“I DID NOT UNDERSTAND, OR I SHOULD HAVE LOVED YOU MORE.”
“I stand on the brink of a river,
The River of Life to me,
Where the billows of memory quiver,
And rise and fall like the sea.”--A. M. E.
It is the last of November, a dreary, chilly day, and Madame Orne is
sitting before a cheerful fire in a room of the house on Grace street.
She has found no difficulty in proving her identity as the wronged wife
of the late Monsieur Orne.
It is a mere matter of form. She produces all necessary papers, she
summons witnesses from New York, she has Earle Essex, who from the
first to the last has enjoyed Orne’s confidence--she has, indeed, more
than enough to prove her rights, so the discomfited Miss Kingsley
gets legal notice to vacate the premises on which she is unlawfully
trespassing, and goes home to her parents. Madame Orne, moving at
once into the house, takes with her Vivian and little Charlie. There
is no need for Mrs. Essex to keep house now, as it is well known that
her husband has become an inmate of the Inebriate Asylum. Worse than
widowed, more unhappy than words can ever tell, poor Vivian clings to
the loved friend of her girlhood’s days with the strong confidence of
old, loving her even more tenderly now, since her own sorrows have
brought her impulsive nature into nearer communion with that sad heart.
They have drifted back to the dead past. Madame Orne is telling Vivian
the story of her sorrows:
“I have already told you, dear, that I ran away from my husband.
Frightened by his cruelty, and never strong, I developed incipient
heart disease. It was then that in my terror of sudden death from the
daily excitement I underwent that I fled from him. I had never cared
for him much, and soon my only feelings for him were fear and disgust.
“I was but nineteen, you fifteen, when I first became your governess,
Viva, but I was competent, for I had been graduated at Vassar. It was
tacitly understood that I was a widow, and I did not discourage the
idea; I was so thankful for such a good home and such kind friends.”
“And I was so heedless, so thoughtless,” murmured Viva regretfully. “I
did not understand, or I should have loved you more.”
“You remember the night I fainted in the school-room, Vivian?”
“Yes.”
“It was then that I received the first news from my husband after I
had left him. Mr. Essex told me he was in Richmond seeking me.”
She paused in pity for the wife’s blush of shame for her husband.
“Go on, dear Marie,” whispered Vivian affectionately.
“Then I fainted, and was ill for several days, you remember. The
evening of the ball Eve told me--in one of her spasmodic fits of
kindness and curiosity--that Mr. Essex some time previous had mailed
a letter addressed to a Monsieur Orne in Richmond. I knew immediately
that he had betrayed me to my husband. But, dear Viva, I cannot bear to
wound you by telling you this thing of Mr. Essex. Forgive me.”
“Whatever you should tell me I could not scorn Earle Essex more than I
do already,” Vivian answered with flashing eyes.
“After you went to the ball a wild fear and unrest drove me out of the
house and down to the river-side to listen in agony for the whistle
of the train on which I feared he would come. There I crouched, ill,
trembling, almost stupefied with fear, and some time after the arrival
of the train I heard footsteps coming along the river-bank. Tottering
to my feet I stood face to face with my husband, and a strong,
rough-looking man, most probably his paid tool in his base mission.
“Oh, Heaven, Viva, I cannot tell you how mad I grew at that sight.
Terror possessed me, indeed, for turning at that sight I leaped into
the river, forgetting all my fear of death in the strong new horror of
life that possessed me.”
“And then?” asks Vivian breathlessly, and Madame Orne answered:
“Then I remember nothing more save that some one sprang after me and
seized my arms just as I was sinking below the surface. I was saved,
but became unconscious immediately. Hours afterward, it seemed to me,
I revived in a close traveling carriage, still in my wet garments,
shaking with ague and burning with fever. Yet my brutal husband
continued railing at me during the whole tiresome journey, that ended
at last in a dreary old farmhouse in a lonely glen. There I struggled
through a long illness, the result of my wetting in the river.
“When I recovered I found myself an absolute prisoner, debarred of
every liberty, and guarded by a surly old man and woman, who never
accorded me one gracious word. My husband in his rage and malice,
desiring to visit me with the severest punishment, had prohibited
me everything that could sweeten the terrors of solitude--books,
music, employment. From the night I parted with you, Viva, until your
husband came and took me away, I led an absolutely idle and miserable
existence, my only books the open face of Nature that smiled upon me
through my grated windows.”
She paused, and folded her small hands listlessly in her lap. Those
white hands, so slender, so beautifully molded, so waxen fair, lay
wearily, as though tired, though they had lifted no burden, and known
no toil for five long years. After all, it is harder to wait and be
still than to labor. Those beautiful violet blue eyes had a tired,
far-off look sometimes that made Vivian tremble. It seemed as if they
were looking into heaven, and wondering how long it must be before she
should attain that heavenly rest.
Suddenly Charlton Leigh was announced, and the shadows of gloom seemed
to flee away before his insouciant presence.