SITTING BY THE DOOR.
A quiet and most beautiful life was that which Catharine led, in her
country home. She was left completely mistress of her own time, with
those kind old people, who were always too happy when Elsie was alone
with themselves; but with all the resources of enjoyment about her, a
strange nervousness possessed the young woman. Notwithstanding the
entire frankness of the old people, and the paternal interest with which
they regarded her, there was a sort of dignified gentleness about them
that forbade any allusion to the subject that haunted her thoughts
continually.
How came her husband’s portrait in that library, and what was the secret
of its strange effect upon the demented daughter of the house? Why did
it hang pendent with hers?
Again and again these questions arose to the young woman’s lips; but
they always died upon them unuttered. The subject of this closed library
was so completely ignored, it seemed so decidedly cast out from the
routine of life among them, that she had no way of introducing it that
would not seem forced and abrupt.
Besides, a species of superstition seized upon her, regarding this
apartment. Like most sensitive persons, who have suffered deeply, she
shrunk from turning back to the painful points of her own experience;
and blending these objects, as she necessarily must, with her own fate,
the reserve which lay upon all the rest, fell like a mist over her also.
This feeling grew with time, till she hoarded her own thoughts upon the
subject as if they had been a sin.
But she was drawn with irrepressible attraction toward the room. It was
the only place on earth where she was certain of perfect solitude. No
one ever visited that wing of the building, or at least ever penetrated
so far as the library. The grass around the bay-window grew rank, and
uncared for, while the lilac-trees and clustering roses remained leafy
and unpruned from year to year, though perfect order reigned everywhere
else in the grounds.
Early in the morning, before the family were astir, Catharine always
spent an hour or two in the room so full of interest, yet which every
one seemed to shun. The picture of her husband upon the wall seemed like
a living soul. It had brought back her faith in humanity. It had made
her less alone in the world.
A wonderful amount of knowledge may be accumulated, by devoting two
morning hours out of the twenty-four to study, and, perhaps, the
pleasantest acquirements we possess are those gathered up of our own
free will, unaided and, as it were, in secret.
Thus it was with Catharine. With a tolerable rudimental education she
found no difficulty in a want of masters, and every day saw her
naturally fine mind expand itself with freshly gathered ideas, that
gradually consolidated and took the form of knowledge.
Among other things she found a portfolio of drawings, rough studies, and
bold, spirited sketches, such as genius throws off as it searches for
perfect development, with implements and materials of art, which had
long slumbered in disuse. The sight of these things awoke a new desire
and a new talent in her. She would learn to paint. She would study hard,
and so perfect herself, that some day his portrait should be hers. She
would work incessantly till her art should achieve a copy of that. This
was all the result she thought of—his picture—nothing more.
Here was an object for exertion. So she went to work, heart and soul, to
obtain this shadow of a lost happiness; looking dreamily toward the
future when he might learn how faithfully she had worked and thought for
him.
It may injure Catharine, a deserted wife and childless mother, so young
and so wronged, when I say that her life on the Island was one of
tolerable happiness; but she was not an angel of suffering, only an
earnest, hopeful, young creature, resolved to perform her duties
honestly as they arose. Spite of everything, she was looking forward to
the possibility of meeting her husband in the future, to rejoice over
him if he was blameless, and to forgive him under any circumstances.
Here again some of her own sex may condemn her for want of pride, and
exclaim of what female dignity demands from the sex. But as I have said,
Catharine was no heroine, only a beautiful, high-minded and
gentle-hearted woman full of feminine compassion, not only for the
miseries, but for the weaknesses of mankind. She never thought of her
husband so much as having sinned against herself, individually, as of
the wrong done to his own manliness.
People who have never loved can talk of that implacable dignity so regal
in the proud woman; but those who love know well that affection is
stronger than pride, nay, stronger than death itself. The woman who
boasts that she would be unforgiving to the man she loves, has very
little of tenderness in her nature, or real dignity either. Never does
the true Christian, or the true woman, which is much the same thing,
appear more beautiful than with a feeling of charity warm at heart. The
highest and purest charity is that which refuses to look with
implacability on the wrongs from which we have suffered.
These gentle and forgiving feelings grew strong within the heart of the
young woman, as she studied in that solitary room, solitary save for the
pictured presence of her husband. Her character became fixed and noble,
with the gradual expansion of a fine intellect, and it was not long
before the frail, fair girl, so rich in all generous feeling, became
deep-thoughted as she had hitherto been warmhearted.
For some time after her first discovery of the library, Catharine
thought herself sure of solitude whenever she entered it. Once or twice
she had heard soft footsteps creeping about the door, but after a
moment’s attention forgot the circumstance.
But one morning, while busy at her easel, working desperately toward the
one object—a copy of her husband’s portrait—she heard the heavy
breathing of some object outside the door, followed by a suppressed
murmur.
Catharine arose suddenly, and opened the door, holding her palette and
brush in one hand. There in the hall, with her long, flowing night-dress
lying around her like a snow-drift, sat Elsie, her dark, wild eyes
turned wistfully toward the library, as Eve might have been supposed to
crouch at the gates of Eden.
With a timid motion of the hand she beckoned Catharine toward her,
uttering a low hush with her lips.
Catharine stepped out and bent over her, as she was seated on the floor.
“Hush! hist!” whispered Elsie, lifting her finger with a look of
affright. “Is he there? are they together? does he suspect that I am
here in the cold, waiting? don’t tell him. I won’t come nearer, but it
seems so hard to sit here all alone, and they in there. Please don’t
tell them. Is he speaking to her? Does she say anything about me? She
shouldn’t, it’s cruel. I carried off all the gray hairs, and the
disgrace, and the heart-burn. They might let me stay here, you know.”
The tone in which these words were uttered was so pleading and pitiful,
the dark eyes, uplifted like those of a feverish child pleading for
drink, had so much pathos in their glance, that Catharine felt tears
trembling in her own voice, as she stooped down and endeavored to soothe
the poor woman.
“Come in—come sit with me, Elsie dear. They will be glad to see you,”
she said, humoring the idea that possessed her charge.
Elsie shook her head. “I couldn’t—it sets my heart afire to see him
looking so kindly at her, and so cruelly at me. But listen: I was more
beautiful than she is, once, and he thought so—he did, indeed, but
somehow—I don’t understand how it was done—they made a division of God’s
gifts, do you see. The beauty and love they left with her; to me, they
gave age and tears, sinfulness, disgrace, hemp-jackets, and told me to
go alone and be still. The evil spirit had been driven out from between
them. They called it Elsie. Yes, they gave me her name, and told me to
be gone. That is the reason I sit here on the floor, so cold and gray,
while she enjoys herself in there. Don’t tell them, for I like to stay!”
“Come back to your chamber,” said Catharine, gently; “put on a nice
dress, and we will go in together; they will be very glad to see us!”
“Did they tell you so?” inquired Elsie, quickly.
“Yes, they told me so!”
“Did they?—that was kind. But I can’t accept it, you know. When the
people off yonder in the Bible sent their poor goat into the wilderness
loaded down with their sins, he never came back to disgrace them, but
lay down and died of hunger in the woods.”
“But you are not driven away—you are not alone or hungry!”
“Oh, yes, I am!—here, here!” said the poor creature, pressing a hand to
her side, and rocking back and forth as with pain; “but it don’t kill,
this hunger. I starve and starve, but never die. Hush, they will hear
me. Go back and shut the door. I like to sit just as I am; but don’t
tell for anything.”
Catharine hesitated, and made another effort to win the poor creature
from her uncomfortable position. But Elsie was in a positive mood, and
would neither go into the library or to her own room, though the morning
was chilly, and her raiment so insufficient; nothing would urge her to
move.
“I know—I know,” she said, impatiently, when Catharine urged this, “it
is cold, it makes me shiver all over; but then you can guess how it is.
I am to take all the cold, too, with the wakefulness and watching, it is
a part of me this cold; when I tremble, they smile. Do you know I never
smile: that is left to them!”
“Then,” said Catharine, gently, “I will stay with you.”
“No, no. The cold is catching, you will take it!”
“But I must, unless you will go with me!”
“Not there,” pleaded Elsie, pointing to the library.
“No, to our room.”
“Well, if _you_ are cold, I will go!”
After that day, Catharine often found Elsie watching by the
library-door, as she came out from her morning studies.