Read CHAPTER XXXIII - THE DEMON WIFE of The American Baron, free online book, by James De Mille, on ReadCentral.com.

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.