THE FORSAKEN WIFE.
He prayeth best who loveth most
All things both great and small,
For the good God who loveth us,
He made and loveth all.
--_Coleridge_.
To account for the strange visit of the countess to Hannah Worth we must
change the scene to Brudenell Hall.
From the time of her sudden arrival at her husband's house, every hour
had been fraught with suffering to Berenice.
In the first instance, where she had expected to give a joyful surprise,
she had only given a painful shock; where she had looked for a cordial
welcome, she had received a cold repulse; finally, where she had hoped
her presence would confer happiness, it had brought misery!
On the very evening of her arrival her husband, after meeting her with
reproaches, had fled from the house, leaving no clew to his destination,
and giving no reason for his strange proceeding.
Berenice did not understand this. She cast her memory back through all
the days of her short married life spent with Herman Brudenell, and she
sought diligently for anything in her conduct that might have given him
offense. She could find nothing. Neither in all their intercourse had he
ever accused her of any wrong-doing. On the contrary, he had been
profuse in words of admiration, protestations of love and fidelity. Now
what had caused this fatal change in his feelings and conduct towards
her? Berenice could not tell. Her mind was as thoroughly perplexed as
her heart was deeply wounded. At first she did not know that he was gone
forever. She thought that he would return in an hour or two and openly
accuse her of some fault, or that he would in some manner betray the
cause of offense which he must suppose she had given him. And then,
feeling sure of her innocence, she knew she could exonerate herself from
every shadow of blame--except from that of loving him too well, if he
should consider that a fault.
Therefore she waited patiently for his return; but when the night passed
and he had not come, she grew more and more uneasy, and when the next
day had passed without his making his appearance her uneasiness rose to
intolerable anxiety.
The visit of poor Nora at night had aroused at once her suspicions, her
jealousy, and her compassion. She half believed that in this girl she
saw her rival in her husband's affections, the cause of her own
repudiation and--what was more bitter still to the childless Hebrew
wife--the mother of his children! This had been very terrible! But to
the Jewish woman the child of her husband, even if it is at the same
time the child of her rival, is as sacred as her own. Berenice was
loyal, conscientious, and compassionate. In the anguish of her own
deeply wounded and bleeding heart she had pitied and pleaded for poor
Nora--had even asserted her own authority as mistress of the house, for
the sake of protecting Nora: her husband's other wife, as in the
merciful construction of her gentle spirit she had termed the unhappy
girl! But then, my readers, you must remember that Berenice was a
Jewess. This poor unloved Leah would have sheltered the beloved Rachel.
We all know how her generous intentions were carried out. A second and a
third day passed, and still there came no news of Herman.
Berenice, prostrated with the heart-wasting sickness of hope deferred,
kept her own room. Mrs. Brudenell was indignant at her son, not for his
neglect of his lovely young wife, but for his indifference to a wealthy
countess! She deferred her journey to Washington in consideration of her
noble daughter-in-law, and in the hope of her son's speedy reappearance
and reconciliation with his wife, when, she anticipated, they would all
go to Washington together, where the Countess of Hurstmonceux would
certainly be the lioness and the Misses Brudenell the belles of the
season.
On the evening of the fourth day, while Berenice lay exhausted upon the
sofa of her bedroom, her maid entered the chamber saying:
"Please, my lady, you remember the young woman that was here on Friday
evening?"
"Yes!" Berenice was up on her elbow in an instant, looking eagerly into
the girl's face.
"Your ladyship ordered me to make inquiries about her, but I could get
no news except from the old man who took her home out of the snowstorm
and who came back and said she was ill."
"I know! I know! You told me that before. But you have heard something
else. What is it?"
"My lady, the old woman Dinah, who went to nurse her, never came back
till to-day; that is the reason I couldn't hear any more news until
to-night."
"Well, well, well? Your news! Out with it, girl!"
"My lady, she is dead and buried!"
"Who?"
"The young woman, my lady. She died on Saturday. She was buried to-day."
Berenice sank back on the sofa and covered her face with her hands. So!
her dangerous rival was gone; the poor unhappy girl was dead! Berenice
was jealous, but pitiful. And she experienced in the same moment a sense
of infinite relief and a feeling of the deepest compassion.
Neither mistress nor maid spoke for several minutes. The latter was the
first to break silence.
"My lady!"
"Well, Phoebe!"
"There was something else I had to tell you."
"What was it?"
"The young woman left a child, my lady."
"A child!" Again Berenice was up on her elbow, her eyes fixed upon the
speaker and blazing with eager interest.
"It is a boy, my lady; but they don't think it will live!"
"A boy! He shall live! He is mine--my son! I will have him. Since his
mother is dead, it is I who have the best right to him!" exclaimed the
countess vehemently, rising to her feet.
The maid recoiled--she thought her mistress had suddenly gone mad.
"Phoebe," said the countess eagerly, "what is the hour?"
"Nearly eleven, my lady."
"Has it cleared off?"
"No, my lady; it has come on to rain hard; it is pouring."
The countess went to the windows of her room, but they were too closely
shut and warmly curtained to give her any information as to the state of
the weather without. Then she hurried impatiently into the passage where
the one end window remained with its shutters still unclosed, and she
looked out. The rain was lashing the glass with fury. She turned away
and sought her own room again--complaining:
"Oh, I can never go to-night! It is too late and too stormy! Mrs.
Brudenell would think me crazy, and the woman at the hut would never let
me have my son. Yet, oh! what would I not give to have him on my bosom
to-night," said Berenice, pacing feverishly about the room.
"My lady," said the maid uneasily, "I don't think you are well at all
this evening. Won't you let me give you some salvolatile?"
"No, I don't want any!" replied the countess, without stopping in her
restless walk.
"But, my lady, indeed you are not well!" persisted the affectionate
creature.
"No, I am not well, Phoebe! My heart is sore, sore, Phoebe! But
that child would be a balm to it! If I could press my son to my bosom,
Phoebe, he would draw out all the fire and pain!"
"But, my lady, he is not your son!" said the maid, with tears of alarm
starting in her eyes.
"He is, girl! Now that his mother is dead he is mine! Who has a better
right to him than I, I wonder? His mother is gone! his father--" Here
the countess suddenly recollected herself, and as she looked into her
maid's astonished face she felt how far apart were the ideas of the
Jewish matron and the Christian maiden. She controlled her emotion, took
her seat, and said:
"Don't be alarmed, Phoebe. I am only a little nervous to-night, my
girl. And I want something more satisfactory than a little dog to pet."
"I don't think, my lady, you could get anything in the world more
grateful, or more faithful, or more easy to manage, than a little dog.
Certainly not a baby. Babies is awful, my lady. They aint got a bit of
gratitude or faithfulness in them; and after you have toted them about
all day, you may tote them about all night. And then they are bawling
from the first day of January until the thirty-first day of December.
Take my advice, my lady, and stick to the little dogs, and let babies
alone, if you love your peace."
The countess smiled faintly and kept silence. But--she kept her
resolution also.
The last words that night spoken after she was in bed, and when she was
about to dismiss her maid, were these:
"Phoebe, mind that you are not to say one word to any human being of
the subject of our conversation to-night. But you are to call me at
eight o'clock, have my breakfast brought to me here at half-past eight,
and the carriage at the door at nine. Do you hear?"
"Yes, my lady," answered the girl, who immediately went to the small
room adjoining her mistress' chamber, where she usually sat by day and
slept by night.
The countess could only sleep in perfect darkness; so when Phoebe had
put out all the lights she took advantage of that darkness to leave her
door open, so that she could listen if her mistress was restless or
wakeful. The maid soon discovered that her mistress was wakeful and
restless.
The countess could not sleep for contemplating her project of the
morning. According to her Jewish ideas, the motherless son of her
husband was as much hers as though she had brought him into the world.
And thus she, poor, unloved and childless wife, was delighted with the
son that she thought had dropped from heaven into her arms.
That anyone should venture to raise the slightest objection to her
taking possession of her own son never entered the mind of Berenice. She
imagined that even Mrs. Brudenell, who had treated the mother with the
utmost scorn and contumely, must turn to the son with satisfaction and
desire.
In cautioning Phoebe to secrecy she had not done so in dread of
opposition from any quarter, but with the design of giving Mrs.
Brudenell a pleasant surprise.
She intended to go out in the morning as if for a drive, to go to the
hut, take possession of the boy, bring him home and lay him in his
grandmother's lap. And she anticipated for her reward her child's
affection, her husband's love, and her mother's cordial approval.
Full of excitement from these thoughts, Berenice could not sleep; but
tossed from side to side in her bed like one suffering from pain or
fever.
Her faithful attendant, who had loved her mistress well enough to leave
home and country and follow her across the seas to the Western World,
lay awake anxiously listening to her restless motions until near
morning, when, overcome by watching, she fell asleep.
The maid, who had been the first to close her eyes, was the first to
open them. Remembering her mistress' order to be called at eight
o'clock, she sprang out of bed and looked at her watch. To her
consternation she found that it was half-past nine.
She flew to her mistress' room and threw open the blinds, letting in a
flood of morning light.
And then she went to the bedside and drew back the curtains and looked
upon the face of the sleeper. Such a pale, sad, worn-looking face! with
the full lips closed, the long black lashes lying on the waxen cheeks,
the slender black brows slightly contracted, and the long purplish black
hair flowing down each side and resting upon the swelling bosom; her
arms were thrown up over the pillow, and her hands clasped over her
head. This attitude added to the utter sadness and weariness of her
aspect.
Phoebe slowly shook her head, murmuring:
"I can't think why a lady having beauty and wealth and rank should break
her heart about any scamp of a man! Why couldn't she have purchased an
estate with her money and settled down in Old England? And if she must
have married, why didn't she marry the marquis? Lack-a-daisy-me! I wish
she had never seen this young scamp! She didn't sleep the whole night! I
know it was after four o'clock in the morning that I dropped off, and
the last thing I knew was trying to keep awake and listen to her
tossing! Well, whatever her appointment was this morning, she has missed
it by a good hour and a half; that she has, and I'm glad of it. Sleep is
the best part of life, and there isn't anything in this world worth
waking up for, as I've found out yet! Let her sleep on; she's dead for
it, anyway. So let her sleep on, and I'll take the blame."
And with this the judicious Phoebe carefully drew the bed curtains
again, closed the window shutters, and withdrew to her own room to
complete her toilet.
After a little while Phoebe went below to get her breakfast, which she
always took in the housekeeper's room.
Mrs. Spicer had breakfasted long before, and so she met the girl with a
sharp rebuke for keeping late hours.
"Pray," she inquired mockingly, "is it the fashion in the country you
came from for servants to be abed until ten o'clock in the morning?"
"That depends on circumstances," answered Phoebe, with assumed
gravity; "the servants of noble families like the Countess of
Hurstmonceux's lie late; but the servants of common folks like yours
have to get up early."
"Like ours, you impudent minx! I'll have you to know that our
family--the Brudenells--are as good as any other family in the world!
But it is not the custom here for the maids to lie in bed until all
hours of the morning, and that you'll find!" cried Mrs. Spicer in a
passion.
"You'll find yourself discharged if you go on in this way! You seem to
forget that my lady is the mistress of this house," said Phoebe,
seating herself at the table, which was covered with the litter of the
housekeeper's breakfast.
Before the housekeeper had time to reply, or the lady's maid had time to
pour out her cold coffee, the drawing-room bell rang. And soon after
Jovial entered to say that Mrs. Brudenell required the attendance of
Phoebe. The girl rose at once and went up to the drawing room.
"How is the countess this morning?" was the first question of Mrs.
Brudenell.
"My lady is sleeping; she has had a bad night; I thought it best not to
awake her," answered Phoebe.
"You did right. Let me know when she is awake and ready to receive me.
You may go now."
Phoebe returned to her cold and comfortless breakfast, and had but
just finished it when a second bell rang. This time it was her mistress,
and she hurried to answer it.
The countess was already in her dressing-gown and slippers, seated
before her toilet-table, and holding a watch in her hand.
"Oh, Phoebe," she exclaimed, "how could you have disobeyed me so! It
is after ten o'clock!"
"My lady, I will tell you the truth. You were so restless last night
that you could not sleep, and I was so anxious for fear you were going
to be ill, that indeed I could not. And so I lay awake listening at you
till after four o'clock this morning, when I dropped off out of sheer
exhaustion, and so I overslept myself until half-past nine; and then my
lady, I thought, as you had had such a bad night, and as it was too late
for you to keep your appointment with yourself, and as you were sleeping
so finely, I had better not wake you. I beg your pardon, my lady, if I
did wrong, and I hope no harm has been done."
"Not much harm, Phoebe; but something that should have been finished
by this time is yet to begin--that is all. In future, Phoebe, try to
obey me."
"Indeed I will, my lady."
"And now do my hair as quickly as possible."
Phoebe's nimble fingers soon accomplished their task.
"And now go order the carriage to come round directly; and then bring me
a cup of coffee," said the lady, rising to adjust her own dress.
Phoebe hurried off to obey, and soon returned, bringing a delicate
little breakfast served on a tray.
By the time the countess had drunk the coffee and tasted the rice
waffles and broiled partridge, the carriage was announced.
Mrs. Brudenell met her in the lower hall.
"Ah, Berenice, my dear, I am glad to see that you are going for an
airing at last. The morning is beautiful after the storm," she said.
"Yes, mamma," replied the countess, rather avoiding the interview.
"Which way will you drive, my dear?"
"I think through the valley; it is sheltered from the wind there.
Good-morning!"
And the lady entered the carriage and gave her order.
The carriage road through the valley was necessarily much longer and
more circuitous than the footpath with which we are so familiar. The
footpath, we know, went straight down the steep precipice of Brudenell
hill, across the bottom, and then straight up the equally steep ascent
of Hut hill. Of course this route was impracticable for any wheeled
vehicle. The carriage therefore turned off to the left into a road that
wound gradually down the hillside and as gradually ascended the opposite
heights. The carriage drew up at a short distance from the hut, and the
countess alighted and walked to the door. We have seen what a surprise
her arrival caused, and now we must return to the interview between the
wife of Herman and the sister of Nora.