Archibald Malmaison: Chapter 13

Chapter 13

During all the months of consternation, speculation, and vague hue-and-cry
that followed the mysterious disappearance of the Honorable Mr. and Mrs.
Pennroyal, it never for one moment occurred to any one to suggest any
connection between that unexplained circumstance and the equally curious
but unpertinent fact that poor Sir Archibald had "gone daft" once more.

How should it? It was known that Sir Archibald had been in his room all
that day and evening up to the time when he came into his mother's chamber
without his wits. It was true that there had been no love lost of late
between the houses of Malmaison and Pennroyal, but that was neither here
nor there.

The notion that the vanished persons had met with foul play was never
seriously entertained, it being generally agreed that Mr. Pennroyal had
ample reasons for not wishing to remain in a place where his credit and
his welcome were alike worn out. In all likelihood, therefore, the pair
had slunk away to foreign parts, and were living under an assumed name
somewhere on the Continent, or in America.

It was not surprising that they had gone together, for it was known that
they were on very good terms with each other, especially during the last
year. An idle story of a groom, who affirmed that he had been present at
an interview between Mrs. Pennroyal and Sir Archibald, on horseback, a few
weeks before the trial, when, according to this narrator, they had
appeared to be rather friendly than otherwise, was not thought to be in
any way to the point.

So the months passed away, and the years followed the months; the house and
the lands of the Pennroyals were sold, and their very name began to be
forgotten. The daft baronet and his aged mother went on living at
Malmaison in a quiet and uneventful manner, seeing very few people, and
doing nothing except allow their large property to grow larger. Yet, in
spite of their retiring inoffensiveness, a shadow seemed to brood over the
ancient house.

The old story of Sir Archibald's past exploits in the magical line, and of
his ancestors before him, were still revived occasionally round evening
firesides; and it was submitted whether his present condition were not a
judgment upon him for having tampered with forbidden mysteries.

In the opinion of these fireside juries, there was a curse upon Malmaison,
especially upon that part of it which contained the east chamber. That
room was haunted, and had never been haunted so badly as during the few
days immediately following Sir Archibald's loss of memory.

It may have been a demon's carousal over the sad plight of the poor,
foolish young baronet. At all events shrieks had been heard, faint and
muffled, but unmistakable, proceeding from that region, when everybody
knew that no living soul was there or could be there; but all the servants
at Malmaison could swear to the sounds. Ay, the place was accursed.

Late on the night of the 22d of January, 1833, Sir Archibald found himself
mounting the staircase of Malmaison, with but an indistinct idea of how he
came to be doing so. He could not recollect whether he had seen his mother
and the servants or not. No wonder if his thoughts had been a little
absent, with such a dark and burdensome secret as that which lay upon his
soul. But, of course, he must have seen them. He had left Kate with the
intention of doing so, within this very hour; and how should he be coming
up-stairs, unless from the execution of that purpose? His mind was busy
with many projects. It would probably be thought that Mr. and Mrs.
Pennroyal had left the country to escape creditors. If only the pond
froze, and the cold weather held on for a week or two, there would be no
trace that could lead to a suspicion of anything else. For himself, he
would find no difficulty in proving an alibi, if it came to that. And
after all, he had but acted upon compulsion, and in self-defence, and upon
equal terms. He was guilty of no crime, except--well, call it a crime; he
was willing to bear the brunt of that. So they would be able to get away
soon, and in Italy, Spain, somewhere, anywhere, they could live and be
happy many years. Perhaps after a time they could venture to marry and
return openly to England. There were numberless and indefinite
possibilities in their favor. Life was all they wanted, and life they had.
They were both young; the gloom of this unlucky tragedy would soon be
dispelled. Kate had been nervous and distraught when he left her, and no
wonder, poor love! but wine, and food, and warmth would soon bring the
color back to her cheeks and the light to her eyes. Lovely Kate! sweet,
wayward, tender, haughty, but his own at last--his own in spite of earth
and heaven! Yes, he and she would have their will and take their pleasure
in spite of God and man; and if God would kill them, then, at any rate,
they would die together, and in each other's arms.

With these and many like thoughts flying through his mind, Sir Archibald
Malmaison reached the east chamber struck a light, and lit the candle that
stood on the table beside the door. He looked at his watch--half-past
eleven; he was within his time then; he had been absent less than half an
hour. What was Kate doing, he wondered? He stopped a moment, picturing her
to himself in some luxurious attitude; but his impatience would not suffer
him to delay. He quickly got the silver rod from its receptacle, opened
the concealed door, and went in, carrying the lighted candle in his hand.
In a moment he was at the inner oaken door; it resisted his attempt to
open it. Then he recollected that he had locked it for additional
security. The key was in the lock; he turned it, and entered.

An involuntary cry of surprise escaped him. Instead of the soft blaze of
light that he had expected, the room was full of a heavy darkness, that
seemed to rush out to meet him, and almost overwhelmed the feeble glimmer
of his wretched candle. And why was it so deadly cold? Where had gone that
cheerful fire which was burning so ardently on the hearth half an hour
ago? Could Kate have put out the lights and gone off? Impossible, since
the doors were fastened. Ah, there she was!

She was kneeling with her face bowed forward on her arms, which rested on
the seat of one of the low chairs. Her attitude was that of passionate
prayer. Her thick brown hair was unfastened, and fell over her shoulders.

She made no movement. It was strange! Was she praying? Could she be asleep?

He took a step or two, and then stopped. Still no movement.

"Kate!" he said in a hushed voice; and as she did not answer, he spoke more
loudly: "Kate, I have come back; and I've a mind to scold you for letting
the fire go out, and startling me with this darkness. What are you doing
on your knees? Come, my darling, we want no prayers to-night. Kate ...
will you give me a kiss now?

"Perhaps she may have fainted. Poor darling, she must have fainted!"

He went close up to her, and laid his hand on her shoulder: he seemed to
grasp nothing but the empty stuff of the dress. With a terrified,
convulsive motion, he pulled her round, so that the head was disturbed
from its position on the arms, and the ghastly mystery was revealed to his
starting eyeballs. The spectacle was not one to be described. He uttered a
weak, wavering scream, and stood there, unable to turn away his gaze.

I must confess that I do not care to pursue this narrative any farther:
though it is just at this point, according to my venerable friend Dr.
Rollinson, that the real scientific interest begins. He was constantly
with Sir Archibald during the eight or nine months that he remained in
life after this episode; and made some highly important and edifying notes
on his "case," besides writing down the unhappy baronet's confessions, as
given from time to time. After his death, the Doctor made an autopsy of
the brain, and discovered--I care not what! It was not the mystery of the
man's soul, I am convinced.

I have adhered strictly to the facts throughout. Of course some of the
conversations have been imagined, but always on an adequate foundation of
truth or logical inference. All the dates and "coincidences" are genuine.
But, indeed, I prefer fiction, and am resolved never in future to make an
excursion into the crude and improbable regions of reality.

THE END.

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