England -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction; Married people -- Fiction; Mystery fiction
“I have a very powerful motive, Mr. Dexter My husband is resigned to the
Scotch Verdict His mother is resigned to it. His friends (so far as I
know) are resigned to it--”
“Well?”
“Well! I don’t agree with my husband, or his mother, or his friends. I
refuse to submit to the Scotch Verdict.”
The instant I said those words, the madness in him which I had hitherto
denied, seemed to break out. He suddenly stretched himself over his
chair: he pounced on me, with a hand on each of my shoulders; his wild
eyes questioned me fiercely, frantically, within a few inches of my
face.
“What do you mean?” he shouted, at the utmost pitch of his ringing and
resonant voice.
A deadly fear of him shook me. I did my best to hide the outward
betrayal of it. By look and word, I showed him, as firmly as I could,
that I resented the liberty he had taken with me.
“Remove your hands, sir,” I said, “and retire to your proper place.”
He obeyed me mechanically. He apologized to me mechanically. His whole
mind was evidently still filled with the words that I had spoken to him,
and still bent on discovering what those words meant.
“I beg your pardon,” he said; “I humbly beg your pardon. The subject
excites me, frightens me, maddens me. You don’t know what a difficulty
I have in controlling myself. Never mind. Don’t take me seriously. Don’t
be frightened at me. I am so ashamed of myself--I feel so small and so
miserable at having offended you. Make me suffer for it. Take a stick
and beat me. Tie me down in my chair. Call up Ariel, who is as strong
as a horse, and tell her to hold me. Dear Mrs. Valeria! Injured Mrs.
Valeria! I’ll endure anything in the way of punishment, if you will
only tell me what you mean by not submitting to the Scotch Verdict.” He
backed his chair penitently as he made that entreaty. “Am I far enough
away yet?” he asked, with a rueful look. “Do I still frighten you? I’ll
drop out of sight, if you prefer it, in the bottom of the chair.”
He lifted the sea-green coverlet. In another moment he would have
disappeared like a puppet in a show if I had not stopped him.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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