Short Fiction · Part I (8/13) (2/2)

At this juncture Mistrial’s aunt assisted at the funeral of a sister spinster, sat in a draught, caught cold in her throat, and, the glottis enlarging, strangled one night in her bed. By her will the St. Nicholas Hospital received the bulk of her property. The rest of her estate was divided among relatives; to her nephew Roland Mistrial⁠—3rd no longer⁠—was bequeathed the princely sum of ten thousand dollars in cash. At the news of this munificence Roland swore and grit his teeth. Had his circumstances been different it is probable that the ten thousand, together with some enduring insult, he would have flung after her to the eternal purgatory where he prayed she had gone. As it was, the modicity of the bequest sobered him. Through some impalpable logic he had counted but little on any inheritance at all; he had indeed hoped vaguely that she might die and leave him what she had; and it may even be that, had he learned that her will was in his favor, and had a suitable opportunity presented itself, in some perfectly decorous manner he would have hastened his aunt’s demise. But concerning her will he had no information; moreover, during his visit to the States the old lady saw as little of him as she could help; and when she did see him, in spite of gout and the ailments of advancing years there was such a rigidity in her manner that the nephew told himself she might live long enough to see him hanged. As a consequence he had expected nothing. But when the news of her death reached him, together with the intelligence that instead of the competence he might possibly have had he was mentioned merely to the tune of ten thousand dollars⁠—this outrage, in conjunction with Dunellen’s relentlessness, sobered him to that degree, that for a day and a night he gave himself to a debauch of thought. From this orgy he issued with clearer mind. It may be⁠—though the idea advanced is one that can only be hazarded⁠—it may be that had his aunt disposed of her estate in his favor he would there and then have washed his hands of the job he had undertaken, and left his wife to her own devices. As it was, he saw that, to keep his head above water, the only possible plank was one that Mr. Dunellen might send in his reach; and it was with the knowledge that before the present scanty windfall disappeared some conquest of Honest Paul’s affection should be attempted that he determined to return to New York. Once there again, who knew what might happen? Surely, if the preceding year Mr. Dunellen had strength for violence, to the naked eye he was even then manifestly infirm. There was no gainsaying the matter⁠—he at least would not live very long. As to the disposition of his property after death Mistrial was still assured. Whatever his attitude might be for the present, in the end he could not wholly disinherit Justine⁠—at least one-half the property must come to her. On that fact Mistrial would have staked his life; after all, it was the one hope he had left; and an ultimate hope, we all know, is the thing we part with last.

Thereupon he recovered himself. He became amiable and considerate⁠—a change of demeanor which gave Justine a chill. She consented nevertheless to the return trip, and the day after arriving called at her father’s house. When she got back to the hotel where they had put up Mistrial was waiting for her. In answer to his questions she told him that her father was willing to receive her, but her alone. “You must take your choice,” he had said, she repeated⁠—“You must take your choice.”

“And what is that choice?” Mistrial had asked.

“I have made it,” she answered, “and by it I will abide.”

But at this he had expostulated; and when, seeing at last what he meant⁠—understanding that he would have her feign a compliance for the sake of coin which at her father’s death she could come back and share with him⁠—when, divining the infamy of his thought, she refused, he had struck her in the face.

Because a man is not Chesterfield, it does not follow he is Sykes. Mistrial had never struck a woman before, and in this initial assault it is probable that he was actuated less by a desire to punish than by that force which overmasters him who has ceased to be master of himself. By instinct he was not a gentleman; for some time past he had not even taken the trouble to appear one; yet at that moment, dancing in derision before him, he saw the letters that form the monosyllable “Cad.” The sense of abasement he displayed was so immediate and sincere, that Justine, who, trembling with anger and disgust, stood staring in his face, read it there and understood. Instead of separating them forever, the blow reunited their hands. During the week that followed they were nearer to each other than they had been for months before. The reconciliation was seemingly complete. Mistrial made himself the lover again, and Justine permitted herself to be wooed. They left their hotel and found a flat⁠—a furnished apartment in the neighborhood of Central Park; and there the storm departing placed a rainbow in its stead.

A rainbow, however, is not a fixture, and this one went its way. While Justine closed her eyes Mistrial’s were alert. He had no intention of suffering her to be disinherited, and though it was well enough to rely on the courts it was better still not to be forced to do so. Rather than run an avoidable risk he would have abandoned his wife, and forced her through that abandonment to return to her father’s house, convinced that afterwards he could win her together with the estate back again to him. Meanwhile another interview could not in any way jeopardize the chances to which he clung. On the contrary, it might be highly serviceable. Mr. Dunellen, he had learned, was much broken; he had given up his practice, the world even, everything in fact save perhaps the devil that was in him, and sat uncompanioned in the desolate and spacious emptiness of his house. It was only natural that he should wish to coerce his daughter into obedience; yet now that he saw she was steadfast, her pride unhumbled still, it was not improbable that he would yield; it was presumable even that he was then waiting, weak of heart, prepared at her next advance to welcome and forgive.

Of these things Mistrial made his wife aware, and it was then that the rainbow departed. His arguments were as revolting as the cynicism they exhaled. But she made no attempt to combat them. Since she had seen her father she had felt a sorrow for him that Mistrial’s altered demeanor had given her time to heed. She knew that his attitude was due to her defiance of his express commands, but she had no reason to suppose that he had any other objection to her husband than such as his poverty might have caused or instinctive antipathy might bring. But now, her own experience aiding, she knew that he had been right; and, as he seemed feeble and dispassionate, in answer to Mistrial’s arguments she tied her bonnet-strings and went. It was early in the afternoon when she started, it was night when she returned.

Mistrial had been waiting for her, and when she entered the room in which he sat he rose eagerly and aided her with her wrap. He was impatient, she could see; and she was impatient also.

“Why did you not tell me of Guy’s sister?” she began, at once.

And as he answered nothing she continued: “Years ago I knew of what she died; it was only today I learned that it was you who murdered her.”

“It is a lie.”

“Oh, protest. I knew you would.”

“From whom is it you heard this thing? Not from your father, I am sure.” As Mistrial spoke he gazed at her inquisitorially with shrewd, perplexing eyes.

“What does it matter?” she answered. Her head was thrown back, her lips compressed. “What does it matter since the charge is true?”

“But it is false,” he cried; “it is a wanton lie. Your father never could have stated it.”

“Ah, but he did, though; and Guy was there to substantiate what he said.”

“Guy!” As he pronounced her cousin’s name there came into his face an expression which she knew and which she had learned to dread. “Madam, you mean your lover, I suppose. And it is his ipse dixit you accept in preference to mine?”

“Mistrial, you know he is not my lover.”

“I know he was in love with you, and you with him.”

“So he was; so he is, I think; and it was not until this night I saw my own mistake.”

“Voilà!” said Roland, suddenly calmed. He paused a second, and after eying the polish of his fingernails, affected to flick a speck of dust from his sleeve. “Your cousin is mad,” he added.

“He is sane as⁠—” and Justine hesitated for a simile.

“His mother, you mean. Were you never aware that insanity is hereditary? If his sister⁠—presupposing that the accusation which he formulates against me was originally advanced by her⁠—if his sister⁠—whom, by the way, I never saw but once⁠—if his sister accused me of complicity, then she suffered from the hereditary taint as well. If I was guilty of what your cousin charges, why was I not arrested, tried, and sentenced? But are you such a dolt you cannot see that Guy is mad⁠—mad not only by nature, but crazed by jealousy as well. You say you know he loves you. You have even the candor to admit that you love him! Now ask yourself what would any impartial hearer deduce from statements such as yours?”

“My father was an impartial hearer, and he⁠—”

“But how is it possible to be so blind? Can you not see that your cousin has prejudiced him against me? I said, impartial hearer. But let the matter drop. I tell you the charge is false; believe it or not, as you prefer. There is, however, just this in the matter: if the charge is made again, I will have your cousin under arrest. You forget that there is such a thing as libel still.”

Again he paused, and strove to collect himself; there was a design in the carpet which appeared to interest him very much, but presently he looked up again.

“Now tell me,” he said, “what did your father say?”

“Nothing, save what he said before.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing that you would care to hear.” Her eyes roamed from the neighbourly ceiling over to him and back again. “He said,” she added, “that if I persisted in living with you his money would go to my child, if I had one; if I had none, then to Guy.”

“Were you alone with him when he said this, or was Guy, as you call him, there?”

“No, I was alone with him; Guy came later.”

“And is he aware of this provision?”

For all response Justine shrugged her shoulders.

“Does he know it, I ask you?”

“He does not,” she answered. “Father told me that he never would, until the will was read.”

“H’m.” And for a moment Mistrial mused. Then presently he smiled⁠—yet was it a smile?⁠—a look that an hallucinated monk in a medieval abbey might have seen on that imaginary demon who, flitting by him, the forefinger outstretched, whispered as he vanished through the wall, “Thou art damned, dear friend! thou art damned!” “H’m,” he repeated; “and in view of the provisions of your father’s will, will you tell me why is it that you are without a child?”

As he spoke he had arisen, and, smiling still, though now as were he questioning her in regard to the state of the weather, he looked into her eyes. She had drawn yet further back into the chair in which she sat; a deadly sickness overcame her; to her head there mounted the nausea of each one of his many misdeeds. The memory of the blow of the week before, one which, despite her seeming forbearance, had not ceased to rankle, returned to her; and with it, one after another in swift succession, she rememorated the offences of the past. But soon she too was on her feet and fronted him. “Why is it I am without a child?” she repeated. Her voice was low and clear, and between each word she permitted a little pause to intervene. “Why is it?”

The subtlety of his reproach battening on nerves already overwrought was exciting her as nothing had done before. “It is you,” she cried, “who are to blame. What have you done with your youth? What have you done with your manhood? Look at me, Roland Mistrial! If I have borne you no child it is because monsters never engender.” As she spoke, with one gesture she tore her bodice down. Her breast, palpitant with health and anger too, heaving at the sheer injustice of his reproach, confronted and confuted him. “It is there that women have their strength; tell me, if you can, what have you done with yours?”

And thereat, with a look a princess might give to a lackey who had dared to question her, she turned and left him where he stood.

The next day he tried to make his peace with her. In this he succeeded, or flattered himself he had, for subsequently she consented to accompany him to the play. And as she sat in the stalls it was of these things that she thought.