move, walk about. That is the only thing to save me for an hour or so.
Here I have been out, and am back again; but the hot monotony goes on.
. . . . How slowly the hours are going by! The train must be in; and they must have arrived. I shall carry this straight into my bedroom now, and beside it I place this little bottle, so convenient and so handy. Lucky I bought it. Sweet little executioner, too decent and genteel almost for a felon like me. Was there ever such impunity—to escape that richly-deserved prison cropping, penal servitude, the number, and the mask, and the twenty years! Richly deserved! And yet have I not been something of a poor victim, weak in his own folly? Mercy, O, mercy for me! O my sweet Dora! I must, I must break through that resolution, and write something—a word. Lost love. . . . But what can I say? The wretched Othello, he gave a sort of message—once—just before he was about to——die.
I pray you in your letters,
When you shall these unlucky deeds relate,
Speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate,
Nor set down aught in malice: then must you speak
. . . . . .
Of one not easily jealous, but being wrought,
Perplexed in the extreme.
Yes, "being wrought," I say piteously, let that be considered! Not that I dare want mercy; why should it be given to me? But who was ever so cruelly wrought, tortured, wrung, hunted on to ruin and death? Othello, poor soul!
I remember the night we were at the
theatre, and heard the unhappy wretch.
It seemed to be real life. O, sultry hours,
advance, advance, and end all! They must
have begun their play by this. Is it sinful
to wish them one last curse, that may
whelm them all together? But what have
I to do with sinners or sinful? Then let
the Judgment follow them, as it has followed
me—sharp, swift, eternal!
What! a cab clattering to the door! Heavens! They are upon me at last! Light is breaking in the cloud. All in good time.
Now to get ready, and play my part with some little dignity. Dignity! Fine dignity indeed!. . . . No, it is only the banker. . . . . There, I have stolen in here again. I cannot sit and talk with him. Neither could I tell him. Much better wait until both are present together, and to both I can then tell all. They will go to the window, I suppose, and call in some one, or Mr. Bernard will send himself for a policeman in a spiked helmet. How little he knows. I don't want to baffle him, or what they call the ends of justice. I shall atone for all, never fear, but in my, own way. . . . . O, some one send money! let there be some miracle wrought, to save my name from the felony! It may be merged, though, in the wretched end. . . . . There! another cab. . . . . It must be Bernard. He has arrived, and is coming up the stairs. Now, now. Heaven compose me, just for two minutes! Give me strength, God of Heaven, whose laws I am about to outrage! But there is, there may be, mercy, and the world has dealt with me, O! so hardly. Tell him all calmly; nothing extenuate, like the wretched Othello; and then, when he pours out his furious reproaches, and turns to send for his police, take this out; have it down in a second. Tell him "I have deceived the senate." No, no, indeed no; but choose that precious moment to beg, beg for her. O Dora, sweet one; come in here, loved picture, in here, next to this vile heart. Let them find it there. . . . . How strange he does not come up! Hark! There is his step at last. Put this in my pocket—now, now for the last scene . . . . or wait—better take it at once—who knows what may interfere? There. How strange—how horrible! Judgment is signed, and signed for ever. Yet I wouldn't go back. Yes, tap away at the door. Come in, Mr. Bernard. What is this? I cannot go to you—now—come in, or it will be too late. The waiter—the waiter with a note. But I have done with notes. But whose hand is this—it seems so dim. Why, not Dora's?
"Our cousin is dead, suddenly, from a fall from his horse. You know what a change that makes to us. Money, lands, everything is ours and my darling's. O! can you bear a surprise? But don't be alarmed, or agitated. Think of what would please you most! I started from Datchley yesterday with Mr. Bernard. We travelled all night. We are here. I am below, waiting, waiting to fling myself into your arms. May I come up to you?"
What is this? I hear her voice outside! . . . . O God Almighty . . . forgive . . . forgive!
The end of Fatal Zero.
The Right of Translating Articles from All The Year Round is reserved by the Authors.
Published at the Office, No.26, Wellington Street Strand. Printed by C. Whiting, Beaufort House, Strand.
