"But for your ends. Now, I want a guarantee. I had a little private conversation with your step-brother yesterday, in which I skilfully pumped him. What do you think I learned? That you had been realizing a quantity of valuable securities for him lately, and that there was a very considerable balance at the bank to his credit."
"You are an infernal meddler."
"All in your interest, Leonard, and a little, a very little, in my own. You will give me here, and now, a check for two thousand pounds."
"You are out of your senses."
"Most absolutely and positively in them, my dear fellow. What I am about to do for you is worth ten times the sum, so I am not hard on you. In brains, Leonard, you have the best of me-I am a very candid and honest scoundrel, you must admit-but when the pinch comes you lose your nerve. Take another pull at the brandy. Down with it, man. It will bring some color to your cheeks, and perhaps some false courage to your chicken heart. We-fellows like myself-are the real men. If I had lived three or four centuries ago I should have been a man of mark. Produce your check-book."
"What is the use? I have no pen and ink."
"Ha ha, my honest comrade, I have provided for that. I had just enough brains to think of the contingency. Here are the requisites. Now, fill in and sign. Date it two days ago."
There was a brute ferocity in Dr. Peterssen which compelled and overawed Leonard, and with a sullen look he wrote the check and signed it.
"I warrant," said Dr. Peterssen, examining the check narrowly and carefully pocketing it, "that you have feathered your nest pretty well. In the event of Gerald Paget leaving a widow behind him-though that will not be so in this case, Leonard, for there can be no widow where there was no wife-you could strip her of every farthing of ready cash by drawing the entire balance from the bank, dating the check yesterday, as a measure of precaution. Hush-they are coming! Behind this rock-crouch down, and don't so much as breathe!"
Almost breathless Gerald and George Street halted within two feet of them, standing side by side on the edge of a precipice.
"It makes me dizzy looking down," said George Street. "Does it not you?"
"No," said Gerald. "And we have not found the edelweiss after all. It is a great disappointment to me."
"It grows on the edge of the precipice," said George Street. "Let us kneel and look over. I am sure this was the spot Dr. Peterssen pointed out to me."
The young men knelt down and looked over the precipice, Gerald keeping tight hold of his companion. As they bent their heads there came a fierce and sudden movement behind them, and with a loud cry the two young men sank into the abyss.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
DR. PETERSSEN EXPLAINS HIMSELF
"What have you done?" exclaimed Leonard, starting to his feet in irrepressible excitement, but cooling immediately as Dr. Peterssen turned to him with a smile on his lips. It was seldom, indeed, that Leonard was taken off his guard, but the suddenness of this foul deed startled him. When engaged in a scheme of villainy he was in the habit of being more deliberate.
"Be more careful with your pronouns," said Dr. Peterssen, inclining toward the abyss, and putting his hand to his ear. "You mean what have we done?"
"I did not stir."
"You lie," said Dr. Peterssen, with a brutal laugh. "With my own eyes I saw you hurl your step-brother over the precipice. In the attempt to save himself he caught hold of my poor patient, but he was just one little minute too late. Instead of saving himself he destroyed his companion, and thus at one fell swoop I was robbed of three hundred a year. I, with a record at least as spotless as your own-we are a fine pair of white doves, you and I-am ready to take my Bible oath to this version of the catastrophe; and I'll bet you a hundred to one, my buck, that I swear you down in any court of justice you can name. A likely thing, isn't it, that I should wish to get rid of my poor patient, when by doing so I lose a sure income? You, on the contrary, have everything to gain by your step-brother's death. Dying unmarried-you understand?"
"Yes."
"You have only to be firm with Emilia and the point is carried. After what she has gone through, and plunged into despair as she will be, she can be made to believe anything, especially when she learns that you are prepared to behave generously to her. To resume, Gerald, dying unmarried, you come into all the property. Therefore his death is a distinctly desirable event in your eyes. Do not, therefore, my dear comrade, in this little affair, attempt to shirk your share of the responsibility, or I will throw it all upon your shoulders, and send you to the gallows. Mr. Leonard Paget, I should be inclined to call you a fool if I did not know you better. What is done cannot be undone, nor, with all your cant, would you wish it undone."
"But," said Leonard, inwardly acknowledging the weight of his companion's arguments, "we are in danger."
"We are in none. Your step-brother Gerald, ardently desiring to gather with his own hands some edelweiss for his lady love, is informed by my unfortunate patient that he knows where the flower is to be found. Unwilling that they shall go alone, we express our intention to accompany them. Off we start with merry hearts. But we have not gone far before the young gentlemen beg to be allowed to enjoy their excursion without our society, and we, two fond and indulgent guardians, yield to their implorings, and leave them to themselves. Lured by the balmy weather, we stroll up the mountains, scarcely noting in which direction we are wandering. We stop and dilate upon the sublime beauty of the scenery, our souls exalted by the thoughts it inspires, when our ecstatic musings are rudely interrupted by screams of anguish. We hasten to the spot from which they proceed, and see-nothing. But our ears, ever open to the calls of humanity, cannot have deceived us. No, that is impossible. So we hunt and look about, calling out all the while to the poor souls who may be in peril to give us some indication how we can assist them. At length our attention is attracted by signs of a disturbance at the edge of this precipice, and kneeling" – he suited the action to the word, and Leonard knelt by his side-"we observe marks in the soil which engender the suspicion that a human creature has fallen over. We call out loudly, and are answered by a groan and scarcely distinguishable but undeniably pathetic appeals for help."
"I do not hear them," interrupted Leonard.
"Then you ought to. Are you quite devoid of imagination? Our hearts are rent by these appeals. We are not practised mountaineers, and are unable to render assistance. Therefore we hasten to the nearest village, and return with men and ropes to the rescue. But by that time it is too late."
"By that time," said Leonard, in a questioning tone, "they are dead?"
"By that time," repeated Dr. Peterssen, "they are dead. And" – with a steady look at Leonard-"of this fact we must convince ourselves before the introduction of other characters into the melancholy scene."
"How is that to be done?"
Dr. Peterssen rose to his feet, and cast sharp glances around.
"We are quite alone, I think."
"Not a person is in sight," said Leonard, watching his ruthless companion with curious eyes.
"Be silent a minute or two."
They stood perfectly still, all their senses on the alert.
"There is no doubt," said Dr. Peterssen, "that we are the only witnesses of the unhappy occurrence, and, thus far, safe. Now to make sure."
He divested himself of coat and waistcoat, and unwound a rope which he had adjusted round his waist.
"It is not very thick," he said, "nor very long, but it will help to steady us. See, I wind and fasten it about this slim trunk which providence has grown here to further our ends. Try it; you will find it quite secure."
"Yes, it can hardly get loosened of itself."
"The descent, as you will observe, is not very difficult after all. All that is required is steadiness and confidence. About 30 feet down-I reckon it is not more than that-you see a broad plateau of rock upon which half a dozen men can stand easily."
"But neither Gerald nor your patient is there."
"They have rolled over it, and we must ascertain their position, if it is possible to do so. Descend."
"Descend!" cried Leonard, retreating.
"Descend," repeated Dr. Peterssen, calmly. "I will follow you."
"But why do you not go first?"
"Because, cherished idol of my soul, I do not trust you. You above and I below, you might easily finish me off, and have the game entirely in your own hands. You are quite safe with me, dear friend. It is to my advantage to keep you alive; I intend to get money out of you in the future. It would be to your advantage if I were in the same plight as our friends below, for then you would save the money you will have to pay me. Even as a lad I was distinguished for frankness. Descend."
He was master of the situation, and Leonard was compelled to submit. Steadying himself by the rope he descended, and reached the plateau. Dr. Peterssen climbed down after him with the agility of a cat.
"I see them," he said, "though not very distinctly. They seem to be lying side by side. Luckily it will not be at all difficult to get to them. Between being hurled down these rocks unaware and descending them voluntarily there is a great difference. We will go together. Careful, Leonard, careful; I must not have my milch cow injured."
They reached the spot where the bodies lay. The violence with which they had been dashed over the precipice had told its tale. Of the two Dr. Peterssen's patient was the more injured. In his descent his features had been so dreadfully cut and lacerated that they were scarcely distinguishable.
"My poor ward is done for," said Dr. Peterssen, adding, with eyes sanctimoniously raised to heaven, "he is now in a better world."
"And Gerald?" whispered Leonard.
It was some time before Dr. Peterssen replied, and when he spoke there was a strange note in his voice.
"Gerald lives."
"Then what has been done," cried Leonard, in a tone of mingled despair and fury, "has been done in vain!"
"Easy to finish the job," remarked Dr. Peterssen.
But, hardened as he was, Leonard shrank from the ruthless suggestion. Had he been alone he might have nerved himself to the desperate expedient, but in the presence of a witness-
"Are you certain be lives?"
"Quite certain," said Dr. Peterssen. "His head is badly cut, and there is no saying in what condition he will be when he opens his eyes. He has a long illness before him, which may terminate fatally."
"But, before the end he may be able to assure Emilia that they are legally married. Before the end he may make his will!"
"He may. It would be bad for both of us"
"Is there no road but one out of it?"
"I have a strong gift of invention," said Dr. Peterssen. "There is another road, a hazardous one, the risk and trouble of which will be mine; but I don't mind, so long as I am properly paid for it, and you will be rich enough to arrange that to my satisfaction."
"Speak plainly, in the devil's name."
"In the name of that august myth I will endeavor to do so. What hazards and what personal inconvenience will not such a sacred friendship as ours incur for a quid pro quo! The two men lying helpless before us, one dead and one living, are about the same height. Perhaps you have observed that?"
"I have not."
"I have. And not only about the same height but about the same build. The color of their hair is not dissimilar, and it really seems to have been ordained by fate that neither of them should wear mustache or beardeek."
"For the life of me I can't see your drift."
"The quality of your mental powers is not generally opaque, but you are remarkably dense at this moment. Dressed in each other's clothes, who is to distinguish them? Thus attired, my poor patient, whose features are battered beyond recognition, is carried back to the village as your luckless brother Gerald. As Gerald he is buried; the tombstone you lovingly erect over his remains proclaims it. Thus attired, he is carried back to the village as my patient, and I attend on him; no one else sets an eye upon him, though that risk might be run with safety. To-morrow comes a summons from his father, which I invent, to take him back to England. It grieves me to leave you in your grief, to leave the bereaved Emilia in her sorrow-but what can I do? Duty is my watchword, and I set it before me unflinchingly, and perform it. Without delay I return home, bearing my patient with me. Do you see the drift of my plan now?"
"I do," replied Leonard, setting his teeth close. "But will you be able to carry it out?"
"To the bitter end-till Gerald is dead."
They exchanged glances; the compact was made.
"If he should recover consciousness while we are changing their clothes!" whispered Leonard.
"Accept my professional word. The injuries he has received are so severe that he will not recover his senses until he is on the road to England. Not even then, perhaps. Trust me to manage him. I am responsible to no one, and there are potent drugs which I can use to any end I wish. As a matter of fact my poor patient's father is thousands of miles away, and will learn just as much as it pleases me to impart, and at the time I choose to impart it. What kind of friend am I?"
"The best of friends. Let us set to work."
Dr. Peterssen laughed internally; in this villanous scheme he saw what was hidden from Leonard.
An hour afterward they stood again on the edge of the precipice, and the rope they had used was once more concealed round Dr. Peterssen's body. He had forced down Gerald's throat ah opiate which insured insensibility for many hours to come. Leonard hoped that his step-brother would die under its influence, but Dr. Peterssen did not share the hope. He wanted Gerald to live-at least for the present.
CHAPTER XXXV.
EMILIA AND LEONARD
On the evening of the following day a closed carriage was waiting at the door of the inn to convey Dr. Peterssen and Gerald to the nearest railway station. The plot he and Leonard had hatched had been cruelly successful. Strangers in the little village, and living during their stay upon terms of affectionate intimacy, their movements and actions were absolutely untrammelled, and not a shadow of suspicion had been aroused. Emilia, overwhelmed by the shock, was attacked with brain fever, and was lying in a dangerous condition. Dr. Peterssen declared it likely that she would never rise from her bed, and his opinion was shared by the village doctor. Gerald's condition was not less perilous. Dr. Peterssen had devoted the greatest attention to him, and Leonard learned from his partner in villainy that there was something more than a possibility that even if Gerald recovered his health he might never recover his reason. Their simulation of grief was perfect, and every person in the village spoke in praise of their devotion, and sympathized with them. Leonard, of course, was to remain behind to attend to Emilia, and to perform the last sad offices for his dearly beloved brother.
In a state of unconsciousness Gerald was carried out of the inn and placed in the carriage, and Dr. Peterssen and Leonard stood a little apart, conversing privately. The landlord and all the attendants quite believed that it was Dr. Peterssen's patient, and not Gerald, who was about to be taken to England.
"Up to this point," said Dr. Peterssen, "there has not been a hitch. We could not hope to have succeeded better, and should Emilia recover, there is no chance of a mishap if you play your cards properly."
"I shall not fail to do that," said Leonard, gazing at Dr. Peterssen with a certain mistrust. "I am in hopes that I shall be spared the awkwardness of an explanation."
"Meaning that you are in hopes she will die. Well, there is an even chance of that, but it is as well to be prepared. And now, friend of my soul, you and I must come to terms."
"We will leave all that till we meet in England," said Leonard.
"There will be plenty to talk of there," said Dr. Peterssen. "We will settle preliminaries here, before we part."
"What do you want?" asked Leonard, with a dark look.
"A clear understanding, and an undertaking in writing. You see, old comrade, I am doing your dirty work, not my own. I don't object to your enjoying the lion's share of the spoil, but I must have some guarantee of a sure and certain income."
"It is already agreed that you are to have three hundred a year, which with the three hundred you will receive from the father of your patient, makes you very comfortable."
"Not as comfortable as I ought to be," said Dr. Peterssen, placidly.
"What the mischief do you want? You have got a check for two thousand out of me."
"A retainer, my dear Leonard, merely a retainer. I should have stuck out for more, but I am always sacrificing myself for others. The three hundred must be six. Don't look black; a heart-stricken expression is advisable, with strangers observing us. The eyes of half-a-dozen are fixed on us at the present moment, and there would be the devil to pay if they suspected there was the smallest difference of opinion between us. Remember the stake you are playing for."
"You seem to hold the winning cards."
"I never play a game without them, dear old chum, but you must admit that my winnings are small in comparison with yours. Notice the smile of sad resignation on my face, with which I cajole our friends the simple villagers. Yes, Leonard, the three hundred must be six."
"I carry your brother Gerald from the carriage back to the inn. He is not in a fit state to travel, I say in reply to questions; I will not risk his life. I nurse him into health, I restore his senses-quite possible, I believe. I keep a watchful eye upon Emilia also, in order that you shall play no tricks, and she, too, gets well. Then I bring the two together, and leave you, noble captain, to your own devices. All very beautifully arranged, is it not, sweet child?"
"You shall have the six hundred, curse you," said Leonard, careful to follow Dr. Peterssen's advice as to the play of expression on his features.
"A million million thanks. And now be kind enough to sign this paper binding you to the arrangement. Go into the inn, and affix your signature in a bold, clear hand. No arguments, Leonard, but do it. If you delay we shall miss the train, and I shall have to return with your brother to the enjoyments of your society."
Leonard had no choice; he went into the inn and presently reappeared with the document, which he handed to Dr. Peterssen, who examined and pocketed it.
"Farewell, old comrade, farewell," he said, with his handkerchief to his eyes. "This is a dramatic moment; deeply do I feel the parting. Adieu, till we meet in England. By the way, I have informed Father Anselm, the good priest, that I have left five hundred francs in your hands which you will give him in my name for the relief of the poor. He blessed and thanked me. He will remind you of the benediction if you need reminding, but your best plan will be to give him the money soon, with a cheerful heart. Once more, farewell. Speak well of me when I am gone."
With profound sighs and melancholy looks he wrung Leonard's hand and entered the carriage, bidding the driver to proceed gently. Leonard and a few of the villagers watched the carriage till it was out of sight, and then the remaining actor in the vile plot entered the inn, enraged at the extortion-for so he inwardly declared it to be-that Dr. Peterssen had practised upon him. But he felt that he was in this man's power, and that it was advisable to submit with as good grace as possible. What was done could not be undone, nor would he have had it undone. The future was before him with all its possibilities of pleasure; a life of ease was his when the scheme was carried out to its bitter end. Even were he willing to forego his ruthless design he had gone too far now to retract. In the event of Emilia's recovery to health, his next move was to impose upon her and reduce her to silence, and he did not doubt his ability to achieve his purpose.
There were certain official formalities to go through with respect to the fictitious death of Gerald. He testified that the body was that of his brother, and he was supported by the independent testimony of witnesses, who identified the clothes of the deceased. The official record of the death of Gerald Paget was duly made, and in a few days the funeral took place, Leonard being the chief mourner. Over the grave was placed a flat tombstone, with the inscription-"To the memory of my dear brother Gerald." Nothing more.
Throughout the whole of these proceedings Emilia lay between life and death, and consequently knew nothing of what was going on. But her ravings proved that she was at least conscious of the fatal blow her happiness had received. She called upon her dear Gerald in Heaven, and implored to be taken to him; and then, and then-stirred by the mysterious promptings of approaching maternity-she as earnestly implored to be spared for the sake of her child yet unborn. For six weeks she lay in a dangerous condition, and then youth and a sound, though delicate, constitution triumphed, and her health began to improve. Another fortnight, and she was convalescent.
Before this took place Leonard, who was sedulously employed in earning a character for charity and kindness, had succeeded in blasting her good name. The simple priest of the village was shocked at the disclosure that Emilia had no right to wear the wedding-ring on her finger.
"Alas," he said, "that one so fair should be so frail!"
"Unhappily," said Leonard with a hypocritical sigh, "it is frequently so with the fairest of women. Weak as they appear, they are strong in vice."
The priest nodded his head sadly. How could he disbelieve a man so charitable and sweet-mannered as Leonard? How could he mistrust one who consecrated the memory of a beloved brother by donations to the little church and by constant benefactions to the poor and suffering among his flock? In the total it was not a large sum that Leonard parted with, but it was magnificent in the eyes of the poverty-stricken priest, who had never experienced such free-handed generosity. Leonard, was looked upon as a benefactor, and his false benevolence gave weight to every word that fell from his lips. He explained to the priest that the reason of his accompanying his brother Gerald and the young woman who had led him into vice was his earnest desire to break the guilty tie which bound them. "Death has done that for me," he said, covering his eyes. "A good man," thought the priest, "a good and noble man!" He inquired of Leonard how he intended to act when Emilia regained her health.
"I shall not desert her," replied Leonard; "Heaven forbid that I should do so! She has sinned, but the door of repentance shall not be closed upon her-she shall not lose the chance of leading a better life. I will insure her a small income, sufficient for any woman's wants, upon which she can live in comfort. She will be able to do so, will she not, upon two thousand francs a year?"
The priest raised his hands in astonishment. Two thousand francs! It was affluence.
"May your kind intentions be fruitful," he said. "May the erring woman lead in the future a virtuous life."
His flock were distinguished by a singular morality, and he, a simple-minded man, regarded with horror any backsliding from the straight path. On the following Sabbath he took the theme for his text, and without mentioning names, referred to two strangers in their midst, one distinguished for his noble deeds of charity, the other degraded by her vicious conduct. Every one in the chapel knew to whom he referred, and were prepared to receive Emilia with something more than coldness. The first knowledge of this state of feeling came to her on a day she was able to sit at her window to breathe the sweet air. The innkeeper's daughter had grown fond of her, and had performed many kindly offices for the hapless woman. The whole of this day the young girl had not made her appearance in Emilia's room, and yearning for female companionship she rang the bell for her. It was answered by the innkeeper.
"I wish to see your daughter," said Emilia.
"She will not come," said the innkeeper. "She shall not come."
"Why?" asked Emilia, in wonder at his rough tone.
"Answer the question yourself," replied the innkeeper. "When you are strong enough to leave my house I must request you to seek a shelter elsewhere."
He left the room without another word.
There was a significance in his manner as well as in his words which brought a flush into Emilia's face. "She will not come! She shall not come!" What fresh misery was in store for her? A terrible fear stole upon her. The undeserved shame she had passed through in her native town glided from the past and hovered like a spectre over her. She turned with a sob toward Leonard, who a short time afterward made his appearance. He pretended not to notice her agitation, and did not afford her an opportunity of opening a conversation with him.
"Would you like to come into the open air?" he asked.
"Yes, Leonard," she said, noting also the coldness of his voice. "Will you assist me down?"
He nodded, and she took his arm; but she missed the gentle and considerate guidance which she had a right to expect.
He placed a chair for her in front of the inn, and stood a few paces from her. Not a soul spoke to her. Men and women whom she remembered, whose faces she recognized, and with whom she was upon friendly terms when Gerald was with her, passed to and fro, and exchanged cordial words with Leonard, but did not address a single word to her. If by chance their eyes met hers, which, after a little while, were turned appealingly toward them, they turned abruptly from her, with looks of displeasure and aversion which chilled her heart. Even the innkeeper's daughter came near her, but did not approach close enough to speak to her. Yet she spoke to Leonard. Emilia beckoned to him.
"I cannot remain here any longer," she said. "I must go to my room."
She did not ask for his arm, nor did he offer it. Weak, and beset with torturing doubts, she clung to the wall as she ascended the stairs. In silence they entered the room. Leonard stood mute by the door.
"Have you nothing to say to me?" she asked presently.
"Nothing," he replied, "until you are stronger."
"I have borne so much in the past," she said, "that I can bear anything you have to tell.
"I will wait," he said, and left the room.
Long did she ponder over the strange conduct of those who were once her friends, but she could not account for it. She felt herself alone in a strange land. Gerald was lost to her, and she was without a friend. She did not give way to despair; she nerved herself to strength and fortitude; another life would soon be dependent upon her; for the sake of her unborn child it was her duty to keep up her heart.
Some days passed, and not a friendly word was spoken to her, not a friendly hand was held out. She suffered without remonstrance; dark as was the present there was a sweet light in the future. She would have her child in her arms before many weeks elapsed, Gerald's child. Spiritual baby eyes looked into hers; spiritual baby hands were stretched toward her. "For your sake, my darling, for your sake!" she murmured.
She was now able to walk alone, without assistance, and one day she walked to the village churchyard, to visit the grave of her beloved. She read the inscription, "To the memory of my dear brother Gerald." Should not her name have been there? She was nearer to him than any other human being. She resolved to seek without delay an explanation from Leonard.
On her way to and from the churchyard she met with many persons, and was avoided by all. A woman and her young daughter, a girl of sixteen, passed close to her; the mother drew her child away from Emilia so that their dresses should not come in contact. She met the village priest, who looked at her reprovingly, and then turned in an opposite direction. Was she, then, a pariah? What crime had she committed?
Once more in her room in the inn she forced herself to a practical examination into a matter which had surprised her. Certain articles of jewellery had been given to her by Gerald. They were gone. All that she possessed in remembrance of her dear husband were her wedding-ring and a ring set with diamonds, which had never left her fingers. Possibly if these had been lying loose they would have shared the fate of her other mementos. Quite as strange was the circumstance that everything belonging to Gerald had been removed during her illness from the rooms she and her husband had occupied. Her purse, too, was empty; there was not a coin in it. She could not remember whether she had any money before she received the terrible news of Gerald's death; indeed, with reference to past events, her memory was in the same state as it had been after the good old wagoner had taken her to his home in England. During that period she was not in a condition to gain any knowledge of her surroundings, and she did not even know the name of the place in which she and Gerald had been married. Up to the morning of that day her mind had been a blank, and Gerald, out of consideration for her, had made no attempt to revive memories which in their inception had brought so much suffering to his dear girl. The only thing that was clear to Emilia was the memory of the shame into which she had been plunged by Mrs. Seaton's calumnies, and when her mind reverted to the experiences of those dark days she strove shudderingly to thrust them from her. But there was something in her present position which seemed, in some dread manner, to be connected with that shame and with the horror of the slanders which had ruined her good name, and strive as she would she could not banish the remembrance.
She sent for Leonard and he came at her bidding.