imagination, in anticipating pleasure,generally goes beyond the reality and paints a too highly coloredpicture. But in anticipating suffering, it does not go half farenough. It is not powerful enough to foretell suffering in its completeintensity.
“Sweet is never so sweet as we imagine it will be; bitter is always atleast a shade bitterer than we are prepared for. Imagination slurs overthe little things—and the little things, trifles in themselves, arethe things that add to the poignancy of suffering. Bernard Peixada hada copy of Dante’s Inferno, illustrated by Doré, on his sitting-roomtable. You may guess what my life was like, when I tell you that I usedto turn the pages of that book, and literally envy the poor wretchesportrayed there their fire and brimstone. The utmost refinement oftorture that Dante and Doré between them could conceive and describe,seemed like child’s play when I contrasted it to what I had to put upwith everyday. Bernard Peixada was cruel and coarse and false. It didnot take him a great while to fathom the disgust that he inspiredme with; and then he undertook to avenge his wounded self-love. Hecontrived mortifications and humiliations for me that I can not bringmyself to name, that you would have difficulty in crediting. Besides,this period of my life is not essential to what I have set myselfto make plain to you. It was simply a period of mental and moralwretchedness, and of bodily decline. My health, which, I think I havesaid, had been failing before the eighth of August, now proceededsteadily from bad to worse. It was aggravated by the daily trials I hadto endure. Of course I strove to bear up as bravely as I could.
“I did not wish Bernard Peixada to have the satisfaction of seeing howunhappy he had succeeded in making me. I did not wish my poor fatherand mother to witness the misery I had taken upon myself in obedienceto their behests. I said, ’That which is done is done, and can not beundone, therefore let it not appear what the ordeal costs you.’ And inthe main I think I was successful. Only occasionally, when I was alone,I would give myself the luxury of crying. I had never realized what arelief crying could be till now. Bu
t now well, when I would be seized bya paroxysm of grief that I could not control, when amid tears and sobsI would no doubt look most pitiable—it was then that I came nearest tobeing happy. I remember, on one of these occasions—Bernard Peixadahad gone out somewhere—I was surprised by a sanctimonious old woman, afriend of his, if friendship can subsist between such people, a certainMrs. Washington Shapiro. ’My dear,’ said she, ’what are you cryingfor?’ I was in a desperate mood. I did not care what I said; nay, morethan this, I enjoyed a certain forlorn pleasure in speaking my true mind’for once, especially to this friend of Bernard Peixada’s. ’Oh,’I answered, ’I am crying because I wish Bernard Peixada was deadand buried.’ I had to smile through my tears at the horror-strickencountenance Mrs. Shapiro now put on. ’What! You wish Bernard Peixadawas dead?’ she exclaimed. ’Shame upon you! How can you say such athing!’—’He is a monster—he makes me unhappy,’ I responded.’In that case,’ said Mrs. Shapiro, ’you ought to wish that youyourself were dead, not he. It is you who are monstrous, for thinkingand saying such wicked things of that good man.’—’Oh,’ Irejoined, ’I am young. I have much to live for. He is an old, bad man.If he should die, it would be better for every body.’—This was, asnearly as I can remember, a month or two before the night of July 30th.As I have told you, it was a piece of self-indulgence.
“I enjoyed speaking my true sentiments; I enjoyed horrifying Mrs.Shapiro. But I was duly punished. She took pains to repeat what I hadsaid to Bernard Peixada. He did not fail to administer an adequatepunishment. Afterward, when I was tried for murder, Mrs. Shapiro turnedup, and retailed our conversation to the jury, for the purpose ofestablishing my evil disposition.
“It was in the autumn after my marriage that my father was strickenwith paralysis, and died. It was better for him. If he had lived, hecould not have: remained ignorant of his daughter’s misery; and thenhe would have had to suffer the pangs of futile self reproach. Of coursehe left nothing for my mother. The creditors took possession of everything. Bernard Peixada had been false to his bargain. Instead ofcanceling my father’s indebtedness to him, as he had promised, he hadsimply j sold his claims. Immediately after my father’s death, thecreditors swooped down upon his house and shop, and sold the last stickof: furniture over my mother’s head. Mr. Nathan generously bought inthe things that were most precious as keep-sakes and family relics, andreturned them to my mother, after the vultures had flown away. Oddlyenough, they did not appear to blame Bernard Preixada—did not hold himaccountable.
“They continued to regard him as a paragon of manly virtue. Perhaps hecontrived some untruthful explanation, by which they were deceived I hadnaturally hoped that now my mother would come to live with us. It wouldhave been a great comfort to me, if she had done so. But Bernard Peixadawished otherwise. He cunningly persuaded her that she and I had bestdwell apart. So he supplied her with enough money to pay her expensesand sent her to board in the family of a friend of his.
“Well, somehow, that fall and winter dragged away. It is somethingterrible for me to look back at—that blackest, bleakest winter of mylife. I not understand how I managed to live through it without goingmad. I was a prisoner in Bernard Peixada’s house. My mother and Mr.Nathan came to see me quite frequently; but Bernard was present duringtheir visits and therefore I got but little solace from them.
“The only persons except my mother and Mr. Nathan whom Bernard Peixadapermitted me to receive, were his own friends. And they were one and allhateful to me. To my friends he denied admittance, I was physically veryweak. My ill health made it impossible for me to forget myself in mybooks. The effort of reading was too exhausting. I could not sit formore than a quarter of an hour at the piano? either, without all butfainting away. (Mr. Nathan had given me a piano for a wedding-present.)At the time I am referring to—when I was unable to play uponit—Bernard Peixada allowed me the free use of it. But afterward—whenI had become stronger, and began to practice regularly—one day I foundit locked. Bernard Peixada stood near by, and watched me try to open it.I looked at him, when I saw that I could not open it, and he looked atme. Oh, the contortion of his features, the twisting of his thin bluelips, the glitter of his venomous little eyes, the loathsome gurgle inhis throat, as he laughed! He laughed at my dismay. Laughter? At least,I know no other word by which to name the hideous spasm that convulsedhis voice. The result was, I passed my days moping. He objected to myleaving the house, except in his company. I had therefore to remainwithin doors. I used to sit at the window, and watch the life belowin the street, and look across at our house—now occupied bystrangers—and live over the past—my childhood, my girlhood—alwaysstopping at the day and the hour when my father had called me from thereading of that story of Hawthorne’s, to announce my doom to me. ButI am wasting your time. All this is aside from the point. I did survivethat winter. And when the spring came, I began to get better in health,and to become consequently more hopeful in spirit. I said, Why, you arenot yet twenty-one years old. He is sixty—and feeble at that. Onlytry hard to hold out a little longer—a few years at the most—and hemust, in the mere course of nature, die. Then you will not yet be anold woman. Life will still be worth something to you. You will have yourmusic, and you will be rid of him.’ Wicked? Unwomanly? Perhaps so;but I think it was the way every girl in my position would havefelt. However, the consolation that came from thoughts like this, wasshort-lived. The next moment it would occur to me, ’He may quitepossibly live to be ninety!’ And my heart would sink at the prospectof thirty years—thirty years—more of life as his wife.
“In March, 1879, Bernard Peixada spoke to me as follows: ’Judith,you are not going to be a pawnbroker’s wife much longer. I have, madearrangements to sell my business. I have leased a house up-town. Weshall move on the 1st of May. After that we shall be a gentleman andlady of leisure.’
“Surely enough, on the 1st of May we moved. The house he had leasedwas a frame house, standing all alone in the middle of the block,between Eighty-fifth and Eighty-sixth Streets and Ninth and TenthAvenues. It was a large, substantial, comfortable house, dating fromKnickerbocker times. He had caused it to be furnished in a style whichhe meant to be luxurious, but which was, in truth, the extreme ofugliness. The grounds around it were laid out in a garden. We went tolive there punctually on the 1st of May.
“Bernard Peixada now began to spend money with a lavish hand. Hebought fine clothes and jewels, in which he required me to array myself.He even went to the length of purchasing a carriage and a pair ofhorses. Then he would make me go driving at his side through CentralPark. He kept a coachman. The coachman was Edward Bolen. (Meanwhile, Imust not forget to tell you, Bernard Peixada had quarreled and brokenwith my mother and Mr. Nathan. Now he allowed neither of them to enterhis house.) I was in absolute ignorance concerning them. Once I venturedto ask him for news of them. He scowled. He said, ’You must nevermention them in my presence.’ And he accompanied this injunction withsuch a look that I was careful to observe it scrupulously thereafter. Ireceived no letters from them. You may imagine what an addition all thiswas to my burden.
“But it is of Edward Bolen that I must tell you at present. He was arepulsive looking Irishman. It is needless that I should describe him.Suffice it that at first I was unsuspicious enough to accept him forwhat he ostensibly was—Bernard Peixada’s coachman—but that erea great while I discovered, that he was something else, besides. Idiscovered that he and Bernard Peixada had secrets together.
“At night, after the household had gone to bed, he and Bernard Peixadawould meet in the parlor, and hold long conversations in low tones.What they talked about, I did not know. But this I did know—it was notabout the horses. I concluded that they were mutually interested insome bad business—that they were hatching some villainous plotstogether—but, I confess, I did not much care what the business was, orwhat the plots were. Only, the fact that they were upon this footing ofconfidence with each other, struck me, and abode in my memory.
“One afternoon, about a fortnigh
t before the thirtieth of July,Bernard Peixada had taken me to drive in Central Park. As I was gettingout of the carriage, upon our return, I tripped somehow, and fell,and sprained my ankle. This sent me to my room. Dr. Gunther, BernardPeixada’s physician, attended me. He said I should not be able towalk, probably for a month.
“More than a week later, toward sunset, I was lying there on my bed.Bernard Peixada had been absent from the house all day. Now I heard hisfootfall below in the corridor—then on the stairs—then in the halloutside my door. I took for granted that he was coming to speak with me.I recoiled from the idea of speaking with him just then. So I closed myeyes, and pretended to be asleep.
“He came in. He approached my bedside, kept my eyes shut tight.’Judith,’ he said, did not answer—feigned not to hear.’Judith,’ repeated. Again I did not answer. He placed his hand uponmy forehead. I tried not to shudder. I guess she’s sound asleep,’ hesaid; ’that’s good.’ He moved off.
“His words, ’that’s good,’ Mr. Hetzel, frightened me. Why wasit ’good’ that I should be asleep? Did he intend to do me a mischiefwhile I slept? I opened my eyes the least bit. I saw him standingsidewise to me, a yard or so away. He drew a number of papers from theinside pocket of his coat. He ran them over. He laid one of them aside,and replaced the others in his pocket. Then he went to the safe—hekept a small safe in our bed-chamber—and opening the door—the doorremained unlocked all day; his habit being to lock it at night andunlock it in the morning—he thrust the paper I have mentioned into oneof the pigeonholes, pushed the door to, and left the room. I had seenhim do all this through half closed eyes. Doubtless this was why it was’good’ for me to be asleep—so that he could do what he had done,unobserved.
“I suppose I was entirely reprehensible—that my conduct admitted ofno excuse. However that may be, the fact is that an impulse prompted meto get up from my bed, and to possess myself of the paper that he hadput into the safe. I did not stop to question or to combat thatimpulse. No sooner thought, than I jumped up—and cried out loud! I hadforgotten my sprained ankle! For an instant I stood still, faint withpain, terrified lest he might have heard my scream—lest he mightreturn, find me on my feet, divine my intention, and punish me as heknew so well how to do. But while I stood there, undetermined whetherto turn back or to pursue my original idea, the terror passed away.I limped across the floor, pulled the safe door open, put in my hand,grasped the paper, drew it out, swung the door back, regained my bed.
“There I had to lie still for a little, and recover my breath. I hadmiscalculated my strength. The effort had exhausted me. My ankle wasaching cruelly—the pains shot far up into my body. But by and by Ifelt better. I unfolded the paper, smoothed it out, glanced at it..This was all I had earned by my exertions:—’R. 174.—L. 36s.—R.222.—L. 30.’ This was all that was written upon the paper. And whatthis meant, how could I tell? I made up my mind, after much puzzling,that it must be a secret writing—a cipher of one sort or another. Iwas not sorry that I had purloined it, though I was disappointed at itscontents. I felt sure that Bernard Peixada could scarcely mean to employit for good ends. So it was just as well that I should have taken itfrom him. I was on the point of destroying it, when I decided not to.’No, I had best not destroy it,’ I thought. ’It possibly may be ofvalue. I will hide it where he can not find it.’ I hid it beneath themattress on which I lay.
“How absurd and unreasonable my whole proceeding had been, had it not?Much ado about nothing! With no adequate motive, and at the cost of muchsuffering to myself, I had committed an unnecessary theft; and thefruit of it was that incomprehensible row of figures. The whim of a sickwoman. And yet, though I recognized this aspect of the case with perfectclearness, I could not find it in me to repent what I had done.
“That night Bernard Peixada and Edward Bolen talked together till pastmidnight, in the parlor.
“I don’t know whether you believe in premonitions, in presentiments,Mr. Hetzel. I scarcely know whether I do, myself. But from the momentI woke up, on the morning of July 30th, I was possessed by a strange,vague, yet irresistible foreboding that something was going tohappen—something extraordinary, something of importance. At first thiswas simply a not altogether unpleasant feeling of expectancy. As the daywore on, however, it intensified. It became a fear, then a dread, then abreathless terror. I could ascribe it to no rational cause. I struggledwith it—endeavored to shake it off. No use. It clutched at myheart—tightly—more tightly. I sought to reassure myself, by havingrecourse to a little materialism. I said, ’It is because you arenot as well as usual to-day. It is the reaction of body upon mind.’Despite the utmost I could say, the feeling grew and grew upon me,till it was well-nigh insupportable. Yet I could not force it to takea definite shape. Was it that something had happened, or was going tohappen, to my mother? to Mr. Nathan? to me? I could not tell—all Iknew was that my heart ached, that at every slightest sound it wouldstart into my mouth—then palpitate so madly that I could scarcelycatch my breath.
“I had not seen Bernard Peixada at all that day. Whether he was inthe house, or absent from it, I had not inquired. But just beforedinner-time—at about six o’clock—he entered my room. My heartstood still. Now, I felt, what I had been dreading since early morning,was on the point of accomplishment. I tried to nerve myself for theworst. Probably he would announce some bad news about my mother.—But Iwas mistaken. He said only this: ’After dinner, Judith, you will callthe servants to your room, and give them leave of absence for the night.They need not return till to-morrow morning. Do you understand?’
“I understood and yet I did not understand. I understood thebald fact—that the servants were to have leave of absence for thenight—but the significance of the fact I did not understand. I knewvery well that Bernard Peixada had a motive for granting them thisindulgence, that it was not due to a pure and simple impulse ofgood-nature on his part: but what the motive was, I could not divine.I confess, the fear that had been upon me was augmented. So long as ourtwo honest, kindly Irish girls were in the house, I enjoyed a certainsense of security. How defenseless should I be, with them away! Athousand wild alarms beset my imagination. Perhaps the presentimentthat had oppressed me all day, meant that Bernard Peixada was meditatingdoing me a bodily injury. Perhaps this was why he wished the servants tobe absent. Unreasonable? As you please.
“‘Is this privilege,’ I asked, ’to be extended to the coachman,also?’
“‘Who told you to concern yourself about the coachman? I will lookafter him,’ was Bernard Peixada’s reply.
“I concluded that the case stood thus:—I was to be left alone withBernard Peixada and Edward Bolen. The pair of them had something to jaccomplish in respect to me—which—well, in the fullness of time Ishould learn the nature of their j designs. I remembered the paper thatI had stolen. Had Bernard Peixada discovered that it was missing, andconcealed the discovery from me? Was he now bent upon recovering thepaper? and upon chastising me, as, from his point of view, I deserved tobe chastised? Again, in the fullness of time I should learn. I strove topossess my soul in patience.
“Bernard Peixada left me. One of our servants brought me my dinner. Itold her that she might go out for the night, and asked her to send theother girl to my room. To this latter, also, I delivered the messagethat Bernard Peixada had charged me with.—When they tried me formurder, Mr. Hetzel, they produced both of these girls as witnessesagainst me, hoping to show, by their testimony, that I had prearrangedto be alone in the house with Bernard Peixada and Edward Bolen, so thatI could take their lives at my ease, with no one by to interfere, or tosurvive and tell the story!
“The long July twilight faded out of the sky. Night fell. I was alonein the house—isolated from the street—beyond hope of rescue—at themercy of Bernard Peixada and his coachman, Edward Bolen. I lay still inbed, waiting for their onslaught.
“And I waited and waited; and they made no onslaught. I heard theclock strike eight, then nine, then ten, then eleven. No sign from theenemy. Gra
dually the notion grew upon me—I could not avoid it—that Ihad been absurdly deluding myself—that my alarms had been groundless.Gradually I became persuaded that my premonition had been thenonsensical fancy of a sick woman. Gradually my anxiety subsided, and Ifell asleep.
“How long I slept I do not know. Suddenly I awoke. In fewer secondsthan are required for writing it, I leaped from profound slumber to widewakefulness. My heart was beating violently; my breath was coming inquick, short gasps; my forehead was wet with perspiration.
“I sat up in bed, and looked around. My night-lamp was burning on thetable. There was no second person in my room. The hands of the clockmarked twenty-five minutes before one.
“I listened. Stillness so deep that I could hear my heart beat.
“What could it be, then, that had awakened me so abruptly?
“I continued to listen. Hark! Did I not hear—yes, certainly, Iheard—the sound of voices—of men’s voices—in the room below.Bernard Peix-ada and Edward Bolen were holding one of their midnightsessions. That was all. .
“That was all: an every-night occurrence. And yet, for what reasonI can not tell, on this particular night that familiar occurrenceportended much to me. Ordinarily, I should have lain abed, and left themto talk till their tongues were tired. On this particular night—why,I did not stop to ask myself—swayed by an impulse which I did not stopto analyze—I got straightway out of bed, crept to the open window, andstanding there in the chilling atmosphere, played the eavesdropperto the best of my powers. Was it woman’s curiosity? In that event,woman’s curiosity serves a good end now and then.
“The room in which they were established, was, as I have said,directly beneath my own. Their window was directly beneath my window.Their window, like mine, was open. I heard each syllable that they spokeas distinctly as I could have heard, if they had been only a yard away.Each syllable stenographed itself upon my memory. I believe that I canrepeat their conversation word for word.
“Bernard Peixada was saying this: ’You know the number. Here is aplan. The house is a narrow one—only twelve feet wide. There is novestibule. The street door opens directly into a small reception-room.In the center of this reception-room stands a table. You want to lookout for that table, and not knock against it in the dark.’
“‘No fear of that,’ replied Edward Bolen.
“‘Now look said Bernard Peixada; ’here is the door that leads outof the reception-room. It is a sliding door, always kept open. Overit hangs a curtain, which you want to lift up from the bottom: don’tshove it aside: the rings would rattle on the rod. Beyond this doorthere is a short passage-way see here. And right here, where my pencilpoints, the stairs commence. You go up one flight, and reach theparlors. There are three parlors in a line. From the middle parlor asecond staircase mounts to the sleeping rooms. Now, be sure to rememberthis: the third step—I mark it with a cross the third step creaks.Understand? It creaks. So, in climbing this second flight of stairs, youwant to skip the third step.’
“‘Sure,’ was Edward Bolen’s rejoinder.
“‘Well and good. Now you have finished with the second flight ofstairs. At the head you find yourself in a short, narrow hall. Threedoors open from this hall. The front door opens into the spare bed-room,now unoccupied. The middle door opens into the bath-room. The last dooropens into the room you want to get at. Which of these doors are you topass through?’
“‘The bath-room door.’
“‘Precisely. That is the door which your key fits—not the doorthat leads straight into his room. Well, now observe. Here is thebath-room. You unlock the door from the hall into the bath-room,and—what next?’
“‘I lock it again, behind me.’
“‘Very well. And then?’
“‘Then I open the door from the bath-room into the room I’m after.That’ll be unlocked.’
“‘Excellent! That will be unlocked. He never locks it. So, finallyyou are in the room you have been making for. Now, study this roomcarefully. You see, the bed stands here; the bureau, here; a sofa, here;the safe, here. There are several chairs. You want to look sharp forthem.”
“‘I’ll be sure to do that.’
“‘All right. But the first thing will be to look after him. He’llprobably wake up the instant you open the door from the bath-room.He’s like a weasel, for light sleeping. You can’t breathe, buthe’ll wake up. He’ll wake up, and most likely call out, “Who’sthere? Is any one there?” or something of that sort. Don’t youanswer. Don’t you use any threats. You can’t scare him. Give himtime, and he’ll make an outcry. Give him a chance, and he’ll fight.So, you don’t want to give him either time or chance. The first thingyou do, you march straight up to the bed, and catch him by the throat;hold him down on the pillow, and clap the sponge over his face. Pressthe sponge hard. One breath will finish his voice. Another breath willfinish him. Then you’ll have things all your own way.—Well, do youknow what next?’
“‘Next, I’m to fasten the sponge tight where it belongs, and pouron more of the stuff.’
“‘Just so. And next?’
“‘I’m to light the gas.’
“‘Right again. And next?’
“‘Well, I suppose the job comes next—hey?’
“‘Exactly. You have learned your lesson better than I’d have givenyou credit for doing. The job comes next. Now you’ve got the gas lit,and him quiet, it’ll be plain sailing. The safe stands here. It’sa small affair, three, by three, by two and a half. I’ll give you thecombination by and by. I’ve got it up stairs. But first, look here.Here’s a plan of the inside of the safe. Here’s an insidecloset, closed by an iron door. No matter about that. Here s a rowof pigeon-holes, just above it seven of them—see? Now, the fifthpigeon-hole from the right-hand side—the third from the left—the onemarked here with red ink—that’s the one that you’re interested in.All you’ll have to do will be to stick in your hand and take out everything that pigeonhole contains—every thing, understand? Don’t youstop to examine them. Just lay hold of every thing and come away. WhatI want will be in that pigeon-hole; and if you take every thing youcan’t miss it. Then, as I say, all you’ll have left to do will be toget out of the house and make tracks for home.’
“‘And how about him? Shall I loosen the sponge?’
“‘No, no. Don’t stop to do that. He’ll come around all right intime; or, if he shouldn’t, why, small loss!’
“‘Well, I reckon I understand the job pretty thoroughly now. Isuppose I’d better be starting.’
“‘Yes. Now wait here a moment. I’ll go upstairs and get you thecombination.’
“As rapidly as, with my sprained ankle, I could, I returned to mybed. I had scarcely touched my head to the pillow, when Bernard Peixadacrossed the threshold. I lay still, feigning sleep. You may imaginethe pitch of excitement to which the conversation I had interceptedhad worked me up. But as yet I had not had time to think it over anddetermine how to act. Crime, theft, perhaps murder even, was brewing. Ihad been forewarned. What could I do to prevent it? Unless I shoulddo something, I should be almost an accomplice—almost as bad as theconspirators themselves.
“Bernard Peixada went at once to the safe, and swung open the heavydoor. I lay with my back toward him, and was unable, therefore, to watchhis movements. But I could hear his hands busy with rustling papers. Andthen, all at once, I heard his voice, loud and hoarse, sounding like theinfuriated shriek of a madman, ’I have been robbed—robbed!’
“Like a lightning flash, it broke upon me. I knew what the paper Ihad stolen was. I knew what the mysterious figures it bore meant. Ihad stolen the combination that Bernard Peixada had come in quest of!Without that combination their scheme of midnight crime could not becarried through! It was indispensable to their success. And I had stolenit! I thanked God for the impulse that had prompted me to do so. ThenI lay still and waited. My heart was throbbing so violently, I wasactually afraid that Bernard Peixada might hear it. I lay still andwaited and prayed as I had never prayed bef
ore. I prayed for strength towin in the battle which, I knew, would now j shortly have to be fought.
“Bernard Peixada cried out, ’I have been robbed—robbed!’ Thenfor a few seconds he was silent. Then he ran to the entrance of the roomand shouted, ’Bolen, Bolen, come here.’ And when Edward Bolen hadobeyed, Bernard Peixada led him to the safe and said—ah, how his harshvoice shook!—said, ’Look! I have been robbed. The combination isgone. I put it in there with my own hands. It is there no longer. Ithas been stolen. Who stole it? If you did, by God, I’ll have youhanged!’
“I had slowly and noiselessly turned over in bed. Now, through halfclosed eyes, I could watch the two men. Bernard Peixada’s body wastrembling from head to foot, as if palsy-stricken. His small, blackeyes were starting from their sockets. His yellow fangs shone hideouslybehind his parted lips. His talons writhed, writhed, writhed. EdwardBolen stood next his master, as stolid as an ox. Edward Bolen appearedto be thinking. In a little while Edward Bolen shrugged his massiveshoulders, lifted his arm, pointed to my bed, and spoke one word,’Her.’
“Bernard Peixada started. ’What—my wife?’ he gasped.
“‘Ask her,’ suggested Edward Bolen.
“Bernard Peixada seemed to hesitate. Finally, approaching my bedside,’Judith,’ he called through chattering teeth..
“I did not answer—but it was not that I meant still to pretendsleep. It was that my courage had deserted me. I had no voice. Iclenched my fists and made my utmost effort to command myself.
“‘Judith,’ Bernard Peixada called a second time.
“‘Yes,’ I gathered strength to respond.
“‘Judith,’ Bernard Peixada went on, still all a-tremble, ’haveyou—have you taken any papers out of my safe?’
“What use could lying serve at this crisis? There was sufficient evilin action now, without my adding answered, ’Yes—I have taken thepaper you are looking for.’
“Bernard Peixada had manifestly not expected such an answer. Ittook him aback. He stood, silent and motionless, glaring at me inastonishment. His mouth gaped open, and the lamplight played with histeeth.
“Edward Bolen muttered, ’Eh! what did I tell you?’
“But Bernard Peixada stood motionless and silent only for abreathing-space. Suddenly flames leaped to his eyes, color to hischeek. I shall not an ineffectual lie to it. I drew a long breath, andtranscribe the volley of epithets that I had now to sustain from hisfoul mouth. His frame was rigid with wrath. His voice mounted fromshrill to shriller. He spent himself in a tirade of words. Then he sankinto a chair, unable to keep his feet from sheer exhaustion. The veinsacross his forehead stood out like great, bloated leeches. His long,black finger-nails kept tearing the air.
“Edward Bolen waited.
“So did I.
“But eventually Bernard Peixada recovered his forces. Springing tohis feet, looking hard at me, and pronouncing each word with an evidentattempt to control his fury, he said, ’We have no time to waste uponyou just now, madam. Bolen, here, has business to transact which he mustneeds be about. Afterward I shall endeavor to have an understanding withyou. At present we will dispose of the matter of prime importance. Youdon’t deny that you have stolen a certain paper from my safe. I wishyou at once, without an instant’s delay or hesitation, to tell us whatyou have done with that paper. Where have you put it?’
“I tried to be as calm as he was. ’I will not tell you,’ Ireplied.
“A smile that was ominous contracted his lips.
“‘Oh, yes, you will,’ he said, mockingly, ’and the sooner you doso, the better—for you.’
“‘I have said, I will not,’ I repeated.
“The same ominous, sarcastic smile: but suddenly it faded out, andwas replaced by an expression of alarm. ’You—you have not destroyedit?’ he asked, abruptly.
“It seemed to me that he had suggested a means for terminating thesituation. This time, without a qualm, I lied. ’Yes, I have destroyedit.’
“‘Good God!’ he cried, and stood still, aghast.
“Edward Bolen stepped forward. He tugged at Bernard Peixada’s elbow.He pointed toward me. ’Don’t you see, she’s lying?’ he demandedroughly. Bernard Peixada started. The baleful light of his black eyespierced to the very marrow of my consciousness. He searched me throughand through. ’Ah!’ he cried, with a great sigh of relief, ’tobe sure, she’s lying.’ His yellow teeth gnawed at his under lip: asymptom of busy thinking. Finally he said, ’You have not destroyed it.I advise you to tell us where it is. I advise you to lose no time. Whereis it?’
“‘I will not tell you,’ I answered.
“‘I give you one more chance,’ he said; ’where is it?’
“‘I’ll will not tell you.’
“‘Very well. Then we shall be constrained—’ He broke off, andwhispered a few sentences into Edward Bolen’s ear.
“Edward Bolen nodded, and left the room. Bernard Peixada glared at me.I lay still, wondering what the next act was to be, fortifying myself toendure and survive the worst.
“Bernard Peixada said, ’You are going to cause yourself needlesspain. You may as well speak now as afterward. You’ll be as docile as alamb, in a minute or two.’
“I held my tongue. Presently Edward Bolen returned. He handedsomething to Bernard Peix-ada. Bernard Peixada turned to me. ’Whichone of your ankles,’ he inquired, ’is it that you are having troublewith?’
“I did not speak.
“Bernard Peixada shrugged his shoulders. ’Oh, very well,’ hesneered; ’it won’t take long to find out.’ With that, he seizedhold of the bed-clothes that covered me, and with a single motion of hisarm tossed them upon the floor.
“I started up—attempted to spring from off the bed. He placed hishands upon my shoulders, and pushed me back, prostrate. I struggledwith him. He summoned Edward Bolen to re-enforce him. Edward Bolen was astrong man. Edward Bolen had no difficulty in holding me down, flat uponthe mattress. I watched Bernard Peixada.
“Bernard Peixada took the thing that I had seen Edward Bolen givehim—it was a piece of thick twine, perhaps twelve inches in length,and attached at each end to a transverse wooden handle—he took it, andwound it about my ankle—the ankle that was sprained. Then, by means ofthe two wooden handles, he began to twist it around and around—and atevery revolution, the twine cut deeper and deeper into my flesh—and atlast they pain became more horrible than I could bear—oh, such pain,such fearful pain!—and I cried out for quarter.
“‘I will tell you any thing you wish to know,’ I said.
“‘As I anticipated,’ was Bernard Peixada’s comment. ’Well,where shall we find the paper that you stole?’
“‘Loosen that cord, and I will tell you—I will give it to you,’I said.
“‘No,’ he returned. ’Give it to me, or tell me where it is, andthen I will loosen the cord.’
“‘It is not here—it—it is down-stairs,’ I replied, inspiredby a sudden hope. If I could only get down-stairs, I thought, I mightcontrive to reach the door that let out of the house. Then, lamethough I was, and weak and sick, I might, by a supreme effort, eludemy persecutors—attain the street—summon help—and thus, not onlyescape myself, but defeat the criminal enterprise that they were bentupon. It was a crazy notion. At another moment I should have scouted it.But at that moment it struck me as wholly rational—as, at any rate,well worth venturing. I did not give myself time to consider it verycarefully. It made haste from my mind to my lips. ’The paper,’ Isaid, ’is down-stairs.’
“‘Down-stairs?’ queried Bernard Peixada, tightening the cord alittle; ’where down-stairs?’
“‘In—in the parlor—in the book-case—shut up in a book,’ Ianswered.
“‘In what book?’
“‘I can not tell you. But I could put my hand upon it, if Iwere there. After I took it from the safe—you were absent from thehouse—I—oh, for mercy’s sake, don’t, don’t tighten that—Icrawled down-stairs—ah, that is better; loosen it a little——Icrawled
down to the parlor—and—and shut it up in a book. I don’tremember what book. But I could find it for you if I were there.’ Inthe last quarter hour, Mr. Hetzel, I, who had recoiled from lying at theoutset, had become somewhat of an adept at that art, as you perceive.
“Bernard Peixada exchanged a glance with Edward Bolen; then said tome, ’All right. Come down-stairs with us.’
“He removed the instrument of torture. A wave of pain more sickeningthan any I had yet endured, swept through my body, as the ligature wasrelaxed, and the blood flowed throbbing back into my disabled foot. Igot up and hobbled as best I could across the floor, out throughthe hall, down the stairs. Edward Bolen preceded me. Bernard Peixadafollowed.
“At the bottom of the stairs I had to halt and lean against thebannister for support. I was weak and faint.
“‘Go light the gas in the parlor, Bolen,’ said Bernard Peixada.
“Bolen went off. Now, I thought, my opportunity had come. Thehall-door, the door that opened upon the grounds, was in a straightline, not more than twenty feet distant from me. I looked at BernardPeixada. He was standing a yard or so to my right, in manifestunconcern. I drew one deep breath, mustered my utmost courage, prayedto God for strength, made a dash forward, reached the door, despite mylameness, and had my hand upon the knob, before Bernard Peixada appearedto realize what had occurred. But then—when he did realize—then intwo bounds he attained my side. The next thing I knew, he had grasped myarm with one hand, and had twined the fingers of the other hand aroundmy throat. I could feel the sharp nails cutting into my flesh.
“‘Ah!’ he cried—a loud, piercing cry, half of surprise, half oftriumph. ’Ah!’ And then he swore a brutal oath.
“At his touch, Mr. Hetzel, I ceased to be a woman; I became a wildbeast. It was like a wild beast, that I now fought. Insensible to pain,aware only of a fury that was no longer controllable in my breast, Ifought there with Bernard Peixada in battle royal. Needless to detailour maneuvers. I fought with him to such good purpose that ere a greatwhile he had to plead for quarter, as I had had to plead up-stairs a fewmoments ago. Quarter I gave him. I flung him away from me. He totteredand fell upon the floor.
“Now I looked around. This was how things stood: Bernard Peixadalay—half lay, half sat—upon the floor, preparing to get up. EdwardBolen, his dull countenance a picture of amazement and stupefaction,was advancing toward us from the lower end of the hall. And—and—ona chair—directly in front of me—not two feet away—together witha hat, a pair of overshoes, a bunch of keys, a lantern—I descried mydeliverance—a pistol!
“Quick as thought, I sprang forward. Next moment the pistol was mine.Again I looked around. The situation was still much the same. Claspingthe butt of the pistol firmly in my hand, and gathering what assuranceI could from the feeling of it, I set out once more to open the door andgain the outside of the house.
“I thought I was victress now—indisputably victress. But ittranspired that I had my claims yet to assert. I slid back the bolts ofthe door, unhindered, it is true; but before I had managed to turn theknob and pull the door open, Edward Bolen and Bernard Peixada sprangupon me.
“There was a struggle. How long it lasted, I do not know. I heard thepistol go off—a sharp, crashing, deafening report—once, twice: whopulled the trigger, I scarcely knew. Who was wounded, I did not know.All was confusion and pain and noise, blood and fire and smoke, horrorand sickness and bewilderment. I saw nothing—knew nothing—understoodnothing. I was beside myself. It was a delirium. I washelpless—irresponsible.
“In the end, somehow, I got that door open. Through it all, that ideahad clung in my mind—to get the door open, somehow, at any cost. Well,I got it open. I felt the fresh air upon my cheek, the perfume of thegarden in my nostrils. The breeze swept in, and cut a path through thesmoke, and made the gas jets flicker. Then I saw—I saw that I wasfree. I saw that my persecutors were no longer to be feared. I sawEdward Bolen and Bernard Peixada lying prone and bleeding upon themarble pavement at my feet.
“I have explained to you, Mr. Hetzel, the circumstances of BernardPeixada’s death. It is not necessary for me to dwell upon itsconsequences. At least, I need merely outline them. I need merelytell you that in due order I was taken prisoner, tried for BernardPeixada’s murder, and acquitted.
“I was taken prisoner that very night. Next morning they brought mehere—to the same prison that I am again confined in now. Here I wasvisited by Mr. Nathan. I had sent for him, addressing him in care of thesexton of our synagogue; and he came.
“I told him what I have told you. He said I must have a lawyer—thathe would engage a lawyer for me. He engaged two lawyers—Mr. Short andMr. Sondheim. I repeated my story to them. They listened. When I haddone, they laughed. I asked them why they laughed. They replied that,though my story was unquestionably true, no jury would believe it. Theysaid the lawyer for the prosecution would mix me upon cross-examination,and turn my defense to ridicule. They said I should have to pleadlunacy. I need not detain you with a rehearsal of the dispute I had withMessrs. Short and Sondheim. Eventually—in deference chiefly to theurging of Mr. Nathan—I consented to let them take their own course. SoI was led to court, and tried, and acquitted. It would be useless for meto go over my trial again now in this letter. I shall say enough when Isay that it was conducted in the same room that I had to plead in thismorning—that the room was crowded—that I had to sit there all daylong, for two mortal days, and listen to the lawyers, and the witnesses,and the judge, and support the gaze of a multitude of people. If it hadnot been for Mr. Nathan, I don’t know how I should have lived throughthe ordeal. But he sat by me from beginning to end, and held my hand,and inspired me with strength and hope. My mother, meantime, I had notseen. Mr. Nathan said she was away from the city, visiting with friends,whom he named; and added that it would be kinder not to let her knowwhat was going on. After my release, Mr. Nathan confessed that, thinkingI had already enough to bear, he had deceived me. My mother had beensick; while my trial was in progress, she had died. Well, at last thetrial was over, and the jury had declared me not guilty, and the prisonpeople let me go. Mr. Nathan and I went together to an apartment he hadrented in Sixty-third Street. Thither came Messrs. Short and Sondheim,and made me sign numberless papers—the nature of which I did notinquire into—and after a while I understood that I had inherited agreat deal of money from Bernard Peixada—more than a hundred thousanddollars. This money I asked Mr. Nathan to dispose of, so that it mightdo some good. He invested it, and made arrangements to have the incomedivided between a hospital, an orphan asylum, a home for working women,an industrial school, and a society for the protection of children whoare treated cruelly by their parents. (I have just now received a paperwith a red seal on it, from which I learn that Bernard Peixada left awill, and that the money I have spoken of will have to be paid over tohis brother.)
“That winter—the winter of 1879-80—Mr. Nathan and I spent alonetogether. For the first time since the day on which my father had toldme I must marry Bernard Peixada, for the first time, I began to have afeeling of peace, and repose, and security. Mr. Nathan was so good tome—oh, such a good, kind, tender friend, Mr. Hetzel—that I becamealmost happy. It was almost a happiness just to spend my time near toMr. Nathan—he was so gentle, so strong; he made me feel so safe,so far away from the storm and the darkness of the past. Was I nottormented by remorse? Did I not repent having taken two human lives? Notfor one instant. I held myself wholly irresponsible. If Bernard Peixadaand Edward Bolen had died by my hand, it was their own fault, their owndoing. No, I did not suffer the faintest pang of remorse. Only, now andthen I would remember—now and then the night of July 30th would reenact itself in my memory—and then I would shudder and grow sick atheart; but that was not remorse. It was disgust and horror. Of courseI do not mean that I was happy in a positive sense, this winter. Realhappiness I never knew until I met Arthur. But I was less unhappy than Ihad been for a long, long while.
“But in the early spring Mr. Nathan
died. The last person I had leftto care for, the last person who cared for me, the man who had stood asa rock of strength for me to lean upon, to whom I had perhaps been toomuch of a burden, but whom I had loved as a woman in my relation to himmust needs have loved him—this man died. I was absolutely alone in theworld. That was a dreary, desolate spring.
“Soon after his death, I received a paper something like this paperwith the red seal that I have received to-day. I found that he had madea will and left me all his money. My doctor said I needed a change. Iwent to Europe. I traveled alone in Europe for some months, trying toforget myself in sight-seeing—in constant motion. At last I settleddown in Vienna, and devoted myself to studying music. I staid about ayear in Vienna. Then a spirit of restlessness seized upon me. I leftVienna and went to London.
“In London I met Mrs. Hart. We became friends at once. She was aboutto make a short trip on the Continent, before returning to America. Sheasked me to accompany her. I said I would go to the Continent withher, but that I could not return to America. She wanted to know why. Ianswered by telling her a little something of my recent history. I said,’In America I am Judith Peixada—the notorious woman who killed herhusband. Here I am unknown. So I will remain here.’ She asked, ’Howold are you?’ I said, ’Twenty-three, nearing twenty-four.’ Shesaid, ’You are a child. You have a long life before you. You arewasting it, moping about in this aimless way here in Europe. Come homewith me. Nobody shall recognize you for Judith Peixada. I will give youa new name. You shall be Ruth Lehmyl. Ruth Lehmyl was the name of mydaughter who is dead. You may guess how dearly I love you, when I askyou to take my daughter’s name. Come home and live with me, Ruth, andmake me happy.’—As you know, I was prevailed upon. After a monthor two spent at Aix-les-Bains, we came back to America. We dwelt for awhile in an apartment on Fifty-ninth Street. Last April we moved intoBeekman Place.
“This brings me to the second point. Why, with that dark stain upon mypast—why, being Judith Peixada, for all my change of name—why did Iconsent to become Arthur Ripley’s wife? Oh, Mr. Hetzel, it was becauseI loved him. I was a woman, and I loved him, and I was weak. He saidthat he loved me, that it would break his heart if I should refuse him;and I could not help it. I tried hard. I tried to act against my heart.I told him that my life had not been what he might wish it to be. Ibegged him to go away. But he said that he cared nothing for thepast, and he urged me and pleaded with me, and I—I loved him so thetemptation was so strong—it was as if he had opened the gates ofheaven and invited me to enter—I caught a glimpse of the greatjoy—of the great sorrow, too, of the sorrow that would follow to himand to me if I sent him away—and my strength was insufficient—and wewere married.
“I am very tired, Mr. Hetzel. I have been writing for so long a timethat my fingers are cramped, and my back aches from bending over, and mybody has become chilled through by sitting still in this damp place, andmy head is thick and heavy. Yet I have some things still left to say.You must pardon me if I am stupid and roundabout in coming to the point.And if I do not succeed in making what I have on my mind very clear toyou, you must excuse me on the ground that I am quite worn out.
“As I have said, I was frank with Arthur Ripley. I warned him that mypast life had been darkened by sin. I said, ’If you knew about it, youwould not care to marry me.’ He retorted, The past is dead. You andI have just been born.’ It did indeed seem so to me—as though I hadjust been born. I allowed myself to be persuaded. We were married. Butthen, Mr. Hetzel, as soon as I had yielded, I said to Arthur, ’It isnot right that I, your betrothed, should keep a secret from you. Iwill tell you the whole story.’ I said this to him on more than oneoccasion before we were married. And I repeated it again and againafterward. But every time that I broached the subject, he put it aside.He answered, ’No. Keep your secret as a reminder of my unwaveringconfidence and perfect love.’ I supposed that he was sincere. Imarveled at his generosity, and loved him all the better, because of it.Yet what was the truth? The truth was that in his inmost heart? he couldnot help wishing to know what his wife’s secret was. But he playedthe hypocrite. He forbade me to tell it to him—forbade me to unsealmy lips—and so got the credit for great magnanimity. Then, behindmy back, he associated with Benjamin Peixada, and learned from hislips—not my secret—no, but the false, distorted version of it, whichBernard Peixada’s brother would delight to give. What Benjamin Peixadatold him, he believed; and it was worse than he had bargained for. Whenhe understood that his wife had committed murder, that his wife hadstood, a common criminal, at the bar of the court of General Sessions,lo! all the love that he had boasted, died an instant death. Andthen—this is what is most infamous—then he contrived a cruel methodof letting me know that he knew. Instead of coming to me, and tellingme in a straightforward way, he put that advertisement into the paper.That, I do think, was infamous. And all the time, he was pretending thathe loved me, and I was believing him, and treating him as a wife treatsher husband. I read that advertisement, and was completely deceivedby it. I went to Benjamin Peixada’s place. ’What do you wish withme?’ I asked. He answered, ’Wait a little while, and the gentlemanwho wrote that advertisement will come and explain to you. Wait a littlewhile, and I promise you a considerable surprise.’ I waited. Thegentleman came. The gentleman was Arthur. Not content with havingdecoyed me to that place in that way, he—he called me by thatname—he called me Mrs. Peixada! The surprise was considerable, Iconfess. And yet, you and Mrs. Hart wonder that I am indignant.
“Oh, of course, I understand that Arthur had no share in causing myarrest. I understand that all he intended was to confront me there inBenjamin Peixada’s office, and inform me that he knew who I was, anddenounce me, and repudiate me. But Benjamin Peixada had a little plan ofhis own to carry through. When Arthur saw what it was—when he saw thatBenjamin Peixada had set a trap for me, and that I was to be taken awayto prison—then he was shocked and pained, and felt sorry for what hehad helped to do. You don’t need to explain that to me. That is notwhy I feel the deep resentment toward him which, I admit, I do feel.The bare fact that he pried into my secrets behind my back, and wenton pretending to love me at the same time, shows me that he never trulyloved me. You speak of my seeing him. It would be useless for me tosee him. He could not undo what he has done. All the explanations andexcuses that he could make, would not alter the fact that he went towork without my knowledge, and found out what I had again and againvolunteered to tell him. If he suffers from supposing that I think hehad a share in causing my imprisonment, you may tell him that I thinkno such thing. Tell him that I understand perfectly every thing that hecould say. Tell him that a meeting between us would only be productiveof fresh pain for each.
“Mr. Hetzel, if you were a woman, and if you had ever gone through theagony of a public trial for murder in a crowded court-room, and if allat once you beheld before you the prospect of going through that agonyfor a second time, I am sure you would grasp eagerly at any means withinyour reach by which to escape it. That is the case with me. I am awoman. I have been tried for murder once—publicly tried, in a crowdedcourt-room. I would rather spend all the rest of my life in prison, thanbe tried again. That is why I pleaded guilty this morning. If there wereany future to look forward to—if Arthur had acted differently—ifthings were not as they are—then, perhaps—but it is useless to sayperhaps. I have nothing to live for—nothing worth purchasing at theprice of another trial.
“Does any thing remain for me to say? I do not think of any thing.I hope I have made what I had to say clear enough. I beg that you willforgive me, if I have trespassed beyond the limits of friendship, inwriting at such length.
“Yours sincerely,
“Ruth Ripley.
“Mr. Julian Hetzel, 43 Beekman Place.”