"And if division come, it soon is past,
Too sharp, too strange an agony to last.
And like some river's bright, abundant tide,
Which art or accident had forc'd aside,
The well-springs of affection gushing o'er,
Back to their natural channels flow once more."
--Mrs. Norton.
Left alone, Zoe sat meditating on her mother-in-law's advice.
"Oh," she said to herself, "if I could only know that my husband's love
isn't gone forever, I could take comfort in planning to carry it out; but
oh, if he hadn't quite left off caring for me, how could he threaten me
so, and then go away without making up, without saying good-by, even if he
didn't kiss me? I couldn't have gone away from him so for one day, and he
expects to be away for ten. Ten days! such a long, long while!" and her
tears fell like rain.
She wiped them away, after a little, opened her books and tried to study,
but she could not fix her mind upon the subject; her thoughts would wander
from it to Edward travelling farther and farther from her, and the tears
kept dropping on the page.
She gave it up and tried to sew, but could mot see to take her stitches or
thread her needle for the blinding tears.
She put on her hat and a veil to hide her tear-stained face and swollen
eyes, stole quietly down-stairs and out into the grounds, where she
wandered about solitary and sad.
Everywhere she missed Edward; she could think of nothing but him and his
displeasure, and her heart was filled with sad forebodings for the future.
Would he ever, ever love and be kind to her again?
After a while she crept back to her apartments, taking care to avoid
meeting any one.
But Elsie was there looking for her. The children's lesson hours were
over, they were going for a drive, and hoped Zoe would go along.
"Thank you, mamma, but I do not care to go to-day," Zoe answered in a
choking voice, and turned away to hide her tears.
"My dear child, my dear, foolish little girl!" Elsie said, putting her
arms around her, "why should you grieve so? Ned will soon be at home
again, if all goes well. He is not very far away, and if you should be
taken ill, or need him very much for any reason, a telegram would bring
him to you in a few hours."
"But he went away without kissing me good-by; he didn't kiss me last night
or this morning." The words were on the tip of Zoe's tongue, but she held
them back, and answered only with fresh tears and sobs.
"I'm afraid you are not well, dear," Elsie said. "What can I do for you?"
"Nothing, thank you, mamma. I didn't sleep quite so well as usual last
night, and my head aches. I'll lie down and try to get a nap."
"Do, dear, and I hope it will relieve the poor head. As you are a healthy
little body, I presume the pain has been brought on merely by loss of
sleep and crying. I think Edward must not leave you for so long a time
again. Would you like mamma to stay with you, darling?" she asked, with a
motherly caress.
Zoe declined the offer; she would be more likely to sleep if quite alone;
and Elsie withdrew after seeing her comfortably established upon the bed.
"Strange," she said to herself as she passed on through the upper hall and
down the broad staircase into the lower one, "it can hardly be that
Edward's absence alone can distress her so greatly. I fear there is some
misunderstanding between them. I think I must telegraph for Edward if she
continues so inconsolable. His wife's health and happiness are of far more
consequence than any business matter. But I shall consult papa first, of
course."
She went into the library, found him sitting there, and laid the case
before him.
He shared her fear that all was not right between the young couple, and
remarked that, unfortunately, Edward had too much of his grandfather's
sternness and disposition to domineer.
"I don't like to hear you depreciate yourself, papa," Elsie said. "Edward
may have that disposition without having got it from you. And I am sure
mamma would indignantly repel the insinuation that you were ever a
domineering husband."
"Perhaps so; my daughter was the safety-valve in my case. Well, daughter,
my advice is, wait till to-morrow at all events. I must say she doesn't
seem to me one of the kind to submit tamely to oppression. I did not like
her behavior last evening, and it may be that she needs the lesson her
husband seems to be giving her. He certainly has been affectionate enough
in the past to make it reasonable to suppose he is not abusing her now."
"Oh, I could never think he would do that!" exclaimed his mother, "and I
believe in my heart he would hurry home at once if he knew how she is
fretting over his absence."
It was near the dinner hour when Elsie returned from her drive, and
stealing on tiptoe into Zoe's bedroom she found her fast asleep. Her
eyelashes were still wet, and she looked flushed and feverish.
Elsie gazed at her in tender pity and some little anxiety; the face was so
young and child-like, and even in sleep wore a grieved expression that
touched the kind mother heart.
"Poor little orphan!" she sighed to herself, "she must feel very lonely
and forlorn in her husband's absence, especially if things have gone wrong
between them. How could I ever have borne a word or look of displeasure
from my husband! I hope she is not going to be ill."
"Is Zoe not coming down?" Mr. Dinsmore asked as the family gathered about
the dinner-table.
"I found her sleeping, papa, and thought it best not to wake her;" Elsie
answered. "I think she does not look quite well, and that sleep will do
her more good than anything else."
Zoe slept most of the afternoon, woke apparently more cheerful, and ate
with seeming enjoyment the delicate lunch presently brought her by Elsie's
orders; but she steadily declined to join the family at tea or in the
parlor.
She would much rather stay where she was for the rest of the day, she
said, as she felt dull and her head still ached a little.
Every one felt concerned about, and disposed to be as kind to her as
possible. Mrs. Dinsmore, Elsie, Violet, and Rosie all came in in the
course of the afternoon and evening to ask how she did, and express the
hope that she would soon be quite well again, and to try to cheer her up.
They offered her companionship through the night; any one of them would
willingly sleep with her; but she said she was not timid and would prefer
to remain alone.
"Well, dear, I should feel a trifle easier not to have you alone," Elsie
said, as she bade her good-night, "but we will not force our company upon
you. None of us lock our doors at night, and my rooms are not far away;
don't hesitate to wake me, if you feel uneasy or want anything in the
night."
"Thank you, dear mamma," returned Zoe, putting her arms about her mother's
neck; "you are so good and kind! such a dear mother to me! I will do as
you say; if I feel at all timid in the night I shall run to your rooms and
creep into bed with you."
So they all left her, and the house grew silent and still.
It was the first night since her marriage that her husband had not been
with her, and she missed him more than ever. Besides, through the day she
had been buoyed up in a measure by the hope that he would send her a
note, a telegram, or some sort of message.
He had not done so, and the conviction that she had quite alienated him
from her grew stronger and stronger.
Again she indulged in bitter weeping, wetting her pillow with her tears as
she vainly courted sleep.
"He hates me now, I know he does, and will never love me again," she
repeated to herself. "I wish I didn't love him so. Ho said he was sorry he
couldn't give me my liberty, but I don't want it; but he wants to be rid
of me, or he would never have said that; and how unhappy he must be, and
will be all his life, tied to a wife he hates.
"I won't stay here to be a burden and torment to him!" she cried, starting
up with sudden determination and energy. "I love him so dearly that I'll
deliver him from that, even though it will break my heart; for oh, how
_can_ I live without him!"
She considered a moment, and (foolish child) thought it would be an act of
noble self-sacrifice, and also very romantic, to run away and die of a
broken heart, in order to relieve her husband of the burden and torment
she chose to imagine that he considered her.
A folly that was partly the effect of too much reading of sensational
novels, partly of physical ailment, for she was really feverish and ill.
She did not pause to decide where she would go, or to reflect how she
could support herself. Were not all places alike away from the one she so
dearly loved? and as to support she had a little money, and would not be
likely to live long enough to need more.
Perhaps Edward would search for her from a sense of duty--she knew he was
very conscientious--but she would manage so that he would never be able to
find her; she would go under an assumed name; she would call herself Miss,
and no one would suspect her of being a married woman running away from
her husband. Ah, it was not altogether a disadvantage to be and look so
young!
And when she should find herself dying, or so near it that there would not
be time to send for Edward, she would tell some one who she really was,
and ask that a letter should be written to him telling of her death, so
that he would know he wus free to marry again.
Marry again! The thought of that shook her resolution for a moment. It was
torture to imagine the love and caresses that had been hers lavished upon
another woman.
But, perhaps, after his unhappy experience of married life, he would
choose to live single the rest of his days. He had his mother and sisters
to love, and could be happy without a wife.
Besides, she had read somewhere that though love was everything to a
woman, men were different and could do quite well without it.
She went into the dressing-room, turned up the night lamp, and looked at
her watch.
It was one o'clock. At two a stage passed northward along a road on the
farther side of Fairview. She could easily make her few preparations in
half an hour, walk to the nearest point on the route of the stage in time
to stop it and get in, then while journeying on, decide what her next step
should be.
She packed a hand-bag with such things as she deemed most essential,
arrayed herself in a plain, dark woollen dress, with hat, veil, and gloves
to match, threw a shawl over her arm, and was just turning to go, when a
thought struck her.
"I ought to leave a note, of course; they always do."
Sitting down at her writing-desk, she directed an envelope to her husband,
then wrote on a card:
"I am going away never to come back. Don't look for me, for it
will be quite useless, as I shall manage so that you can never
trace me. It breaks my heart to leave you, my dear dear
husband, for I love you better than life, but I know I have lost
your love, and I want to rid you of the burden and annoyance of
a hated wife. So, farewell forever in this world, and nay you be
very happy all your days.
"ZOE."
Her tears fell fast as she wrote; she had to wipe them away again and
again, and the card was so blotted and blistered by them that some of the
words were scarcely legible, but there was not time to write another; so
she put it in the envelope and laid it on the toilet table, where it would
be sure to catch his eye.
Then taking up her shawl and satchel, she sent one tearful farewell glance
around the room, and stole noiselessly down-stairs and out of the house by
a side door. It caught her dress in closing, but she was unaware of that
for a moment, as she stood still on the step, remembering with a sudden
pang, that was more than half regret, that the deed was done beyond
recall, for the dead-latch was down, and she had no key with which to
effect an entrance; she must go on now, whether she would or not.
She took a step forward, and found she was last; she could neither go on
nor retreat. Oh, dreadful to be caught there and her scheme at the same
time baffled and revealed!
All at once she saw it in a new light. "Oh, how angry, how very angry
Edward would be! What would he do and say to her? Certainly, she had given
him sufficient reason to deem it necessary to lock her up; for what right
had she to go away to stay without his knowledge and consent? she who had
taken a solemn vow--in the presence of her dying father, too--to love,
honor and obey him as long as they both should live. Oh, it would be too
disgraceful to be caught so!"
She exerted all her strength in the effort to wrench herself free, even at
the cost of tearing the dress and being obliged to travel with it
unrepaired; but in vain; the material was too strong to give way, and she
sank down on the step in a state of pitiable fright and despair.
She heard the clock in the hall strike two. Even the servants would not be
stirring before five; so she had at least three hours to sit there alone
and exposed to danger from tramps, thieves, and burglars, if any should
happen to come about.
And oh, the miserable prospect before her when this trying vigil should be
over. How grieved mamma would be! dear mamma, whom she loved with true
daughterly affection; how stern and angry Grandpa Dinsmore, how astonished
and displeased all the others; how wicked and supremely silly they would
think her.
Perhaps she could bribe the servants to keep her secret (her dress, her
travelling bag and the early hour would reveal something of its nature),
and gain her rooms again without being seen by any of the family; but then
her life would be one of constant terror of discovery.
Should she try that course, or the more straightforward one of not
attempting any concealment?
She was still debating this question in her mind, when her heart almost
flew into her mouth at the sound of a man's step approaching on the gravel
walk. It drew nearer, nearer, came close to her side, and with a cry of
terror she fell in a little heap on the doorstep in a dead faint.
He uttered a low exclamation of astonishment, stooped over her, and
pushing aside her veil so that the moonlight shone full upon her face,
"Zoe!" he said, "is it possible! What can have brought you here at this
hour of the night?"
He paused for an answer, but none came; then bending lower and perceiving
that she was quite unconscious, also fast, he took a key from his pocket
and opened the door.
He bent over her again, taking note of her dress and the travelling bag by
her side.
"Running away, evidently! could any one have conceived the possibility of
her doing so crazy a thing!" he muttered, as he took her in his arms.
Then a dark thought crossed his mind, but he put it determinately from
him.
"No; I will not, cannot think it! She is pure, guileless, and innocent as
an infant."
He stooped again, picked up the bag, closed the door softly, and carried
her up-stairs--treading with caution lest a stumble or the sound of his
footsteps should arouse some one and lead to the discovery of what was
going on; yet with as great celerity as consistent with that caution,
fearing consciousness might return too soon for the preservation of the
secrecy he desired.
But it did not; she was still insensible when he laid her down on a couch
in her boudoir.
He took off her hat and veil, threw them aside, loosened her dress, opened
a window to give her air, then went into the dressing-room for the night
lamp usually kept burning there.
As he turned it up, his eye fell upon Zoe's note.
He knew her handwriting instantly.
"Here is the explanation," was the thought that flashed into his mind, and
snatching it up, he tore open the envelope, held the card near the light
and read what her fingers had traced scarcely an hour ago.
His eyes filled as he read, and two great drops fell as he laid it down.
He picked up the lamp and hastened back to her.
As he drew near she opened her eyes, sent one frightened glance round the
room and up into his pale, troubled face, then covering hers with her
hands, burst into hysterical weeping.
He set down the lamp, knelt by her sofa and gathered her in his arms,
resting her head against his breast.
"Zoe, my little Zoe, my own dear wife!" he said in faltering accents,
"have I really been so cruel that you despair of my love? Why, my darling,
no greater calamity than your loss could possibly befall me. I love you
dearly, dearly! better far than I did when I asked you to be mine--when we
gave ourselves to each other."
"Oh, is it true? do you really love me yet in spite of all my jealousy and
wilfulness, and--and--oh, I have been very bad and ungrateful and
troublesome!" she sobbed, clinging about his neck.
"And I have been too dictatorial and stern," he said, kissing her again
and again. "I have not had the patience I ought to have had with my little
girl-wife, have not been so forbearing and kind as I meant to be."
"Indeed, you have been very patient and forbearing," she returned, "and
would never have been cross to me if I hadn't provoked you beyond
endurance. I have been very bad to you, dear Ned, but if you'll keep me
and love me I'll try to behave better."
"I'll do both," he said, holding her closer and repeating his caresses.
"Oh, I'm so glad, so glad!" she cried, with the tears running over her
cheeks, "so glad I have to weep for joy. And I've been breaking my heart
since you went away and left me in anger and without one word of good-by."
"My poor darling, it was too cruel," he sighed; "but I found I could not
stand it any more than you, so had to come back to make it up with you.
And I frightened you terribly down there at the door, did I not?"
"O Ned," she murmured, hiding her blushing face on his breast, "how very
good you are to be so loving and kind when you have a right to be angry
and stern with me. You haven't even asked me what I was doing down there
in the night."
"Your note explained that," he said in moved tones, thinking how great
must have been the distress that led to such an act, "and I fear I am as
deserving of reproof as yourself."
"Then you will forgive me?" she asked humbly. "I thought I had a right to
go away, thinking it would make you happier, but now I know I hadn't,
because I had promised myself to you for all my life."
"No; neither of us has a right to forsake the other (we 'are no more twain
but one flesh. What, therefore, God hath joined together, let no man put
asunder'); we are husband and wife for as long as we both shall live, and
must dwell together in mutual love and forbearance. We will exchange
forgiveness, dearest, for we have both been to blame, and I forgive your
attempt of to-night on condition that you promise me never, never to do
such a thing again."
"I promise," she said, "and," imploringly, "O Ned, won't you keep my
secret? I couldn't bear to have it known even in the family."
"No more could I, love," he answered; "and oh, but I am thankful that you
were caught by the door and so prevented from carrying out your purpose!"
"So am I, and that it was my own dear husband, and not a burglar, as I
feared, who found me there."
"Ah, was that the cause of your fright?" he asked, with a look of relief
and pleasure. "I thought it was your terror of your husband's wrath that
caused your faint. But, darling, you are looking weary and actually ill.
You must go to bed at once."
"I'll obey you, this time and always," she answered, looking up fondly
into his face. "I am convinced now that I am only a foolish child in need
of guidance and control, and who should provide them but you? I could
hardly stand it from anybody else--unless mamma--but I'm sure that in
future it will be a pleasure to take it from my own dear husband if--if
only----" she paused, blushing and hiding her face on his breast.
"If what, love?"
"If only instead of 'You must and shall,' you will say kindly, 'I want you
to do it to please me, Zoe.'"
"Sweet one," he answered, holding her to his heart, "I do fully intend
that it shall be always love and coaxing after this."