however, forget that those whose lives have been passed in the deception of others, not unfrequently end by deceiving themselves. There is, therefore, nothing incredible in the idea that the Baron R** may have given sufficient credence to the statement of the ‘Zoïst,’ above-mentioned, for the suggestion to his own mind of a design, which by the working of a true, though most mysterious, law of Nature, may really have been carried out. Such, at least, is the only theory by which I can attempt, in any way, to elucidate this otherwise unfathomable mystery.
“Awaiting the honour of your further commands,
“I am, Gentlemen, very faithfully yours,
“Ralph Henderson.”
SECTION I. THE CASE.
Extracts from Correspondence of the Honourable Catherine B**.[1]
1. From Lady Boleton to Honourable C. B** (undated), about October or November of 1832.
“Oh, auntie, auntie, what shall I do? For three nights I have not closed my eyes, and I would not write even to you, auntie dear, because I kept hoping that, after all, things might come right, and he would come back again. Oh, how I have listened to every sound, and watched the road till my poor eyes ache! And now this is the fourth day since he went away, and, oh, auntie, I am so frightened, for I am sure he is gone after that dreadful man, and, oh, if he should meet him, I know something terrible will happen, for you can’t tell how he looked, poor Edward, I mean, when he went away. But, indeed, auntie, you must not be angry with him, for I know it was all my own fault, for I ought to have told him everything long ago, though indeed, indeed, I never cared for him, and I do love dear Edward so dearly. I was afraid . . . . . . . . .
[Here the MS. becomes in places very blotted and illegible.]
. . . and I thought it was all at an end, and then . . . . . and only a fortnight ago we were so happy . . . . married hardly seven months and . . . . . . . but you must not think I am complaining of him, dear auntie, for you don’t know how . . . . . . . Only if you can, come to me, for I feel getting so ill, and you know it is only . . . . . God bless you, auntie; oh, do come to me if you can. “Gertrude Boleton.”
2. Extract of letter from the Same to the Same, written about four days later.
*****
“I am so sorry to hear you are so ill; don’t try to come, darling auntie; I shall do somehow, and if not, anything is better than this horrible suspense . . . . . No tidings yet, but I cannot write more, for I can hardly see to guide the pen, and my poor head seems to open and shut. God bless you, auntie. “G.”
“I open my letter to thank you so much for sending dear kind Mrs. Ward; she came in so unexpectedly [in a blue[2]] just as if she had come from heaven. I wonder if she has seen Ed. . . . .”
[Here the MS. ends suddenly.]
3. From Mrs. Ward to Honourable C. B**, enclosing the above.
“Beechwood,[3] Tuesday night.
“My dear Catherine,
“I fear I have but a poor account to give you of our dear Gertrude. Poor child! when I came into the room, and saw her looking so pale and wan, and with great black circles round her eyes, I could scarcely keep in my own tears. She gave a little cry of joy when she saw me, and threw herself upon my neck; but a moment after, turned to the writing table and tore open the letter I send you with this, and which was lying ready for the post. The long-continued strain seems to have been too much for her, and she had hardly written a line when her head began to wander, as you will see from the conclusion of her postscript, and in trying to write her husband’s name she broke down altogether, and went off into a fit of hysterics which lasted for several hours. She is now, I am thankful to say, comparatively calm again, though at times her head still wanders, and she seems quite unable to close her eyes, but lies in her bed looking straight before her, and occasionally talking to herself in a low voice, but without seeming to notice anything. I have endeavoured, as far as I dared, to draw from her the history of this sad affair, but can get nothing, poor child, but eager assurances that it was ‘all her fault,’ and that ‘indeed, indeed, he was not to blame.’ It seems as though my coming—though certainly a great relief to her—had had the effect of putting her on her guard lest anything should escape her unfavourable to her husband, and her whole faculties seem to be concentrated in the endeavour to shield him from reproach. I fear, however, there can be no doubt that he has been very seriously to blame; indeed, from all I can gather, the fault seems to have been entirely on his side. What is the precise history of this unhappy business I have not been able to learn; but it seems that Sir Edward, who is certainly a most violent young man, and I fear also of a most jealous temperament, contracted some suspicion with regard to that Mr. Hawker who so perseveringly persecuted poor Gertrude the winter before last, and to have left Beechwood, after a very distressing scene, in pursuit of him. Mr. Hawker is supposed to be on the Continent, and it is known that Sir Edward took the Dover Road, which, as you know, passes close by this place. This is all I can at present learn with any certainty, though I hear but too much from the servants, who are all in such a state of indignation at Sir Edward’s treatment of their mistress, that I have the utmost difficulty in restraining it from finding some open vent. Should I hear more, I will of course let you know at once; but meanwhile I cannot conceal from you my deep anxiety for our dear Gertrude, whose poor little heart seems quite broken, and for whom I am in hourly dread of the effect but too likely to be produced, in her present delicate state, by the anxiety and terror from which she is suffering . . . . . You know how much I always disliked the match, and I feel more than ever the
