All-Story Weekly/Volume 98/Number 3/Fires Rekindled/Chapter 8
CHAPTER VIII.
OLD MEMORANDA—l8l8.
I HAVE several times reread the foregoing, attempting to trace in some part of it participation, conscious and independent, of my own mind. In a certain sense, which I can't precisely define, the entire contents appear to me deeply familiar—as if they treated of events, sights, emotions, which had been both forgotten, and were yet, when thus set forth, interiorly recognizable. But I cannot charge myself with having knowingly formed a single sentence; and I shall provisionally regard the writing—which more resembled the script in the old volume of "Endymion" than my own—as belonging to the phenomenon which physic professors term "trance-writing."
In a sort of structural coherence with my own previous entries in this journal, however, it seems to claim a place in the logical continuity of an experience which I shall not at present characterize, beyond remarking that it is inexplicable on ordinary grounds, and unprecedented. I will add, that I find myself unable to supplement, from any sources of my authentic memory, the narrative which some inadvertent movement of my own, or external accident, may have interrupted. I might no doubt, on a basis of probable conjecture, complete a description of the episode; but I am particularly solicitous to suffer no invasion of that kind to corrupt the integrity of this record.
For days past I have been intending to revisit the Museum Library, but was withheld by an obscure reluctance, which I this morning only overcame. In the interval, I discontinued writing, and tramped over some of the environs of London—Hampstead, Highgate, Blackheath, Greenwich—with no declared object in view, and with no result, unless it be an improvement in my appetite and general physical condition. But to-day, on a sudden impulse, I renewed my edifying intercourse with the librarian.
"You enter like an actor on his cue!" he declared. "I've been mousing about, in odd moments, as my habit is—and it's wonderful, sir, how prolific odd moments may prove!—and this very morning I happened on something which I think may have a bearing upon your investigation!
"The period of the regency, as you know, is a trifle difficult for the explorer; whether by chance or design, many promising 'leads' land one in a cul-de-sac. The regent had many private interests and affairs which were also half public, if you know what I mean; and in his desire—natural, no doubt—to conceal the private part, he might find it necessary to obliterate the public record along with it. But to come to the point—I have unearthed a little bundle of memoranda kept for his private use by a member of the bar from about 1815 to 1820, among which are included notes of information supplied by his solicitors in various cases that came into his hands. Parts of the memoranda are missing; and in others there are erasures or lacunas; but taken by long and large they give one, as I might say, a line!
"Now, one of these copies of information refers to a tragic incident which took place at the Theater Royal, Drury Lane, in the autumn of 1818, in which the name of your ancestor occurs. I have the papers here, under my arm; take a desk, and I'll indicate the passages that seem especially pertinent."
I sat down accordingly—I have never seen the librarian seated—and bending over me, with the papers on the desk, he turned them over as he proceeded.
"Performance, Drury Lane, principal attraction, Mrs. E. Aline Asgard, American, husband a Norwegian composer, from whom she was separated on grounds of cruelty—h-m! h-m! Mr. Asgard had arrived quietly in London—h-m! In consequence of information to effect that H. R. H. had betrayed interest—ah, an erasure!—here we pick it up—had granted several private audiences to Asgard; in consequence of which, under sanction of H. R. H., Asgard laid plans to—page missing here, I fancy—h-m! Ah, here we begin again: Obtained access, either before or during performance, to her private dressing-room in upper story of building—coach in waiting below—as she entered room, seized and attempted to gag her—vide testimony of Mrs. A.'s maid—Captain Lionel Heathcote, overhearing screams, hastened up the stairs and entered room.
"Well, my dear sir, there you are! Examine the report at your leisure. During the struggle, as you will see, the lady received an immediately fatal wound. When attendants of the theater entered, they discovered her lifeless in Captain Heathcote's arms, the window of the room shattered, and, soon afterward, the dead body of Asgard on the pavement below. Legal questions to be determined—by what person or persons were these homicides inflicted, or was either, or were both of them, cases of felo de se? What connection, if any, had or did Captain Heathcote hold in respect to Mr. and Mrs. Asgard?
"Maid testified in effect that Asgard killed his wife, and that in the struggle following Captain Heathcote's appearance, Asgard fell or was forced out of the window. But prosecution contends maid's testimony untrustworthy, as being interested party—and so on and so on! Quite a pretty little nut for legal teeth to crack, you see! But study the documents for yourself—I merely glanced over them; you will notice that on the eve of trial, the governmen withdraws charges against Captain Heathcote, and indicates acceptance of the double suicide theory. Query, whether this action was inspired from a higher source, in order to block investigation which might expose connivance or conspiracy of eminent personage—but all that is crossed out.
"You will note that United States Minister Richard Rush, who had taken an attitude in support of Captain Heathcote, expressed himself satisfied—and so forth and so on! The captain is thought to have returned to his own country—as was perhaps only natural—to be expected, you know! His availability as a diplomatic agent would be invalidated by such an occurrence, of course. And so the waters close above the scene of the tragedy, and the river flows on as before! Quite a little romance, with a tang of mystery, as the novelists would say! But I must be running along—if I can be of any assistance, let me know—I've merely outlined the situation. Ah! I see Professor Hyndman beckoning me—he wants that palimpsest. Yes, professor!"
The amiable, interminable chatter ceased, and I was left to myself with the old barrister's memoranda. I leaned my elbows on the desk and closed my eyes.
I had listened to the ripple of his talk with my outward ears; but, within, I was enacting the drama itself with a passionate intensity and particularly that omitted no detail either objective or subjective. I heard the scream, I was bounding up the stair, I was in the room, the gray-haired ruffian was writhing in my grasp, his left hand clinging to her who was the heart of my soul, whose red-gold hair, flying loose, brushed my cheek, whose dark eyes, even at that moment, sent into mine a look of love unutterable. In a blur beyond was the crouching, moaning figure of Nellie.
Ha! A knife—as my fingers found his throat, the blow fell, and the blade sank to the hilt, not in my breast, but in hers! In the whirl and frenzy that followed, there was a crash of glass, a splintering of wood, and I stood panting and alone, with her worshiped body at my feet, one white arm flung out, face downward, the turgid lamplight glittering on her hair. I kneel down slowly and tenderly lift her. Oh, the hilt of that murderous knife, stiffly protruding, like the stump of some black plant of hell, from her sweet breast! Beloved face, that has so often been pillowed thus on my arm in slumber or in waking, but in love always! Body, still warm, still supple and exquisite as in our kindlings and trances of delight, but gradually chilling and stiffening in the trance that lasts forever!
In that hour, no whisper or admonition of immortality found way to me, but I was buried in a blackness of despair, in which my own soul seemed to be conquered by death. In that blackness I sought her in vain.
After a time, the duration of which I could not measure, I lifted my face from my hands, and looked about me. Above rose the hollow of the great dome of the library, around were the studious alcoves, and the circular sweep of the desks, with figures bent over them, busied with books or writing; other figures pacing leisurely, or hastening; muffled sounds, soft echoes; the present sunk into the past, but the present still. But the vision of a century ago was as yet more vivid and real to me than the life of the passing moment. It faded by imperceptible degrees.
I yawned, and stretched my cramped arms and legs, mechanically collected the papers into an orderly pile, reached for my hat, and got up, heavily, from my chair. A neighboring student said something to me, but I stared vacantly at him, and made no reply. Presently, I found myself standing in the chilly outer air, at the top of the gray stone steps that descended to the street. Was it I that stood there, or some other, wearing my shape? I peered this way and that, with a sense of estrangement from what met my eyes. But my lodgings lay somewhere over yonder. I went down the steps and mingled with the human flow along the sidewalk. As I mended my pace, the unreal impressions fell away, and I reached my door in a normal mood.