When Dacres was overpowered by his
assailants no mercy was shown him. His hands
were bound tight behind him, and kicks and blows were
liberally bestowed during the operation. Finally,
he was pushed and dragged into the house, and up stairs
to the room already mentioned. There he was still
further secured by a tight rope around his ankles,
after which he was left to his own meditations.
Gloomy and bitter and fierce, indeed,
were those meditations. His body was covered
with bruises, and though no bones were broken, yet
his pain was great. In addition to this the cords
around his wrists and ankles were very tight, and
his veins seemed swollen to bursting. It was
difficult to get an easy position, and he could only
lie on his side or on his face. These bodily
pains only intensified the fierceness of his thoughts
and made them turn more vindictively than ever upon
the subject of his wife.
She was the cause of all this, he
thought. She had sacrificed every thing to her
love for her accursed paramour. For this she had
betrayed him, and her friends, and the innocent girl
who was her companion. All the malignant feelings
which had filled his soul through the day now swelled
within him, till he was well-nigh mad. Most intolerable
of all was his position now the baffled
enemy. He had come as the avenger, he had come
as the destroyer; but he had been entrapped before
he had struck his blow, and here he was now lying,
defeated, degraded, and humiliated! No doubt
he would be kept to afford sport to his enemy perhaps
even his wife might come to gloat over his sufferings,
and feast her soul with the sight of his ruin.
Over such thoughts as these he brooded, until at last
he had wrought himself into something like frenzy,
and with the pain that he felt, and the weariness that
followed the fatigues of that day, these thoughts might
finally have brought on madness, had they gone on
without any thing to disturb them.
But all these thoughts and ravings
were destined to come to a full and sudden stop, and
to be changed to others of a far different character.
This change took place when Girasole, after visiting
the ladies, came, with Mrs. Willoughby, to his room.
As Dacres lay on the floor he heard the voice of the
Italian, and the faint, mournful, pleading tones of
a woman’s voice, and, finally, he saw the flash
of a light, and knew that the Italian was coming to
his room, and perhaps this woman also. He held
his breath in suspense. What did it mean?
The tone of Girasole was not the tone of love.
The light drew nearer, and the footsteps too one
a heavy footfall, the tread of a man; the other lighter,
the step of a woman. He waited almost breathless.
At last she appeared. There she
was before him, and with the Italian; but oh, how
changed from that demon woman of his fancies, who was
to appear before him with his enemy and gloat over
his sufferings! Was there a trace of a fiend
in that beautiful and gentle face? Was there
thought of joy or exultation over him in that noble
and mournful lady, whose melancholy grace and tearful
eyes now riveted his gaze? Where was the foul
traitor who had done to death her husband and her friend?
Where was the miscreant who had sacrificed all to a
guilty passion? Not there; not with that face;
not with those tears: to think that was impossible it
was unholy. He might rave when he did not see
her, but now that his eyes beheld her those mad fancies
were all dissipated.
There was only one thing there a
woman full of loveliness and grace, in the very bloom
of her life, overwhelmed with suffering which this
Italian was inflicting on her. Why? Could
he indulge the unholy thought that the Italian had
cast her off, and supplied her place with the younger
beauty? Away with such a thought! It was
not jealousy of that younger lady that Dacres perceived;
it was the cry of a loving, yearning heart that clung
to that other one, from whom the Italian had violently
severed her. There was no mistake as to the source
of this sorrow. Nothing was left to the imagination.
Her own words told all.
Then the light was taken away, and
the lady crouched upon the floor. Dacres could
no longer see her amidst that gloom; but he could hear
her; and every sob, and every sigh, and every moan
went straight to his heart and thrilled through every
fibre of his being. He lay there listening, and
quivering thus as he listened with a very intensity
of sympathy that shut out from his mind every other
thought except that of the mourning, stricken one
before him.
Thus a long time passed, and the lady
wept still, and other sounds arose, and there were
footsteps in the house, and whisperings, and people
passing to and fro; but to all these Dacres was deaf,
and they caused no more impression on his senses than
if they were not. His ears and his sense of hearing
existed only for these sobs and these sighs.
At last a pistol-shot roused him.
The lady sprang up and called in despair. A cry
came back, and the lady was about to venture to the
other room, when she was driven back by the stern voice
of Girasole. Then she stood for a moment, after
which she knelt, and Dacres heard her voice in prayer.
The prayer was not audible, but now and then words
struck upon his ears which gave the key to her other
words, and he knew that it was no prayer of remorse
for guilt, but a cry for help in sore affliction.
Had any thing more been needed to
destroy the last vestige of Dacres’s former
suspicions it was furnished by the words which he now
heard.
“Oh, Heaven!” he thought;
“can this woman be what I have thought her?
But if not, what a villain am I! Yet now I must
rather believe myself to be a villain than her!”
In the midst of this prayer Girasole’s
voice sounded, and then Minnie’s tones came
clearly audible. The lady rose and listened, and
a great sigh of relief escaped her. Then Girasole
descended the stairs, and the lady again sank upon
her knees.
Thus far there seemed a spell upon
Dacres; but this last incident and the clear child-voice
of Minnie seemed to break it. He could no longer
keep silence. His emotion was as intense as ever,
but the bonds which had bound his lips seemed now
to be loosened.
“Oh, Arethusa!” he moaned.
At the sound of his voice Mrs. Willoughby
started, and rose to her feet. So great had been
her anxiety and agitation that for some time she had
not thought of another being in the room, and there
had been no sound from him to suggest his existence.
But now his voice startled her. She gave no answer,
however.
“Arethusa!” repeated Dacres,
gently and longingly and tenderly.
“Poor fellow!” thought
Mrs. Willoughby; “he’s dreaming.”
“Arethusa! oh, Arethusa!”
said Dacres once more. “Do not keep away.
Come to me. I am calm now.”
“Poor fellow!” thought
Mrs. Willoughby. “He doesn’t seem
to be asleep. He’s talking to me.
I really think he is.”
“Arethusa,” said Dacres
again, “will you answer me one question?”
Mrs. Willoughby hesitated for a moment,
but now perceived that Dacres was really speaking
to her. “He’s in delirium,”
she thought. “Poor fellow, I must humor
him, I suppose. But what a funny name to give
me!”
So, after a little preparatory cough,
Mrs. Willoughby said, in a low voice,
“What question?”
Dacres was silent for a few moments.
He was overcome by his emotions. He wished to
ask her one question the question of all
questions in his mind. Already her acts had answered
it sufficiently; but he longed to have the answer
in her own words. Yet he hesitated to ask it.
It was dishonor to her to ask it. And thus, between
longing and hesitation, he delayed so long that Mrs.
Willoughby imagined that he had fallen back into his
dreams or into his delirium, and would say no more.
But at last Dacres staked every thing
on the issue, and asked it:
“Arethusa! oh, Arethusa! do
you do you love the the
Italian?”
“The Italian!” said Mrs.
Willoughby “love the Italian! me!”
and then in a moment she thought that this was his
delirium, and she must humor it. “Poor
fellow!” she sighed again; “how he fought
them! and no doubt he has had fearful blows on his
head.”
“Do you? do you? Oh, answer,
I implore you!” cried Dacres.
“No!” said Mrs. Willoughby,
solemnly. “I hate him as I never hated man
before.” She spoke her mind this time, although
she thought the other was delirious.
A sigh of relief and of happiness
came from Dacres, so deep that it was almost a groan.
“And oh,” he continued,
“tell me this have you ever loved
him at all?”
“I always disliked him excessively,”
said Mrs. Willoughby, in the same low and solemn tone.
“I saw something bad altogether bad in
his face.”
“Oh, may Heaven forever bless
you for that word!” exclaimed Dacres, with such
a depth of fervor that Mrs. Willoughby was surprised.
She now believed that he was intermingling dreams
with realities, and tried to lead him to sense by
reminding him of the truth.
“It was Minnie, you know, that he was fond of.”
“What! Minnie Fay?”
“Yes; oh yes. I never saw any thing of
him.”
“Oh, Heavens!” cried Dacres;
“oh, Heavens, what a fool, beast, villain, and
scoundrel I have been! Oh, how I have misjudged
you! And can you forgive me?
Oh, can you? But no you can not.”
At this appeal Mrs. Willoughby was
startled, and did not know what to say or to do.
How much of this was delirium and how much real she
could not tell. One thing seemed evident to her,
and that was that, whether delirious or not, he took
her for another person. But she was so full of
pity for him, and so very tender-hearted, that her
only idea was to “humor” him.
“Oh,” he cried again,
“can this all be true, and have all my suspicions
been as mad as these last? And you how
you have changed! How beautiful you are!
What tenderness there is in your glance what
a pure and gentle and touching grace there is in your
expression! I swear to you, by Heaven! I
have stood gazing at you in places where you have
not seen me, and thought I saw heaven in your face,
and worshiped you in my inmost soul. This is the
reason why I have followed you. From the time
I saw you when you came into the room at Naples till
this night I could not get rid of your image.
I fought against the feeling, but I can not overcome
it. Never, never were you half so dear as you
are now!”
Now, of course, that was all very
well, considered as the language of an estranged husband
seeking for reconciliation with an estranged wife;
but when one regards it simply as the language of a
passionate lover directed to a young and exceedingly
pretty widow, one will perceive that it was not
all very well, and that under ordinary circumstances
it might create a sensation.
Upon Mrs. Willoughby the sensation
was simply tremendous. She had begun by “humoring”
the delirious man; but now she found his delirium
taking a course which was excessively embarrassing.
The worst of it was, there was truth enough in his
language to increase the embarrassment. She remembered
at once how the mournful face of this man had appeared
before her in different places. Her thoughts
instantly reverted to that evening on the balcony when
his pale face appeared behind the fountain. There
was truth in his words; and her heart beat with extraordinary
agitation at the thought. Yet at the same time
there was some mistake about it all; and he was clearly
delirious.
“Oh, Heavens!” he cried.
“Can you ever forgive me? Is there a possibility
of it? Oh, can you forgive me? Can you can
you?”
He was clearly delirious now.
Her heart was full of pity for him. He was suffering
too. He was bound fast. Could she not release
him? It was terrible for this man to lie there
bound thus. And perhaps he had fallen into the
hands of these ruffians while trying to save her
and her sister. She must free him.
“Would you like to be loosed?”
she asked, coming nearer. “Shall I cut
your bonds?”
She spoke in a low whisper.
“Oh, tell me first, I implore you! Can
you forgive me?”
He spoke in such a piteous tone that her heart was
touched.
“Forgive you?” she said,
in a voice full of sympathy and pity. “There
is nothing for me to forgive.”
“Now may Heaven forever bless
you for that sweet and gentle word!” said Dacres,
who altogether misinterpreted her words, and the emphasis
she placed on them; and in his voice there was such
peace, and such a gentle, exultant happiness, that
Mrs. Willoughby again felt touched.
“Poor fellow!” she thought;
“how he must have suffered!”
“Where are you fastened?”
she whispered, as she bent over him. Dacres felt
her breath upon his cheek; the hem of her garment touched
his sleeve, and a thrill passed through him.
He felt as though he would like to be forever thus,
with her bending over him.
“My hands are fastened behind me,” said
he.
“I have a knife,” said
Mrs. Willoughby. She did not stop to think of
danger. It was chiefly pity that incited her to
this. She could not bear to see him lying thus
in pain, which he had perhaps, as she supposed, encountered
for her. She was impulsive, and though she thought
of his assistance toward the escape of Minnie and herself,
yet pity and compassion were her chief inspiring motives.
Mrs. Willoughby had told Girasole
that she had no knife; but this was not quite true,
for she now produced one, and cut the cords that bound
his wrists. Again a thrill flashed through him
at the touch of her little fingers; she then cut the
cords that bound his ankles.
Dacres sat up. His ankles and
wrists were badly swollen, but he was no longer conscious
of pain. There was rapture in his soul, and of
that alone was he conscious.
“Be careful!” she whispered,
warningly; “guards are all around, and listeners.
Be careful! If you can think of a way of escape,
do so.”
Dacres rubbed his hand over his forehead.
“Am I dreaming?” said
he; “or is it all true? A while ago I was
suffering from some hideous vision; yet now you say
you forgive me!”
Mrs. Willoughby saw in this a sign
of returning delirium. “But the poor fellow
must be humored, I suppose,” she thought.
“Oh, there is nothing for me to forgive,”
said she.
“But if there were any thing, would you?”
“Yes.”
“Freely?” he cried, with a strong emphasis.
“Yes, freely.”
“Oh, could you answer me one more question?
Oh, could you?”
“No, no; not now not
now, I entreat you,” said Mrs. Willoughby, in
nervous dread. She was afraid that his delirium
would bring him upon delicate ground, and she tried
to hold him back.
“But I must ask you,”
said Dacres, trembling fearfully “I
must now or never. Tell me my doom;
I have suffered so much. Oh, Heavens! Answer
me. Can you? Can you feel toward me as you
once did?”
“He’s utterly mad,”
thought Mrs. Willoughby; “but he’ll get
worse if I don’t soothe him. Poor fellow!
I ought to answer him.”
“Yes,” she said, in a low voice.
“Oh, my darling!” murmured
Dacres, in rapture inexpressible; “my darling!”
he repeated; and grasping Mrs. Willoughby’s hand,
he pressed it to his lips. “And you will
love me again you will love me?”
Mrs. Willoughby paused. The man
was mad, but the ground was so dangerous! Yes,
she must humor him. She felt his hot kisses on
her hand.
“You will you
will love me, will you not?” he repeated.
“Oh, answer me! Answer me, or I shall die!”
“Yes,” whispered Mrs. Willoughby, faintly.
As she said this a cold chill passed
through her. But it was too late. Dacres’s
arms were around her. He had drawn her to him,
and pressed her against his breast, and she felt hot
tears upon her head.
“Oh, Arethusa!” cried Dacres.
“Well,” said Mrs. Willoughby,
as soon as she could extricate herself, “there’s
a mistake, you know.”
“A mistake, darling?”
“Oh dear, what shall
I do?” thought Mrs. Willoughby; “he’s
beginning again. I must stop this, and bring
him to his senses. How terrible it is to humor
a delirious man!”
“Oh, Arethusa!” sighed Dacres once more.
Mrs. Willoughby arose.
“I’m not Arethusa at all,”
said she; “that isn’t my name. If
you can shake off your delirium, I wish you
would. I really do.”
“What!” cried Dacres, in amazement.
“I’m not Arethusa at all; that isn’t
my name.”
“Not your name?”
“No; my name’s Kitty.”
“Kitty!” cried Dacres, starting to his
feet.
At that instant the report of a gun
burst upon their ears, followed by another and another;
then there were wild calls and loud shouts. Other
guns were heard.
Yet amidst all this wild alarm there
was nothing which had so tremendous an effect upon
Dacres as this last remark of Mrs. Willoughby’s.