Rensselaer Union, Volume 7, Number 41, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 1 July 1875 — A TERRIBLE ALTERNATIVE. [ARTICLE]

A TERRIBLE ALTERNATIVE.

• BY LADY DUFFUB HABDY. “ You seem to be very much struck by that picture,” said my old friend the Colonel (for, as I don’t mean to betray family secrets, I shall speak of him as the “ Colonel” only), at whose cosy nook in Buckinghamshire I had quartered myself for a few days. The picture he alluded to certainly had attracted an unusual amount of my attention, considering that, as a rule, I am strangely deficient in artistic taste. “Well, yes,” I answered, my eye returning to rest on that particular object which had attracted it many times before; “ regarding it as a picture I should say it is by no means the best of your collection, but, regarding it as a portrait, there is something about it that 4 fetches’ me. It is not that the face is either handsome or intellectual, but there is a strange, weird something about it which the artist seems to have caught fresh from the living face and transferred to the canvas, and which all his after art had failed to paint out.” The picture which gave rise to these observations was that of a man certainly not past middle age, dressed in the fashion of the earlier period of the reign of George 111. The face and figure, as regarded mere form and feature, were commonplace enough; there was nothing sufficiently remarkable in the portrait to attract more than a passing observation; indeed, on looking at it, you felt it ought to represent a kindly, genial gentleman; but somehow it didn’t. There seemed to be something behind it, working out through the painted eyes as though it or they had seen what they should not, and were haunted by some awful mystery that would not be hidden even in the grave. Turning my back upon it I shifted the conversation, and my friend seemed by no means displeased to dismiss the subject. We had a long, gossipy chat on many matters interesting to old friends who meet but seldom and with long lapses of time between. It was late before we could make up our minds to separate. At last, as I left the room, candlestick in hand, I could not help, imainst my will, casting a furtive glance at the portrait, and hastily shut the door behind me. I was dead tired, for I had come off a long journey; but when I got to bed it was a long time before I could compose myself to~ sleep, and when I did I was troubled in my dreams. The portrait had followed me up-stairs, slipped into the room after me, and tried to get into the bed beside me; but, failing in that, went and leaned against the wall and came out of the frame and climbed up to the top of my bed, hid in the curtain folds, and multiplied itself by thousands, till the whole atmosphere above and around me was filled with the one weird, strange face. In the morning my friend hoped I had slept well. I told him the sort of purgatory I had endured, adding: “ I am sure there is some grim secret connected with that picture; you may as well tell me what it is. If it is a family secret I promise to keep it sacred.” “ Well,” he answered, after a moment’s reflection, “ there is a painful story connected with it. The portrait is that of my frandfather —Dr. Mathias, let us-call him. [e was one of the physicians-in-ordinary to GeorgellL, which position heoccupied long before lie had reached middle-age. He was a courteous, genial, kindly man, full of those social qualities which make a man a favorite of society. So much I have heard. When I knew him things were different. In the year 17T0, full of high spirits and pleasant anticipations, he went on the Continent for a month’s holiday ; he came back at the end of it an altered man —his genial nature clouded;with an ineradicable gloom. He gave up all practice, all society; bought this place and settled here; he received no visits, paid none; he lived in his library among his books, occasionally taking long, solitary rambles about the country. His nature did not degenerate into harshness, but a strange melancholy possessed him; its cause was unknown, so was its cure. He turned his back upon the world, and, though he was no world-scorner, notliin> r would induce him to enter it again. He was a widower and his only" son—my father—was then a ?boy at Harrow. You may imagine this was not a lively place for a high-spirited young fellow to come home to; they saw little of each other. In duejime illy father married and I was born. Years passed, and one wintry night, when I was about eighteen years old. w 6 received a telegram summoning us here. We came, and were shown into the room where you slept last night. The old min, with the stamp of death upon his face, was propped up on pillows where he had lain for hours, his eyes fixed on the door. Watching for us. As we entered the room his filmy eyes brightened; his eager, outstretched hands trembled as we touched them. With the damp deatli-dew on his brow, his voice quaking, and his whole soul shuddering as he lived over again one terrible moment of his life he told Us the story, which I had better put together in my own words. It appears that duriug lhat momentous visit to the Continent he utft to Naples. ,He was received by the best society, and most hospitably entertained in the most distinguished social, and political Circles,

where lie passed many pleasant hours discoursing and discussing intellectual and scientific subjects—chemistry, surgery, and once, among these things, the use and misuse of iioisons cropped up in the course of conversation; and some one present—a gentleman of some note and importance—asked what was the quickest and easiest death to die. The subject was freely debated. One evening he returned from one of those pleasant gatherings, and in a reflective mood of mind sat for an hour looking over the moonlit city and the beautitul, world-famous bay. It was near midnight when two strangers were shown in to him, who requested his immediate attendance in a case of great urgency. He represented that he was there on a visit ofpleasure, not for professional purposes. They were perfectly aware of that fact, they said; still they urged him so strongly that at last they overcame his scruples, 1 ' and he consented to go with them. A carriage was at the door; he got in first, they followed him, pulled down the blinds, and the carriage rattled away. He did not like his position, and began to suspect that all was not right. They kept utter silence. They seemed to drive a great distance, turning and turning many times. Once he inquired: “ Had they far to go ?” and received the brief answer, “ No.” At last they drove into the courtyard of a great house. The door opened as if by magic. There were no lights, he might as well have been blindfolded; there would have been a total darkness hut for the moonbeams which struggled through the stainedglass window and fell in fantastic shadows at their feet as they ascended the wide stone staircase. On reaching the first landing they threw open a door, and for a second he was almost blinded by the blaze of light that streamed out upon him. The door closed behind him as he stepped into the room. He took in the whole aspect of the room at a glance; it was gorgeously furnished and brilliantly illuminated with wax candles; at a table near the heavily-curtained window a man of stern, commanding appearance sat writing. He raised his head as they entered anu, pointing to the far end of the room, exclaimed: “ Your patient lies there, sir.”

My grandfather’s eyes followed the direction of his finger and observed a woman stretched upon a couch. Where had he seen that face before? Slowly it dawned upon his memory. A few days back lie had been to the theater, and, glancing round, was struck by a beautiful fair face, which for the time fascinated him; lie thought it the loveliest there. He looked on it again now; but how changed! The hands were clasped upon the breast as though in prayer; a dumb, white terror was written on the face; and in the great, uplifted eyes there was a hopeless, de-spairing-agony sickening to behold. He inquired wliat was the matter—how she had been attacked, and, seeing that she was gagged, he begged them to release her mouth, that she might answer liis questions, adding: „ “ I must know something of the symptoms before lean attempt a cure.” “Y6tfr business here is to kill, not to cure, doctor,” said one in a strangely sad tone, which accorded ill with liis stern, fearful phrase. “ Your patient has spoken her last word in this world. She is doomed to die by a secret, though strictly just, tribunal, but we would temper justice with mercy and spare<her the shame and public disgrace. You chn cause her to die easily and secretly; therefore we have brought you here.” “If this lady has committed any crime so great as to deserve death,” he answered, full of compassion for the unfortunate, “ she must meet her punishment from the hands of the public executioner, not by mine.” “By yours, and yours only,” said one of his conductors, gravely. “ There is no time to waste in mere words. She knows she has deserved death, and she knows that she must die.” “God forbid!” exclaimed the physician, a frozen horror stealing over him. The ominous stillness, the grim aspects of the terrible men, struck a chill to his heart. He realized all the horror of liis position.

“A doctor never travels without bis tools,” resumed the stranger; and as he spoke lie turned the lace back from the tender throat, and, pointing to it, added significantly: “Open the jugular vein; it is the easiest and quickest way to die.” My grandfather started back amazed and horror-struck. These were the very words he had uttered during one of those pleasant gatherings at the house of a Neapolitan a few days back. “How dare you propose to me such a crime l .” he exclaimed. “I am an Englishman, and will not commit murder.” “Pshaw! Your nation produces as many honorable criminals as any other. To your work, sir, and quickly. If you have conscientious scruples, remember an enforced sin lies lightly on the conscience; lay that comfort to your soul. No more words,” he added peremptorily—“ not one; this is the time for action.” “ I refuse to obey your cruel command. Let me go.” The man who had been writing, and until now had taken no part whatever in the scene that was passing round him, then rose up and joined the group. Laying his hand lightly on my grandfather’s shoulder, he said: “There is no escape for you, doctor; every moment you hesitate you prolong that woman’s pain. She must die; and you can dispatch her with painless speed.” “ What if I refuse ? You cannot force me to commit so foul a murder.” He pointed; to two swarthy figures (either soldiers or liveried servants of some nobte family—my grandfather could not tell which) who had been standing motionless by the couch, and answered: “Then those faithfnl fellows will dispatch you and afterward dispatch her; they are not professional, and their work will be clumsily done. If the operation be not performed upon your patient before the clock strikes you know' your fate; if you are obdurate remember jou throw away your own life without saving hers. She'is doomed; no power on earth can save her.” • It was vain to speak or expostulate with those fiends in human form. He .felt they were as stern and inexorable as fate. It. was as cruel as horrible and cow*ardly. Five men assembled to witness the professional murder of a young and beautiful’ woman! What had she done? Whom had she offended? Some secret machinery was at work; these men were mere instru-” ments in the hands of a higher power—they had owned as much; they had no personal interest in the matter. They were there to carry' out justice, they said —secretly, it was * true: but tire woman had been lawfully condemned, and the sentence of the law must be privately executed. The woman’s eyes were fixed upon them throughout the whole of “ this conversation, aqd traveled from one • lace to the other in hopeless agony? not a. word passed her ears, and only ure one despairing, changeless expression sat like a seal

. upon her face. She knew there was no escape for her —none. There \ra*. only the one question to be solved: Was she to die by the unwilling hand of a pitying stranger, or be killed cruelly by professional murderers ? What a world of terror must have been compressed in those few moments of her life as she lay watching and waiting there? The clock began to chime the quarters; it was about to strike. At a given signal the statue-like figure stepped forward and rapidly uncoiled a rope with a noose already made; they were about to slip it over his head ana hang him to a beam which ran along the center of the ceiling. The horror of facing a sudden arid violent end seized him —his death would avail her nothing for whom he died. His senses were in a whirl; he threw up his hands and sprang forward. “ I’ll do it!” he exclaimed, and fell on his knees beside her. “They will have your life; I cannot save you, child; but I can shield you from their rough, cruel hands, and put you painlessly to rest. Forgive me, forgive me, for it is in mercy to you that I do this cruel deed.” The white haqd went out to him and closed over his in a soft, forgiving clasp; the agony died out of the sweet eyes* as they rested one moment on his face; then with a low sigh she closed them and turned away her head. In another moment her young life was ebbing slowly away. He remained by her side, holding her hand in his, and watching till all was over. He would not for a second leave her with those stern men, lest a wounding word or rough touch might disturb her on her way from this world to the next. He was conducted from the place in the same way as he had entered it, and when his conductors took leave of him they suggested that it would be well if he would leave Naples with as little delay as possible. This forced murder —for such it really was—lay upon his conscience to the end of liis life, and filled it with one long remorse—a living nightmare—for that scene was always present to his mind. The change that had so long puzzled us puzzled us no more. He could not carry his secret to the grave with him, so gave it into our keeping. “ It’s a terrible story!” I exclaimed. “ And, unlike most terrible stories, it is true,” he answered. “ Come out for a breath of fresh air and sunshine, to blow this gloomy subject from our senses.” — Pictorial World.