Lewis had entered his wife's room within fifteen minutes after she left
it. He looked so ill and weary that the girl, Mary, gave a stifled
scream of fright and surprise.
"Are you sick, sir?" she asked hastily, as he threw off his hat, and
wiped his pale forehead. "Shall I tell Mrs. Hammond that you are here?
She went down to the ball-room awhile ago."
"What did you say? No!" replied he, shortly.
His frown, rather than his tone, silenced her. He had picked up the
envelope Philip had dropped on the table, and his face darkened still
more. Too proud to question a servant of her mistress' actions and
associates, he believed that he had gathered from this mute witness
all that was needful to know. As a privileged habitue of the cosy
boudoir he had been at such pain to procure and make fit for his wife's
occupancy, another had sat here and read his evening mail, while
awaiting her leisure; careless of appearances, since the deceived one
would not be there to notice them, had tossed this note down with as
much freedom as he would have done in his own apartment.
Through the open windows poured the distant strains of the band; and,
seized by a sudden thought, he caught up his hat and strode out, along
piazzas and through halls, to the entrance door of the ball saloon. As
Sarah's ill-fortune ordained it, the piercing glance that ran over and
beyond the crowd of spectators and dancers detected her at the instant
of Philip's taking his lowly seat at her side. Jeannie's pink attire
was concealed by the drapery of a lady, whose place in the set then
forming was directly in front of her. Lewis saw but the two, virtually
tete-a-tete; and, as he obtained fleeting glimpses of them through the
shifting throng, marked Philip's energetic, yet confidential discourse,
and the intentness with which she listened, until, warmed or excited by
his theme, Sarah lifted her downcast eyes and spoke, with what feeling
and effect her auditor's varying expression showed.
The gazer stood there like a statue, unheeding the surprised and
questioning looks cast by passers-by upon his traveling-dress, streaked
with dust--his sad and settled visage, so unbefitting the scene
within--while Philip made the tour of the room, with Sarah upon his
arm, until they took their stations for the dance; he, courteous and
attentive--she, smiling and happy, more beautiful in her husband's eyes
than her blonde sister opposite; and he could stay no longer. If Mary
had thought him sick and cross at his former entrance, she considered
him savage now, for one who was ordinarily a kind and gentle master.
"You can go to your room!" he ordered, not advised. "I will sit up for
Mrs. Hammond!"
"I have slept in the nursery, sir, while you were away."
"That cannot be to-night. I will find you some other place."
He had no intention that the anticipated conversation with his wife
should be overheard.
"I can stay with a friend of mine, sir, only a few doors off."
"Very well!"
Quickly and quietly the nurse arranged the night-lamp and the child's
food, that her mistress might have no trouble during her absence, and
went out.
Baby Belle slumbered on, happily wandering through the guileless
mazes of baby dreamland; one little arm, bared from the sleeve of
her gown, thrown above her head--the hand of the other cradling her
cheek. The father ventured to press a light kiss upon the red lips.
In his desolation, he craved this trifling solace. The child's face
was contorted by an expression of discomfort, and, still dreaming, she
murmured, in her inarticulate language, some pettish expression of
disgust.
"My very child shrinks from me! It is in the blood!" said the unhappy
man, drawing back from the crib.
If his resolution had waned at sight of the sleeper, it was fixed
again when he returned to his chair in the outer room. He raised his
head from his folded arms when he heard Philip and Sarah approaching,
but did not otherwise alter his position. The low tone of their
parting words--one soon learned by the sojourners in hotels and
watering-places, where thin partitions and ventilators abound--was,
to him, the cautiously repressed voice of affectionate good-nights.
But one clause was distinct--"What will Hammond say, when he hears the
story?" They jested thus of him, then. One of them, at least, should
learn ere long what he would say.
"Lewis, you here!"
Sarah changed color with amazement and vague alarm--emotion that
paralyzed her momentarily. Then, as she discerned the tokens of
disorder in his dress and countenance, she hurried forward.
"What has brought you so unexpectedly? Are you sick? Has anything
happened?"
He did not rise; and, resting her hand on his shoulder, she stooped
for a kiss. But his stern gaze never moved from hers--anxious and
inquiring--and his lips were like stone.
"Lewis, speak to me! If you have dreadful news to tell me, for pity's
sake, do not keep me in suspense!"
"I have nothing to say that will be new to you," he said, without
relaxing his hard, cold manner, "and not a great deal that ought to
have been kept back from me when I wished to marry you, believing that
you had a heart to give me with your hand."
As if struck in the face, Sarah sank back into a chair, speechless and
trembling.
"Yes! had you been sincere with me then, grieved and disappointed as
I would have felt, I would have respected you the more, and loved you
none the less for the disclosure. But when, after a year and a half
of married life, I learn that the woman I have loved and trusted with
my whole soul--from whom I have never concealed a thought that it
could interest her to know--has all the while been playing a false
part--vowing at the altar to love me and me alone, when she secretly
idolized another; bearing my name, living beneath my roof, sleeping in
my bosom--yet thinking of, and caring for him, treasuring his keepsakes
as the most precious of her possessions--is it strange that, when
the tongue of a vulgar gossip proclaims my shame in my hearing, and
other evidence proves what I thought was his vile slander to be true
as gospel--is it strange, I say, that I am incensed at the deception
practised upon me--at the infamous outrage of my dearest hopes--my most
holy feelings?"
She threw herself at his feet, clasped his knees, and implored him,
chokingly, to "forgive" her. "Oh! if you knew what I have suffered!"
"What you have suffered!" He folded his arms and looked sorrowfully
down at her crouching figure. "Yes! you were not by nature coarse and
unfeeling! The violence you have committed upon your heart and every
principle of delicacy and truth must have cost you pain. Then you loved
him!"
"Once! a long while ago!" said Sarah, hiding her face in her hands.
"Take care!" There was no softness now in his tone. "Remember that
I have seen you together day by day, and that glances and actions,
unnoticed at the time in my stupid blindness, recur to me now with
terrible meaning. For once, speak the true voice of feeling, and own
what I know already, that all the love you ever had to give belongs
still to your sister's husband!"
"I will speak the truth!" Sarah arose and stood before him--face livid
and eyes burning. "I did love this man! I married you, partly to please
my parents, partly because I found out that by some means my secret
had fallen into unscrupulous hands, and I was mad with dread of its
exposure! It seemed to me that no worse shame could come upon me than
to have it trumpeted abroad that I had bestowed my love unsought, and
was ready to die because it was slighted. I have learned since that
it is far, far worse to live a lie--to despise myself! Oh! that I had
died then!" She battled with the emotion that threatened to overwhelm
her and went on. "Once bound to you, it has been my hourly endeavor
to feel and act as became the faithful wife of a kind, noble man. If,
sometimes, I have erred in thought--if my feelings have failed me in
the moment of trial--yet, in word and deed, in look and gesture, I have
been true to you. No one have I deceived more thoroughly than Philip
Benson. He never suspected my unfortunate partiality for himself; he
believes me still, what I would give worlds to become in truth, your
loyal, loving wife! It is well that you know the truth at last. I do
not ask you how you have obtained the outlines of a disgraceful story,
that I have tried a thousand times to tell you, but was prevented by
the fear of losing your favour forever. This is my poor defence--not
against your charges, but in palliation of the sin of which they justly
accuse me. I can say nothing more. Do with me as you will!"
"It is but just to myself that you should hear the circumstances which
accidentally revealed this matter to me."
He narrated the scene at the restaurant, and the discovery of the
evening. He evinced neither relenting nor sympathy in the recital. Her
confession had extinguished the last ray of hope, cherished, though
unacknowledged by himself, that she might extenuate her error or give
a more favorable construction to the evidence against her. It was not
singular that, in the reaction of disappointment, he was ready to
believe that he had not heard all; to imagine that he could perceive
throughout her statement a disposition to screen Philip, that was,
in itself, a proof of disingenuousness, if not deliberate falsehood.
She denied that he had ever been aware of her attachment or had
reciprocated it. What meant then those words--"hopes in time to have a
nearer claim?" What those impassioned verses? What the linking of their
initials within the shell? the motto on the wooden tablet? While these
subtle queries were insinuated into his soul by some mocking spirit, he
concluded the history of the discovery of the casket.
"I have never opened it since the night before I was married," said
Sarah, with no haste of self-justification. "I put it into the drawer
the day after we went to our house. It has not been unlocked from that
day to this."
"Why keep it at all, unless as a memento of one still dear to you?"
"I felt as if I had buried it. I said to myself: 'If the time ever
comes when I can disinter these relics and show them to my husband,
without a pang or fear, as mementoes of a dead and almost forgotten
folly, he shall destroy them, and I shall have gained a victory that
will insure my lifelong happiness.'"
"And that time has never arrived."
She would have spoken, but her tongue proved traitorous. She crimsoned
and was silent.
Lewis smiled drearily. "You see that I know you better than you do
yourself. It is well, as you have said, that I know all at last. I pity
you! If I could, I would release you from your bondage. As it is, I
will do all that I can for this end."
"Never!" cried Sarah, shuddering. "Have you forgotten our child?"
"I have not!" His voice shook for a second. "She is all that unites
us now. For the sake of her future--her good name--an open separation
ought to be avoided, if possible--if it be inevitable, your conduct
must not be the ostensible cause. To quiet malicious tongues, you must
remain here awhile longer under your mother's care. To accomplish the
same end, I must appear once more in public, and on apparently friendly
terms with--your brother-in-law. When your mother returns to the city,
you had best go, too, and to your own house. Your brother Robert is now
sixteen years old--steady and manly enough to act as your protector.
Invite him to stay with you, and also Jeannie, if you find it lonely."
"What are you saying? Where will you be that you speak of my choosing
another protector?"
"A very important one I have proved myself to be!" he returned, with
the same sad smile. "I have not been able to shield you from invidious
reports; still less to save you from yourself. I sail for Europe day
after to-morrow."
"Lewis, you will not! If you ever loved me, do not desert me and our
child now! I will submit to any punishment but this!" She clung anew to
his knees as she poured out her prayer.
Not a month ago she had turned pale with fright at the suggestion of
this voyage. It was sheer acting then! why not now?
"Objections are useless!" he said. "My arrangements are made. I have
passed my word."
"But you will not leave me in anger! Say that you will forgive me! that
you will return soon, and this miserable night be forgotten!"
"Shall I tell you when I will return?" He raised her head, and looked
straight into her eyes. "When you write to me, and tell me that you
have destroyed the love-tokens in that box; when you bid me come back
for your sake--not for our child's! Until then, I shall believe that my
presence would be irksome to you. It is necessary for our house to have
a resident partner in England. It is my expectation to fill that place
for some time to come; it shall be for you to say how long."
Bowed as Sarah's spirit was beneath the burst of the long-dreaded
storm and her accusing conscience, her womanly pride revolted at this
speech. She had humbled herself in the dust at the feet of a man whom
she did not love; had borne meekly his reproaches; submitted dumbly
to the degrading suspicions that far transcended her actual sin; but
as the idea of her suing servilely for the love she had never yet
valued; of him, indifferent and independent, awaiting afar off for
her petition--hers, whom he had abandoned to the scornful sneers of
the keen-witted hyenas of society; to the cross-examination of her
distrustful relatives; the stings of remorse; left in one word to
herself!--as this picture grew up clearly before her mind, the tide of
feeling turned.
"You reject my prayers and despise my tears!" she said proudly. "You
refuse to accept of my humiliation. Yet you do not doubt me, as you
would have me believe that you do! Else you would not dare to trust
me--the keeper of your honor and your child's fair name--out of your
sight! I throw back the charge in your teeth, and tell you that your
conduct gives it the lie! I have asked you--shame on me that I did!--to
continue to me the shelter of your name and presence; to shield me, a
helpless woman, more unhappy than guilty, from the ban of the world;
and you deny me everything but a contemptible shadow of respectability,
which the veriest fool can penetrate. I would not have you suppose that
your generous confidence in my integrity"--she brought out the words
with scathing contempt--"will deter me from sinking to the level you
are pleased to assign me. If the native dignity of my womanhood, the
principles I inherit from my father, my love for my innocent babe do
not hold me back from ruin, be assured that the hope of winning your
approval will not. To you I make no pledges of reformation; I offer but
one promise. If you choose to remain abroad until I, in spirit, kiss
your feet, and pray you to receive a love such as most men are glad to
win by assiduity of attention, and every pleasing art--which you would
force into being by wilful and revengeful absence--you will never see
your native land again until the grass grows upon my grave!"
She paused for breath, and continued more slowly. "While your child
lives, and I remain her guardian, I will use your means for her
maintenance--will reside in your house. If she dies, or you take her
from me, I will not owe you my support for a single day more!"
Lewis grew pallid to his lips; but he, too, was proud, and his stubborn
will was called into bold exercise.
"Very well! It is in your choice to accede to my propositions, or
not. A share in all that I have is yours; not only during the child's
life, but as long as you live. Before I leave America, I shall deposit
for you in your father's bank a sum which, I hope, you will find
sufficient to maintain you in comfort. Your father will be my executor
in this matter. I shall not confide to him the peculiar circumstances
of my departure, leaving you at liberty to act in this respect, as in
everything else, according to the dictates of your will and pleasure.
At the end of a certain term of years specified by law, you can, if
you wish, procure a divorce; on the ground of my wilful and continued
desertion of you; in which case, the provision for your support will
remain unchanged. As to the child--the mother's is the strongest claim.
I shall never take her from you. Do not let me keep you up longer. It
is late!"
With a silent inclination of the head, she withdrew, and he cast
himself upon the sofa, there to lie during the few hours of the night
that were yet unspent.
He had arisen, and was standing at the window when Sarah entered in the
morning. But for the dark shadows under the eyes, and the tight-drawn
look about the mouth, she appeared as usual; and her "Good-morning," if
cold, was yet polite.
"I imagine," she said, as the gong clashed out its second call, "that
you wish me to accompany you to breakfast, and to preserve my ordinary
manner towards you when others are by. Am I right?"
"You are. This is all I ask. The effort will not be a tedious one. I
leave here at noon."
Arm in arm they directed their steps towards the great dining-hall--to
the view of the spectator as comfortable and happy a pair as any that
pursued that route on that summer morning. Together they sat down at
table, and Mr. Hammond ordered "his lady's" breakfast with his own.
Mrs. Hunt bustled in shortly after they were seated, full of wonderment
at having heard from Sarah's maid of her master's unexpected arrival;
while Jeannie gave his hand a squeeze as hearty as was the welcome in
her smiling face. The Bensons were always late. So much the better.
There were more people present to observe the cordial meeting between
the brothers-in-law, made the more conspicuous by Philip's surprise.
The genuineness of his good spirits, his easy, unembarrassed manner,
was the best veil that could have been devised for Sarah's constraint
and Lewis' counterfeit composure.
It did not escape Philip's eye that Sarah ate nothing, and spoke
only to avoid the appearance of singularity; and he believed that
he had discovered the origin of her trouble when Lewis communicated
his purpose of foreign travel. When the burst of surprise subsided,
the latter tried successfully to represent his plan as a business
necessity. Lucy, who never saw an inch beyond her nose--morally and
mentally speaking--except when her intuitions were quickened by
self-love, was the questioner most to be dreaded.
"Why don't you go with him?" she inquired of her sister. "He should
not stir one step without me, if I were in your place. Only think! you
might spend six months in Paris!"
"How would Baby Belle relish a sea voyage!" returned Sarah.
"Nonsense! How supremely silly! One would suppose that she was the
only member of the family whose comfort was to be consulted. Rather
than expose her to the possibility of inconvenience, you will deprive
yourself of profit and pleasure, and be separated from your husband for
nobody knows how long. This shows how much these model married people
really care for one another. When put to the test they are no better
than we poor sinners, whom everybody calls flirts. Phil, are those
muffins warm? This one of mine has grown cold while I was talking."
"How are the horses, Benson?" inquired Lewis. "Have they been exercised
regularly?"
"Yes, and are in capital order. You could have left us no more
acceptable reminder of yourself than those same fine bays."
"If you have no other engagement, suppose we have them up before the
light carriage after breakfast, and take a short drive."
"Agreed, with all my heart! unless Mrs. Hammond quarrels with me for
robbing her of a portion of your last morning with her."
"She will forgive you!" Lewis rejoined, to spare her the effort of
reply.
From her window Sarah saw them whirl off along the beach in sight of
the hundreds of spectators on the sands and about the hotels, and
recognized the ingenuity of this scheme for proclaiming the amicable
feeling between the two.
"But one more scene, and the hateful mockery is over!" thought the
wife, as she heard her husband's step outside the door on his return.
She snatched a paper from the table, and seemed absorbed in its
contents, not looking up at his entrance. Lewis made several turns
through the room, sighed heavily, and once paused, as if about to
address her, but changed his mind.
Then sounded from without the fresh, gurgling laugh of a child, and the
nurse came in with the baby--rosy and bright--from her morning walk on
the shore. She almost sprang from Mary's hold at sight of her father,
and dismissing the woman with a word, he took his darling into his
arms and sat down behind his wife. Inflexibly sullen, Sarah tried not
to listen, as she would not see them; but she heard every sound: the
child's soft coo of satisfaction as she nestled in the father's bosom;
the many kisses he imprinted upon her pure face and mouth with what
agony Sarah well knew--the irregular respiration, sometimes repressed,
until its breaking forth was like sobs; and the proud, miserable heart
confessed reluctantly that, in one respect, his share of their divided
lot was heavier than hers. She was not to witness his final resignation
of his idol. Under color of summoning Mary, he carried the infant from
the room, and came back without her.
"It is time for me to go now, Sarah!"
His voice was calm, and its firmness destroyed what slender
encouragement she might have drawn from the scene with his child, to
hope for some modification of his resolution.
"Will you write to me, at regular intervals, to give me news of Belle?"
"Certainly, if such is your wish."
"And yourself? you will be careful of your health, will you not? And if
I can ever serve you in any way, you will let me know?"
"It is not likely that you can; thank you."
There was a silence of some moments. Sarah stood playing with the
tassel of her morning robe, pale and composed.
"Sarah!" Lewis took her hand. "We have both been hasty, both violent!
Unfeeling as you think me, and as I may have seemed in this affair,
believe me that it almost kills me to part from you so coldly. It is
not like me to retract a determination, but if you will say now what
you did last night--'Do not go!' I will stay, and be as good a husband
to you as I can. Shall we not forgive, and try to forget?"
The demon of resentful pride was not so easily exorcised. At a breath
of repentance--a suggestion of compromise, the fell legion rallied an
impregnable phalanx. She was frozen, relentless; her eyes, black and
haughty, met his with an answer her tongue could not have framed in
words.
"I have nothing to say!"
"'Nothing!' The ocean must then separate us for years--it may be
forever!"
"It was your choice. I will not reverse it."
"Not if you knew that if you let me go I would never return?"
"Not if I knew that you would never return!"
Without another word, without a farewell look, or the hand-grasp mere
strangers exchange, he left her there--the stony monument of her
ill-directed life and affections; the victim of a worldly mother and a
backbiting tongue!