A Mad Marriage by May Agnes Fleming (best ebook reader android .TXT) đ
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he had played at last.
âHe had caught cold after a horrible fit of D. T., and I suppose his
devilâs race was runâtyphoid fever supervened, and the gallant major
was going to die. Rosamond, with him still, nursed him faithfully and
devotedly, and tried with all her power to keep me from seeing him at
all.
ââYou can do no good, Gordon,â she would plead; âkeep awayâdonât go
in. You may catch the fever. He wants no one but me.â
âThe bare thought of my entering the sick room seemed a perpetual terror
to her. She would have no nurse, she would wait upon him herself, she
almost tried by force to keep me from seeing him. Off and on he was
delirious; as a rule he had his wits about him though, and would grin
like a satyr to the last.
ââSheâs afraid Iâll peach, Caryll,â he whispered to me one day, with a
wink. âBlessed if I wonât, though. I never cared about her, and it
would be a shame, a cursed shame, to go off hooks, you know, and not
tell.â
ââNot tell what?â I asked, sternly.
ââNever you mind, Gordon, my boy, youâll hear it all fast enough. You
ainât half a bad sort, hanged if you are, and Iâm sorryâyes, Iâm sorry
I did it. It was a devilish unhandsome trick for one gentleman to play
on another; but it was good fun at the time, that youâll be forced to
admit yourself. Hush-h! here she comes, not a word to her. Iâll tell
you all by and by.â
âI was bewilderedâhalf startled also; but I set it down to delirium.
She came in, looking with quick, apprehensive eyes from his face to
mine.
ââHas he been talking?â she asked.
ââNothing you would care to hear, Rosie, my girl,â he cut in, with a
feeble chuckle; ânot a word about youâask him if you like.â
âI set it all down to delirium. âWhom the gods wish to destroy they
first make mad.â My madness had lasted over four monthsâI was destined
to become sane again.
âThe major sank lower and lower. His last hour was near. Rosamond never
left him when she could; she still strove with all her might to keep us
apart. I sometimes wonder now she did not hasten his end. She was quite
capable of it, I believe.
âOne night I was to dine in the town. I had left the cottage and nearly
reached my destination. It was a stormy February night, the streets
white with drifting snow, a sleety wind blowing piercingly cold. Some
unaccountable depression had weighed upon me all day; my wife was
strangely changed of late; I could not understand her. The major was
very low, almost at his last. What if he died while I was absent,
Rosamond and the servant-maid all alone. I turned hastily back; I would
share my dear girlâs vigil, I thoughtânay, I would compel her to go to
bed and to sleep; she was utterly worn out, and I would watch alone.
âI returned to the house, and entered softly. The maid-servant was alone
in the sick room. Miss Rosamond had fallen asleep at her post from sheer
weariness, and had been persuaded to go to her own room and lie down.
ââYou did quite right,â I said; âI will share your watch. I donât think
he will last out the night.â
âThe sick manâs eyes openedâa cunning leer in them to the last.
ââDonât you, Gordon, my boyâdonât you think Iâll last out the night?
Then, by Jove! itâs time to make a clean breast of it. Whereâs she? Your
wife?â
ââUp-stairs in her own room, asleep.â
ââThatâs right. When the catâs away the mice can play. Send that woman
back to the kitchenâIâve a word or two for your private ear.â
âI obeyed. The woman went.
ââNow lock the door, like a good fellow, and come here. Sit close, for
my windâs almost gone, and I canât jaw as I used. And I say! look here,
Caryll! no violence, you know. Iâm an old man, and Iâm dying, and Iâm
sorryâyes, blessed if I ainâtâthat I ever fooled you as I did. All the
reparation I can make, I will makeâthatâs fair, surely. Now, listen,
here, Caryll; this has been a put-up job from first to last. Rosamondâs
not my daughter!â
ââNot yourââ
âI sat staring at him aghast.
ââNot my daughterâno, by George! My daughter, the one in Bermuda, you
know, is in Bermuda still, and a deuced hard-featured young womanâtakes
after her mother, and wouldnât touch her disreputable old dad with a
pair of tongs. No, Gordon, lad, the girl youâve married isnât my
daughter. I donât know whoâs daughter she is. She doesnât know herself.
Sheâs your wifeâworse luck; but sheâs nothing to me.â
âI sat stunned, dumb, listening. If my life had depended on it, I could
not have spoken a word.
ââIâll tell you how it was, Caryll,â the dying old reprobate went on.
âGive us a drop of that catlap in the tumbler first. Thanks. It was in
New York I met her firstâin New York, just a month before I brought her
here. Strolling down the Bowery one night I went into a concert-room, or
music-hall, of the lowest sort. Bowery roughs, with their hats on and
cigars in their mouths, were lying about the benches yelling for
âRosamondâ to come out and give them a song. Presently the wretched
orchestra began, the green baize drew up, and, in a gaudy, spangled
dress, a banjo in her hand, tawdry flowers in her hair, âRosamondâ came
bounding forward, smiling and kissing hands to her vociferous audience.
So I saw her for the first timeâI swear it, Caryllâthe girl you have
made your wife!â
ââShe sang song after songâyou can imagine the highly-spiced sort of
songs likely to suit such an audience. They applauded her to the echo,
stamping, clapping, whistling, yelling with wild laughter and delight,
and all the while I sat, and stared, and wondered at her beauty. For
tawdry, and painted, and brazen as she was that night, her beauty, in
all places and at all times, is a thing beyond dispute. It was then,
sitting there and looking at her, that the plot came into my head, put
there by her guardian angel, the devil, no doubt. This is what it was:
ââTake that girl off the stage, clothe her decently, drill her in her
part for a week or twoâsheâs a clever little baggageâtake her back to
Toronto, and pass her off as your daughter. Sheâs got the beauty and
grace of a duchess, and thereâs more than one soft-headed, soft-hearted
fool among the fellows there, who will go mad over her black eyes, and
be ready to marry her out of hand before sheâs a month among them.
Thereâs that young chap, Caryll, for instanceâoh, yes. Gordon, my boy,
I pitched upon you even thenâheâs the heir to one of the finest
fortunes in the kingdom, and last man on earth likely to doubt or
investigate. The thingâs worth trying. Of course, when the fish is
hooked I come in for the lionâs share. Ecartïżœâs not an unprofitable
amusement, but there may be better things in this wicked world even than
ïżœcartïżœ.
ââIt was a brilliant ideaâeven you must own that. I lost no time in
carrying it out. I hunted up Rosamond behind the scenes. Good Ged! such
scenes! and there and then had a long and fatherly talk with her. She
gave me her history frankly enough; she had no parents, no friends to
speak of, no relations. She never had had a father so far as she knew,
and her drunken drab of a mother had died two years before. She was
sixteen, and had made her debut a year before, under the friendly
auspices of a negro minstrel gentleman, who had taught her to strum the
banjo and play upon the piano.
ââI said nothing of my plan that night. I slept upon it, and found it
rather strengthened than otherwise by that process. I hunted up Mlle.
Rosamond (in private life they called her Sally) next morning, in her
Bowery attic, and laid my plan before her. Gad, Caryll, how she jumped
at it! Her eyes glittered at the mention of the fine dresses and gay
jewelryâshe had ambition beyond her sphere, had devoured a great deal
of unwholesome light literature, and was equal to anything. I found her
cleverer even than I had dared to hopeâthe girl had been more or less
educated at a public school, and could actually talk well. The negro
minstrel gentleman thrashed her when he got drunk; she was tired of her
life and Bohemian associates, to call them by no fouler name, of this
dirty Quartier Latin of New York, and eager and ready to go.
ââWhat need to waste words, Caryllâthe thing was an accomplished fact
in three weeks. The rest you knowââwe came, we saw, we conquered,â
moreâs the pityâfor you. The little Bowery actress played her part
con amoreâthe pretty little yellow-eyed spider wove her web, and the
big, foolish fly walked headlong in at first sight. You married her!â
âHe paused a moment, and motioned me to give him his cordial. The clammy
dew of death was upon his face already, his voice was husky and gasping,
but he was game to the end and would finish. I held the drink to his
lips in a stupid, dazed sort of way, far too stunned to realize what I
heard as yet.
ââYou married her, Gordon,â he went on, âandâgive the devil his dueâI
believe sheâs fond of you. That wasnât in the bond, but she is, and her
efforts of late days to have me die and âmake no signâ were worthy a
better cause. But I ainât such an out-and-out bad âun as that,
Caryllââpon my word I ainât; and then, money canât do a man any good
when heâs going to die. So Iâve made a clean breast of it, my boy, and
you can do as you please. Youâre awfully spoony on her, I know, and if
you like, why, say nothing about it; stick to her through thick and
thin. Other men have married girls like Rosieâand sheâs fond of you, as
I say, poor little beggar, and you can take her to England and no one
will be the wiser. The fellows here wonât peach; they know it, Caryll;
the thingâs leaked out somehow, andââ
âHe stopped. I had risen to my feet. I donât know what he saw in my
face, but he held up both hands with a shrill cry of horror, not to kill
him. The next I remember, I was out in the black, storm-beaten street.
It was close upon midnight. At that hour and in that storm there was no
one abroad in Toronto. A wheel of fire seemed crashing through my brain,
some nameless, awful horror had fallen upon me. In a stupefied way I was
conscious of thatâof no more. And thenâall in an instant it seemed to
me the night had passed and the morning had broken. I had spent hours in
the freezing streets. With the morning light the mists of my brain
seemed to clear, and the full horror of this most horrible thing came
upon meâthis unheard-of, shameless deed.
âThe girl I had loved, had trusted, had married, was the vile thing he
made her outâthe offcast of the New York streets. And the man who had
blindly loved her she
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