Jones nodded.
“I can understand that. But why was she so—er—well, clandestine?”
“Because of her father, who would not hear of the plumber.”
“Oho!” Jones exclaimed. “It was the plumber, was it, whom she married?”
“Well, you see, from the way Nina put it, he was not an ordinary plumber; he was what you might call a wholesaler. It is true that—”
“At the same time,” Jones interrupted, “the fact could hardly console you.”
“What could? I tried to forget—not to remember, rather—but with grief no one can argue. To banish it there is nothing but time and silence.”
“And someone else,” Jones maliciously cut in.
Rochester, exhaling smoke, looked through it at him.
“As you say. Nina became my wife. As such, and more particularly since she is no longer here, I cannot decently say anything against her. But that you may understand the situation, I can, and without discredit to her, admit that she suffered from an affliction which, probably congenital, was therefore not in the least her fault. She simply could not help it.”
“You are referring to her heart?”
“Well, yes, her heart. Now in that novel of yours—In Silk and Scarlet, isn’t it—how was it that you defined jealousy?”
“Jealousy!” Jones blankly repeated. “I am sure I don’t know; but wait a second. ‘The barometer of the affections’—was that it?”
“No. You called it inflammation of the mind, and that, poor woman, is precisely what she had. Nothing whatever, a chance remark, a momentary delay, the call of the telephone, anything, no matter what, was ground for suspicions which, believe me, were unfathomable. To argue with her was as profitable as talking at a phonograph. Once wound up, nothing could stop her.”
Except a bullet, Jones with sudden insight reflected.
“It is possible,” Rochester continued, “that she cared for me; but it is the misfortune of the jealous that they must love as though they hated, and the quintessence of it all she distilled into scenes that made life so unendurable that I took to going out. Where? Anywhere. Wherever I knew she would not be. And then, one day, I saw her.”
Appreciatively Jones gestured.
“From what you have told me, it was inevitable that Mrs. Rochester should have followed you.”
“I am not speaking of her. It was Priscilla that I saw.”
“And the plumber?”
“No; she was alone. It was on Fifth Avenue.”
“But you asked after him?”
“Yes, I did. I approached, raised my hat, and said: ‘It is so long since I have seen you. I hope you are well. And how is your husband?’—words simple enough, as you will admit, but before them she backed and wilted. Actually I could see circles forming under her eyes. Shall I ever forget the look in them? It was the imploring look of a terrorized child. With that look she shrank from me and gasped: My husband?’
“I hastened to reassure her. ‘Forgive me,’ I said, ‘I know it is a secret; but it is one I have never mentioned, one which I never thought I should mention, one which I never thought could be.’
“ ‘My husband?’ she tremblingly repeated.
“ ‘I learned of it the day after I last saw you,’ I continued. ‘Pray do not be alarmed. It was Mrs. Rochester who told me. She has not told anyone else, nor shall I.’
“With a gesture infinitely pathetic she half raised a hand. ‘But I have no husband!’
“In view of what had gone before, that seemed a bit needless, and I took it up. ‘You have perhaps forgotten that my wife was your bridesmaid. She told me in confidence that you married a’—plumber, I was about to say, but somehow it seemed incongruous, and for it I substituted—‘a man to whom your father objected.’
“I had spoken very gently, but at each word she winced. It was as if I were striking her. Meanwhile her underlip had been quivering. I could see her bite it. She closed her eyes and threw her head back. I thought she was going to faint. As I realized afterward, she was reabsorbing her tears. But in a moment she looked at me, tried to speak, yet visibly she could not. Instead, she gave me a hand, and with the other she motioned at a taxi. She moved toward it and got in. I would have followed, but she closed the door, lifted her two hands, and, her lip still quivering, murmured:
“ ‘May God forgive her, Philip! It is all untrue. I had intended to be yours.’
“ ‘Where to, lady?’ the chauffeur asked.
“She must have replied, for she sank back, the motor veered, it was off, and I was alone in the crowd.”
Rather dramatic, Jones professionally reflected.
Rochester motioned.
“When people go mad, they are said to see red. Perhaps they do. What I saw was divorce. I saw, too, how it could be hastened; for I saw something else—a pistol, which I knew would be compelling, and which was then at the house. I hurried home. Nina was not there. I got the pistol and waited. Finally I heard her at the door, heard the servant open it, heard her step as she entered the room where I stood.
“How I looked, pistol in hand, I cannot say; but at sight of it and of me she stopped, her eyes widened, her mouth parted, she was going to scream. She must have seen that I knew. Then at once I came out with it.
“ ‘You lied to me! You told me Priscilla was married. You invented it to get me for yourself. Take that!’
“With the ridiculous noise of a firecracker, the pistol went off. Point-blank I had fired. She half circled and tumbled over on her face. I threw the pistol under the table and rang. When the servant came I sent for a physician. You know the rest.”
Jones, who had been surveying the ceiling, looked down. Before him, on the table, was the knife with the promise—“Penetrabo.” But beneath the surface of this drama he could not penetrate. The tale of it startled him into a belief in miracles. Only a
