ELSIE’S MARRIED LIFE.
“De Marke and Elsie were married,” continued the old man. “Elsie was our
only one, and all that we possessed was hers, even then, had she desired
it. We only stipulated with her husband, that, during a portion of the
year, they should make their home with us, here in the old family
mansion, which Elsie would some day have entirely to herself.
“De Marke would have consented to anything, in those days; but this
proposition pleased him greatly. Alterations were made in the east wing.
The library was added, and De Marke brought the choicest of his books
from town, that his young wife should blend thoughts of himself even
with her studies. It was settled that one half of the year should be
spent with us, where Elsie should go on with her studies, and that they
should occupy her husband’s town-house during the other six months.
“It was a sad day for us when the darling gave her young life so
completely to another. Yet, socially speaking, the match was a good one.
Elsie was never entirely our own, after that; the intense affection
which she gave to her husband was too absorbing for the milder and
calmer love that had grown in her heart for us.
“For a year they were very happy. In my whole life, I have never
witnessed bliss so absorbing and complete. The joy of a common life-time
was concentrated into those twelve brief months. The mother and I forgot
our partial isolation, in witnessing a happiness so complete for our
child. You have seen the library, and perhaps wondered at the disuse
into which it had fallen when you first came to us. That room De Marke
fitted up for his bride. In it they studied together, for Elsie was no
common girl, and all that her husband knew she was resolved to learn.
“It was in the latter part of this first year that the two portraits
were taken. That of Elsie, in the flush of her joy and beauty, may give
you some idea of what she was then. I believe that of De Marke was
equally faithful. You have seen them. You have sat in the room which was
for a time their Eden. De Marke was a young man, ardent, rash, and
inflated, by a premature acquaintance with the world, with a false idea
of woman. He had no real faith in the sex. Of French descent, he had
naturally spent much of his time in Paris, that hot-bed, in which so
much that is pure and great in our young men is almost certain to
perish.
“It was more than a year before Elsie left our house. Her child was born
here, and directly after that De Marke was absent two or three months on
a pleasure excursion.
“Elsie, who had been studying the languages with him, being still
imperfect in the French, consented to receive a person of that nation
into our house, during her husband’s absence, as a companion and
teacher. I am not sure that De Marke ever knew this person before; but
it was through his means that she came to the house.
“She was quiet enough, this strange Frenchwoman, and devoted herself to
Elsie and the child with great assiduity. We saw little of her, for she
took her meals in Elsie’s apartments, but it was impossible to doubt
that she soon gained a remarkable ascendency over her young mind. But as
our child was won from the loneliness, which fell upon her after De
Marke’s absence, by this companionship, we were grateful to the woman.
“At last, De Marke returned. He was evidently very glad to see his wife
and child, but the reaction of an ill-regulated nature was upon him, and
Elsie took this to heart as an estrangement. Her health had not returned
entirely, after the birth of her boy, and she was the more susceptible
on this account. For the first time in her life, our child became
irritable and sometimes unjust. De Marke resented this; and at last came
struggles, reproaches, and those sullen hours that eat into the
happiness like a rust.
“Elsie was only struggling for her husband’s love, and he could not
comprehend that the deepest love can be tortured into bitter words.
“In this crisis, common to ardent natures like theirs, that Frenchwoman
became the confidante of both husband and wife.
“In this state, De Marke took his wife from her old home, and installed
her in a splendid establishment, which he had prepared for her reception
in the city. She left us—that poor child—drowned in tears—and in tears
she came to us again.
“We never knew what passed in Elsie’s home after this. Once or twice we
visited her always to return, with heavy hearts. Amid all the splendor
with which De Marke surrounded her, she seemed pining to death. But
Elsie had grown proud and reserved even with her old parents, and when
we asked the cause of her evident anxiety, she would strive to cheer us
with smiles, and that was heart-breaking.
“The Frenchwoman had changed more than Elsie. From a quiet, humble
dependant, she had sprung up into an assuming, fine lady, and seemed far
more decidedly mistress of the house than our daughter. Elsie did not
seem aware of this, for her poor, wistful eyes were always fixed on one
point. She cared for no authority save that which sprung from her
husband’s love. I doubt if she was conscious how great the alteration
was which we detected in the deportment of this Frenchwoman.
“At last, a change stole over Elsie; a fever of the heart came on; she
dashed aside her tears, and plunged madly into the fashionable world.
She was young, fresh, and wonderfully beautiful. Her husband’s wealth
gave power to these attractions. She became the reigning belle of
watering-places, the queen of every assembly-room. We read her praises
in the fashionable journals. Through all society her loveliness shone
light like a star.
“And we two lonely old people heard all this with aching hearts; for
well we knew this _eclat_ was but another expression of our daughter’s
misery. Then followed other paragraphs in the journals that had been so
busy with the praise of our child. Dark hints, mysterious insinuations,
and at last open scandal, that made the mother’s cheek turn white, and
the blood boil in my veins. We were quiet people; but it was impossible
to endure this. To-morrow, I said, to-morrow I will go after my child;
they have driven her to desperation; she shall come home; and that man
shall render us a strict account of his conduct regarding her.
“The mother only answered me with her tears and gentle entreaties that I
would bring Elsie home.
“Everything was ready. In the morning, I was to set forth; but that
night, that very night, our child, our poor, poor Elsie came home, in
the dark, and all alone.
“Her husband had turned her out-of-doors.
“We were sitting together, the mother and I, waiting for the morning;
for sleep was impossible, and we felt less unhappy in each other’s
presence, though we scarcely exchanged a word in the profound sadness
that had fallen upon us. Never, in my whole life, do I remember a night
of such dreary length. Everything was still. It was winter, and the snow
was falling out-of-doors in great flakes, with that perpetual whiteness
which makes a night-storm so ghastly. The hickory logs had burned
through, and fallen apart into a bed of dying embers; and lay
smouldering away, giving out smoke, but no flame.
“The old ebony clock ticked loud and sharp, filling the silence with its
irritating count of time. Once in a while, we looked out through the
frosted windows, searching for a flush of daylight upon the snow; but
always to see that eternal sheet of whiteness becoming broader and
deeper all around us. This dismal spectacle drove us back into the room,
and still another hour we sat cowering together, over the hearthstone
that had never seemed cold till then.
“We had drawn closer and closer together, till the fire went wholly out,
sharing the misery of that hour in deathly silence. The mother’s hand
was growing cold in mine, but I had no strength to urge her to bed or
wish to rekindle the fire. Gloomy as everything was, the misery in our
hearts was darker still.
“All at once, I felt the mother’s hand quiver in mine. Her eyes were
turned to the window, and directly my gaze followed hers.
“A human face was pressed to the window, a face, pale as the snow that
lay in wreathing flakes adown those tresses of black hair, and two black
eyes looked in upon us.
“We arose, holding the breath from our lips, and walked hand-in-hand
toward the door, treading softly, as if we felt ourselves in the
presence of a ghost.
“I opened the door and strove to call our poor child by name; but the
tongue clove to my mouth, and all the sound I could make went off
through the falling snow like a sob of wind.
“The mother’s heart broke its ice first, and in a tender wail she called
out, ‘Elsie, Elsie! my child, my child!’