XXVIII
BY THE LIGHT OF A GUTTERING CANDLE
My amazement was unaffected, and so overwhelming I hardly understoodmyself. His wife, Mille-fleurs! Alas, then, for Hope, who, in herunthinking if generous love for this man, was prepared for any othergrief than this! Yet why "alas"? Had she not told me that her greatestwish, her supreme desire, was to see his character restored to its oldstanding in her eyes, and had he not at this moment cleared himself ofthe one sin her womanly heart would find it hardest to pardon? The cryof "poor Hope!" with which my heart was charged changed to "happyHope," and my composure, which had been sadly shaken, was slowlyreturning, when the insoluable mystery of the situation absorbed meagain, and I glanced at Mr. Gryce to see how he had been affected byMr. Gillespie's announcement.
This aged detective, who, when I last looked his way, was standingalone in the doorway, now had Sweetwater at his side,--that agileyoung man having bounded into the room before the words which had madeso great a change in the situation had fully left Mr. Gillespie'slips; and the contrast of expression as seen in the two faces wasnoticeable. Sweetwater, young in experience, young in feeling,reflected in look and attitude the sensations of awakening sympathyand interest with which I own my own breast was full, while the olderdetective, with characteristic prudence, withheld his judgment, and,consequently, his sympathy, for the explanations which such an avowalfrom such a man certainly demanded.
Indeed, the situation might very naturally suggest to one soaccustomed to the seamy side of human nature, that this sudden demiseof an inconvenient witness chimed in too opportunely with the need ofthe man he had come there to arrest, for it to be viewed withoutsuspicion.
There was, however, only a tinge of this feeling in his voice as hequietly remarked:
"I thought you buried your _wife_ five years ago in Cornwall."
"And I thought so also," was Leighton Gillespie's quiet reply. "Formany, many wretched weeks and months I believed this in common withall my friends. Then--but it is a long story, Mr. Gryce. Do yourequire me to relate it now and _here_?"
The reverence with which he allowed his hand to touch rather than fallon the breast he had so carefully covered from our curious gaze spokevolumes. At the sight of this simple action, both men bent theirheads. I doubt if he noticed it. A stray lock which had escaped fromthe coverlet and now hung curling and glittering over the straw whichprotruded from the wretched pallet, had attracted his eye. Lifting itwith a lingering touch, he put it softly out of sight; then he quietlysaid:
"I would like to have one fact made known to the public. My father wasignorant to the last that it was a stranger and not my wife we buriedin Cornwall. There were reasons which made it difficult for me to tellhim that Mrs. Gillespie still lived; and while I make no excuses forthe silence I maintained towards him on this subject, I acknowledgethat to it are due my present position and the misery I am now underof seeing the darling of my heart die in an attic where I would nothouse a dog."
The accents of heartfelt sorrow are not to be mistaken. The air ofseverity with which Mr. Gryce had hitherto surveyed this supposedcriminal softened into a look more in keeping with his nativebenevolence, but he had no reply ready, and the silence becamepainful. Indeed, the situation was not an easy one for even soexperienced a man as Mr. Gryce to handle, and, noting hisembarrassment, I bounded into the room and took my place at his side,much as Sweetwater had done.
Mr. Gillespie scarcely remarked this new inroad upon his privacy. Hedoubtless took me for another police-officer, and as such not to benoted or counted. But the detectives showed some surprise at myintrusion, which seeing, I turned to Mr. Gryce and said:
"If you will excuse my presumption I should like to speak to Mr.Gillespie."
The latter started, possibly at my tone, and, wheeling about, gazed atmy bare head and drenched figure with sharp curiosity in which agrowing recognition soon became visible.
I at once bowed.
"You remember me," I suggested. "I am Mr. Outhwaite. If you willpardon my method of entrance and the proof which it gives of myconnection with these men, I should like to offer you my assistance atthis crisis. Mr. Gryce evidently wishes some conversation with you,which you rightly hesitate to accord him in a place made sacred by thepresence of your dead wife. If you will have confidence in me, I willwatch this room while you go below. No one shall approach the bed andno one shall enter the room, if Mr. Gryce will leave a guard at thedoor. Will you accept this service? It is sincerely tendered."
He stood perplexed, eyeing me with mingled doubt and astonishment;then, turning with an inexpressible look of longing towards the oneobject of his care, he cried:
"You do not understand or you would not ask me to leave her, not for amoment. I have not had her so near me, so near my hand, so near myheart, these many minutes in years. She cannot rise and run away fromme now. She does not even wish to. This is a happiness to me youcannot appreciate, a happiness I cannot endure seeing cut short. Leaveme, then, I pray, and come again when she has been laid in her grave.You will find me ready to receive you, ready to explain----"
"You ask the impossible," interrupted Mr. Gryce. "Some explanationswill not bide the convenience of even so recent a mourner as yourself.If you do not wish to be taken immediately from this place, you willmake some few things clear to us. What has this woman had to do withyour father's death?"
"Nothing."
The fire with which Leighton Gillespie uttered this word made us bothstart. Aghast at what struck me as a direct falsehood, I instinctivelyopened my lips. But Mr. Gryce made me an imperceptible gesture, and Irefrained from carrying out my inconsiderate impulse.
"I see," continued the unhappy man, "that suspicions which I hadsupposed confined to my brothers and myself have involved my innocentwife. This is more than I can bear. I will at once make known to youmy miserable story."
Mr. Gryce drew up a chair and sat down. As there was no other in theroom we knew what that meant. The damp air was beginning to tell uponthe rheumatic old man. Attention being thus called to the open window,Sweetwater moved over and closed it. Never shall I forget the lookwhich Leighton Gillespie cast towards the bed as that broken andill-fitting sash came rattling down.
"See if the hall is clear," said Mr. Gryce.
The young detective crossed to the door. As he opened it and lookedout, a gust of noisy laughter rose from below, mingled with the shrillsound of a woman's singing, the same, doubtless, which we hadpreviously heard in front. These tones, heard amid brawl and shouting,seemed to pierce Mr. Gillespie to the heart. Mr. Gryce, who saweverything, motioned to Sweetwater to close the door as he had thewindow. Sweetwater complied by shutting himself out. This was an actof self-denial which I felt called upon to emulate.
"Shall I join Mr. Sweetwater?" I asked.
It was Mr. Gillespie who replied:
"No. I wish more than one listener; let the lawyer stay."
I was only too happy to remain. Wet as I was, I felt anxious to hearwhat this man so singled out by Hope had to say in explanation of hisrelations to the wretched woman he now acknowledged to be his wife.
He seemed in haste to make them.
"Seven years ago this fall," he began, "I met this woman, then agirl."
"Wait!" put in Mr. Gryce; "there is a point which must first besettled." And, advancing to the cot guarded so jealously by the manbefore him, he laid his hand upon the coverlet. "You will allow me,"he said firmly, as with a gentle enough touch he drew it softly aside.
"How came this woman--pardon me, how came Mrs. Gillespie to die thussuddenly?"
The unhappy husband, after his first recoil of outraged feeling,forced himself into a recognition of the detective's rights, and, withapparent resignation, rejoined:
"I should have come to that in time. She died, as you can readilyperceive, from exposure. Driven from Mother Merry's miserable quartersby some terror for which, perhaps, she had no name, she wandered inand out among the docks for two wretched days and nights, oftendragg
ing her feet through the ooze of the river, so that her garmentswere never dry and are not so yet. At last she came here, where oncebefore she had found shelter in a biting storm. _Here!_ But it is abetter place than the wharves, and I am glad God guided her to even sopoor a refuge. She was raving with fever when she came straggling intothe room below. But after the warmth struck her and she had tastedsomething, she came to herself again, and then--and then she sent forme."
He paused. I did not yet understand him or the circumstances whichmade this situation possible, but a strange reverence began to minglewith my wonder,--not for the man--I could not feel that yet; but for alove which could infuse such feeling into the lightest allusion hemade to this beloved, if wretched waif.
"There was a doctor here when I came," he speedily continued. "You canfind him;--he will tell no different tale from mine--but no doctorcould help her after those nights of bitter cold and exposure, and Ipaid him to leave me alone with her; and she died in my arms. May Itell you why this was everything to me? Why, the happiness of havingreceived her last sigh is so great, that I have no room for resentmentagainst you for this intrusion, and hardly feel the shame of beingfound in this place, with my dead darling lying in her miserable ragson this hideous pallet!"
"You may tell us," assented Mr. Gryce, replacing the coverlet over theface upon which was fast settling that look of peace which is Death'slast gift to the living.
Mr. Gillespie's tone grew deeper; it could hardly have grown moretender or more solemn.
"I loved this woman. She was young when I first saw her. So was I.There were no haggard lines about her dancing eyes and laughing lipsthen. She was a vision of--well, I will not say beauty; she was neverbeautiful--but of--I cannot tell you what; I can only say that my lifebegan on that day, not to end till she died, a half-hour ago.
"I married her. She was not a woman to take into my father's house;perhaps not into any family circle. The stage was her home, the stagefrom which I took her; but I did not know this; I simply knew that shewas wild in spirit, and unused to household ways and socialrestrictions. But had I understood her then as I do now, I doubt if Iwould have acted any differently. I was headstrong in those days andquite reckless enough to grasp at what I felt to be my own, even ifaware it would fall to nothing in my frenzied clutch.
"I took her into my father's family. I took this wild bird out of itsnative air, and shut it up behind the strict bars of a conventionalhousehold. One promise only I exacted from her as the price of thisgracious act on my part. She was never under any pretext, not even inthe event of my death, to return to the stage. Poor child! she haskept that promise. Perhaps it is all she has kept: kept it, thoughhungry; kept it when the wild craving for morphine tore at her breastand brain and she could have got the drug for one strain from hermarvellous voice; kept it, though her veins burned with longing forthe movement that was her life, and the weights on her tongue layheavy on her heart, which beat truly only while she was dancing orsinging. It was her dancing and singing which had won my heart; or,rather, the woman when dancing and singing; yet I cut her off fromthese natural expressions of the turbulent joy springing from herexuberant nature, and expected her to be satisfied with my love andthe routine of a well-regulated household. This was my folly; a follyborn of the delight I took in her simple presence. I thought that sheloved me as I did her, and found in love's madness the recompense forwhat she had laid aside. But I had not read her nature. No man couldfill her heart as she filled mine. She was a genius,--an untamableone,--and the restiveness of her temperament made demands which couldonly find relief in spontaneous song or rhythmic movement.
"My father, who loved quiet women--women like my mother, whose forcelay hidden in such sweetness that she shines with almost a saint'sglory in our memory--could not understand my wife's temperament; and,consequently, could not show even common patience towards her. He wasnot harsh in his treatment of her, but he failed to give her creditfor so much as wishing to conform to his ways and the habits of thepeople she must meet in our house. When he came upon her, stealthilyposing before our long mirror in the drawing-room, or caught floatingdown the stairs a faint echo of her magical voice in one of the tragicstrains she best loved to sing, he showed such open shrinking anddistaste that she flew for comfort to the one resource capable ofundermining for me all hope of a better future. I allude to her use ofmorphine.
"She had taken it before our marriage, but the fact was kept from me.When I awoke to a realisation of the horror menacing my happiness, Idevoted time, strength, and every means I then knew, to win her fromthis practice. But I only partially succeeded. She did not realise theharmfulness of this habit and could not be made to. Eluding myvigilance, she resorted more and more to the drug I could neversucceed in keeping out of her grasp, and it fell to me to stand in thebreach thus made and keep the knowledge of this crowning humiliationfrom my father and brothers.
"Meanwhile my father, who was strictness itself in all matters ofpropriety, insisted upon her sitting opposite him at the table andcomporting herself in every way as the lady of the house. Just becausehe so dreaded comment and had so much pride in his own social standingand that of his sons, he kept her continually on view and carried herto parties and balls, thinking that his prestige would causerecognition to be given her by his friends. And it did--butgrudgingly! Admired for what she was not, she was scorned for what shewas. I have seen her petted by some would-be society fine lady till myblood boiled, then marked the smile of supercilious sarcasm whichwould be thrown back upon her when her beautiful shoulders wereturned. Yet I had hopes, strong hopes of better days after the firststrangeness of the new life should have worn away and her goodimpulses had had time to develop into motive powers for kind actions.But it was not to be; never was to be. The fiend whose power I had setmyself to combat was far stronger than any force I could bring againsthim. She grew worse--appeared once in public as she never before hadappeared outside her own room, and my father, who was with her, neverattempted to hold up his head again in his former unmoved fashion.Claire, who came to us later, had no power to hold her mother back,and while she was still an infant, the inevitable occurred--my wiferan away from us.
"It was the first overwhelming shock my hitherto unfailing faith hadhad to sustain. She had slipped away at nightfall without money andalmost without farewell. The merest note left on the piano in ourlittle room on the third floor told me she had tried to be happy in adomestic life, but had failed; and begged me not to seek her, for shewas stifling for air and freedom.
"And I have no doubt she was. Seeing, since, where she has foundpleasure, and under what conditions the old gay smile has revisitedher lips, I have no doubt that the very luxury we prized wasoppressive to her. But then I only thought of the dangers andprivations she must encounter away from my protection; and, confidingto no one the calamity which had befallen me, I rushed from the houseand sought her in every place which suggested itself to me as apossible refuge. It was a frenzied search, and ended in my coming uponher, ten days after her disappearance, in a plain but decentlodging-house. Her money was gone, and she lay in that heavy sleepwhich has no such hallowing effect upon the beauty as this we lookupon now.
"Some men's love would have sickened and failed them at this degradingsight. But though a change took place in the feeling which had held mein an entranced state ever since my marriage, it was a change whichdeepened, rather than deadened, the affection with which I regardedher. From a creature whose untold charm bewitched and bewildered me,she became to me a sacred charge for which I was responsible to Godand man; and while she still lay there and I stood in a maze of miserybefore her, I vowed that, come what would, I would remain true to herand by means of this faith and through the unfailing patience it wouldcall forth, make what effort I could to stay her on the brink of thatprecipice she seemed doomed to perish by.
"But I was to be tried in ways I had little foreseen. She was glad tosee me when she woke, and readily consented to return to her home andher child. But in tw
o months she was off again, and this time I didnot find her so easily. When I did, she was in such a hopelesscondition of mental and moral degradation that I took her to asanitarium, where I had every reason to expect that a proper secrecywould be maintained as to her real complaint and unhappy condition.For my pride was still a torment to me, and an open rupture with myfather too undesirable for me to risk a revelation of the true extentof the vagaries indulged in by his unwelcome daughter-in-law. Herescapades, serious as they were, had affected him but little. For Ihad so closely followed her in her sudden flittings that we werelooked upon as having left home together on some hurried tour or atthe call of some thoughtless impulse. He had believed us out of town,while I was engaged in hunting the city through for her.
"But after a week spent in the sanitarium, I perceived by the looks Iencountered, on every side, that my secret was discovered; and wasthus in a measure prepared when the door of my room opened one dayupon the stern figure of my father. He had heard the true cause of mywife's condition, and a stormy scene was before me.
"It was then that I regretted that my early opportunities had beenslighted, and that, instead of being independent of his bounty, I wasnot considered capable of earning my own living. Had my home been oneof my own making, I might have stood up and faced him at that hourwith a resolution to hold by my wife, which in itself might haveensured his respect. But I was tied hand and tongue by the realisationof all I owed him, was owing him, and was likely to owe him to the endof my days. I was not master of my own life; how, then, could Ipropose to be the master of another's?
"My father, whose favourite I had never been, could not be expected toknow what was passing in my heart; but he was not without arealisation of what he might find in the adjoining room, and, castinga glance that way, he asked coldly:
"'Is she--Mrs. Gillespie--(he never called her by her given name)_awake_?'
"No question could have pierced my heart more poignantly. It was notthe hour for sleep, and the use of the word had intention in it. But Isubdued all signs of distress, and, calling her by name, bade her comeout and greet father; after which I stood breathless, waiting for herappearance, conscious that it might be a smiling one, and equally thatit might be--I dared not think what. She was not always to be dependedupon.
"She did not appear at once. 'Sit down, father,' I begged. 'She may bedressing.'
"And she was. In a minute or two, as we stood watching, she threw openthe door, and in an instant I saw that whatever hope I may havecherished of her creating a good impression in her partially recoveredstate, was an ill-founded one. She was not in one of her depressedmoods, but, what was worse, perhaps, in one of her ecstatic ones. Allher genius, and she had much, had taken fire under some impulse of hererratic brain, and she came into the room prepared to conquer in theonly way she knew how. Still young, still beautiful in her own way,which was that of no other woman, she glided into our presence in onerapturous whirl, a scarf floating from her neck, and a wreath of wildvine about her head. I rushed to prevent her, but it was too late. She_would_ dance, and she did, while my father, who had never seen her inthis glowing state, drew me aside and watched with hard eyes, whileshe swayed and dipped and palpitated in what would have been aglorious ebullition of pure delight, had she not been my wife, and theman at my side as cold to her charm as the dew which stood out on mywretched forehead. When I could bear no more, I flung my arms abouther and she stopped, panting and frightened, like a bird caught infull flight. 'Sing,' I whispered to her; 'sing that air from _AEnone_'.I thought the tragic pathos of her tones might make her dancingforgotten. And they did in a way. My father had never listened to anysuch dramatic rendering of a simple song before, and I saw that he wassubdued by the feelings it awakened. But I gathered no hope from this.He had too little liking for public exhibitions of this kind on thepart of women, for him to be affected long by any singing which wasnot that of the boudoir; and when, her first ebullition passed, shebegan to droop under the heavy reaction which inevitably followedthese impulsive performances, I drew her into the other room, and shutthe door. Then I came back and faced him.
"He was standing in the window of the large but unlovely room,drumming restlessly on the panes before him. As the light struck hishead it brought to view the silver rapidly making its way through thedark locks he had been accustomed to pride himself upon, and a pangstruck me at this sight, which made me quite dumb for the instant. Ifelt as if I, and not she, had been dancing over his heart. Then myever-present thought of the woman I had sworn to cherish returned andheld me steady while he said:
"'It is well that I have seen your wife once when the full spell wasupon her. Now I know what has come into the Gillespie family.Leighton, do you love this woman?'
"SHE GLIDED INTO OUR PRESENCE IN ONE RAPTUROUS WHIRL"]
"'Enough to bear your condemnation if you choose to condemn us,' Iassured him.
"'Then take her away out of my sight and from the possible sight of mygrowing grandchild. A dancing menad can be no mother to Claire.'
"'I will take her away,' I promised him. 'When this place has done allfor her it can, I will carry her where she can offend no one butstrangers.'
"'I would suggest an asylum,' he muttered. It was the only unjustthing I ever knew him to propose.
"'She is not insane,' I objected.
"'She is not sane,' he rejoined. 'No opium-eater is. But I will notforce your conscience; only--let me never again see her in our home inFifth Avenue. _You_ will always be welcome.'
"I could not retort that I would enter no house from which she wasthus peremptorily excluded. The house in Fifth Avenue was my home, thehome of my child; and about it clustered every dear association of myheart save those connected with my unhappy love.
"'A man who marries for a whim must expect unpleasant results,' myfather resumed. 'You shall have what money you need for herestablishment elsewhere; but this hemisphere is too narrow to harbourboth her and myself. Go to Europe, Leighton; there is more room therefor your wife to dance in.'
"And I meant to follow this suggestion, but her health was not goodenough for me to risk a voyage at this juncture, and we drifted Westand put up at a place called Mountain Springs. It was during our staythere, that, so far as the world is concerned, the story of mymarried life ended. But for me it had only begun. The facts regardingmy wife and her connection with that great catastrophe which robbedmore than one household of wife and mother differed much in realityfrom those reported to the world and accepted by my own family. Shedid not perish in that wreck, though I thought she had, and mournedher loss for many months. She had merely taken advantage of thecircumstances to effect another escape. How, I will endeavour torelate, hard as it is to disclose the failings of one so dear to me.
"My wife, whose natural longings had been modified rather thanextinguished by her experiences at the sanitarium, soon awakened tothe old sense of restraint and a desire to enjoy again theirresponsibilities of her early Bohemian life. But having gainedwisdom by her past experiences, she allowed no expression of herfeelings to escape her; and, relying on the effect produced upon me byher apparent content, merely asked the privilege of enjoying thesports indulged in by the other boarders. Fearing to cross her toomuch, I gave her all possible liberty, but when she begged to go on acertain excursion--the excursion which ended so disastrously for allconcerned--I felt forced to refuse her, for I had made an arrangementthat day which would prevent me from accompanying her. However, afterrepeated solicitation, I yielded to her importunities and gave her myconsent, at which she showed much joy, and lavished many expressionsof fondness upon me. Had my suspicions not been lulled by theundisturbed peacefulness of the last few months, these opendemonstrations of affection might have occasioned me some alarm, forthey were not without a suggestion of remorse. But I mistrustednothing; I was too happy, and when I parted from her it was with thefull intention of sacrificing for her pleasure the first real businessengagement I had ever entered upon. But I did not carry out thisimpulse; I merely
made arrangements for the train to stop for me atthe little station on the mountains where my affairs led me. But I didnot confide this plan to her till I was upon the point of leaving.Then I told her she might look for me on the train immediately afterpassing Buckley, and while I wondered at the way she received mywords, I thought the embarrassment she showed was due to surprise.Alas! it sprang from much deeper sources. She had planned to leave meagain, this time forever; and, baffled as she thought in the attempt,she succumbed for a little while to despair. Then her fertile brainsuggested an expedient. Two trains left Mountain Springs that morning,one north and one south. She would take the southern train, and lestshe should be prematurely discovered in her flight and so be followedbefore she had found a refuge, she prevailed upon a girl over whom shehad some influence, to exchange garments with her and take her placeamong the excursionists. She little dreamed what lay before thoseexcursionists. As little did I realise that it was in behalf of astranger I entered upon that mad chase after the runaway cars I hadseen slip from the engine and go crashing down towards the train onwhich I believed my wife to be. I knew those cars to be loaded withdynamite, for it was in connection with this fact I had come to thisplace, and the thought that they were destined to prove thedestruction of the life I so much prized maddened me to such an extentthat it was a mere matter of instinct for me to leap upon the engine Isaw bounding to her rescue. Had time been given me to think, I mightnot have shown such temerity, for I knew nothing of a fireman's dutiesor what would be expected of me by the engineer. But I did not pauseto think; I only stood ready to hazard my life for the woman Iloved,--the woman whom I believed to be on the train I even then couldsee advancing up the valley. Of that ride, its swirl and whirlwindrush, I remember little; every thought, every fear, was engrossed inthe one question, How were we to save that train? But two methodssuggested themselves to me in my ignorance and isolation from thebrave engineer. Either we must overtake the cars and by coupling tothem stay their downward rush to the main track below--a trick I didnot understand--or we must crush so fiercely into them as to explodethe dynamite with which they were loaded before they had a chance tocollide with the advancing train. That the latter catastrophe did nothappen was not owing to any precaution on my part, for I do notremember that I had the least dread of personal destruction. As I havejust said, my one thought, my only thought in that dizzy descent, wasto save her. And I failed to do it; or so I had reason to think. Asyou remember, all our efforts were in vain; the unspeakable occurred,and wreck, death, and disaster met my eyes when, after a period ofblank darkness, I rose from the ground where I had been hurled by theforce of that dynamite explosion. Amid this wreck, in face of thisdeath, I plunged in my search for her, and, as I believed, found her.A loving husband cannot be deceived in his wife's clothes, and thefragments I handled told their tale, as I thought, only too well. But,as you now know, it was not my wife who wore these clothes, though weburied her as such, and I mourned my lost love as no one who has notfixed his whole heart upon one object can possibly understand.
"My father, whose relief at this release can be readily imagined,endeavoured to calm my grief, not by sympathy, for that he could notfeel, but by an unvarying kindness which assured me that, now thatthis obstacle to a right understanding between us had been removed, Imight hope for the establishment of more cordial relations between us.I was older now, and he more considerate of my many uncongenial waysand habits; besides, Claire made a tender bond between us, and withone of her baby smiles healed many a breach that might otherwise haveseparated us.
"I began to be content, when, having some business in a strangequarter of the city, I chanced to walk down East Fourteenth Street. Itwas a holiday of some kind and there had been a procession. The stirin the streets was just what usually follows the breaking up of longlines of people. But this did not disturb me. Claire had beenunusually engaging that morning, and I was just rejoicing in thememory of her innocent prattle, when the band in the far distancebroke out into a merry strain, and I saw on the sidewalk before me acluster of people separate into a sort of ring, in the middle of whicha woman stood poised with swaying arms, so like the image that was dayby day receding farther and farther into the deep recesses of mymemory, that a species of faintness came over me and I drew back, sickand half-blinded, directly in the path of the people pressing in myrear. This caused me to receive a push from behind which effectuallyroused me and gave me strength to look again at one who could recallmy lost Mille-fleurs. I expected--how could I expect anythingelse?--to be met by a strange face and an unknown smile. But it was_her_ face, _her_ smile; and the figure, clad in such clothes as I hadnever, even in my worst dreams, associated with the woman to whom Ihad given my name, was _hers_. Had God made two such women? Two withsuch eyes, such hair, such instincts, and such genius? Was this asister of Mille-fleurs; a twin of my lost darling, of whose existenceI had never heard? God grant not! I had buried Mille-fleurs, and withher, memories which this creature would only bring back to thedestruction of my peace. I dared not give way for one instant to thethought that this likeness was anything but a passing illusion whichthe next moment would dispel. I dared not for my life. And yet I stoodstaring; hearing and not hearing the shouts of wild applause risingaround me, and was looking, yes, looking directly into her eyes, whenthey suddenly turned my way in startled recognition. It wasMille-fleurs! Mille-fleurs! The woman I had buried was a stranger, andshe who was making pastime for the passing crowd was _my wife_!
"I made no scene. I accepted the fact as we accept any unforeseencatastrophe that comes upon us unawares, tearing up our peacefulpresent and making a chaos of the future. As she was still dancing,though fitfully and with curious breaks, I stopped her by my steadylook and held her so, till the crowd had melted away sufficiently forme to take her by the hand and lead her under the cover of the firstsmall shop we came to. Then I questioned her closely, and, when Iunderstood all, asked her if she would go with me and be clothed andfed. She answered with a startled look. 'I cannot!' she cried, andwearily drooped her head. 'I am not worthy.'
"God knows what passed through my mind then. I stood there in thewretchedness of this low shop, beside a counter from which the smellof stale tobacco rose in nauseous fumes, together with the sickeningsmell of partially decayed fruits--a flower in my button-hole (putthere by little Claire), and before me this woman, loved as few ofearth's best and worthiest have been, telling me with trembling lipswhat explained her rags, the degradation which had fallen on herbeauty, and the whole pitiable downfall of a womanhood which oncestruck my heart as ideal and worthy of a man's unselfish worship.
"Drawing the flower from my button-hole, I crushed it in my hand. IfI could have donned the clothes of some of the men lolling about us ingreedy curiosity, I would have done so at that moment, if only thecontrast between our outer selves might have been less apparent. Butthis was impossible, and I could only stand in silence in face of thiswreck of bygone delights, and in one moment and under the gaze of adozen pairs of eyes peering from behind the counter and gaping in atthe doorway, live down my bitter humiliation at this untowardresurrection of a love I had learned to rejoice in as buried. For thiswas no wretched waif of the streets I could pity and leave. This wasmy wife, the mother of my child; the woman whom I had once vowed tohold in honour to the end, and to succour, no matter what her need orto what degradation she might come. Besides, there was an appeal inher drooping attitude and quivering mouth which touched my heart inspite of my judgment. I felt her misery as I had never felt my own; amisery all the more pronounced because of the joy so openly precedingit; and, feeling a fresh thrill in the old cord of union that had madeour hearts one, I quietly asked her if she had lost all love for me.She gave me one quick look; and I saw her eye quicken as she softlyfaltered, 'No. Only,' she made haste to add, 'I cannot live in bighouses under the eyes of people who think my ways odd and wrong. Ifyou take me back to him I cannot help going wrong again. But I wouldlike something pretty to wear and something good to eat.'
<
br /> "I took her to an East Side hotel. I bought her clothes and gave herfood, over which she laughed like a child. Then I told her what Imeant to do for her. I would buy her a home in a pretty country place,where she need not fear intruding eyes. There she should live withsome woman I could trust and who would be kind to her. A piano, music,flowers, books--she should have all, and if, in the course of time,she came to wish it, I would bring our child to see her. Did she thinkshe could be contented in a home like this? Wouldn't it be better thanthe cold and squalor of the streets and these wild dances beforeunsympathetic eyes?
"She answered with a burst of affection which was real enough at thetime; then asked if I was going to let my father know she was living.This brought to light the spectre which had stood over against us eversince I first recognised her as the woman I had sworn to love andcherish. Could I tell my father? Could I bring down again upon myselfthe old coldness, the old distrust, the old sense of a division thatwas gall to me because of the reverence and love I naturally felt forhim?
"I could not; I recognised the cowardice of it, but I could not. I wasready to give her succour; I was ready to devote time, money, and careto her establishment and well-being; I could deny myself the pleasuresand pursuits natural to men of my age, and even the uninterruptedenjoyment of the home I had come to prize, but I could not tell myfather that the wild-eyed creature he was forcing himself to forget,still lived, and might any day bring down fresh humiliation upon him.
"She saw my doubt and smiled as in the early days of her untrammelledyouth.
"'Better so,' she cried; 'then if I fail to be good it will not somuch matter. And I may fail; it is in my blood, Leighton; in myunfortunate Bohemian blood. Oh, why did you ever care for me?'
"Such gusts of feeling and regret over the havoc she had caused werecommon to her. They made it impossible for me to hope in her ultimaterestoration to respectability and a quiet life. But, alas! they werebut gusts, and after a few months of peaceful harbourage in therose-covered cottage I found for her, she fled from me again and waslost for _years_. But I never ceased searching for her. The unrest ofknowing she was restless under the roof I had provided for her wasnothing to the restlessness of not knowing where she was and in whatmisery and under what deprivation she was pining away in the darkholes where alone she could find refuge. I have sat hours under myfather's eye, talking of stocks and bonds and railway shares, while myevery thought and feeling were with her whom in my fancy I sawwandering from river to river, in dark nights and in cold;--rain onthe pavements or slush in the streets,--drawing up to lighted doorsfor warmth or hiding her brown head with its flying curls under shedsa dog might be glad to fly from.
"It has happened to me often to be in the presence of women, at churchor concert or festival, and with their eyes on my face and the perfumeof their presence floating about me, to behold in my mind'sperspective a solitary figure poised on the edge of some dock, inwhose lifted arms and upstrained countenance I read despair, thedespair that leads to death; and, forgetting where I was and to whommy words were due, have rushed out to do--what? Wander those down-townstreets and the bleak places I had seen in my fancy, in the hope ofcoming once again upon the being who, unaccountably to myself, stillheld the cord whose other end was bound indissolubly to my heart. Whatwonder that I was looked upon as eccentric, moody, strange, or that myfather, who naturally explained these freaks according to his ownlights, showed displeasure at my unaccountable whims? Yet I went onwith my search, and finally the day arrived when my perseverance wasrewarded and I came upon her once again.
"She was in a low dance-hall, but she was not dancing. She was simplygazing at another woman attempting those dizzy whirls which, under thesway of her own genius, had once attracted the applause of a differentcrowd from this. There was infinite longing in her eyes, mixed withthe sadness which will sometimes creep over those who are homelessthrough their own choice. When she saw me, and this was perhaps soonerthan was best for either herself or me, I saw the old look of terrorrise in her eyes, but mingled with it was a certain recognition of myfaithfulness and self-forgetful care for her which melted the iceabout my heart and reawakened the old hope for her. But she did notfollow me when I beckoned her out; nor could I induce her to do sowithout risking a scene which would necessarily attract all eyes tous. But she promised, if I gave her money, to return the next day tothe little house in New Jersey.
"And she did; but her stay was short, and it became a common thing forher to drift back there for a day or so, and then to flee away again,to return when the fancy seized her or the devils of discomfort droveher to seek a respite from the horrors which had now become for hersynonymous with freedom.
"She always found something to reward her for these visits; somesurprise in the shape of a new article or some fresh source ofamusement. Money to me was only valuable as it gave me power to rivetanother link to the chain with which I endeavoured to hold her to abetter life; and though I knew the false construction which might beput upon these expenditures, not only by my father but others, Ispared no means, stopped at no extravagance which might add one moreallurement to the nest I had made for my weary and bedraggled one.
"The woman who had orders to keep this house in a continual state ofreadiness for its fitful visitant was as discreet as she wassympathetic. She may have surmised my secret, or she may have supposedall these efforts the result of an ill-conceived philanthropy.
"I could never tell by her manner. But I knew she treated my poor onewell. Time after time has she opened the door to a disordered anddishevelled creature, whom next morning I found sitting in a bower ofroses, fitted out in dainty cashmeres, and with her long locks combedtill they shone and shone again. Nay, I have come upon her on herknees before the bruised and frozen feet upon which she was thrustingslippers of downy softness, which made my darling laugh until theirvery softness became a burden, and she threw them off to dance. I havenever lingered over these sights, but I have imagined them over andover with tear-filled eyes, for, explain it as you will, everybackward slip made by my darling toward the precipice I ever sawyawning for her strengthened the hold she had upon my heart, till thepity with which I regarded her filled my whole bosom to bursting.
"But the wild hawk cannot be tamed. She would vanish from our carejust when we thought it was becoming dear to her, and my wild pursuitwould begin again, to be followed by chance findings and reneweddisappointments. She was not to be held, though in the hope of doingso I have spent many stolen hours in the little house, reading to her,talking to her, playing with her, sacrificing my good name and theregard of my relatives just to win back one innocent look to her faceand keep her amused and contented without the help of the accurseddrug. She slipped away from us in spite of all our efforts, and duringthis last year returned only once.
"Yet I think she has felt more drawn to me this year than in all thetime of our marriage. But she felt her unworthiness more. She hadlistened to the hymns sung by the Salvation Army on some of thedown-town corners, and, being susceptible to impressions of thisnature, had followed the singers into their halls and heard some ofthe good words that are uttered there. Sometimes, I am told, shelaughed at what she heard, but oftener was seen to cry, and once sheherself sang till, as they said, the very heavens seemed to open. WhenI heard this, I could not keep away from these meetings, though Inever came upon her at any one of them either on the East or Westside. She seemed to anticipate my approach there as elsewhere, foroften have I been assured that she had just that minute gone out, andmust be somewhere near, though I never succeeded in finding her.
"This looked to me then like hate, but now I think it was simplyshame; for when she knew that death was upon her she sent for me; and,seeing the old look of forbearance on my face, she threw up her wastedarms, and, panting like a child who has reached its mother's arms atlast, turned her tired, tired face towards my breast with a feeble'Forgive!' and died.
"You cannot know the heart of a man who has followed his lost lamb foryears through ta
ngled thickets and by headlong precipices, and it mayseem strange for me to pour into ears so hardened and necessarily sounsympathetic the sacred secrets of my soul. But my position is astrange one and my story one that must be told in its entirety for youto understand why that smile upon her face is so much to me that mysole prayer at this time is to be allowed to remain in sight of it forone hour. She has loved me always; not as I loved her, not to thepoint of saving me one heartache or sparing me one erratic impulse ofher ungoverned nature, but still better than I feared; better thanher conduct would show. For when I came to lay her head down againupon its pillow, I found tied about her neck and fast clutched in herchilling palm, _this_.
"Our wedding ring," he murmured. "She might have pawned it for adollar during any of the many crises of her miserable life."
He paused, put the token back in his breast, and added but one moreword. "When she was alive and well, with vigour in her dancing foot,and a deathless unrest in her gypsy heart, she chafed at my presenceand fled from my protection. But when the final shadow settled and shefelt all other props give way, then her poor arms rose in recognitionof the love which had never failed her." There was an indescribabletone of triumph in his tones. "She had need of me in her dying hours;she smiled----"
He paused, and his eyes, which had been fixed on her form, roseinstinctively, not to the dingy rafters overhead, but to the heaven hesaw above those rafters. For him her spirit had fled upward. Whateverwe might think of her, to him she was henceforth a being blessed andgathered into a refuge from which she would nevermore seek or wish toescape.
* * * * *
It was hard to break into this calm hopefulness with words of stern orsinister meaning. But Mr. Gryce had no choice.
"What, then, is your special desire?" asked that officer.
Mr. Gillespie's eyes fell, and for a moment he stood thinking, then hesaid;
"I have retribution to make to her memory. I wish to take her to myown house and bury her from there as my wife. The humiliation fromwhich my pride recoiled in the old days has been meted out to meten-fold. I no longer wish to evade my responsibilities."
His expression as he said this was very different from the smile I hadsurprised on his face the night he stooped over his dead father. Yetthe one brought up the other, and, in a measure, acted as a mutualinterpretation. By means of it and the determination he had justexpressed, I could comprehend the feeling of that moment, when withpolice in the house and the whole family subjected to a suspicionwhich involved it in the utmost disgrace, he contemplated the featuresof the man whose pride found the hemisphere in which he lived toosmall to hold both himself and the daughter whose worst fault was aproclivity to dance and sing.
Mr. Gryce, who had no such memories to reconcile, was meanwhilesurveying the young man with a curious hesitation.
"I regret," said he, "the presence of an obstacle to your very naturalwish to bury your wife from your own house. Mr. Gillespie, it is myduty to inform you that we are not here on a simple errand ofsurveillance: my orders were to arrest you on the charge of murderingyour father."