Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  She. Not more. That is impossible. (Sub-answer.)

  He and She. Then we love each other very much. (A due voci.)

  She. Yes. But I am not sure that you can love me as much as I do you. (Stretto.) Etc., etc., etc.

  By using these simple themes you may easily write a series of conversations in at least twenty-four keys, on the principle of Bach’s Wohltemperirtes Klavier, but your fugues must be composed for two voices only, unless you are very clever. A third voice increases the difficulty, a fourth causes a high degree of complication, five voices are distracting, and six impossible.

  It is certain that when Paul and Hermione returned from their walk they had arranged matters to their own satisfaction, or had at least settled the preliminaries. I think every one noticed the change in their manner. Hermione was radiant, and talked better than I had ever heard her talk before. Paul was quiet, even taciturn, but his silence was evidently not due to bad temper. His expression was serene and happy, and the cold look seemed to have left his face forever. His peace of mind, however, was destined to be short-lived.

  Chrysophrasia and Professor Cutter watched the couple with extreme interest when they appeared at tea, and each arrived at the same conclusion. They had probably expected for a long time what had now occurred, and, as they were eagerly looking for some evidence that their convictions were well founded, they did not overlook the sudden change of manner which succeeded the walk in the park. They did not communicate their suspicions to each other, however. Chrysophrasia had protested again and again to Mary Carvel and to John that things were going too far. But Paul was a favorite with the Carvels, and they refused to see anything in his conduct which could be interpreted to mean love for Hermione. Chrysophrasia resolved at once to throw a bomb into the camp, and to enjoy the effect of the explosion.

  Cutter’s position was more delicate. He was very fond of John, and was, moreover, his guest. It was not his business to criticise what occurred in the house. He was profoundly interested in Madame Patoff, but he did not like Paul. Indeed, in his inmost heart he had never settled the question of Alexander’s disappearance from the world, and in his opinion Paul Patoff was a man accused of murder, who had not sufficiently established his innocence. In his desire to be wholly unprejudiced in judging mankind and their mental aberrations, he did not allow that the social position of the individual was in itself a guaranty against committing any crime whatever. On the contrary, he had found reason to believe, from his own experience, that people belonging to the higher classes have generally a much keener appreciation of the construction which will be put upon their smallest actions, and are therefore far more ingenious in concealing their evil deeds than the common ruffian could possibly be. John Carvel would have said that it was impossible that a gentleman should murder his brother. Professor Cutter said it was not only possible, but, under certain circumstances, very probable. It must also be remembered that he had got most of his information concerning Paul from Madame Patoff and from Alexander, who both detested him, in the two summers when he had met the mother and son at Wiesbaden. His idea of Paul’s character had therefore received a bias from the first, and was to a great extent unjust. Conceiving it possible that Patoff might be responsible for his brother’s death, he therefore regarded the prospect of Paul’s marriage with Hermione with the strongest aversion, though he could not make up his mind to speak to John Carvel on the subject. He had told the whole story to him eighteen months earlier, when he had brought home Madame Patoff; and he had told it without ornament, leaving John to judge for himself. But at that time there had been no prospect whatever of Paul’s coming to Carvel Place. Cutter might easily have turned his story in such a way as to make Paul look guilty, or at least so as to cast a slight upon his character. But he had given the plain facts as they occurred. John had said the thing was absurd, and a great injustice to the young man; and he had, moreover, told his wife and sister, as well as Cutter, that Hermione was never to know anything of the story. It was not right, he said, that the young girl should ever know that any member of the family had even been suspected of such a crime. She should grow up in ignorance of it, and it was not untruthful to say that Madame Patoff’s insanity had been caused by Alexander’s death.

  But now Cutter regretted that he had not put the matter in a stronger light from the first, giving John to understand that Paul had never really cleared himself of the imputation. The professor did not know what to do, and would very likely have done nothing at all, had Miss Dabstreak not fired the mine. He had, indeed, endeavored to stop the progress of the attachment, but, in attempting always to intervene as a third person in their conversations, he had roused Paul’s obstinacy instead of interrupting his love-making. And Paul was a very obstinate man.

  As we sat at dinner that evening, the conversation turned upon general topics. Chrysophrasia sat opposite to Paul, as usual, and her green eyes watched him with interest for some time. As luck would have it, our talk approached the subject of crime in general, and John Carvel asked me some question about the average number of murders in India, taking ten years together, as compared with the number committed in Europe. While I was hesitating and trying to recollect some figures I had once known, Chrysophrasia rushed into the conversation in her usual wild way.

  “I think murders are so extremely interesting,” said she to Patoff. “I always wonder what it must be like to commit one, don’t you?”

  “No,” said Paul, quietly. “I confess that I do not generally devote much thought to the matter. Murder is not a particularly pleasant subject for contemplation.”

  “Oh, do you think so?” answered Chrysophrasia. “Of course not pleasant, no, but so very interesting. I read such a delightfully thrilling account this morning of a man who killed his own brother, — quite like Cain.”

  Paul made no answer, and continued to eat his dinner in silence. Though at that time I knew nothing of his story, I remember noticing how Professor Cutter slowly turned his face towards Patoff, and the peculiar expression of his gray eyes as I saw them through the gold-rimmed spectacles. Then he looked at John Carvel, who grew very red in the pause which followed. Mrs. Carvel looked down at her plate, and her features showed that her sister’s remark had given her some pain; for she was quite incapable of concealing her slightest emotions, like many extremely truthful and sensitive people. But Chrysophrasia had launched herself, and was not to be silenced by an awkward pause. Not understanding the situation in the least, I nevertheless tried to relieve the unpleasantness by answering her.

  “I think it is a great mistake that the newspapers should publish the horrible details of every crime committed,” I said. “It is bad for the public morals, and worse for the public taste.”

  “Really, we must be allowed some emotion,” answered Chrysophrasia. “It is so very thrilling to read about such cases. Now I can quite well imagine what it must be like to kill somebody, and then to hear every one saying to me, ‘Where is thy brother?’ Poor Cain! He must have had the most deliciously complicated feelings!”

  She fixed her green eyes on Paul so intently as she spoke that I looked at him, too, and was surprised to see that he was very pale. He said nothing, however, but he looked up and returned her gaze. His cold blue eyes glittered disagreeably. At that moment, John Carvel, who was redder than ever, addressed me in loud tones. I thought his voice had an artificial ring in it as he spoke.

  “Well, Griggs,” he cried, “without going into the question of Cain and Abel, can you tell me anything about the figures?”

  I said something. I gave some approximate account, and, speaking loudly, I ran on readily with a long string of statistics, most of them, I grieve to say, manufactured on the spur of the moment. But I knew that Carvel was not listening, and did not care what I said. Hermione was watching Paul with evident concern; Mrs. Carvel and Macaulay at once affected the greatest interest in what I was saying, while Professor Cutter looked at Chrysophrasia, as though trying to attract her attention.

/>   “What a wonderful memory you have, Mr. Griggs!” said Macaulay Carvel, in sincere admiration.

  “Oh, not at all,” I answered, with perfect truth. “Statistics of that kind are very easily got.”

  By this time the awkwardness had disappeared, and by dint of talking very loud and saying a great many things which meant very little, John and I succeeded in making the remainder of the dinner pass off very well. But every one seemed to be afraid of Chrysophrasia, and when, once or twice, she was on the point of making a remark, there was a general attempt made to prevent her from leading the conversation. As soon as dinner was over we scattered in all directions, like a flock of sheep. Chrysophrasia retired to her room. John Carvel went to the library, whither his wife followed him in a few minutes. Macaulay, Patoff, and I went to the smoking-room, contrary to all precedent; but as Macaulay led the way, we followed with delight. The result of this general separation was that Hermione and Professor Cutter were left alone in the drawing-room.

  “I want to ask you a question,” said the young girl, as they stood before the great fireplace.

  “Yes,” answered the scientist, anticipating trouble. “I am at your service.”

  “Why did Paul turn so pale when aunt Chrysophrasia talked about Cain at dinner, and why did everybody feel so uncomfortable?”

  “It is not surprising. But I cannot tell you the story.”

  “You must,” said Hermione, growing pale, and laying her hand upon his arm. “I must know. I insist that you shall tell me.”

  “If I tell you, will you promise not to blame me here-after?” asked Cutter.

  “Certainly, — of course. Please go on.”

  “Do not be shocked. There is no truth in the story, I fancy. When Alexander Patoff was lost on a dark night in Constantinople, the world said that Paul had made away with him. That is all.”

  Hermione did not scream nor faint, as Cutter had expected. The blood rushed to her face, and then sank again as suddenly. She steadied herself with one hand on the chimney-piece before she answered.

  “What a horrible, infamous lie!” she exclaimed in low tones.

  “You insisted upon knowing it, Miss Carvel,” said the professor quietly. “You must not blame me for telling you. After all, it was as well that you should know it.”

  “Yes — it was as well.” She turned away, and with bent head left the room. So it came about that both Chrysophrasia and Cutter on the same evening struck a blow at the new-found happiness of the cousins, raising between them, as it were, the spectre of the lost man.

  After what had occurred in the afternoon, Paul had intended to seek a formal interview with John Carvel. He had no intention of keeping his engagement a secret, and indeed he already felt that, according to his European notions, he had done wrong in declaring his love to Hermione before asking her father’s consent. It had been an accident, and he regretted it. But after the scene at the dinner-table, he felt that he must see Hermione again before going to her father. Chrysophrasia’s remarks had been so evidently directed against him that he had betrayed himself, and he knew that Hermione had noticed his expression, as well as the momentary stupefaction which had chilled the whole party. He had no idea whether Hermione had ever heard his story or not. She had of course never referred to it, and he thought it was now his duty to speak to her, to ascertain the extent of her information, and, if necessary, to tell her all the circumstances; honestly avowing that, although he had never been accused openly of his brother’s death except by his mother, he knew that many persons had suspected him of having been voluntarily concerned in it. He would state the case plainly, and she might then decide upon her own course. But the question, “Where is your brother?” had been asked again, and he was deeply wounded, — far more deeply than he would acknowledge to himself. As we three sat together in the smoking-room, keeping up a dry, strained conversation, the old expression returned to his face, and I watched him with a kind of regret as I saw the cold, defiant look harden again, where lately there had been nothing but gentleness.

  Hermione left the drawing-room, and glided through the hall towards the passage which led to Madame Patoff’s rooms. She had formed a desperate resolution, — one of those which must be carried out quickly, or not at all. Mrs. North, the nurse, opened the door at the end of the corridor, and admitted the young girl.

  “Can I see my aunt?” asked Hermione, trying to control her voice.

  “Has anything happened, Miss Carvel?” inquired Mrs. North, scrutinizing her features and noticing her paleness.

  “No — yes, dear Mrs. North, something has happened. I want to see aunt Annie,” answered Hermione. “Do let me go in!”

  The nurse did not suppose that anything Hermione could say would rouse Madame Patoff from her habitual apathy. After a moment’s hesitation, she nodded, and opened the door into the sitting-room. Hermione passed her in silence, and entered, closing the door behind her. Her aunt sat as usual in a deep chair near the fire, beneath the brilliant light, the rich folds of her sweeping gown gathered around her, her face pale and calm, holding a book upon her knee. She did not look up as the young girl came in, but an uneasy expression passed over her features. Hermione had never believed that Madame Patoff was mad, in spite of Professor Cutter’s assurances to the contrary. On this occasion she resolved to speak as though her aunt were perfectly sane.

  “Dear aunt Annie,” she began, sitting down beside the deep chair, and laying her hand on Madame Patoff’s apathetic fingers,— “dear aunt Annie, I have something to tell you, and I am sure you will listen to me.”

  “Yes,” answered the lady, in her mechanical voice.

  “Aunt Annie, Paul is still here. I love him, and we are going to be married.”

  “No,” said Madame Patoff, in the same tone as before. Hermione’s heart sank, for her aunt did not seem to understand in the least. But before she could speak again, a curious change seemed to come over the invalid’s face. The features were drawn into an expression of pain, such as Hermione had never seen there before, the lip trembled hysterically, the blood rushed to her face, and Madame Patoff suddenly broke into a fit of violent weeping. The tears streamed down her cheeks, bursting between her fingers as she covered her eyes. She sobbed as though her heart would break, rocking herself backwards and forwards in her chair. Hermione was frightened, and rose to call Mrs. North; but to her extreme surprise her aunt put out her hand, all wet with tears, and held her back.

  “No, no,” she moaned; “let me cry.”

  For several minutes nothing was heard in the room but her passionate sobs. It seemed as though they would never stop, and again Hermione would have called the nurse, but again Madame Patoff prevented her.

  “Aunt Annie, — dear aunt Annie!” said the young girl, trying to soothe her, and laying her hand upon the thick gray hair. “What is the matter? Can I do nothing? I cannot bear to see you cry like this!”

  Gradually the hysteric emotion spent itself, and Madame Patoff grew more calm. Then she spoke, and, to Hermione’s amazement, she spoke connectedly.

  “Hermione, you must not betray my secret, — you will not betray me? Swear that you will not, my child!” She was evidently suffering some great emotion.

  “Aunt Annie,” said Hermione in the greatest excitement, “you are not mad! I always said you were not!”

  Madame Patoff shook her head sorrowfully.

  “No, child, I am not mad, — I never was. I am only unhappy. I let them think so, because I am so miserable, and I can live alone, and perhaps die very soon. But you have found me out.”

  Again it seemed as though she would burst into tears. Hermione hastened to reassure her, not knowing what she said, in the anxiety of the moment.

  “You are safe with me, aunt Annie. I will not tell. But why, why have you deceived them all so long, a year and a half, — why?”

  “I am the most wretched woman alive,” moaned Madame Patoff. Then, looking suddenly into Hermione’s eyes, she spoke in low, distinct tones.
“You cannot marry Paul, Hermione. You must never think of it again. You must promise me never to think of it.”

  “I will not promise that,” answered the young girl, summoning all her courage. “It is not true that he killed his brother. You never believed it, — nobody ever believed it!”

  “It is true — true — truer than anything else can be!” exclaimed Madame Patoff, lowering her voice to a strong, clear whisper.

  “No,” said Hermione. “You are wrong, aunt Annie; it is an abominable lie.”

  “I tell you I know it is true,” retorted her aunt, still whispering, but emphasizing every word with the greatest decision. “If you do not believe it, go to him and say, ‘Paul, where is your brother?’ and you will see how he will look.”

  “I will. I will ask him, and I will tell you what he says.”

  “He murdered him, Hermione,” continued Madame Patoff, not heeding the interruption. “He murdered him in Constantinople, — he and a Turkish soldier whom he hired. And now he has come here to marry you. He thinks I am mad — he is the worst man that ever lived. You must never see him again. There is blood on his hands — blood, do you hear? Rather than that you should love him, I will tell them all that I am a sane woman. I will confess that I have imposed upon them in order to be alone, to die in peace, or, while I live to mourn for my poor murdered boy, — the boy I loved. Oh how I loved him!”

  This time her tears could not be controlled, and at the thought of Alexander she sobbed again, as she had sobbed before. Hermione was too much astonished and altogether thrown off her mental balance to know what to do. Her amazement at discovering that her aunt had for more than a year imposed upon Professor Cutter and upon the whole household was almost obliterated in the horror inspired by Madame Patoff’s words. There was a conviction in her way of speaking which terrified Hermione, and for a moment she was completely unnerved.

  Meanwhile, Madame Patoff’s tears ceased again. In the strange deception she had practiced upon all around her for so long, she had acquired an extraordinary command of her features and voice. It was only Hermione’s discovery which had thrown her off her guard, and once feeling that the girl knew her secret, she had perhaps enjoyed the luxury of tears and of expressed emotion. But this stage being past, she regained her self-control. She had meditated so long on the death of her eldest son that the mention of his name had ceased to affect her, and though she had been betrayed into recognizing Paul, she had cleverly resumed her play of apathetic indifference so soon as he had left her. Had Hermione known of the early stages which had led to her present state, she would have asked herself how Madame Patoff could have suddenly begun to act her part so well as to deceive even Professor Cutter from the first. But Hermione knew nothing of all those details. She only realized that her aunt was a perfectly sane woman, and that she had fully confirmed the fearful accusation against Paul.