The fact of the engagement of Lord Vandrake and Lady Viola Vargas being suddenly broken off, actually on the very eve of their wedding, caused of course considerable excitement in society circles. And to their more intimate acquaintances, it was a still greater puzzle; since no reason whatsoever was assigned: nor, torture their brains as they would, could they discover any possible or plausible reason. Seldom had a marriage been arranged under more auspicious conditions. They were both rich, both in the best social position, both independent, and no one raised the faintest objection. And furthermore, which was of more importance, they were obviously in love with one another. Vivian had never been interested in any other woman but Viola and au contraire Viola in no man save Vivian.
They were both orphans: and being related, though not very nearly, had for a great part of their lives been brought up in the same house. They were, or had become, remarkably like one another. So that people would rather take them for brother or sister than for a betrothed pair. I say become, for I think the latter is the more probable supposition. It has been frequently noticed that persons living constantly together, between whom there is much sympathy, gradually become like one another. Whereas the relationship of second cousin would hardly account for the similarity. Nevertheless there were points of difference.
His face might be called feminine rather than effeminate, I say feminine because of the somewhat indeterminate outline, and marvellous delicate skin and bloom of complexion. But there was none of the flaccidity and simper of the so-called effeminate face. The expression indeed was profoundly intellectual. The eyes denoted a considerable amount of will-power, but in general he looked delicate and fragile: but without any trace of sickliness.
No one would call him handsome: everyone would say he was very nice-looking, and some people would call his face beautiful. His real age was 25, but he did not look a day older than 19.
Her face, by way of contrast had a more clear-cut definite masculine outline than his, and if he showed greater will power in the eyes, there was much more determination about her mouth. Her eyes were very sweet and tender, of a vague lilac colour, veritably dove's eyes; whereas his eyes in certain lights were vivid green, almost startlingly so. (By vivid green I do not mean vert de mer.)
The only objection anyone could ever have thought of making, was that Vivian from his childhood had been occasionally subject to fainting-fits. But then an eminent doctor and brain specialist, Sir Joseph Randor, who was their mutual relation, and whom they both called Uncle Joseph had explained, physiologically to her Aunt, Lady Esilinda, with whom she lived that it would be the best thing possible for him to be married at once.
They had grown up together, and as it seemed, exchanged all confidences. Their marriage seemed to be a matter of course, and just where this story begins, Lady Esilinda was very busy in making the last preparations for the festivity of the morrow.
‘Vivian, how pale, how strange you look! You can't think how you frightened me. Of course I am very nervous today, I had a dreadful dream last night: such a dreadful dream I can't tell you. Of course it was about you. All through the day I've had some shuddering presentiment that something would come between us to sunder us, between today and tomorrow. I am so glad you have come: at least you are really there. But come nearer! let me touch you, feel you! You look so—strange!’
‘Do not touch me!—Viola, dear, what you have just said makes it more easy for me to say what I was going to say. We are not going to be married tomorrow!’
This last he said with a hard dry guttural rasping voice, totally different to his usual way of speaking. She trembled, then turning her lovely eyes upon him said very tenderly, but with evident insincerity:
‘It was a little unkind of you to wait till now to tell me that you love someone else.’
Here a faint false smile, which she tried to effect collapsed utterly. He threw himself at her feet and kissed her hands passionately.
‘Viola!’ he cried, in a voice of agony, ‘kill me but do not torture me! I know you do not really think so. I never have loved, or could love anyone except you.’
By this time she had somewhat recovered herself, being for a delicate looking girl of an extraordinarily robust nature. She said with a sham smile and an affected sarcastic tone:
‘No, I'm not one of Bjørnsen's heroines, nor am I the heroine of the Heavenly Twins, and suchlike literature. So if you have any moral delinquency of your past life to confess, I do not wish to hear anything about it. You see I have got all my frocks already, and all the rest of it: and I don't want because of your previous peccadilloes to be cheated out of the whole show.’
Here she broke into ghastly laughter. He gave one low moan.
‘Listen Viola,’ he said. ‘You are too unkind to me. You should not have said that.’ His voice was now suffused with tears. ‘At least let me try and explain matters although I can't. But you do love me, do you not? And you will pity me whatever I say?’ She had by this time thoroughly recovered her self-possession. She was pale and calm. For answer she laid her hand very tenderly on his head.
‘Of course you must despise me. Perhaps you at least will understand the rationale of my miserable cowardice. I simply did not dare say this before. It was only because tomorrow is a last morrow, that I have managed to muster the courage to say what I am going to say—But what is it that I am going to say? And how shall I say it?—The—fact—is—that—I—am—mad!’
‘Vivian’ she said, with a tender smile; but she was unable to continue her sentence.
‘Do you remember,’ he continued, in an almost hoarse whisper, ‘how we went, a long long time ago,—oh yes, a long long time ago—how we went to that room which is Uncle Joseph's—do you remember we called it Bluebeard's Chamber? And just because we were never allowed to go into it, it excited our curiosity so much; and you somehow managed to get the key and then when we went in how I fainted and you did not? And then when we were found we were both whipped?’
All this he said in the same dull monotone. There was silence between them for some time. She looked at him fixedly, then said in her soft sweet tender voice:
‘Vivian, surely you do not attach any importance to that? Uncle Joseph said it was not very remarkable that you should have fainted, and said I must have the robuster constitution of the two.’ Then gently and slowly: ‘Try and be a little more collected dear. What do you mean exactly by being mad? I know you're always called eccentric. But then we both are, so perhaps I am not an authority, but when the other day someone said something of that kind about you, Aunt Esilinda who is about as healthy and sane a person as one might find said, “In reality I have scarcely ever seen a more sane or lucid person than Vivian.”’
He went on in the same voice as before: ‘But my eccentricity is not my insanity. I am perfectly lucid—frightfully lucid when I am insane. My insanity is merely intermittent. What I have done then I do not know. No!’ he said, raising his voice agonisingly, ‘I do know!—only too well! Perhaps you will understand me if I say the whole thing seems to me much more like a story told of someone else: of someone totally and entirely different—more like a vivid dream that lingers in one's brain.’
She turned more than deadly pale. Caressing his hair, she said:
‘Vivian, dear, of course I know how excessively nervous you are. Do you remember when you had those nervous attacks it was only I who could soothe you, and how when you suffered from delirium, it was only me you could bear in the room with you.’ She bent down and kissed him on the hair: ‘Surely I—’
Then he said, very tenderly: ‘Yes dear, I know what you were going to say.’ Then with a note of frightful agony, ‘But you do not know!’ Then in monotone: ‘I might harm even you!’
For the first time he looked her straight in the face, straight into her eyes: with a look that expressed much more than all he said. Then they came together in one long passionate embrace. Neither spoke one word.
When he was gone she did not betray any emotion, but went to the writing table, and took from a drawer a number of correspondence cards, on which she wrote.
‘On account of an unforeseen accident, the marriage between Lord Vandrake and Lady Viola Vargas has been unavoidably postponed, at the last moment. Guests will excuse—’
‘That's not quite right’ she murmured under her breath in rather a commonplace voice. ‘However it will do.’
And so she monotonously wrote one card after another.
Then Lady Esilinda walked in. ‘My dear child’ she cried: ‘I knew that girls used to write letters on the eve of their marriage, but your correspondence appears to exceed the average.’
‘Look here,’ she said handing a card that she had not yet put into the envelope.
She stood erect, pale and terrible: and said simply in a most authoritative tone of voice, very slowly, ‘Do not ask!’ Then she said, ‘As you are back, perhaps you would not mind writing the rest, as I am a trifle tired.’
‘We regret to say that Lord Vandrake's health has so broken down that he has been ordered abroad, either to Madeira or to Egypt.’
From The Morning News (leading article):
‘Another of those startling crimes which have amazed London for some time since has taken place. We are at a loss what to say on the subject. It will be remembered—only too well remembered how peculiarly atrocious and absolutely motiveless the crimes were: and no conceivable clue could be got as to the perpetrator. It will also be remembered that there was a long correspondence in this paper, as to who the perpetrator could possibly be: a Thug some people said: others gave other theories.
‘The theories were so numerous that we will not recapitulate them. But as we have said before the peculiar atrocity and absolute motivelessness of the crimes baffle all detection. Then again, the criminal seems easily to have escaped. It is possible the Police were not there. But then it seems again incredible, considering the circumstances, that he could have escaped so easily.
‘The account of the last crime which is, if one may use the comparison in such cases, more terrible than the others, will be found in another column. We only wish to make a few comments. It would seem, to justify the wildest suggestions of our superstitious correspondents. Let us look at the facts. Here a policeman, hearing a cry, comes to the spot, sees a figure running away. The figure leaps with one bound onto a wall, and when the policeman is trying to follow the figure leaps down upon him, and seizes him by the throat. The policeman has been taken to hospital, and is now in a hopeless state of, shall we call it, nervousness. He trembles continually, and is also continually talking of a flash of green fire that came from the eyes of the person who leapt upon him. But his evidence appears to be on the whole quite coherent. And indeed other policemen noticed the figure, as the district has been specially watched. And that is practically all. There seems really something almost rational in the letter of our last correspondent, who signs himself F.B., that there was something diabolical about the matter. We cannot say and do not pretend to judge; but here we find a rather particularly stalwart policeman frightened into fits by one glance from those terrible eyes: one who certainly does not look nervous: and who, in intervals between his attacks gives invariably the same evidence apparently coherent. But the hospital authorities say that—and in our opinion very rationally too—any conversation with him might bring on another attack, which might possibly be fateful, and then he would be wholly unable to give any evidence whatsoever. But when we come to think of it what more evidence is there to give. This at least perhaps is some clue to the identity of the monster, of whom we have lately heard, but not very much. All papers are teeming with the subject, and indeed we have no more to say; and if we had we might be inclined to be as superstitious as our correspondent F.B. on the subject.’
Evening Paper. Special Edition:
‘Yet another of the atrocious crimes, with which all London has been horrified, has been committed. This time the murderer has actually been caught red-handed.’
‘Truth is certainly stranger than fiction. Here is actually the perpetrator of the atrocious crimes, with which we have been lately horrified, we were almost going to say grown familiar with, captured at last in flagrante delicto. From the last instance we should have expected a furious resistance. This makes the case so strange and incomprehensible. On the contrary there was no resistance whatsoever. The malefactor allows himself to be handcuffed, and led to the police station, without any resistance whatsoever, and for the curiosity of the Public it is well all this took place by night and in a remote place, otherwise he would of course have been lynched. In saying this, perhaps we are speaking somewhat besides the point. The crime was not likely to be committed in broad daylight. The greatest commendation is due to the Police, that they took him through bye-ways instead of main thoroughfares. Certainly, if the prisoner had made any violent resistance a large crowd might have collected.’
Extract from Account in Morning Paper:
‘The Prisoner was actually caught red-handed: and allowed himself to be conducted quite peacefully to the Police Station. But on being spoken to, he did not answer one single word: the theory of the Police is that he is a foreigner and wholly unacquainted with the English language. Interpreters of various nationalities are being looked for.
‘He was dressed as an ordinary artisan with corduroy trousers and a flannel shirt; but according to the statement of the Police, he is of refined gentlemanly appearance; far from repulsive-looking, as might have been expected.’
‘In spite of all interpreters the prisoner refuses to say one single word. He also will not eat. He might be thought to be deaf and dumb, but that is not the case: he obviously can hear; and his dumbness is no doubt voluntary; and he is by no means idiotic. On reaching the Police Station and being placed in the cell he fell at once into a deep sleep which continued not only through the night but the entire day, and all efforts to rouse him were ineffectual. Not until this morning was he heard moving; then by gesticulations he managed to convey the notion that he wanted water. He drank a large draught, and also washed himself as far as he could with great care. One policeman appears to have given him a piece of soap. But all through today he has been absolutely silent. Sometimes sitting down and sometimes walking about. If any policeman comes to him he makes signs that he wants water which he takes in large draughts. Tomorrow he will be brought before the Police Court.’
‘My dear,’ said Lady Esilinda, reading the paper aloud at the breakfast table, as was her custom, ‘How terribly ill you look! What is the matter with you?’
‘Well,’ said Viola, with a sort of smile, ‘You know I am a little nervous now, and I wish you would not read me out these horrid things.’
‘My dear you talk like the commonplace minx. I never knew you pretending to be horrified before; on the contrary I thought—forgive me—that this case might interest you as being something absolutely unique, and I know you like unique things.’
‘Well yes,’ said Viola, ‘but I don't know why this particular case, horrible as it is anyhow, affects me with particular horror. I once dreamt about it. But let's talk about something else.’
‘My dear child,’ said Lady Esilinda, ‘I am sorry. I know you have been dreadfully nervous ever since Vivian behaved so disgracefully to you.’
‘I think,’ said Viola, ‘we had agreed not to speak about Vivian at all. But as you do speak of him, I may say that he did not behave disgracefully.’
Then after a slight pause with a light laugh she said: ‘Well, as you will talk about Vivian I can tell you that I heard from him yesterday.’
‘I didn't see the letter,’ said Lady Esilinda.
‘Well of course you didn't: it arrived before you were up, as we have agreed not to talk about the subject, I did not think it necessary to show it to you. However, it isn't much; it is only saying he was at Marseilles, and intended to go to South America. But really I must see after the dinner. I know Jane will make a literal hash of that timbale, unless I superintend. You know what an awful gourmet Lady Gage is.’
Extract from important Evening Paper:
‘Curiosity has been raised to its highest with regard to the hideous monster almost now familiarly known as the London horror. We fortunately managed to obtain a seat at the Police Court. Very few seats were given, even to members of the press. The populus were entirely excluded in fear of any demonstration on their part. An immense crowd was gathered about the door. And when the prisoner was being brought in as quickly as possible, the prisoner slipped and nearly fell down. Then—and this is the curious part of the case—among the crowd there was a little child with its mother. The child, who could just walk, stretched out its arms towards him, and the mother suddenly seized it, and went quickly away, saying:—“That's the bad bogey man; he'll eat you!”
‘However, to recount our experiences of the Police Court, things were very different from what might have been supposed. Certainly the prisoner's physiognomy did not announce the atrocious and fiendish crimes with which he is charged. On the contrary his expression was kind and caressing. Likewise, he was of refined and gentlemanly appearance. Indeed one might describe him as a person of prepossessing appearance.
‘So this was the hideous monster we expected to see. All eyes were turned upon him. As has been already reported in these columns, he refused to speak a single word. Several interpreters had been engaged. When the Magistrate asked in plain English “What is your name?” he answered in equally plain English, in a refined voice, totally devoid of foreign accent—
‘“I refuse to give my name, and you are unable to compel me.”
‘There was some astonishment to hear him speak thus for the first time. Then after a short pause the Magistrate asked, “Do you plead guilty or not guilty?”—He answered—
‘“Guilty—not only to this crime, but to all those others of a similar nature, of which there has been so much talk. Why should I waste the time of the Court? You have nothing else to do, but commit me for trial. My only plea in defense would be that of insanity: if that is reason against capital punishment. However, I am not here to argue the subject. Let us conclude it as briefly as possible. There is no need of witnesses. I plead guilty and frankly admit my guilt. And as I have said before, I plead insanity as what is called an extenuating circumstance. Now I have said all I have to say, let me be consigned to prison at once. No doubt there are other culprits and litigants who are waiting now to have their causes tried, and I do not see why I should inconvenience them.’
‘All this he said perfectly calmly and this whole notorious case did not last more than twenty minutes.’
Account from The Morning News (leading article):
‘The atrocious criminal known as “the London horror” seems to be behaving himself remarkably well. He appears to be docile and intelligent, and indeed appears to have endeared himself to gaolers and keepers by his charming manners to such an extent that they seem to have overcome all horror, which everyone would naturally feel, to a person who, by his own confession, had been the perpetrator of the hideous crimes, of which we have lately heard only too much.
‘At first it will be remembered that he wouldn't speak any words; and it was supposed he was some foreigner to whom our language was totally unknown. Now he converses affably with everyone, willingly; the gaolers appear to say it is such a treat to have such a well behaved prisoner. The Chaplain reports however, that when he went to make an exhortation, his remarks were almost more than blasphemous. Altogether this person is a problem. Perhaps his plea of insanity represents the truth. But then five experts have examined him, and declared they could find in him no trace of insanity. But then here comes the curious thing. When by the advice of his lawyer, they were asked as a last authority to summon that eminent brain-specialist Sir Joseph Randor, he appears to have shown himself in a way really insane and raved about the room, saying,
‘“No, no, no, I will not see him on any account,” etc.’
The prisoner pleaded insanity. The case was exciting considerable public interest. Sir Joseph Randor was summoned, and indeed summoned rather particularly, because of the Prisoner's peculiar repugnance to seeing him. The lawyer thought—
‘Here he really seems insane: the name seems for some reason to excite him. A sort of a fixed idea, like a red rag to a bull; and after all, Randor knows more about the subject than almost anyone else, just within reach, and I myself believe him to be insane. Otherwise I could not have brought myself to pick up the defence.’
Sir Joseph Randor visited the Prisoner accompanied by the other doctors. He turned pale, (it was strange for a doctor) then said in a low, rather rasping voice—
‘Yes, I believe the Prisoner to be insane.’
‘But,’ said one of the doctors, ‘how can you tell? As you have not submitted him to the slightest test.’
Then he said recovering himself and for the most past splendide mendax—
‘The fact is, gentlemen, the Prisoner has been a patient of mine from a child, so I know he is given to epileptic seizures, and intermittent fits of insanity. I need not say, gentlemen, that I trust your professional honour not to make any inquiry as to the identity of the Prisoner, as it really has no bearing on the case. And—you will understand—it would cause a great deal of trouble, not to say disgrace, for many people who hold very high social position. Let me say that as I am supposed to be an authority in the matter, without conducting a present examination, from previous acquaintance, I have reason to think that the Prisoner is undoubtedly insane.’
‘Well,’ said one doctor, ‘you are the authority in the matter, we must accept your view as final. I think you may rely on my discretion, and that of all my colleagues.’
Returning home, utterly tired—or rather more than that, and throwing himself down into an armchair, he did not at first notice Viola standing in the room.
‘My dear child,’ he said vaguely and feebly, ‘what brings you here? I didn't see you at first. You must excuse me, I am so much upset. You don't know what we doctors have to do. I have just come across an especially painful case in a prison.’
She answered simply and calmly—
‘Yes, I know perfectly well what you have had to do. You have seen him.’
She did not answer, either in the negative or the affirmative, but continued, saying,
‘You have access to the prison, and you must take me there too.’
‘But,’ said the doctor—But Viola continued
‘I know quite well what you are going to say—I might be recognised—I assure you I shall not. I shall borrow one of Anne's old dresses—well, you know how good I was at making myself up at charades, especially that last one where I did the servant-maid. Then we are sufficiently alike that I should pose as his sister. You can say,—well you must have said something of the kind before—I mean that you are not totally unacquainted with the Prisoner, with all your abilities my dear Uncle Joseph, I don't believe you capable of that amount of dissimulation. So you must find some means to bring me as his sister to see him.’
‘It is true,’ said Sir Joseph, ‘that I told the doctors I was previously acquainted with the Prisoner. Of course the gaolers and officials know nothing about this.’
He was so utterly taken aback he spoke feebly and flaccidly.
‘I do not see that that matters,’ she said quite calmly; ‘if the gaolers don't know, all the better; you can easily say, that this was the case of a young man who had come under your treatment,—for—well, let us say—epileptic fits, so that you happened to know who he was. But that you had confided it only to his sister. Oh!’ she said with an impatient gesture, ‘any story will do; one story is as good as another, and you are better at inventing them than I.’
‘But’—said the doctor again, this time trembling.
Terrible, pale and strange as she stood there, she said, gutturally, though softly, very slowly, in monotone, ‘I will go there, and you will take me.’
Sir Joseph Randor called on the Governor of the Prison with a very plausible story.
The Prisoner, he said, he knew to be of very respectable parents; indeed, people who had seen very much better days, but had been overtaken by misfortune. He had known the family. The boy had excited his special interest because he had found him in a hospital with which he was connected, suffering from a peculiar form of epilepsy, and apart from a slight acquaintance with the family, the case was particularly interesting to him as a physician, indeed as a specialist. He could say for certain that the Prisoner was totally irresponsible for his actions, though he might seem sane; was clever and had had a particularly good education for one of his class.
‘You will see,’ he said, ‘what an awful blow this will be to his family. His father and mother would hardly survive it. Punish the murderer by all means, that is, if you think him guilty and not insane. But at least do not make enquiries as to his name; a name which is of no importance to anybody, except to those people who are immediately concerned.’
‘Ah! I see now,’ said the Governor, who was an old acquaintance of the doctor's.
‘But I have one more thing to ask of you. He has an only sister, and she somehow seems to have guessed that her brother must have been the criminal; indeed, I was utterly surprised this morning, when she turned up in my consulting room. She will not say anything but she wants to see her brother. Perhaps she knows more about it than anybody else. Well, I am making so much preamble, what I really want to ask is, will you let me bring the sister here to visit her brother, and see that no report of the visit gets into the papers?’
‘Well’, said the Governor, ‘for an old friend I am quite willing to do that, as I take your word. Besides I myself am entirely against this system of reporting all the doings of prisoners on trial. Why can't they leave them alone? The whole thing seems to me to pander to morbid sensation.’
So Viola was ushered in by Sir Joseph Randor, dressed as a rather superior servant-maid, and ostensibly as the Prisoner's sister. He did not wait for her, but left her there. Indeed it would have looked odd if he had waited. Besides he had an important case to attend.
They sat for some time close together. The gaoler did his best to overhear, but could not, as whatever language they spoke, it was not English. One remark, ‘the trial will be on Monday; of course someone will recognise me there. So it is inevitable.’
The last remark was, ‘You will really bring it,’ and she answered, ‘Yes you may count upon me. Have you ever known me to fail you?’
Going out she turned her most fascinating glance on the gaoler. She saw that he was not in the least taken in, by the idea that she was his sister and a servant-maid. So she thought it more simple to give up the deception at once, and play a bold game.
‘It must be a dreadful thing,’ she said, in her sweetest voice, ‘to be a gaoler. I suppose you have become hardened to it by now. But still—’
‘No ma’am’ replied the gaoler, ‘it isn't nice work at all. We get some pretty rough lots here, who give us a deal of trouble. It isn't everybody who's so nice and well-behaved, as the gentleman there. But, what am I to do? I have got a wife and six children to keep, and I must gain my living somehow.’
‘No,’ she said, laying her hand upon his arm, with a lovely languorous glance, using her eyes with their full power. ‘Supposing you were not a gaoler, what would you like to be?’
‘Well,’ said the gaoler waxing amiable, ‘if you ask me, there's a nice little public house in a very good neighbourhood, quite close to where my wife lives. We could get on fine if we had that, as it's in a very good position, and it's going to be sold for £300, goodwill and all. The man who is proprietor now is a duffer, and does not know how to manage it. With £50, we could get in enough stock to begin with. I always had a fancy for that trade.’
Then she looked at him again, and he said blushing,
‘Really ma’am, it's very good of you to be interested in my concerns. But it doesn't seem very likely that I shall save up as much as that, especially as I've only got as far as £100.’
‘Listen!’ she said, almost solemnly, ‘I am rich. I have plenty of money. I will give you £1,000, and I only want you to do me some slight service in return.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said the gaoler, looking suspicious, then stammering, ‘I've no doubt you can give me the £1,000, but what do you want me to do? Discipline here is very strict. I don't mind so much about getting the sack. But I might get inside instead of outside the cell.’
‘Oh, no,’ she said suavely and softly. ‘It is very little that I ask of you. It is merely this. My brother,’ (she rather accentuated the word as she knew the gaoler had guessed already) ‘will be terribly nervous before his trial on Monday, and I want you to let me spend the night with him—the night before the trial, I mean. See,’ she continued, after a slight pause ‘I could come in quite late, and slip out unobserved early in the morning. Couldn't you manage that?’ she continued, with another languorous glance. ‘I will bring the £1,000 with me, and you shall see that the notes are genuine.’
‘Yes,’ said the gaoler, after a short time for reflection, ‘I think that might be managed.’
Then there was some further talk between them as to the hour and means of ingress.
The Prisoner seemed that night to justify his own plea of insanity. He raved up and down the cell like a wild beast in a cage. He was murmuring to himself.
‘No, of course she can't come, no, of course she can't get it. But then if she couldn't get it, she might have come to say so—it is impossible to do anything now. Still, just to have seen her would have been something, much more than something.’ Then stamping his foot, ‘Of course she won't come.’ Then recovering himself a little, ‘Certainly there is every reason that she should not.’ Then he laughed horribly and paced about the room still more savagely. ‘Oh, but still—’ here in utter exhaustion he threw himself on the plank bed, and burst into a fit of hysterical tears.
He was brought to consciousness by a kiss, and a soft voice said,
‘So you have come, really? Have you brought it? But oh—anything—as long as you have come!’
‘Yes,’ she said, slowly and calmly, ‘I have it with me.’
‘But oh, you are so late!’ he said, becoming hysterical again. ‘You won't be able to stay. Couldn't you stay just one quarter of an hour? Yes, just a quarter of an hour!’
Then with a hysterical laugh he said, with affected calmness,
‘You see it's no wonder I am a trifle nervous. One doesn't commit suicide every day of the week. You want some little encouragement, and also you want to say some last words. People have a sort of right to say some last words before they die. But then, except—Well, perhaps it might be said—Oh!—where is it? Give it to me!’
She answered, stroking his head softly,
‘Do not fear that I shall leave you. I have settled with the gaoler, and I will remain here all night.’
‘Ah!’ he said, laying his head on her bosom.
Then she with her magnetic hands soothed him to sleep. So they remained until the first dawn tried to filter its way through the prison window. ‘Ah, God! That the day should be so soon!’ she said. ‘Wake up, darling, it is time to go.’
‘Ah yes, 'tis indeed time to go!’
‘I shall feel quite chilled and alone in the world of shadows. But I suppose we must come to the practical point of view. It is certainly high time for you to go, and if you go at once, you can slip out unobserved. Indeed, if as you say you squared the gaoler, nobody need know anything about it; or indeed could; so we are alright in that respect.’
All this he said in a hard dry voice then, changing his voice completely, he said,
‘At least, say goodbye. I thought I had much to say to you. But I feel as if I had said it all already.’
‘Did I not say,’ she said, with terrible calmness, ‘that I would not leave you? You shall go to the world of shadows, if chilled, certainly not alone. I am coming with you. Ha!” she continued with almost bacchantic gaiety, ‘I wonder whether we shall be like Paolo and Francesca!’
‘As you say there is no time to be lost. The train starts punctually at 5.14.’
‘Here is a train,’ she said handing him a phial. ‘Perhaps you had better get in first, and I will be in directly.’
‘There is a mark in the middle of the bottle, don't drink further than that. It is more than enough.’
Without a word he swallowed half the contents of the phial.
The effect was instantaneous—one shrill shriek.
The Gaoler, who played the pander and guardian to this strange serenade, hearing the shriek, knocked at the door.
‘Don't come in!’ she cried. ‘He is having one of his usual fits. I can take care of him better than you can because I know.’
The Gaoler had come in, but on hearing this went out again. Then with a convulsive shudder, she said,
‘Oh, Vivian, wait for me one instant. I shall be ready directly.’
Then kissing him on the lips, she said faintly,
And she swallowed the contents of the rest of the phial.
Hearing another shriek, the Gaoler came in again into the cell, this time without announcing himself. He found the two bodies lying clasped together.
An inquest of course was held. Steps were taken to make it as little public as possible, because of the almost morbid popular excitement concerning the Prisoner.
The autopsy showed, what indeed the doctors from other indications unanimously inferred, that death was from an overdose of prussic acid. The chief, or indeed the only witness, was the Gaoler, who excused himself thus, saying,
‘I know I oughtn't to have done it. I was sure from the first it was his young woman and not his sister. And then the young woman carried on so much, I hadn't the heart to refuse her. You wouldn't, if you had been in my place, because she was an awfully pretty young woman, and all she wanted to do was to stay the night there before the trial came on, to soothe him, kind of like,’ he said. ‘I didn't know she meant any harm.’
However, the Gaoler was dismissed. It appears he was not ruined by his dismissal. Indeed, he is now the proprietor of one of the most flourishing public houses in the East End.
The authorities (if we may sum up a great many kinds of people under that one name) decided to give no more publicity than was absolutely necessary to this case, especially as it was at a time when public excitement might be dangerous. So they were buried together without overmuch inquiry, in a common felon's grave.
‘We regret to announce the deplorable accident that has happened to young Lord Vandrake. He was known to be fond of boating, and he appears to have had a fatal boating accident off Buenos Ayres. The boatman appears to have been saved, but he himself was simply washed ashore. Little is known from the evidence of the boatman, as he was very nearly drowned himself, and of course was unable to give a succinct account. The corpse was interred solemnly at Buenos Ayres, the funds being telegraphically supplied by Sir Joseph Randor, a near relative of the deceased.’
‘Oh,’ said Lady Esilinda reading this. Then taking a letter, opening it and reading it, she answered it thus,
‘Dear Lady Gage, it was so kind of you to ask Viola to your party. I quite agree with what you say. After all she has gone through, I don't like to mention the subject of Vivian but I must. She certainly required some distraction. But when I say I agree with you, I am only sorry to say, it is too late to agree with you. As now it is no longer a question of distraction as a cure, but an utter nervous collapse; I have had to send her to the seaside in the care of a hospital nurse, where, as soon as I have arranged things here, I shall join her, and take her abroad, probably to Davos, or some such place. I am sorry to say the case is so bad we shall not be back for some time.
Do break this as mildly as possible to people you meet.
It is not generally known that Madam Euphrasie, the proprietoress of a well known fashionable millinery establishment, bears or bore, in private life, the simple appellation of Anne Smith, and was formally in the service of Lady Esilinda Vargas.