Chapter 16

The Man Who Loved Her

Have you ever been in the tropics? If so, you must know how cruel the sun can be to the unhappy Europeans grilling under its ardent rays. It does not invigorate, nor tan the skin overmuch, nor make one think life is a good thing; but it enervates the system, it relaxes the muscles, it dulls the brain, until the body is nothing but a worn-out shell, that moves, and rests, and lies down, and stands up in a mechanical fashion, like an automaton. It was like this that Judith felt after the terrible interview with Guinaud, and she went the round of her daily duties in a dull, listless manner, that showed how greatly her vital force had been exhausted by the ordeal she had undergone. With constant attendance on the invalid, and anxious thoughts about the position of affairs with regard to the Frenchman, she was worn out mentally and physically.

At present it was difficult to come to any decision relative to Florry's illness as the crisis had not yet come, and youth, health, and love of life were all fighting desperately against the shadow of death. The shock sustained by Florry on hearing of the untimely end of her lover had quite unsettled her brain, and the balance was trembling between health and sickness, between sanity and insanity, between life and death. She needed constant watching, for at times, in the most unexpected manner, she would spring from her bed and try to leave the room, bound on some fantastic journey created by the excited state of her brain. At other times she lay languid and exhausted, with dim, unseeing eyes, raving madly about her lover and the unforeseen calamity of his death. Afraid to trust this fragile life to the care of a hired nurse, Judith herself sat by the bedside, and ministered to the wants of the sick girl, holding the cool drink to the fevered lips, bathing the feverish brow, and arranging with loving hand the disordered bed-clothes.

It was bad enough in the day to sit in the twilight of the sick-room listening to the aimless chatter that came from the white lips, but it was worse at night. The sombre shadows that hung over all, the faint glimmer of the shaded lamp, the uncanny stillness of the house, and nothing awake but the sick girl with her pathetic pleadings, her causeless laughter, and the incessant stream of disconnected wanderings. No wonder Judith was quite worn out with constant watching; much, however, as she needed rest, she never surrendered her weary post by the bed, but sat, watchful and tender, during the long hours, only calling in the nurse when the paroxysms seized the invalid. All through the endless night succeeding the interview she had sat like a stone image in the sick-room, going over in her own tortured mind all that Guinaud had said. The morning broke dull and gray, and the nurse insisted upon her resting for a time. Rest! there was no such luxury for her; for even when lying down, her weary brain went mechanically over the old ground, imagining a thousand terrors, and agonising itself with a thousand pangs.

At last she slept for a time, but it was no refreshing slumber such as would bring relief. No! nothing but dreams, strange, horrible dreams, in all of which Judas, cruel and merciless, was the central figure; so in despair of gaining quiet in any way, she arose in the afternoon, and returned to her post by the side of Florry.

At four o'clock a card was brought to her bearing the name of Roger Axton, and a few lines scribbled thereon asking her to see him at once. With a start of terror, she wondered whether Judas had been to Axton, and revealed anything; but remembering that silence was as necessary to Judas as to herself, she dismissed this fear as idle, and having called in the nurse, descended to the drawing-room.

Roger was there, pacing restlessly to and fro like a caged lion, but when she entered he stopped at once, and looked at her fixedly as she came towards him in her sweeping black dress. Worn and haggard both of them, anxious and apprehensive both of them, they looked like two criminals meeting for the first time after the commission of a secret crime.

On seeing Roger's altered face, Judith also paused and gazed at him with a terrified look in her dilated eyes. They stood silently looking at one another for a single moment, but in that moment the agony of a lifetime was concentrated.

At last Roger spoke in a low, smothered tone, as if the words issued from his white lips against his will.

"No! no! I cannot believe it."

This speech broke the strange spell that held Judith motionless, and stealing forward she touched him lightly on the shoulder as he sank into a chair, covering his wild face with his hands.

"Roger!"

No answer. Only the short quick breath of the man and the soft rustle of the woman's dress.

"Roger, what is the matter?"

He looked up suddenly, hollow-eyed and shrinking, with a wild, questioning look on his worn face.

"I--I--have been told something."

"By--by that Frenchman?"

"Yes!"

"My God!" she muttered to herself, falling nerveless into a chair, "what has he told him?"

"He has told me all!"

"All?"

"He has told not only me but Fanks!"

"The detective?"

"Yes."

She hid her face in her hands with a startled cry, at which he sprang quickly from his chair and flung himself on his knees beside her.

"Oh, my love--my love!" he cried, entreatingly, "you are innocent; you are innocent. I know you are!"

"I innocent?"

She was looking down at him with an expression of amazement on her face, the beauty of which was marred by tears, by weariness, and by anxious thought.

"Yes! I'll swear you did not kill him!"

"Kill whom?"

"Sebastian Melstane!"

"I kill Sebastian Melstane?" she cried, rising quickly, and drawing herself up to her full height. "Who dares to accuse me of such a thing?"

"Judas!"

"That wretch?"

"Yes; but you are innocent; I know you are innocent."

"Why?"

"Because I love you!"

Judith looked down at the man kneeling at her feet with a look of infinite gratitude in her eyes, and passed her hand caressingly over his dishevelled hair.

"Poor boy, how true you are! You are willing to believe in my innocence without my denial."

"I am!"

She sat down, again, caught his head between her two hands and kissed him softly on the forehead. As she did so, he felt a hot tear fall on his cheek, and when he looked at her she was crying.

"Judith!" he cried, with sudden terror, "you are weeping."

"Yes. May God always send mankind such true hearts as yours!"

"I would be unworthy of your love if I did not believe you before all the lying scoundrels in the world."

"Alas, Don Quixote!"

"But you can explain everything, Judith. I feel certain you can."

"I can explain when I hear your story. At present I know nothing beyond the fact that Monsieur Guinaud has accused me of a vile crime. What does he say?"

Roger, still kneeling by her side, told the story as related to him by Fanks, and at the conclusion eagerly waited for her denial.

She said nothing, but sat in sombre silence, with her eyes fixed beyond his head in a vague, unseeing manner.

"Judith!" he cried, desperately, "do you not hear what I say? This scoundrel says that you visited Melstane at night and put those two pills into the box with the intention of poisoning him."

Still she said nothing, and Roger felt a feeling of horror arise in his breast as he watched her face, so cold, so frozen, so impassive in its fixed calm.

"He has your handkerchief to prove that you were there. Judith, speak!"

All at once the still figure became endowed with life, and with a choking cry she tore herself from his encircling arms, and sprang across the room.

"Judith!"

In a frenzy of dread he leaped up from his kneeling position, and went rapidly towards her with outstretched hands.

"Stop!" she cried, wildly, shrinking against the wall, "stop!"

"Speak, speak! You must speak and deny this story."

"I cannot."

"Judith."

"I cannot!"

"My God!" he said, in a hoarse whisper, "is it true?"

"I cannot answer you."

Roger felt the room spin round him, and, reeling back, caught at a chair for support, while he gazed with horror-filled eyes at the woman he loved, standing there so rigid and speechless.

"Judith, you do not mean what you say," he cried entreatingly, "you cannot understand. Judas says you murdered Melstane. He can prove it, he says, by the handkerchief. He has told Fanks, who is a detective. You are in danger. I cannot save you. Great Heaven! if you have any pity for me--if you have any pity for yourself, speak and give the lie to this foul accusation."

"I cannot, I tell you, Roger, I cannot!"

"You are innocent!"

"I cannot say."

"Are you guilty?"

"I cannot say."

Axton passed his hand over his brow in a bewildered fashion, hardly knowing if he were asleep or awake, then, with a sudden resolution of despair, flung himself on his knees at her feet.

"Judith! Judith! you must speak, you must. See me kneeling at your feet. I love you, I love you! I do not believe this vile story. In my eyes you are innocent. But the world--think of the world. It will deem you guilty if you cannot defend yourself. Judas has you in his power. He is a merciless wretch. He hates you. He will drag you down to infamy and disgrace, unless you can clear yourself of this crime. Speak for your own sake--for mine. Do not let this devil triumph over you, for Heaven's sake. Deny his foul lies, and let him be punished as he deserves. Speak, for the love of God, speak!"

Judith said nothing, but the quick panting of her breath, the nervous tremor agitating her frame, and the rapid opening and shutting of her hands showed how she was moved.

"She says nothing," said Axton to himself, as he arose slowly to his feet, "she is silent. What does it mean?"

He made one last effort to induce her to deny the accusation of Judas.

"You will not speak!" he said, in tones of acute anguish. "I have knelt, I have prayed; you are silent. I can do nothing. You are innocent, I'll swear; but I cannot prove it. No one can prove it but yourself, and you say nothing. Judith, listen! You are in deadly peril. Fanks is coming up to-night with Judas, and they will accuse you of this crime!"

"To-night?"

"Yes; they have written to Mr. Marson. They will produce the handkerchief. They will tell the story. You refuse to answer me; you must answer them. Fanks told me of this to-day, and I came up at once to warn you."

"It is useless! I can say nothing."

"You must say something. It is a question of life and death. The affair is in the hands of the law. Nothing can save you but your own denial. You must prove the falseness of this horrible story. It means disgrace. It means prison! It means death!"

She looked up suddenly as he spoke those last words, and crossing over to him, laid her hand on his shoulder, speaking wildly, and with uncontrollable agitation.

"I know what it means. You need not tell me that. I know it means the smirching of my fair fame as a woman, I know that it condemns me to an ignominious death; but I can say nothing. Roger, on my soul, I can say nothing. I cannot say I am innocent; I dare not say I am guilty. I must be silent. I must be dumb. Let them say what they like; let them do what they like; my honour and my life rest in the hands of God, and He alone can save me."

"But you are innocent!"

She burst into tears.

"Oh, why do you torture me like this? I tell you I can say nothing; not even to you. My lips are sealed. Let them come up to-night; let them accuse me; let them drag me to prison. I can say nothing. For days, for nights I have dreaded this, now it has come at last. You believe me innocent, my true-hearted lover, but the world will believe me guilty. Let them do so. God knows my sufferings. God knows my anguish, and in His hands I leave myself for good or ill."

He heard her with bowed head, and at the end of her speech he felt a soft kiss on his hair. When he looked up the room was empty.

"Judith!"

There was no reply, and the only sound he heard was the distant slamming of a door that seemed to his agonised imagination to separate him from the woman he loved--for ever.