"He could not help it; he knew his madness--he shrank in horror from it--he battled with it--he prayed for help--and for over a year he controlled himself. But it was always there--always. How long it might have lain dormant--how long he would have been able to withstand his mad desire, no one can tell. But Juan Catheron came and claimed her as his wife, and jealousy finished what a dreadful hereditary insanity had begun.
"On that fatal evening he had seen them together somewhere in the grounds, and though he hid what he felt, the sight had goaded him almost to frenzy. Then came the summons from Lady Helena to go to Powyss Place. He set out, but before he had gone half-way, the demon of jealously whispered in his ear, "Your wife is with Juan Catheron now--go back and surprise them." He turned and went back--a madman--the last glimpse of reason and self-control gone.
He saw his wife, not with Juan Catheron, but peacefully and innocently asleep by the open window of the room where he had left her. The dagger, used as a paper knife, lay on the table near. I say he was utterly mad for the time. In a moment the knife was up to the hilt in her heart, dealing death with that one strong blow!
He drew it out and--she lay dead before him.
"Then a great, an awful horror, fell upon him. Not of the consequence of his crime; only of that which lay so still and white before him.
He turned like the madman he was and fled. By some strange chance he met no one. In pa.s.sing through the gates he flung the dagger among the fern, leaped on his horse, and was gone.
"He rode straight to Powyss Place. Before he reached it some of insanity"s cunning returned to him. He must not let people know _he_ had done it; they would find out he was mad; they would shut him up in a madhouse; they would shrink from him in loathing and horror.
How he managed it, he told me with his dying breath, he never knew--he did somehow. No one suspected him, only Inez Catheron, returning to the nursery, had seen all--had seen the deadly blow struck, had seen his instant flight, and stood spell-bound, speechless and motionless as a stone. He remembered no more--the dark night of oblivion and total insanity closed about him only to open at briefest intervals from that to the hour of his death.
"That, Edith, was the awful story I was told that night--the story that has ruined and wrecked my whole life and yours. I listened to it all as you sit and listen now, still as a stone, frozen with a horror too intense for words. I can recall as clearly now as the moment I heard them the last words he ever spoke to me:
""I tell you this partly because I am dying, and I think you ought to know, partly because I want to warn you. They tell me you are about to be married. Victor, beware what you do. The dreadful taint is in your blood as it was in mine--you love her as I loved the wife I murdered. Again I say take care--take care! Be warned by me; my fate may be yours, your mother"s fate hers. It is my wish, I would say command, if I dared, that you never marry; that you let the name and the curse die out; that no more sons may be born to hear the ghastly story I have told you."
"I could listen to no more, I rushed from the room, from the house, out into the darkness and the rain, as if the curse he spoke of had already come upon me--as though I were already going mad. How long I remained, what I did, I don"t know. Soul and body seemed in a whirl. The next thing I knew was my aunt summoning me into the house. My most miserable father was dead.
"Then came the funeral. I would not, _could not_ think. I drove the last warning he had spoken out of my mind. I clenched my teeth--I swore that I would _not_ give you up. Not for the raving of a thousand madmen, not for the warning of a thousand dying fathers.
From that hour I was a changed man--from that hour my doom was sealed.
"I returned to Powyss Place, but not as I had left. I was a haunted man. By day and night--all night long, all day through, the awful warning pursued me. "My fate may be yours--your mother"s fate _hers_!" It was my destiny, there was no escape; my mother"s doom would be yours; on our wedding-day I was fated to kill you! It was written. Nothing could avert it.
"I don"t know whether the family taint was always latent within me, or that it was continual brooding on what I had heard, but the fate certainly befell me. My father"s homicidal mania became mine. Edith, I felt it, felt the dreadful whisper in my ear, the awful desire stirring in my heart, to lift my hand and take your life! Often and often have I fled from your presence when I felt the temptation growing stronger than I could withstand.
"And yet I would not give you up; that is where I can never forgive myself. I could not tell you; I could not draw back then. I hoped against hope; it seemed like tearing body and soul asunder, the thought of losing you. "Come what may," I cried, in my anguish, "she shall be my wife!"
"Our wedding-day came; the day that should have been the most blessed of my life, that was the most miserable. All the night before, all that morning, the demon within me had been, battling for the victory.
I could not exorcise it; it stood between us at the altar. Then came our silent, strange wedding-journey. I wonder sometimes, as I looked at you, so still, so pale, so beautiful, what you must think. I dare not look at you often, I dare not speak to you, dare not think of you. I felt if I did I should lose all control of myself, and slay you there and then.
"I wonder, as you sit and listen there, my love, my bride, whether it is pity or loathing that fills your heart. And yet I deserved pity; what I suffered no tongue can ever tell. I knew myself mad, knew that sooner or later my madness would be stronger than myself, and then it came upon me so forcibly when we reached Carnarvon, that I fled from you again and went wandering away by myself, where, I knew not.
"Sooner or later you will kill her;" that thought alone filled me; "it is as certain as that you live and stand here. You will kill this girl who trusts you and who has married you, who does not dream she has married a demon athirst for her blood."
"I went wild then. I fell down on my knees in the wet gra.s.s, and held up my hands to the sky. "O G.o.d!" I cried out in despair, "show me what to do. Don"t let me kill my darling. Strike me dead where I kneel sooner than that!" And with the words the bitterness of death seemed to pa.s.s, and great calm fell. In that calm a voice spoke clearly, and said:
"Leave her! Leave your bride while there is yet time. It is the only way. Leave her! She does not love you--she will not care. Better that you should break your heart and die, than that you should harm a hair of her head."
"I heard it as plainly, Edith, as I hear my own voice speaking now.
I rose--my resolution taken--a great, unutterable peace filling my heart. In my exalted state it seemed easy--I alone would be the sufferer, not you--I would go.
"I went back. The first sight I saw was you, my darling, sitting by the open window, fast asleep. Fast asleep, as my mother had been that dreadful night. If anything had been wanting to confirm my resolution, that would have done it. I wrote the note of farewell; I came in and kissed your dear hands, and went away from you forever. O love! it seemed easy then, but my heart broke in that hour. I could not live without you; thank Heaven! the sacrifice is not asked. I have told you all--it lay between two things--I must leave you, or in my madness kill you. Edith, it would have happened. You have heard my story--you know all--the dreadful secret that has held us asunder. It is for you to say whether I can be forgiven or not."
She had all the time been sitting, her face hidden in her hands, never stirring or speaking. Now she arose and fell once more on her knees beside him, tears pouring from her eyes. She drew his head into her arms, she stooped down, and, for the first time in her life, kissed again and again the lips of the man she had married.
"Forgive you!" she said. "O my husband, my martyr! It is I who must be forgiven! _You_ are an angel, not a man!"
CHAPTER VI.
THE LAST ENDING OF THE TRAGEDY.
An hour later, when Lady Helena softly opened the door and came in, she found them still so, his weak head resting in her arms as she knelt, her bowed face hidden, her falling tears hardly yet dried.
One look into his radiant eyes, into the unspeakable joy and peace of his face, told her the story. All had been revealed, all had been forgiven. On the anniversary of their most melancholy wedding-day husband and wife were reunited at last.
There was no need of words. She stooped over and silently kissed both.
"It is growing late, Edith," she said gently, "and you must be tired after your journey. You will go up to your room now. I will watch with Victor to-night."
But Edith only drew him closer, and looked up with dark, imploring eyes.
"No," she said, "no, no! I will never leave him again. I am not in the least tired, Lady Helena; I will stay and share your watch."
"But, my dear--"
"O Lady Helena--aunt--don"t you see--I must do something--make reparation in some way. What a wretch--what a wretch I have been.
Oh, why did I not know all sooner? Victor, why did I not know _you_?
To remember what my thoughts of you have been, and all the time--all the time--it was for me. If you die I shall feel as though I were your murderess."
Her voice choked in a tearless sob. She had hated him--loathed him--almost wished, in her wickedness, for his death, and all the time he was yielding up his life in his love for her.
"You will let me stay with you, Victor?" she pleaded almost pa.s.sionately; "don"t ask me to go. We have been parted long enough; let me be with you until--" again her voice choked and died away.
With a great effort he lifted one of her hands to his lips--that radiant smile of great joy on his face.
"She talks _almost_ as if she loved me," he said.
"Love you! O Victor!--husband--if I had only known, if I had only known!"
"If you had known," he repeated, looking at her with wistful eyes.
"Edith, if you really had known--if I had dared to tell you all I have told you to-night, would you not have shrunk from me in fear and horror, as a monster who pretended to love you and yet longed for your life? Sane on all other points--how would you have comprehended my strange madness on that? It is gone now--thank G.o.d--in my weakness and dying hour, and there is nothing but the love left. But my own, if I had told you, if you had known, would you not have feared and left me?"
She looked at him with brave, steadfast, shining eyes.
"If I had known," she answered, "how your father killed your mother, how his madness was yours, I would have pitied you with all my heart, and out of that pity I would have loved you. I would never have left you--never. I could never have feared you, Victor; and this I know--what you dreaded never would have come to pa.s.s. I am as sure of it as that I kneel here. You would never have lifted your hand against my life."
"You think so?" Still with that wistful, earnest gaze.
"I _know_ so--I feel it--I am sure of it. You could not have done it--I should never have been afraid of it, and in time your delusion would have worn entirely away. You are naturally superst.i.tious and excitable--morbid, even; the dreadful excitement of your father"s story and warning, were too much for you to bear alone. That is all.
If you could have told me--if I could have laughed at your hypochondrical terrors, your cure would have been half effected. No, Victor, I say it again--I would never have left you, and you would never have harmed a hair of my head."
Her tone of resolute, conviction seemed to bring conviction even to him. The sad, wistful light deepened in his blue eyes.
"Then it has all been in vain," he said very sadly; "the suffering and the sacrifice--all these miserable months of separation and pain."
Again Lady Helena advanced and interposed, this time with authority.