CHAPTER CLX.

THE HUSBAND AND WIFE.

The place where the husband and wife met thus, after a separation

of upwards of nineteen years, was what the poor term “a kitchen,”

but which rather merited the designation of “a cellar.” The roof was

low and arched--the rough brick-work of the walls, once smeared with

white-wash, was now dingy all over--and in the day-time a gleam of

light was admitted by means of a miserably small window protected and

also darkened by a grating set in the foot-way of the street. The

den contained a fire-place, where the inmate might cook his victuals

if he were able to bear the intolerable heat of a fire in the midst

of summer; and at the extremity facing the window was a small bed. A

table, two chairs, a few articles of crockery, and a washing-stand,

completed the appointments of this wretched place, which was dimly

lighted by a solitary candle.

The reader is already aware that Torrens was much altered in personal

appearance: nevertheless, his wife had recognised him in the street

without any difficulty. But it was not precisely the same on his part:

had _he_ met _her_ in an accidental manner, he would not have known

her, so remarkable was the change that had taken place in her. Yet

he did know her now--for he had seen her in the little parlour at

Percival’s house; and the moment she stood before him on the threshold

of his present hiding-place, a cry of horror and alarm escaped his lips.

Mrs. Mortimer closed the door, and, taking a chair, motioned her

husband likewise to be seated--a kind of command which he mechanically

obeyed; for something told him that he was in the power of the woman

whom he hated and abhorred.

“We meet after a long, long separation,” she said, in a low tone, which

left him still in utter doubt as to whether the object of her visit was

peace or war.

“Yes--yes,” he observed, nervously: “but wherefore should we meet at

all?”

“Not to exchange caresses and endearing words--not to unite our

fortunes or our misfortunes, as husband and wife,” responded the old

woman. “Of _that_ you may be well assured!”

“Then, again I ask--wherefore should we meet?” demanded Torrens.

“Because this interview suits my purposes,” returned Mrs. Mortimer,

with a malignant grin; “and I may as well commence by assuring you that

you are completely in my power.”

“In your power!” repeated the old man, casting a ghastly look of

mingled apprehension and appeal on her who thus proclaimed her

authority, and who seemed resolved to exercise it.

“Yes--in my power,” she exclaimed, in an impressive manner. “Do you

know that I was arrested on suspicion of being the murderess, or at all

events concerned in the murder--”

“Murder! oh--my God!” moaned Torrens, clasping his hands together in

convulsive anguish, as he glared wildly around.

“Do not affect ignorance of the fact,” said Mrs. Mortimer: “because you

are doubtless well aware that I _was_ arrested for _your_ crime.”

“No--no: you cannot prove that I did it--you can prove nothing!” cried

Torrens, with a species of hysterical violence.

“I can prove that _you_ were the murderer of Percival,” responded the

old woman, fixing her eyes sternly upon her husband.

“Liar--wretch--I defy you!” exclaimed Torrens, his energy suddenly

reviving as he saw the absolute necessity of meeting with boldness a

charge which he felt convinced his wife could _not_ prove against him:

for how could she possibly entertain anything more serious than a bare

suspicion?

“Harsh words and abuse will not intimidate me,” said she, in a quiet

voice; “and all these variations in your manner--nervousness at one

moment, terror the next, and then excitement--only tend to confirm me

in my ideas. Listen, old man--and see whether I have just ground for

those ideas, and whether you could explain away my tale, if told to the

nearest police-magistrate.”

Torrens groaned audibly, and fell back in his chair--but not

insensible--only in the exhaustion of his physical and the prostration

of his moral energies; and his eyes glared in consternation on the

countenance of the accusing fiend whose very presence would have been

intolerable, even if he had committed no crime for her to be able to

accuse him of.

“Listen, I say,” resumed the implacable old woman. “You were at

Percival’s house a few moments before myself and daughter called upon

him. You seemed to be very miserable--so miserable that you wished

to obtain assistance from him. These were the very words he used to

me; and he observed likewise that he never _gave_--consequently you

extorted nothing from him. But you watched through the window-shutters,

from the outside, the interview which took place between him and myself

and daughter: you beheld the gold and the notes displayed upon the

table; and when the old miser was once more alone, you entered the

house--and--and you murdered him with a bludgeon!”

Torrens started convulsively, and endeavoured to give utterance to an

ejaculation of denial; but his tongue clave to the roof of his mouth,

and his throat was as parched as if he had been swallowing ashes.

“Yes--you murdered him,” repeated Mrs. Mortimer, apparently dwelling

with fiendish delight upon the horrible accusation: “you beat the

wretched man to death--your blows were dealt with a cruel, a merciless

effect. Then you plundered the iron safe--you took all the treasure

contained in the tin-case--gold and bank-notes to the amount of several

thousands of pounds!”

“It is not true--it is not true!” said Torrens, partially recovering

the power of speech.

“But it _is_ true--all true--precisely as I now repeat the details,”

cried Mrs. Mortimer, emphatically.

“You are mad to think me the possessor of such a treasure, when you

find me in this miserable place, with thread-bare garments, and

surrounded by every proof of a poverty amounting almost to utter

destitution,” said Torrens, his courage to meet the charge somewhat

reviving as he flattered himself that the argument just used was

decisive and unanswerable.

“Do you imagine me to be so thoroughly ignorant of the world as to

become your dupe on such easy terms?” demanded the old woman, in a tone

of withering scorn. “Look at all I have passed through, and then ask

yourself whether it be possible to deceive and mislead me! No, no--I

understand it all. You believe that suspicion will never fall upon the

wretched inmate of such a wretched place,” she continued, glancing

slowly around the cellar--“and your calculation is a correct one. Here

might you have concealed yourself--here might you have passed some

weeks in apparent poverty, until the storm should have blown over. But

it was destined that _one_ person should obtain a clue to your guilt

and a trace to your lurking-hole--and that person is myself! Nay, to

convince you how well all your late proceedings are known to me, I have

only to mention the fact that a few days ago you visited the cottage

which once bore your name----”

“Ah!” ejaculated Torrens, startled by this new proof of how

well-informed his hated wife in reality was concerning his movements.

“Yes--and to the fair inmate of that dwelling,” she added, with a look

full of malignant meaning, “you admitted that you were poor no longer,

but that you wished you indeed were the penniless and half-starving

wretch you had so recently been! Thus the very outpourings of

your remorse, old man, have furnished me with arguments--damning

arguments--against you, and confirmed all my previous suspicions, if

such confirmation were for an instant needed.”

“Why do you now come to me?” asked Torrens, in a faint and faltering

tone, while his entire frame trembled nervously, and his countenance

became so ghastly, that it was absolutely hideous to behold.

“My purpose is stern and immoveable,” replied the old woman.

“And that purpose--is----” faltered Torrens, trembling like an aspen.

“The surrender of every shilling--yes, every shilling--of the treasure

which you plundered from the murdered Percival,” was the answer.

“Malediction!” ejaculated the wretched man, starting wildly from his

seat as if he had received a sudden wound: then, sinking back again

through sheer exhaustion, he pressed his hand to his throbbing brows,

murmuring and lamenting in broken sentences such as these:--“My

gold--my notes--the treasure I lost my soul to gain--the riches I had

hoped to enjoy--the wealth to acquire which I imbrued my hands in

blood--the blood of a fellow-creature--no--no--you shall not have my

treasure.”

And he started up, flinging his arms wildly about him, while his eyes

rolled horribly in their sockets, as if he were attacked by delirium.

Mrs. Mortimer sate calm and motionless, resolved to allow the paroxysm

to pass ere she reiterated her stern demand. She knew--she saw that he

was in her power,--now more so than ever, since he had admitted the

dread crime by his unguarded exclamations.

“Woman, you will drive me mad!” suddenly cried her husband, falling

back again into his seat, and looking at her with a hyena-like rage

expressed upon his countenance.

“I do not seek such a catastrophe,” she observed, coolly.

“But you an urging me to it,” he replied, with savage fierceness.

“No--no--I will not surrender my gold: you cannot compel me!”

“It is for you to decide whether you will adopt that alternative, or

pass hence in a few minutes to the nearest station-house,” responded

Mrs. Mortimer, her voice being still characterised by a calmness and

deliberation indicative of the most implacable sternness of purpose.

“The station-house!” moaned Torrens, with a cold shudder: then, again

becoming dreadfully excited, he exclaimed, “I will die first--and you

shall perish also! Yes--I will murder you, and afterwards----”

“This is child’s play!” said Mrs. Mortimer, laughing at the threat,

as she took up a knife which lay upon the table. “Advance towards me

another pace--and I will plunge this sharp blade into your heart. The

treasure, which is no doubt concealed somewhere in the room, will then

fall into my hands all the same.”

“You are determined to rifle me of all I possess--to plunder me--to

make me penniless!” cried Torrens, falling back in his seat, and giving

way to his despair. “Can nothing move you? But, listen--listen: I will

give you half--yes--one-half of the whole amount----”

“I came not to receive terms, but to dictate them,” interrupted Mrs.

Mortimer. “And now reflect well upon your position, old man;--and

remember also that your wild ravings may draw listeners to the door,

and your guilt will be no longer a secret existing between you and me.

Then, naught--naught can save your neck from the halter!”

“My God! she speaks truly,” murmured Torrens, bewildered by the

dreadful thoughts that rushed to his brain as the woman spoke so

calmly and deliberately of the ignominious death which might overtake

him: “yes--she speaks truly!” he repeated; “and yet, if I give up

all--surrender everything--on what am I to live? how am I to sustain my

miserable existence?”

“You had no kind thought--no compassion for me, when you had friends

to help you, and I was banished across the wide ocean,” said Mrs.

Mortimer: “you cared not what became of me at that time, Torrens--and I

have now no pity, no sympathy for you! I am aware that you loathe and

detest me;--but your aversion surpasses not that which I entertain for

you. There we are well matched: it is however in our relative positions

that I have gained the ascendancy and can wield the authority of a

despot. My crime is of old date, and has been expiated by many long,

long years of horrible exile and servitude in a penal colony: your

crime is new--the blood is scarcely dry upon your hands--your victim is

scarcely cold in his grave--and your guilt can only be expiated on the

scaffold.”

“Spare me--spare me,” groaned the wretched man, clasping his hands

together in an anguish which, assassin as he was, would have moved any

other than the soul-hardened, implacable Mrs. Mortimer.

“Spare you, indeed!” she repeated, in a contemptuous tone: “in what

way can I spare you? If you ask me not to betray you into the hands

of the officers of justice, I at once reassure you on that head--but

with the one condition that you surrender up to me, and without further

parley, every sixpence of the amount you have secreted somewhere in

this place. I do not seek your life: I wish you to live, that you may

be miserable--that you may know what starvation is--that you may wander

the streets, houseless and penniless--dependent upon eleemosynary

charity--begging your bread----”

“Merciful heaven! it is a fiend who is addressing these frightful words

to me now!” ejaculated Torrens, surveying his wife with horror and

astonishment.

“No--it is a woman,--a woman whom you deserted in her bitter trouble,

and who now wreaks her vengeance upon you,” said Mrs. Mortimer. “Carry

back your reminiscences some nineteen years or upwards, and contrast

our positions then. You found friends and relations to console you

while still in gaol, and to assist you after your release. But did you

come near me? did you even send a word or a line to sympathise or to

proffer aid! Miserable wretch that you are, I could wish that you were

ten thousand times more miserable still!”

“Oh! that is impossible--impossible!” exclaimed Torrens, his

cadaverous countenance denoting, by its hideous, painful workings,

the sincerity--the profound sincerity that prompted the averment he

had just made. “Were you to search the earth over, you could not find

a being more miserable than I! And now--and now,” he continued, in a

faltering tone, while tears trickled down his furrowed cheeks,--“now,

will you have compassion upon me?”

“No--ten thousand times _no_!” ejaculated Mrs. Mortimer. “And I warn

you to hasten and surrender your wealth--or I shall lose all power of

restraining my impatience.”

Torrens rose from his seat, cast one look of malignant--diabolical hate

upon the merciless woman, dashed the traces of grief away from his

cheeks, and then turned towards the bed.

Mrs. Mortimer followed him with her eyes--those eyes now so greedy,

suspicions, and anxious lest by any possibility her prey should escape

her!

The wretched old man, whose heart experienced all the pains of hell,

slowly and with trembling hands raised the miserable mattresses; and

from beneath he drew forth a small parcel, wrapped in brown paper

and tied with a thick string. This he handed to Mrs. Mortimer, who,

heedless of the terrible glance which accompanied it, hastened to open

the packet and examine its contents.

And now her triumph was complete;--for the parcel enclosed gold and

notes to an amount which she proceeded in a leisurely manner to compute.

“Five thousand four hundred pounds,” she said aloud, casting a

malignant look upon Torrens, who had resumed his seat and appeared to

be the victim of a despair that must terminate in the total wreck of

his reason. “And here,” she continued, now musing to herself rather

than speaking for his behoof,--“here is a document that may prove of

some importance to me,--the promissory note of the young man who called

himself _Viscount Marston_.”

Thus speaking, she carefully packed up the parcel once more, and

secured it about her person.

“And you will not leave me a guinea--a single guinea?” asked Torrent,

in a low, hollow voice--his entire aspect indicating that he was

almost stupified by the merciless cupidity of his wife.

“Not a single guinea,” she replied. “The only consolation I can afford

you is the assurance that your secret is safe with me. If you are ever

sent to the scaffold--it will not be through my instrumentality.”

With these words, she retreated towards the door, walking backwards,

so as to keep her eyes fixed upon Torrens the whole time, and thus be

prepared for a sudden attack should he meditate mischief, or, in an

ungovernable paroxysm of rage and despair, attempt it.

But the old man moved not from his seat, although he appeared to reel

and sway unsteadily backward and forward in his chair; and at the

moment when Mrs. Mortimer placed her hand on the latch, he fell heavily

upon the floor.

She was about to depart when it struck her that, if he were dead,

unpleasant suspicions might attach themselves to her, should she hurry

away without raising any alarm; and she accordingly hastened towards

him. He was senseless--but the spark of life was not extinct; and now

through fear did the woman perform those duties to which she never

could have been otherwise urged in respect to him. She raised him

in her arms--she placed him on the bed--removed his neckcloth--and

sprinkled water upon his face. In a few minutes he began to revive, and

his eyes opened slowly.

“Where am I?--is it a dream?” he murmured in a faint tone: then, as

his recollection returned with speed and vividness, and he knew the

countenance that was bending over him, and remembered why the woman

herself was there, he exclaimed, “Fiend! give me back my gold!”

“Never!” was the emphatic word that fell upon his ear in reply--and in

another moment he was alone.

No--not alone: for Despair was now his companion.

And Despair is an appalling guest:--for, murderer as the man was, he

had some kind of worldly consolation left in his treasure until the

implacable woman wrested it from him. But now that only solace was

gone--and he was left to the horror of his thoughts, and to the ghost

of his victim. Beggary was before him--beggary, with all its hideous

train of evils, and those evils rendered the more terrible because

beyond loomed the black and ominous gibbet!

Oh! how was it that madness did not seize upon the old man’s brain, and

rob him of the power of making these agonizing reflections?

Was it that his punishment was to begin upon earth? If so, assuredly

the retribution was appalling, even on this side of the tomb;--and he

had not even left to him the consolation that the gold for which he had

bartered his soul was still in his possession--still at his command,

and available for his use!