by Hugh Conway
‘Dr Ceneri told me,’ I said, impressed in spite of myself by the correct way in which he marshalled his facts.
‘Yes, it was spent for Italy. It paid for the keep of many a red-shirt, armed many a true Italian. All our fortune was spent by the trustee. I have never blamed him. When I knew where it had gone I freely forgave him.’
‘Let us say no more about it, then.’
‘I don’t quite look upon it in that light. Victor Emmanuel’s government is now firmly established. Italy is free and will grow richer every year. Now, Mr Vaughan, my idea is this: I believe, if the facts of the case were laid before the king, something might be done. I believe, if I, and you on behalf of your wife, were to make it known that Ceneri’s appropriation of our fortunes for patriotic purposes had left us penniless, a large portion of the money, if not all, would be freely returned to us. You must have friends in England who would assist you in gaining the ear of King Victor. I have friends in Italy. Garibaldi, for instance, would vouch for the amount paid into his hands by Dr Ceneri.’
His tale was plausible, and, after all, his scheme was not altogether visionary.
I was beginning to think he might really be my wife’s brother, and that Ceneri had, for some purpose of his own, concealed the relationship.
‘But I have plenty of money,’ I said.
‘But I have not,’ he replied with a frank laugh. ‘I think you ought for the sake of your wife to join me in the matter.’
‘I must take time to consider it.’
‘Certainly—I am in no hurry. I will in the meantime get my papers and petition in order. And now may I see my sister?’
‘She will be in very shortly if you will wait.’
‘Is she better, Mr Vaughan?’
I shook my head sadly.
‘Poor girl! then I fear she will not recognize me. We have spent very few days together since we were children. I am, of course, much her senior; and from the age of eighteen have been plotting and fighting. Domestic ties are forgotten under such circumstances.’
I was still far from putting any faith in the man; besides, there were his words on a former occasion to be accounted for.
‘Mr Macari,’ I said.
‘Excuse me—March is my name.’
‘Then, Mr March, I must ask you now to tell me the particulars of the shock which deprived my wife of her full reason.’
His face grew grave. ‘I cannot now. Some day I will do so.’
‘You will then, at least, explain your words when we parted at Geneva?’
‘I will ask pardon for them and apologize, as I know I spoke hastily and thoughtlessly—but having forgotten, I am, of course, unable to explain them.’
I said nothing, feeling uncertain whether he was playing a deep game with me or not.
‘I know,’ he continued, ‘that I was furious at hearing of Pauline’s marriage. In her state of health Ceneri should never have allowed it—and then, Mr Vaughan, I had set my heart upon her marrying an Italian. Had she recovered, my dream was that her beauty would win her a husband of the highest rank.’
Any reply I should have made was prevented by the entrance of Pauline. I was intensely anxious to see what effect the appearance of her so-called brother would have upon her.
Macari rose and stepped toward her. ‘Pauline,’ he said, ‘do you remember me?’
She looked at him with eyes full of curious wonder, but shook her head as one in doubt. He took her hand. I noticed that she seemed to shrink from him instinctively.
‘Poor girl, poor girl!’ he said. ‘This is worse than I expected, Mr Vaughan. Pauline, it is long since we have met, but you cannot have forgotten me!’
Her large troubled eyes were riveted on his face; but she made no sign of recognition.
‘Try and think who it is, Pauline,’ I said.
She passed her hand across her forehead, then once more shook her head. ‘Non me ricordo,’ she murmured; then, as if the mental effort had exhausted her, sank, with a weary sigh, upon a chair.
I was delighted to hear her speak in Italian. It was a tongue she seldom used unless compelled to do so. That she employed it now showed me she must, in some dim way, connect the visitor with Italy. It was to me a new gleam of hope.
There was another thing I noticed. I have said how seldom it was that Pauline raised her eyes to anyone’s face; but today, during the whole time Macari was in the room, she never looked away from him. He sat near her, and after a few more words to her, he addressed his remarks exclusively to me. All the while I could see my wife watching him with an eager, troubled look; several times, indeed, I almost persuaded myself that there was an expression of fear in her eyes. Let them express fear, hate, trouble, even love, so long as I could see the dawn of returning reason in them! I began to think that if Pauline was to be restored, it would be through my visitor.
So when he took his leave I pressed him, with no assumed manner, to call again very soon—tomorrow, if possible. He readily promised to do so, and we parted for the day.
I can only hope he was as satisfied with the result of our interview as I was.
After his departure Pauline fell into a restless state. Several times I saw her pressing her hand to her forehead. She seemed unable to sit still. Now and again she went to the window and looked up and down the street. I paid no attention to her actions, although once or twice I saw her turn her eyes toward me with a piteous, imploring glance. I believed that something—some old memory in connection with Macari—was striving to force itself to her clouded brain, and I looked forward with impatience to tomorrow, when he would pay us another visit. The man had something to get out of me, so I felt certain I should see him again.
He came the next day, and the next, and many other days. It was clear he was determined to ingratiate me, if possible. He did all he could to make himself agreeable, and I must say he was, under the present circumstances, very good company. He knew, or professed to know, all the ins and outs of every plot or political event of the last ten years, and was full of original anecdotes and stirring experiences. He had fought under Garibaldi through the whole of the Italian campaign. He had known the interior of prisons, and some of his escapes from death had been marvellous. I had no reason to doubt the truth of his tales, although I mistrusted the man himself. Let his smile be as pleasant as he could make it—let his laugh ring out naturally—I could not forget the expression I had seen on that face, or his manner and words on former occasions.
I took care that Pauline should always be with us It was the only wish of mine the poor child had ever shown even a mute disinclination to comply with. She never spoke in Macari’s presence, but her eyes were scarcely ever turned from him. He seemed to have a kind of fascination for her. When he entered the room I could hear her sigh, and when he left it she breathed a breath of relief; and every day she grew more restless, uneasy, and, I knew, unhappy. My heart smote me as I guessed I was causing her pain; but, at all cost, I determined to persevere. I felt that the crisis of her life was fast drawing near.
One evening, after dinner, as Macari and I sat over our claret, and Pauline, with her troubled eyes fixed as usual on my guest, was reclining on the sofa a little way off, he began to relate some of his military adventures. How once, when in imminent peril—his right arm broken and useless at his side, his left arm not strong enough to wield the rifle with the bayonet fixed—he had taken the bayonet off, and holding it in his left hand, had driven it through the heart of an antagonist. As he described the deed, he suited the gesture to the word, and seizing a knife which lay on the table, dealt a downward blow through the air at an imaginary white-coated Austrian.
I heard a deep sigh behind me, and, turning, I saw Pauline lying with her eyes closed, and apparently in a dead faint. I ran to her, raised her up, and carrying her to her room, laid her on her bed. It was now about nine o’clock. Priscilla happened to be out, so I ran back to the dining-room and bade Macari a hasty good night.
‘I hope there is not
much the matter,’ he said.
‘No; only a fainting fit. Your fierce gesture must have frightened her.’
Then I returned to my wife’s bedside, and began the usual course of restoratives. Yet without success. White as a statue she lay there, her soft breathing and the faint throb of her pulse only telling that she was alive. She lay there without sense or motion, while I chafed her hands, bathed her brow, and endeavoured to recall her to life. Even whilst doing so my heart was beating wildly. I felt that the moment had come; that something had brought back the past to her, and that the fierce rush with which it came had overpowered her. I could scarcely dare to put my wild belief into words, but it was that when Pauline again opened her eyes they would shine with light which I had never known in them—the light of perfectly restored intelligence. A wild, mad idea, but one I had the fullest faith in.
So it was that I did not send for a doctor; that after a while I gave up my own attempts to awaken consciousness; that I resolved to let her lie in that calm, senseless state until she awoke of her own accord. I took her wrist between my fingers, that I might feel every beat of her pulse. I laid my cheek against hers, that I might catch the sound of every breath—and thus I waited until Pauline should awake, and, as I fondly believed, awake in her right mind.
She remained in this state for at least an hour. So long that at last I began to get frightened, and think I must, after all, send for medical aid. Just as I was forming the resolution to do so, I noticed the beats of her pulse grow stronger and more rapid; I felt her breath drawn deeper; I saw a look of returning life steal over her face; and, in breathless impatience, I waited.
And then Pauline—my wife—came back to life. She rose in the bed and turned her face to mine; and in her eves I saw what, by the mercy of God, I shall never again see there!
CHAPTER VIII
CALLED BACK
I WRITE this chapter with great reluctance. If I could make my tale connected and complete without it, I should prefer to say nothing about the events it records. If some of my experiences have been strange ones, all save these can be explained; but these never will, never can be explained to my satisfaction.
Pauline awoke, and, as I saw her eyes, I shuddered as if a freezing wind had passed over me. It was not madness I saw in them, neither was it sense. They were dilated to the utmost extent; they were fixed and immovable, yet I knew they saw absolutely nothing; that their nerves conveyed no impression to the brain. All my wild hopes that reason would return at the expiration of her fainting fit, were at an end. It was clear that she had passed into a state far more pitiable than her former one.
I spoke to her; called her by name; but she took no notice of my words. She seemed to be unaware of my presence. She looked ever, with strange fixed eyes, in one direction.
Suddenly she rose, and, before I could interpose to prevent her, passed out of the room. I followed her. She went swiftly down the stairs, and I saw she was making for the front door. Her hand was on the latch when I came up to her and again called her by name; entreating, even commanding her to return. No sound of my voice seemed to reach her ears. In her critical state, for so I felt it to be, I shrank from restraining her by force, thinking it would be better to leave her free to go as she listed; of course accompanying her to guard her against evil.
I caught up my hat and a large cloak, both of which were hanging in the hall; the latter I wrapped around her as she walked, and managed to draw the hood over her head. She made no resistance to this, but she let me do it without a word to show that she noticed the action. Then, with me at her side, she walked straight on.
She went at a swift but uniform pace, as one who had a certain destination in view. She turned her eyes neither to the left nor right—neither up nor down. Not once during that walk did I see them move, not once did I see an eyelid quiver. Although my sleeve was touching hers, I am certain she had no thought or knowledge of my presence.
I made no further attempt to check her progress. She was not wandering about in an aimless manner. Something, I knew not what, was guiding or impelling her steps to some set purpose. Something in her disordered brain was urging her to reach some spot as quickly as possible. I dreaded the consequences of restraining her from so doing. Even if it was but an exaggerated case of sleep-walking it would be unwise to wake her. Far better to follow her until the fit ended.
She passed out of Walpole Street, and, without a moment’s hesitation, turned at right angles and went along the straight broad road. Along this road for more than half a mile she led me, then, turning sharply round, walked half-way through another street, then she stopped before a house.
An ordinary three-storey house of the usual London type. A house differing very little from my own and thousands of others, except that, by the light of the street lamp, I could see it looked ill-cared for and neglected. The window panes were dusty, and in one of them was a bill stating that this desirable residence was to let, furnished.
I marvelled as to what strange freak of mind could have led Pauline to this untenanted house. Had anyone she had known in former days lived here? If so, it was, perhaps, a hopeful sign that some awakened memory had induced her to direct her unwitting steps to a place associated with her earlier days. Very anxious, and even much excited, I waited to see what course she would now take.
She went straight up to the door and laid her hand upon it, as though she expected it would yield to her touch. Then, for the first time, she seemed to hesitate and grow troubled.
‘Pauline, dearest,’ I said, ‘let us go back now. It is dark, and too late to go in there tonight. Tomorrow, if you like, we will come again.’
She answered not. She stood before that door with her hand pressing against it. I took her arm, and tried gently to lead her away. She resisted with a passive strength I should not have believed she possessed. Whatever was the dimly conceived object in my poor wife’s brain, it was plain to me it could only be attained by passing through that door.
I was quite willing to humour her. Having come so far, I feared to retreat. To cross her wishes in the present state of things I felt might be fatal. But how could we gain entrance?
There was no gleam of light upstairs or downstairs. As you looked at the house you knew intuitively it was uninhabited. The agent whose name appeared on the bill carried on business a mile away, and, even if I had ventured to leave Pauline and go in search of him, at this time of night my expedition would be fruitless.
As I cast around, wondering what was the best thing to do—whether to fetch a cab and carry my poor girl into it, or whether to let her wait here until she recognized the impossibility of entering the house and, at last growing weary, choose to return home of her own accord—as I debated these alternatives a sudden thought struck me. Once before my latchkey had opened a strange door, it was within the bounds of possibility it might do so again. I knew that uninhabited houses are often, from carelessness or convenience, left with doors only latched. It was an absurd idea, but, after all, there was no harm in trying. I drew out my key, a duplicate of that used on another occasion. I placed it in the keyhole without a hope of success, and, as I felt the lock turn and saw the door yield, a thrill of something like horror ran through me, for now that it had come to pass I knew this thing could be no mere coincidence.
As the door opened, Pauline, without a word, without a gesture of surprise, without anything that showed she was more aware of my presence than before, passed me and entered first. I followed her, and, closing the door behind me, found myself in perfect darkness. I heard her light quick step in front of me; I heard her ascending the stairs; I heard a door open, and then, and only then, I summoned up presence of mind enough to force my limbs to bear me in pursuit—and my blood seemed to be iced water, my flesh was creeping, my hair was bristling up, as, still in darkness, I crossed the hall and found the staircase without difficulty.
Why should I not find it, dark, pitch dark as it was? I knew the road to it well! Once before I had reached
it in darkness, and many times besides, in dreams, had I crossed that space! Like a sudden revelation the truth came to me. It came to me as the key turned in the lock. I was in that very house into which I had strayed three years ago. I was crossing the very hall, ascending the same stairs, and should stand in the identical room which had been the scene of that terrible unexpiated crime. I should see with restored sight the spot where, blind and helpless, I had nearly fallen a victim to my rashness. But Pauline, what brought her here?
Yes, as I expected! As, in fact, I felt certain! The stairs the same and the lintel of the door in the exact place it should be. I might be reacting the events of that fearful night, complete even to the darkness. For a moment I wondered whether the last three years were not the dream; whether I was not blind now; whether there was such a being as my wife? But I threw the fancy aside.
Where was Pauline? Recalled to myself, I realized the necessity of light. Drawing my match-box from my pocket I struck a Vesta, and by its light I entered the room which once before I had entered with little hope of ever leaving.
My first thought, my first glance, was for Pauline. She was there, standing erect in the apartment, with both hands pressed to her brow. The expression of her face and eyes was little changed; it was easy to see she comprehended nothing as yet. But I felt that something was struggling within her, and I dreaded the moment when it should take coherence and form. I dreaded it for her and I dreaded it for myself. What awful passages would it reveal to me?
The wax light burnt down to my fingers, and I was compelled to drop it. I struck another, then looked about for some means of making the illumination sustained. To my great joy I found a half-burnt candle in a candlestick on the mantelpiece. I blew the thick dust out of the cup formed by the melted wax at the bottom of the wick, and after a little spluttering and resistance, managed to induce it to remain lighted.
Pauline stood always in the same attitude, but I fancied her breath was quickening. Her fingers were playing convulsively round her temples, fidgeting and pushing her thick hair back, striving, it seemed to me, to conjure thought to return to that empty shrine. I could do nothing but wait; and while I waited I glanced around me.