Henry Harland

“ I am very tired, Mr. Hetzel. I have been writing for so long a time that my fingers are cramped, and my back aches from bending over, and my body has become chilled through by sitting still in this damp place, and my head is thick and heavy. Yet I have some things still left to say. You must pardon me if I am stupid and roundabout in coming to the point. And if I do not succeed in making what I have on my mind very clear to you, you must excuse me on the ground that I am quite worn out.
“As I have said, I was frank with Arthur Ripley. I warned him that my past life had been darkened by sin. ”

“ Hetzel, if you were a woman, and if you had ever gone through the agony of a public trial for murder in a crowded court-room, and if all at once you beheld before you the prospect of going through that agony for a second time, I am sure you would grasp eagerly at any means within your reach by which to escape it. That is the case with me. I am a woman. I have been tried for murder once—publicly tried, in a crowded court-room. I would rather spend all the rest of my life in prison, than be tried again. ”

“ I am too heartsick to write, Ruth.”
Hetzel was returning the note to Mrs. Hart, when Arthur stretched out his hand for it.
“Am I not to read what my own wife has written?” he demanded fiercely.
He took in its contents at a glance. Even this sheet of common prison paper was sweet with that faint, evanescent perfume that clung to everything Ruth’s fingers touched. Letting it drop to the floor, “I can’t stand it,” he cried in a loud voice, and left the room.
They heard the vestibule door slam behind him.
“He is mad,” said Mrs. Hart. “He will do himself an injury.” ”

“ It is the duty of the district-attorney to endeavor to secure a conviction—it would be his duty to consent to a plea—when fully convinced in his own mind of the accused person’s legal guilt. But when he is doubtful, or at least not entirely satisfied, of that guilt, as I confess to being in the case at bar, it is his duty to submit the question for arbitration to a jury. That, your honor, is the stand which I am compelled to take in these premises. I entertain grave doubts of the prisoner’s guilt—doubts which could only be set at rest by a verdict rendered in the regular way. ”

“ On entering the parlor, it was with a sharp and significant pang that he beheld, seated at Mrs. Lehmyl’s left, no less redoubtable a creature than a Man. He took a chair, and sat down, and suffered untold wretchedness until that duet was finished. He could not see the man’s face, but the back of his head indicated youth. The vicissitudes of the composition they were playing brought the two performers painfully close together. This was bad enough; but to poor Arthur’s jealous mind it seemed as if from time to time, even when the music furnished no excuse, they voluntarily approached each other. ”

“ What ground have you for believing that any other business will turn up? Has the past been so prolific? Besides, isn’t the summer coming? And isn’t the summer a lawyer’s dull season? You might lose a couple of two-penny district-court cases; but suppose you did. See of what advantage it would be to your reputation. Somebody calls at your office. ’Is Mr. Ripley in?’ ’No,’ replies your clerk, ’Mr. Ripley is abroad on important business.’ ’Ah,’ thinks the caller, ’this Ripley is a flourishing young practitioner.’ And mark my words, nothing hastens success like a reputation for success. ”

“ At first it was very low and soft, a mere liquid murmur; but gradually it waxed stronger and more resonant; and Arthur recognized the melody as that of Schubert’s Wohin. The dreamy, plaintive phrases, tremulous with doubt and tense with yearning, gushed in a mellow stream from out the darkness. No wonder they set Arthur’s curiosity on edge. The exquisite quality of the voice, and the perfect understanding with which the song was interpreted, were enough to prompt a myriad visions of feminine loveliness in any man’s brain. ”

“ Life wasn’t worth living; and, but for his mother and Hetzel, he would put an end to himself forthwith. Yet, the next instant he was recalling the “Yes” that she had spoken yesterday, in response to his “May I call to-morrow?” and the fearless glance with which she had met his eyes. “Ah,” he cries, “it set my blood afire. It dazzled me with visions of impossible joy. I could almost hear her murmur—oh, so softly—’I love you, Arthur!’ You may guess the effect that fancy had upon me.” It is significant that not once did he pity her for her headache. ”

“ For such a comprehension of passion as her music reveals, could never have come to be, except through love. I wonder whether I shall ever know her. Heaven help me, if she should turn out, as Hetzel suspects, old and ugly. But that’s not possible. Whatever the style of her features may be, whatever the number of her years, a young and ardent spirit stirs within her. Isn’t it from the spirit that true beauty springs? ”

“ So I will remain here.’ She asked, ’How old are you?’ I said, ’Twenty-three, nearing twenty-four.’ She said, ’You are a child. You have a long life before you. You are wasting it, moping about in this aimless way here in Europe. Come home with me. Nobody shall recognize you for Judith Peixada. I will give you a new name. You shall be Ruth Lehmyl. Ruth Lehmyl was the name of my daughter who is dead. ”

“ There is a subtle something that broods over human life—as the aroma broods over a goblet of old wine—a something of such fine, impalpable texture, that many men and women are never able to perceive it, but which others of more sensitive organization, feel all the time—are forever conscious of. This is the material which the imagination seizes hold of, and out of which it spins those fantastic, cobweb shapes that practical persons scoff at as superstitions. ”

“ The man who looks at the world through a lover’s eyes, is as badly off as he who looks at it through a distorting lens—objects are thrown out of their proper relations; proportion and perspective go mad; big things become little, and vice versa. Especially is it remarkable how completely his notions of time will get perverted. For instance, the hours flew by with a rapidity positively astounding when Arthur was in Mrs. Lehmyl’s presence. ”

“ What must have been Arthur Ripley’s feelings at this moment, as he beheld his wife, standing within arm’s reach of him, a prisoner in a court of law, prey to a hundred devouring eyes, and recognized his utter helplessness to interfere and shield her!
“Judith Peixada, alias Ruth Ripley,” began the clerk, in the same mechanical, metallic voice, “you have been indicted for murder in the first degree upon the person of Edward Bolen, late of the first ward of the City of New York, deceased, and against the peace of the People of the State of New York, and their dignity. ”

“ Arthur laughed and said, “It is evident to what school you belong. For my part, I always suspect that when a composer disdains to write melodies, it is a case of sour grapes.”
“Yes, he lacks the inventive faculty, and then affects to despise it,” said Mrs. Lehmyl. “My taste is very old-fashioned. Of course every body must recognize Wagner’s greatness, and must appreciate him in his best moods. But when he cuts loose from all the established laws of composition—well, I heard my sentiments neatly expressed once by Signor Zacchinelli, the maestro. ’It is ze music of ze future?’ he inquired. ”

“ Arthur approached the verge of the roof, and looked over at the corner house across the street. The third story windows were open wide, and out of them proceeded that beautiful soprano voice, now practicing intervals—fa-si, sol-do, and so forth. “Well,” he affirmed, “this is a regular romance. Of course a woman with such a voice is young and beautiful and every thing else that’s lovely. And then, living cooped up on the third floor of that dismal corner house—she must be in needy circumstances; which adds another element of charm and mystery. ”

“ Hart wanted to say when she visited you on Tuesday. It is that Arthur—that your husband—had no more idea, when he put that advertisement into the papers, that you were Judith Peixada, than I had, or than the most indifferent person in the world had. When you fancy that he had been trying to find out your secrets behind your back, you do him a—a tremendous injustice. He never would be capable of such a thing. Arthur is the frankest, honestest fellow that ever lived. He doesn’t know what deception means. ”

“ He whistled over the melody of Wohin, imitating as nearly as he could the manner in which she had sung it. When his mind reverted to the Peixada business, as it did presently, lo! the prospective trip to Europe had lost half its charm. He felt that there was plenty to keep one interested here in New York.
All day Sunday, despite the fun at his expense in which Hetzel liberally indulged, Arthur haunted the front of the house. But when he went to bed Sunday night, he was no wiser respecting his musical neighbor than he had been four-and-twenty hours before. ”