'Stay, stay!' said Grace Hickson--all the decent family shame which

prompted her to conceal the mysterious misfortune of her only son from

public knowledge done away with by the sense of the immediate danger to

his life. 'Touch him not. He knows not what he is saying. The fit is

upon him. I tell you the truth before God. My son, my only son, is

mad.'

They stood aghast at the intelligence. The grave young citizen, who had

silently taken his part in life close by them in their daily lives--not

mixing much with them, it was true, but looked up to, perhaps, all the

more--the student of abstruse books on theology, fit to converse with

the most learned ministers that ever came about those parts--was he the

same with the man now pouring out wild words to Lois the witch, as if

he and she were the only two present! A solution of it all occurred to

them. He was another victim. Great was the power of Satan! Through the

arts of the devil, that white statue of a girl had mastered the soul of

Manasseh Hickson. So the word spread from mouth to mouth. And Grace

heard it. It seemed a healing balsam for her shame. With wilful,

dishonest blindness, she would not see--not even in her secret heart

would she acknowledge, that Manasseh had been strange, and moody, and

violent long before the English girl had reached Salem. She even found

some specious reason for his attempt at suicide long ago. He was

recovering from a fever--and though tolerably well in health, the

delirium had not finally left him. But since Lois came, how headstrong

he had been at times! how unreasonable! how moody! What a strange

delusion was that which he was under, of being bidden by some voice to

marry her! How he followed her about, and clung to her, as under some

compulsion of affection! And over all reigned the idea that, if he were

indeed suffering from being bewitched, he was not mad, and might again

assume the honourable position he had held in the congregation and in

the town, when the spell by which he was held was destroyed. So Grace

yielded to the notion herself, and encouraged it in others, that Lois

Barclay had bewitched both Manasseh and Prudence. And the consequence

of this belief was, that Lois was to be tried, with little chance in

her favour, to see whether she was a witch or no; and if a witch,

whether she would confess, implicate others, repent, and live a life of

bitter shame, avoided by all men, and cruelly treated by most; or die

impenitent, hardened, denying her crime upon the gallows.

And so they dragged Lois away from the congregation of Christians to

the gaol, to await her trial. I say 'dragged her,' because, although

she was docile enough to have followed them whither they would, she was

now so faint as to require extraneous force--poor Lois! who should have

been carried and tended lovingly in her state of exhaustion, but,

instead, was so detested by the multitude, who looked upon her as an

accomplice of Satan in all his evil doings, that they cared no more how

they treated her than a careless boy minds how he handles the toad that

he is going to throw over the wall.

When Lois came to her full senses, she found herself lying on a short

hard bed in a dark square room, which she at once knew must be a part

of the city gaol. It was about eight feet square, it had stone walls on

every side, and a grated opening high above her head, letting in all

the light and air that could enter through about a square foot of

aperture. It was so lonely, so dark to that poor girl, when she came

slowly and painfully out of her long faint. She did so want human help

in that struggle which always supervenes after a swoon; when the effort

is to clutch at life, and the effort seems too much for the will. She

did not at first understand where she was; did not understand how she

came to be there, nor did she care to understand. Her physical instinct

was to lie still and let the hurrying pulses have time to calm. So she

shut her eyes once more. Slowly, slowly the recollection of the scene

in the meeting-house shaped itself into a kind of picture before her.

She saw within her eyelids, as it were, that sea of loathing faces all

turned towards her, as towards something unclean and hateful. And you

must remember, you who in the nineteenth century read this account,

that witchcraft was a real terrible sin to her, Lois Barclay, two

hundred years ago. The look on their faces, stamped on heart and brain,

excited in her a sort of strange sympathy. Could it, oh God!--could it

be true, that Satan had obtained the terrific power over her and her

will, of which she had heard and read? Could she indeed be possessed by

a demon and be indeed a witch, and yet till now have been unconscious

of it? And her excited imagination recalled, with singular vividness,

all she had ever heard on the subject--the horrible midnight sacrament,

the very presence and power of Satan. Then remembering every angry

thought against her neighbour, against the impertinences of Prudence,

against the overbearing authority of her aunt, against the persevering

crazy suit of Manasseh, the indignation--only that morning, but such

ages off in real time--at Faith's injustice; oh, could such evil

thoughts have had devilish power given to them by the father of evil,

and, all unconsciously to herself, have gone forth as active curses

into the world? And so, on the ideas went careering wildly through the

poor girl's brain--the girl thrown inward upon herself. At length, the

sting of her imagination forced her to start up impatiently. What was

this? A weight of iron on her legs--a weight stated afterwards, by the

gaoler of Salem prison, to have been 'not more than eight pounds.' It

was well for Lois it was a tangible ill, bringing her back from the

wild illimitable desert in which her imagination was wandering. She

took hold of the iron, and saw her torn stocking,--her bruised ankle,

and began to cry pitifully, out of strange compassion with herself.

They feared, then, that even in that cell she would find a way to

escape. Why, the utter, ridiculous impossibility of the thing convinced

her of her own innocence, and ignorance of all supernatural power; and

the heavy iron brought her strangely round from the delusions that

seemed to be gathering about her.

No! she never could fly out of that deep dungeon; there was no escape,

natural or supernatural, for her, unless by man's mercy. And what was

man's mercy in such times of panic? Lois knew that it was nothing;

instinct more than reason taught her, that panic calls out cowardice,

and cowardice cruelty. Yet she cried, cried freely, and for the first

time, when she found herself ironed and chained. It seemed so cruel, so

much as if her fellow-creatures had really learnt to hate and dread

her--her, who had had a few angry thoughts, which God forgive! but

whose thoughts had never gone into words, far less into actions. Why,

even now she could love all the household at home, if they would but

let her; yes, even yet, though she felt that it was the open accusation

of Prudence and the withheld justifications of her aunt and Faith that

had brought her to her present strait. Would they ever come and see

her? Would kinder thoughts of her,--who had shared their daily bread

for months and months,--bring them to see her, and ask her whether it

were really she who had brought on the illness of Prudence, the

derangement of Manasseh's mind?

No one came. Bread and water were pushed in by some one, who hastily

locked and unlocked the door, and cared not to see if he put them

within his prisoner's reach, or perhaps thought that physical fact

mattered little to a witch. It was long before Lois could reach them;

and she had something of the natural hunger of youth left in her still,

which prompted her, lying her length on the floor, to weary herself

with efforts to obtain the bread. After she had eaten some of it, the

day began to wane, and she thought she would lay her down and try to

sleep. But before she did so, the gaoler heard her singing the Evening

Hymn:

Glory to thee, my God, this night,

For all the blessings of the light.

And a dull thought came into his dull mind, that she was thankful for

few blessings, if she could tune up her voice to sing praises after

this day of what, if she were a witch, was shameful detection in

abominable practices, and if not--. Well, his mind stopped short at

this point in his wondering contemplation. Lois knelt down and said the

Lord's Prayer, pausing just a little before one clause, that she might

be sure that in her heart of hearts she did forgive. Then she looked at

her ankle, and the tears came into her eyes once again, but not so much

because she was hurt, as because men must have hated her so bitterly

before they could have treated her thus. Then she lay down, and fell

asleep.

The next day, she was led before Mr. Hathorn and Mr. Curwin, justices

of Salem, to be accused legally and publicly of witchcraft. Others were

with her, under the same charge. And when the prisoners were brought

in, they were cried out at by the abhorrent crowd. The two Tappaus,

Prudence, and one or two other girls of the same age were there, in the

character of victims of the spells of the accused. The prisoners were

placed about seven or eight feet from the justices and the accusers

between the justices and them; the former were then ordered to stand

right before the justices. All this Lois did at their bidding, with

something of the wondering docility of a child, but not with any hope

of softening the hard, stony look of detestation that was on all the

countenances around her, save those that were distorted by more

passionate anger. Then an officer was bidden to hold each of her hands,

and Justice Hathorn bade her keep her eyes continually fixed on him,

for this reason--which, however, was not told to her--lest, if she

looked on Prudence, the girl might either fall into a fit, or cry out

that she was suddenly and violently hurt. If any heart could have been

touched of that cruel multitude, they would have felt some compassion

for the sweet young face of the English girl, trying so meekly to do

all that she was ordered, her face quite white, yet so full of sad

gentleness, her grey eyes, a little dilated by the very solemnity of

her position, fixed with the intent look of innocent maidenhood on the

stern face of Justice Hathorn. And thus they stood in silence, one

breathless minute. Then they were bidden to say the Lord's Prayer. Lois

went through it as if alone in her cell; but, as she had done alone in

her cell the night before, she made a little pause, before the prayer

to be forgiven as she forgave. And at this instant of hesitation--as if

they had been on the watch for it--they all cried out upon her for a

witch, and when the clamour ended the justices bade Prudence Hickson

come forwards. Then Lois turned a little to one side, wishing to see at

least one familiar face; but when her eyes fell upon Prudence, the girl

stood stock-still, and answered no questions, nor spoke a word, and the

justices declared that she was struck dumb by witchcraft. Then some

behind took Prudence under the arms, and would have forced her forwards

to touch Lois, possibly esteeming that as a cure for her being

bewitched. But Prudence had hardly been made to take three steps before

she struggled out of their arms, and fell down writhing as in a fit,

calling out with shrieks, and entreating Lois to help her, and save her

from her torment. Then all the girls began 'to tumble down like swine'

(to use the words of an eye-witness) and to cry out upon Lois and her

fellow-prisoners. These last were now ordered to stand with their hands

stretched out, it being imagined that if the bodies of the witches were

arranged in the form of a cross they would lose their evil power.

By-and-by Lois felt her strength going, from the unwonted fatigue of

such a position, which she had borne patiently until the pain and

weariness had forced both tears and sweat down her face, and she asked

in a low, plaintive voice, if she might not rest her head for a few

moments against the wooden partition. But Justice Hathorn told her she

had strength enough to torment others, and should have strength enough

to stand. She sighed a little, and bore on, the clamour against her and

the other accused increasing every moment; the only way she could keep

herself from utterly losing consciousness was by distracting herself

from present pain and danger, and saying to herself verses of the

Psalms as she could remember them, expressive of trust in God. At

length she was ordered back to gaol, and dimly understood that she and

others were sentenced to be hanged for witchcraft. Many people now

looked eagerly at Lois, to see if she would weep at this doom. If she

had had strength to cry, it might--it was just possible that it

might--have been considered a plea in her favour, for witches could not

shed tears, but she was too exhausted and dead. All she wanted was to

lie down once more on her prison-bed, out of the reach of men's cries

of abhorrence, and out of shot of their cruel eyes. So they led her

back to prison, speechless and tearless.

But rest gave her back her power of thought and suffering. Was it,

indeed, true that she was to die? She, Lois Barclay, only eighteen, so

well, so young, so full of love and hope as she had been, till but

these little days past! What would they think of it at home--real, dear

home at Barford, in England? There they had loved her; there she had

gone about, singing and rejoicing all the day long in the pleasant

meadows by the Avon side. Oh, why did father and mother die, and leave

her their bidding to come here to this cruel New England shore, where

no one had wanted her, no one had cared for her, and where now they

were going to put her to a shameful death as a witch? And there would

be no one to send kindly messages by to those she should never see

more. Never more! Young Lucy was living, and joyful--probably thinking

of her, and of his declared intention of coming to fetch her home to be

his wife this very spring. Possibly he had forgotten her; no one knew.

A week before, she would have been indignant at her own distrust in

thinking for a minute that he could forget. Now, she doubted all men's

goodness for a time; for those around her were deadly, and cruel, and

relentless.

Then she turned round, and beat herself with angry blows (to speak in

images), for ever doubting her lover. Oh! if she were but with him! Oh!

if she might but be with him! He would not let her die; but would hide

her in his bosom from the wrath of this people, and carry her back to

the old home at Barford. And he might even now be sailing on the wide

blue sea, coming nearer, nearer every moment, and yet be too late after

all.

So the thoughts chased each other through her head all that feverish

night, till she clung almost deliriously to life, and wildly prayed

that she might not die; at least, not just yet, and she so young!

Pastor Tappau and certain elders roused her up from a heavy sleep, late

on the morning of the following day. All night long she had trembled

and cried, till morning had come peering in through the square grating

up above. It soothed her, and she fell asleep, to be awakened, as I

have said, by Pastor Tappau.

'Arise!' said he, scrupling to touch her, from his superstitious idea

of her evil powers. 'It is noonday.'

'Where am I?' said she, bewildered at this unusual wakening, and the

array of severe faces all gazing upon her with reprobation.

'You are in Salem gaol, condemned for a witch.'

'Alas! I had forgotten for an instant,' said she, dropping her head

upon her breast.

'She has been out on a devilish ride all night long, doubtless, and is

weary and perplexed this morning,' whispered one, in so low a voice

that he did not think she could hear; but she lifted up her eyes, and

looked at him, with mute reproach.

'We are come' said Pastor Tappau, 'to exhort you to confess your great

and manifold sin.'

'My great and manifold sin!' repeated Lois to herself, shaking her

head.

'Yea, your sin of witchcraft. If you will confess, there may yet be

balm in Gilead.'

One of the elders, struck with pity at the young girl's wan, shrunken

look, said, that if she confessed, and repented, and did penance,

possibly her life might yet be spared.

A sudden flash of light came into her sunk, dulled eye. Might she yet

live? Was it yet in her power?

Why, no one knew how soon Ralph Lucy might be here, to take her away

for ever into the peace of a new home! Life! Oh, then, all hope was not

over--perhaps she might still live, and not die. Yet the truth came

once more out of her lips, almost without any exercise of her will.

'I am not a witch,' she said.

Then Pastor Tappau blindfolded her, all unresisting, but with languid

wonder in her heart as to what was to come next. She heard people enter

the dungeon softly, and heard whispering voices; then her hands were

lifted up and made to touch some one near, and in an instant she heard

a noise of struggling, and the well-known voice of Prudence shrieking

out in one of her hysterical fits, and screaming to be taken away and

out of that place. It seemed to Lois as if some of her judges must have

doubted of her guilt, and demanded yet another test. She sat down

heavily on her bed, thinking she must be in a horrible dream, so

compassed about with dangers and enemies did she seem. Those in the

dungeon--and by the oppression of the air she perceived that they were

many--kept on eager talking in low voices. She did not try to make out

the sense of the fragments of sentences that reached her dulled brain,

till, all at once, a word or two made her understand they were

discussing the desirableness of applying the whip or the torture to

make her confess, and reveal by what means the spell she had cast upon

those whom she had bewitched could be dissolved. A thrill of affright

ran through her; and she cried out, beseechingly:

'I beg you, sirs, for God's mercy sake, that you do not use such awful

means. I may say anything--nay, I may accuse any one if I am subjected

to such torment as I have heard tell about. For I am but a young girl,

and not very brave, or very good, as some are.'

It touched the hearts of one or two to see her standing there; the

tears streaming down from below the coarse handkerchief tightly bound

over her eyes; the clanking chain fastening the heavy weight to the

slight ankle; the two hands held together as if to keep down a

convulsive motion.

'Look!' said one of these. 'She is weeping. They say no witch can weep

tears.'

But another scoffed at this test, and bade the first remember how those

of her own family, the Hicksons even, bore witness against her.

Once more she was bidden to confess. The charges, esteemed by all men

(as they said) to have been proven against her, were read over to her,

with all the testimony borne against her in proof thereof. They told

her that, considering the godly family to which she belonged, it had

been decided by the magistrates and ministers of Salem that he should

have her life spared, if she would own her guilt, make reparation, and

submit to penance; but that if not, she, and others convicted of

witchcraft along with her, were to be hung in Salem market-place on the

next Thursday morning (Thursday being market day). And when they had

thus spoken, they waited silently for her answer. It was a minute or

two before she spoke. She had sat down again upon the bed meanwhile,

for indeed she was very weak. She asked, 'May I have this handkerchief

unbound from my eyes, for indeed, sirs, it hurts me?'

The occasion for which she was blindfolded being over, the bandage was

taken off, and she was allowed to see. She looked pitifully at the

stern faces around her, in grim suspense as to what her answer would

be. Then she spoke:

'Sirs, I must choose death with a quiet conscience, rather than life to

be gained by a lie. I am not a witch. I know not hardly what you mean

when you say I am. I have done many, many things very wrong in my life;

but I think God will forgive me them for my Saviour's sake.'

'Take not His name on your wicked lips,' said Pastor Tappau, enraged at

her resolution of not confessing, and scarcely able to keep himself

from striking her. She saw the desire he had, and shrank away in timid

fear. Then Justice Hathorn solemnly read the legal condemnation of Lois

Barclay to death by hanging, as a convicted witch. She murmured

something which nobody heard fully, but which sounded like a prayer for

pity and compassion on her tender years and friendless estate. Then

they left her to all the horrors of that solitary, loathsome dungeon,

and the strange terror of approaching death.

Outside the prison walls, the dread of the witches, and the excitement

against witchcraft, grew with fearful rapidity. Numbers of women, and

men, too, were accused, no matter what their station of life and their

former character had been. On the other side, it is alleged that

upwards of fifty persons were grievously vexed by the devil, and those

to whom he had imparted of his power for vile and wicked

considerations. How much of malice, distinct, unmistakable personal

malice, was mixed up with these accusations, no one can now tell. The

dire statistics of this time tell us, that fifty-five escaped death by

confessing themselves guilty, one hundred and fifty were in prison,

more than two hundred accused, and upwards of twenty suffered death,

among whom was the minister I have called Nolan, who was traditionally

esteemed to have suffered through hatred of his co-pastor. One old man,

scorning the accusation, and refusing to plead at his trial, was,

according to the law, pressed to death for his contumacy. Nay, even

dogs were accused of witchcraft, suffered the legal penalties, and are

recorded among the subjects of capital punishment. One young man found

means to effect his mother's escape from confinement, fled with her on

horseback, and secreted her in the Blueberry Swamp, not far from

Taplay's Brook, in the Great Pasture; he concealed her here in a wigwam

which he built for her shelter, provided her with food and clothing,

and comforted and sustained her until after the delusion had passed

away. The poor creature must, however, have suffered dreadfully, for

one of her arms was fractured in the all but desperate effort of

getting her out of prison.

But there was no one to try and save Lois. Grace Hickson would fain

have ignored her altogether. Such a taint did witchcraft bring upon a

whole family, that generations of blameless life were not at that day

esteemed sufficient to wash it out. Besides, you must remember that

Grace, along with most people of her time, believed most firmly in the

reality of the crime of witchcraft. Poor, forsaken Lois, believed in it

herself, and it added to her terror, for the gaoler, in an unusually

communicative mood, told her that nearly every cell was now full of

witches; and it was possible he might have to put one, if more came, in

with her. Lois knew that she was no witch herself; but not the less did

she believe that the crime was abroad, and largely shared in by

evil-minded persons who had chosen to give up their souls to Satan; and

she shuddered with terror at what the gaoler said, and would have asked

him to spare her this companionship if it were possible. But, somehow,

her senses were leaving her, and she could not remember the right words

in which to form her request, until he had left the place.

The only person who yearned after Lois--who would have befriended her

if he could--was Manasseh: poor, mad Manasseh. But he was so wild and

outrageous in his talk, that it was all his mother could do to keep his

state concealed from public observation. She had for this purpose given

him a sleeping potion; and, while he lay heavy and inert under the

influence of the poppy-tea, his mother bound him with cords to the

ponderous, antique bed in which he slept. She looked broken-hearted

while she did this office, and thus acknowledged the degradation of her

first-born--him of whom she had ever been so proud.

Late that evening, Grace Hickson stood in Lois's cell, hooded and

cloaked up to her eyes. Lois was sitting quite still, playing idly with

a bit of string which one of the magistrates had dropped out of his

pocket that morning. Her aunt was standing by her for an instant or two

in silence, before Lois seemed aware of her presence. Suddenly she

looked up, and uttered a little cry, shrinking away from the dark

figure. Then, as if her cry had loosened Grace's tongue, she began:

'Lois Barclay, did I ever do you any harm?' Grace did not know how

often her want of loving-kindness had pierced the tender heart of the

stranger under her roof; nor did Lois remember it against her now.

Instead, Lois's memory was filled with grateful thoughts of how much

that might have been left undone, by a less conscientious person, her

aunt had done for her, and she half stretched out her arms as to a

friend in that desolate place, while she answered:

'Oh no, no you were very good! very kind!'

But Grace stood immovable.

'I did you no harm, although I never rightly knew why you came to us.'

'I was sent by my mother on her death-bed,' moaned Lois, covering her

face. It grew darker every instant. Her aunt stood, still and silent.

'Did any of mine ever wrong you?' she asked, after a time.

'No, no; never, till Prudence said--Oh, aunt, do you think I am a

witch?' And now Lois was standing up, holding by Grace's cloak, and

trying to read her face. Grace drew herself, ever so little, away from

the girl, whom she dreaded, and yet sought to propitiate.

'Wiser than I, godlier than I, have said it. But oh, Lois, Lois! he was

my first-born. Loose him from the demon, for the sake of Him whose name

I dare not name in this terrible building, filled with them who have

renounced the hopes of their baptism; loose Manasseh from his awful

state, if ever I or mine did you a kindness!'

'You ask me for Christ's sake,' said Lois. 'I can name that holy

name--for oh, aunt! indeed, and in holy truth, I am no witch; and yet I

am to die--to be hanged! Aunt, do not let them kill me! I am so young,

and I never did any one any harm that I know of.'

'Hush! for very shame! This afternoon I have bound my first-born with

strong cords, to keep him from doing himself or us a mischief--he is so

frenzied. Lois Barclay, look here!' and Grace knelt down at her niece's

feet, and joined her hands as if in prayer--'I am a proud woman, God

forgive me! and I never thought to kneel to any save to Him. And now I

kneel at your feet, to pray you to release my children, more especially

my son Manasseh, from the spells you have put upon them. Lois, hearken

to me, and I will pray to the Almighty for you, if yet there may be

mercy.'

'I cannot do it; I never did you or yours any wrong. How can I undo it?

How can I?' And she wrung her hands in intensity of conviction of the

inutility of aught she could do.

Here Grace got up, slowly, stiffly, and sternly. She stood aloof from

the chained girl, in the remote corner of the prison cell near the

door, ready to make her escape as soon as she had cursed the witch, who

would not, or could not, undo the evil she had wrought. Grace lifted up

her right hand, and held it up on high, as she doomed Lois to be

accursed for ever, for her deadly sin, and her want of mercy even at

this final hour. And, lastly, she summoned her to meet her at the

judgment-seat, and answer for this deadly injury done to both souls and

bodies of those who had taken her in, and received her when she came to

them an orphan and a stranger.

Until this last summons, Lois had stood as one who hears her sentence

and can say nothing against it, for she knows all would be in vain. But

she raised her head when she heard her aunt speak of the judgment-seat,

and at the end of Grace's speech she, too, lifted up her right hand, as

if solemnly pledging herself by that action, and replied:

'Aunt! I will meet you there. And there you will know my innocence of

this deadly thing. God have mercy on you and yours!'

Her calm voice maddened Grace, and making a gesture as if she plucked

up a handful of dust of the floor, and threw it at Lois, she cried:

'Witch! witch! ask mercy for thyself--I need not your prayers. Witches'

prayers are read backwards. I spit at thee, and defy thee!' And so she

went away.

Lois sat moaning that whole night through. 'God comfort me! God

strengthen me!' was all she could remember to say. She just felt that

want, nothing more,--all other fears and wants seemed dead within her.

And when the gaoler brought in her breakfast the next morning, he

reported her as 'gone silly;' for, indeed, she did not seem to know

him, but kept rocking herself to and fro, and whispering softly to

herself, smiling a little from time to time.

But God did comfort her, and strengthen her too late on that Wednesday

afternoon, they thrust another 'witch' into her cell, bidding the two,

with opprobrious words, keep company together. The new comer fell

prostrate with the push given her from without; and Lois, not

recognizing anything but an old ragged woman lying helpless on her face

on the ground, lifted her up; and lo! it was Nattee--dirty, filthy

indeed, mud-pelted, stone-bruised, beaten, and all astray in her wits

with the treatment she had received from the mob outside. Lois held her

in her arms, and softly wiped the old brown wrinkled face with her

apron, crying over it, as she had hardly yet cried over her own

sorrows. For hours she tended the old Indian woman--tended her bodily

woes; and as the poor scattered senses of the savage creature came

slowly back, Lois gathered her infinite dread of the morrow, when she

too, as well as Lois, was to be led out to die, in face of all that

infuriated crowd. Lois sought in her own mind for some source of

comfort for the old woman, who shook like one in the shaking palsy at

the dread of death--and such a death.

When all was quiet through the prison, in the deep dead midnight, the

gaoler outside the door heard Lois telling, as if to a young child, the

marvellous and sorrowful story of one who died on the cross for us and

for our sakes. As long as she spoke, the Indian woman's terror seemed

lulled; but the instant she paused, for weariness, Nattee cried out

afresh, as if some wild beast were following her close through the

dense forests in which she had dwelt in her youth. And then Lois went

on, saying all the blessed words she could remember, and comforting the

helpless Indian woman with the sense of the presence of a Heavenly

Friend. And in comforting her, Lois was comforted; in strengthening

her, Lois was strengthened.

The morning came, and the summons to come forth and die came. They who

entered the cell found Lois asleep, her face resting on the slumbering

old woman, whose head she still held in her lap. She did not seem

clearly to recognize where she was, when she awakened; the 'silly' look

had returned to her wan face; all she appeared to know was, that

somehow or another, through some peril or another, she had to protect

the poor Indian woman. She smiled faintly when she saw the bright light

of the April day; and put her arm round Nattee, and tried to keep the

Indian quiet with hushing, soothing words of broken meaning, and holy

fragments of the Psalms. Nattee tightened her hold upon Lois as they

drew near the gallows, and the outrageous crowd below began to hoot and

yell. Lois redoubled her efforts to calm and encourage Nattee,

apparently unconscious that any of the opprobrium, the hootings, the

stones, the mud, was directed towards her herself. But when they took

Nattee from her arms, and led her out to suffer first, Lois seemed all

at once to recover her sense of the present terror. She gazed wildly

around, stretched out her arms as if to some person in the distance,

who was yet visible to her, and cried out once with a voice that

thrilled through all who heard it, 'Mother!' Directly afterwards, the

body of Lois the Witch swung in the air, and every one stood, with

hushed breath, with a sudden wonder, like a fear of deadly crime,

fallen upon them.

The stillness and the silence were broken by one crazed and mad, who

came rushing up the steps of the ladder, and caught Lois's body in his

arms, and kissed her lips with wild passion. And then, as if it were

true what the people believed, that he was possessed by a demon, he

sprang down, and rushed through the crowd, out of the bounds of the

city, and into the dark dense forest, and Manasseh Hickson was no more

seen of Christian man.

The people of Salem had awakened from their frightful delusion before

the autumn, when Captain Holdernesse and Ralph Lucy came to find out

Lois, and bring her home to peaceful Barford, in the pleasant country

of England. Instead, they led them to the grassy grave where she lay at

rest, done to death by mistaken men. Ralph Lucy shook the dust off his

feet in quitting Salem, with a heavy, heavy heart; and lived a bachelor

all his life long for her sake.

Long years afterwards, Captain Holdernesse sought him out, to tell him

some news that he thought might interest the grave miller of the

Avonside. Captain Holdernesse told him that in the previous year, it

was then 1713, the sentence of excommunication against the witches of

Salem was ordered, in godly sacramental meeting of the church, to be

erased and blotted out, and that those who met together for this

purpose 'humbly requested the merciful God would pardon whatsoever sin,

error, or mistake was in the application of justice, through our

merciful High Priest, who knoweth how to have compassion on the

ignorant, and those that are out of the way.' He also said that

Prudence Hickson--now woman grown--had made a most touching and pungent

declaration of sorrow and repentance before the whole church, for the

false and mistaken testimony she had given in several instances, among

which she particularly mentioned that of her cousin Lois Barclay. To

all which Ralph Lucy only answered:

'No repentance of theirs can bring her back to life.'

Then Captain Holdernesse took out a paper, and read the following

humble and solemn declaration of regret on the part of those who signed

it, among whom Grace Hickson was one:

'We, whose names are undersigned, being, in the year 1692, called

to serve as jurors in court of Salem, on trial of many who were by

some suspected guilty of doing acts of witchcraft upon the bodies

of sundry persons; we confess that we ourselves were not capable to

understand, nor able to withstand, the mysterious delusions of the

powers of darkness, and prince of the air, but were, for want of

knowledge in ourselves, and better information from others,

prevailed with to take up with such evidence against the accused,

as, on further consideration, and better information, we justly

fear was insufficient for the touching the lives of any (Deut.

xvii. 6), whereby we fear we have been instrumental, with others,

though ignorantly and unwittingly, to bring upon ourselves and this

people of the Lord the guilt of innocent blood; which sin, the Lord

saith in Scripture, he would not pardon (2 Kings, xxiv. 4), that

is, we suppose, in regard of his temporal judgments. We do,

therefore, signify to all in general (and to the surviving

sufferers in special) our deep sense of, and sorrow for, our

errors, in acting on such evidence to the condemning of any person;

and do hereby declare, that we justly fear that we were sadly

deluded and mistaken, for which we are much disquieted and

distressed in our minds, and do therefore humbly beg forgiveness,

first of God for Christ's sake, for this our error; and pray that

God would not impute the guilt of it to ourselves nor others; and

we also pray that we may be considered candidly and aright by the

living sufferers, as being then under the power of a strong and

general delusion, utterly unacquainted with, and not experienced

in, matters of that nature.

'We do heartily ask forgiveness of you all, whom we have justly

offended; and do declare, according to our present minds, we would

none of us do such things again on such grounds for the whole

world; praying you to accept of this in way of satisfaction for our

offence, and that you would bless the inheritance of the Lord, that

he may be entreated for the land.

'FOREMAN, THOMAS FISK, &C.'

To the reading of this paper Ralph Lucy made no reply save this, even

more gloomily than before:

'All their repentance will avail nothing to my Lois, nor will it bring

back her life.'

Then Captain Holdernesse spoke once more, and said that on the day of

the general fast, appointed to be held all through New England, when

the meeting-houses were crowded, an old, old man with white hair had

stood up in the place in which he was accustomed to worship, and had

handed up into the pulpit a written confession, which he had once or

twice essayed to read for himself, acknowledging his great and grievous

error in the matter of the witches of Salem, and praying for the

forgiveness of God and of his people, ending with an entreaty that all

then present would join with him in prayer that his past conduct might

not bring down the displeasure of the Most High upon his country, his

family, or himself. That old man, who was no other than Justice Sewall,

remained standing all the time that his confession was read; and at the

end he said, 'The good and gracious God be pleased to save New England

and me and my family.' And then it came out that, for years past, Judge

Sewall had set apart a day for humiliation and prayer, to keep fresh in

his mind a sense of repentance and sorrow for the part he had borne in

these trials, and that this solemn anniversary he was pledged to keep

as long as he lived, to show his feeling of deep humiliation.

Ralph Lucy's voice trembled as he spoke:

'All this will not bring my Lois to life again, or give me back the

hope of my youth.'

But--as Captain Holdernesse shook his head (for what word could he say,

or how dispute what was so evidently true?)--Ralph added, 'What is the

day, know you, that this justice has set apart?'

'The twenty-ninth of April.'

'Then on that day will I, here at Barford in England, join my prayer as

long as I live with the repentant judge, that his sin may be blotted

out and no more had in remembrance. She would have willed it so.'

THE GREY WOMAN

Portion 1

There is a mill by the Neckar-side, to which many people resort for

coffee, according to the fashion which is almost national in Germany.

There is nothing particularly attractive in the situation of this mill;

it is on the Mannheim (the flat and unromantic) side of Heidelberg. The

river turns the mill-wheel with a plenteous gushing sound; the

out-buildings and the dwelling-house of the miller form a well-kept

dusty quadrangle. Again, further from the river, there is a garden full

of willows, and arbours, and flower-beds not well kept, but very

profuse in flowers and luxuriant creepers, knotting and looping the

arbours together. In each of these arbours is a stationary table of

white painted wood, and light moveable chairs of the same colour and

material.

I went to drink coffee there with some friends in 184--. The stately

old miller came out to greet us, as some of the party were known to him

of old. He was of a grand build of a man, and his loud musical voice,

with its tone friendly and familiar, his rolling laugh of welcome, went

well with the keen bright eye, the fine cloth of his coat, and the

general look of substance about the place. Poultry of all kinds

abounded in the mill-yard, where there were ample means of livelihood

for them strewed on the ground; but not content with this, the miller

took out handfuls of corn from the sacks, and threw liberally to the

cocks and hens that ran almost under his feet in their eagerness. And

all the time he was doing this, as it were habitually, he was talking

to us, and ever and anon calling to his daughter and the serving-maids,

to bid them hasten the coffee we had ordered. He followed us to an

arbour, and saw us served to his satisfaction with the best of

everything we could ask for; and then left us to go round to the

different arbours and see that each party was properly attended to;

and, as he went, this great, prosperous, happy-looking man whistled

softly one of the most plaintive airs I ever heard.

'His family have held this mill ever since the old Palatinate days; or

rather, I should say, have possessed the ground ever since then, for

two successive mills of theirs have been burnt down by the French. If

you want to see Scherer in a passion, just talk to him of the

possibility of a French invasion.'

But at this moment, still whistling that mournful air, we saw the

miller going down the steps that led from the somewhat raised garden

into the mill-yard; and so I seemed to have lost my chance of putting

him in a passion.

We had nearly finished our coffee, and our 'kucken,' and our cinnamon

cake, when heavy splashes fell on our thick leafy covering; quicker and

quicker they came, coming through the tender leaves as if they were

tearing them asunder; all the people in the garden were hurrying under

shelter, or seeking for their carriages standing outside. Up the steps

the miller came hastening, with a crimson umbrella, fit to cover every

one left in the garden, and followed by his daughter, and one or two

maidens, each bearing an umbrella.

'Come into the house--come in, I say. It is a summer-storm, and will

flood the place for an hour or two, till the river carries it away.

Here, here.'

And we followed him back into his own house. We went into the kitchen

first. Such an array of bright copper and tin vessels I never saw; and

all the wooden things were as thoroughly scoured. The red tile floor

was spotless when we went in, but in two minutes it was all over slop

and dirt with the tread of many feet; for the kitchen was filled, and

still the worthy miller kept bringing in more people under his great

crimson umbrella. He even called the dogs in, and made them lie down

under the tables.

His daughter said something to him in German, and he shook his head

merrily at her. Everybody laughed.

'What did she say?' I asked.

'She told him to bring the ducks in next; but indeed if more people

come we shall be suffocated. What with the thundery weather, and the

stove, and all these steaming clothes, I really think we must ask leave

to pass on. Perhaps we might go in and see Frau Scherer.'

My friend asked the daughter of the house for permission to go into an

inner chamber and see her mother. It was granted, and we went into a

sort of saloon, over-looking the Neckar; very small, very bright, and

very close. The floor was slippery with polish; long narrow pieces of

looking-glass against the walls reflected the perpetual motion of the

river opposite; a white porcelain stove, with some old-fashioned

ornaments of brass about it; a sofa, covered with Utrecht velvet, a

table before it, and a piece of worsted-worked carpet under it; a vase

of artificial flowers; and, lastly, an alcove with a bed in it, on

which lay the paralysed wife of the good miller, knitting busily,

formed the furniture. I spoke as if this was all that was to be seen in

the room; but, sitting quietly, while my friend kept up a brisk

conversation in a language which I but half understood, my eye was

caught by a picture in a dark corner of the room, and I got up to

examine it more nearly.

It was that of a young girl of extreme beauty; evidently of middle

rank. There was a sensitive refinement in her face, as if she almost

shrank from the gaze which, of necessity, the painter must have fixed

upon her. It was not over-well painted, but I felt that it must have

been a good likeness, from this strong impress of peculiar character

which I have tried to describe. From the dress, I should guess it to

have been painted in the latter half of the last century. And I

afterwards heard that I was right.

There was a little pause in the conversation.

'Will you ask Frau Scherer who this is?'

My friend repeated my question, and received a long reply in German.

Then she turned round and translated it to me.

'It is the likeness of a great-aunt of her husband's.' (My friend was

standing by me, and looking at the picture with sympathetic curiosity.)

'See! here is the name on the open page of this Bible, "Anna Scherer,

1778." Frau Scherer says there is a tradition in the family that this

pretty girl, with her complexion of lilies and roses, lost her colour

so entirely through fright, that she was known by the name of the Grey

Woman. She speaks as if this Anna Scherer lived in some state of

life-long terror. But she does not know details; refers me to her

husband for them. She thinks he has some papers which were written by

the original of that picture for her daughter, who died in this very

house not long after our friend there was married. We can ask Herr

Scherer for the whole story if you like.'

'Oh yes, pray do!' said I. And, as our host came in at this moment to

ask how we were faring, and to tell us that he had sent to Heidelberg

for carriages to convey us home, seeing no chance of the heavy rain

abating, my friend, after thanking him, passed on to my request.

'Ah!' said he, his face changing, 'the aunt Anna had a sad history. It

was all owing to one of those hellish Frenchmen; and her daughter

suffered for it--the cousin Ursula, as we all called her when I was a

child. To be sure, the good cousin Ursula was his child as well. The

sins of the fathers are visited on their children. The lady would like

to know all about it, would she? Well, there are papers--a kind of

apology the aunt Anna wrote for putting an end to her daughter's

engagement--or rather facts which she revealed, that prevented cousin

Ursula from marrying the man she loved; and so she would never have any

other good fellow, else I have heard say my father would have been

thankful to have made her his wife.' All this time he was rummaging in

the drawer of an old-fashioned bureau, and now he turned round, with a

bundle of yellow MSS. in his hand, which he gave to my friend, saying,

'Take it home, take it home, and if you care to make out our crabbed

German writing, you may keep it as long as you like, and read it at

your leisure. Only I must have it back again when you have done with

it, that's all.'

And so we became possessed of the manuscript of the following letter,

which it was our employment, during many a long evening that ensuing

winter, to translate, and in some parts to abbreviate. The letter began

with some reference to the pain which she had already inflicted upon

her daughter by some unexplained opposition to a project of marriage;

but I doubt if, without the clue with which the good miller had

furnished us, we could have made out even this much from the

passionate, broken sentences that made us fancy that some scene between

the mother and daughter--and possibly a third person--had occurred just

before the mother had begun to write.

* * * * *

'Thou dost not love thy child, mother! Thou dost not care if her heart

is broken!' Ah, God! and these words of my heart-beloved Ursula ring in

my ears as if the sound of them would fill them when I lie a-dying. And

her poor tear-stained face comes between me and everything else. Child!

hearts do not break; life is very tough as well as very terrible. But I

will not decide for thee. I will tell thee all; and thou shalt bear the

burden of choice. I may be wrong; I have little wit left, and never had

much, I think; but an instinct serves me in place of judgement, and

that instinct tells me that thou and thy Henri must never be married.

Yet I may be in error. I would fain make my child happy. Lay this paper

before the good priest Schriesheim; if, after reading it, thou hast

doubts which make thee uncertain. Only I will tell thee all now, on

condition that no spoken word ever passes between us on the subject. It

would kill me to be questioned. I should have to see all present again.

My father held, as thou knowest, the mill on the Neckar, where thy

new-found uncle, Scherer, now lives. Thou rememberest the surprise with

which we were received there last vintage twelvemonth. How thy uncle

disbelieved me when I said that I was his sister Anna, whom he had long

believed to be dead, and how I had to lead thee underneath the picture,

painted of me long ago, and point out, feature by feature, the likeness

between it and thee; and how, as I spoke, I recalled first to my own

mind, and then by speech to his, the details of the time when it was

painted; the merry words that passed between us then, a happy boy and

girl; the position of the articles of furniture in the room; our

father's habits; the cherry-tree, now cut down, that shaded the window

of my bedroom, through which my brother was wont to squeeze himself, in

order to spring on to the topmost bough that would bear his weight; and

thence would pass me back his cap laden with fruit to where I sat on

the window-sill, too sick with fright for him to care much for eating

the cherries.

And at length Fritz gave way, and believed me to be his sister Anna,

even as though I were risen from the dead. And thou rememberest how he

fetched in his wife, and told her that I was not dead, but was come

back to the old home once more, changed as I was. And she would scarce

believe him, and scanned me with a cold, distrustful eye, till at

length--for I knew her of old as Babette Müller--I said that I was

well-to-do, and needed not to seek out friends for what they had to

give. And then she asked--not me, but her husband--why I had kept

silent so long, leading all--father, brother, every one that loved me

in my own dear home--to esteem me dead. And then thine uncle (thou

rememberest?) said he cared not to know more than I cared to tell; that

I was his Anna, found again, to be a blessing to him in his old age, as

I had been in his boyhood. I thanked him in my heart for his trust; for

were the need for telling all less than it seems to me now I could not

speak of my past life. But she, who was my sister-in-law still, held

back her welcome, and, for want of that, I did not go to live in

Heidelberg as I had planned beforehand, in order to be near my brother

Fritz, but contented myself with his promise to be a father to my

Ursula when I should die and leave this weary world.

That Babette Müller was, as I may say, the cause of all my life's

suffering. She was a baker's daughter in Heidelberg--a great beauty, as

people said, and, indeed, as I could see for myself I, too--thou sawest

my picture--was reckoned a beauty, and I believe I was so. Babette

Müller looked upon me as a rival. She liked to be admired, and had no

one much to love her. I had several people to love me--thy grandfather,

Fritz, the old servant Kätchen, Karl, the head apprentice at the

mill--and I feared admiration and notice, and the being stared at as

the 'Schöne Müllerin,' whenever I went to make my purchases in

Heidelberg.

Those were happy, peaceful days. I had Kätchen to help me in the

housework, and whatever we did pleased my brave old father, who was

always gentle and indulgent towards us women, though he was stern

enough with the apprentices in the mill. Karl, the oldest of these, was

his favourite; and I can see now that my father wished him to marry me,

and that Karl himself was desirous to do so. But Karl was rough-spoken,

and passionate--not with me, but with the others--and I shrank from him

in a way which, I fear, gave him pain. And then came thy uncle Fritz's

marriage; and Babette was brought to the mill to be its mistress. Not

that I cared much for giving up my post, for, in spite of my father's

great kindness, I always feared that I did not manage well for so large

a family (with the men, and a girl under Kätchen, we sat down eleven

each night to supper). But when Babette began to find fault with

Kätchen, I was unhappy at the blame that fell on faithful servants; and

by-and-by I began to see that Babette was egging on Karl to make more

open love to me, and, as she once said, to get done with it, and take

me off to a home of my own. My father was growing old, and did not

perceive all my daily discomfort. The more Karl advanced, the more I

disliked him. He was good in the main, but I had no notion of being

married, and could not bear any one who talked to me about it.

Things were in this way when I had an invitation to go to Carlsruhe to

visit a schoolfellow, of whom I had been very fond. Babette was all for

my going; I don't think I wanted to leave home, and yet I had been very

fond of Sophie Rupprecht. But I was always shy among strangers. Somehow

the affair was settled for me, but not until both Fritz and my father

had made inquiries as to the character and position of the Rupprechts.

They learned that the father had held some kind of inferior position

about the Grand-duke's court, and was now dead, leaving a widow, a

noble lady, and two daughters, the elder of whom was Sophie, my friend.

Madame Rupprecht was not rich, but more than respectable--genteel. When

this was ascertained, my father made no opposition to my going; Babette

forwarded it by all the means in her power, and even my dear Fritz had

his word to say in its favour. Only Kätchen was against it--Kätchen and

Karl. The opposition of Karl did more to send me to Carlsruhe than

anything. For I could have objected to go; but when he took upon

himself to ask what was the good of going a-gadding, visiting strangers

of whom no one knew anything, I yielded to circumstances--to the

pulling of Sophie and the pushing of Babette. I was silently vexed, I

remember, at Babette's inspection of my clothes; at the way in which

she settled that this gown was too old-fashioned, or that too common,

to go with me on my visit to a noble lady; and at the way in which she

took upon herself to spend the money my father had given me to buy what

was requisite for the occasion. And yet I blamed myself, for every one

else thought her so kind for doing all this; and she herself meant

kindly, too.

At last I quitted the mill by the Neckar-side. It was a long day's

journey, and Fritz went with me to Carlsruhe. The Rupprechts lived on

the third floor of a house a little behind one of the principal

streets, in a cramped-up court, to which we gained admittance through a

doorway in the street. I remember how pinched their rooms looked after

the large space we had at the mill, and yet they had an air of grandeur

about them which was new to me, and which gave me pleasure, faded as

some of it was. Madame Rupprecht was too formal a lady for me; I was

never at my ease with her; but Sophie was all that I had recollected

her at school: kind, affectionate, and only rather too ready with her

expressions of admiration and regard. The little sister kept out of our

way; and that was all we needed, in the first enthusiastic renewal of

our early friendship. The one great object of Madame Rupprecht's life

was to retain her position in society; and as her means were much

diminished since her husband's death, there was not much comfort,

though there was a great deal of show, in their way of living; just the

opposite of what it was at my father's house. I believe that my coming

was not too much desired by Madame Rupprecht, as I brought with me

another mouth to be fed; but Sophie had spent a year or more in

entreating for permission to invite me, and her mother, having once

consented, was too well bred not to give me a stately welcome.

The life in Carlsruhe was very different from what it was at home. The

hours were later, the coffee was weaker in the morning, the pottage was

weaker, the boiled beef less relieved by other diet, the dresses finer,

the evening engagements constant. I did not find these visits pleasant.

We might not knit, which would have relieved the tedium a little; but

we sat in a circle, talking together, only interrupted occasionally by

a gentleman, who, breaking out of the knot of men who stood near the

door, talking eagerly together, stole across the room on tiptoe, his

hat under his arm, and, bringing his feet together in the position we

called the first at the dancing-school, made a low bow to the lady he

was going to address. The first time I saw these manners I could not

help smiling; but Madame Rupprecht saw me, and spoke to me next morning

rather severely, telling me that, of course, in my country breeding I

could have seen nothing of court manners, or French fashions, but that

that was no reason for my laughing at them. Of course I tried never to

smile again in company. This visit to Carlsruhe took place in '89, just

when every one was full of the events taking place at Paris; and yet at

Carlsruhe French fashions were more talked of than French politics.

Madame Rupprecht, especially, thought a great deal of all French

people. And this again was quite different to us at home. Fritz could

hardly bear the name of a Frenchman; and it had nearly been an obstacle

to my visit to Sophie that her mother preferred being called Madame to

her proper title of Frau.

One night I was sitting next to Sophie, and longing for the time when

we might have supper and go home, so as to be able to speak together, a

thing forbidden by Madame Rupprecht's rules of etiquette, which

strictly prohibited any but the most necessary conversation passing

between members of the same family when in society. I was sitting, I

say, scarcely keeping back my inclination to yawn, when two gentlemen

came in, one of whom was evidently a stranger to the whole party, from

the formal manner in which the host led him up, and presented him to

the hostess. I thought I had never seen any one so handsome or so

elegant. His hair was powdered, of course, but one could see from his

complexion that it was fair in its natural state. His features were as

delicate as a girl's, and set off by two little 'mouches,' as we called

patches in those days, one at the left corner of his mouth, the other

prolonging, as it were, the right eye. His dress was blue and silver. I

was so lost in admiration of this beautiful young man, that I was as

much surprised as if the angel Gabriel had spoken to me, when the lady

of the house brought him forward to present him to me. She called him

Monsieur de la Tourelle, and he began to speak to me in French; but

though I understood him perfectly, I dared not trust myself to reply to

him in that language. Then he tried German, speaking it with a kind of

soft lisp that I thought charming. But, before the end of the evening,

I became a little tired of the affected softness and effeminacy of his

manners, and the exaggerated compliments he paid me, which had the

effect of making all the company turn round and look at me. Madame

Rupprecht was, however, pleased with the precise thing that displeased

me. She liked either Sophie or me to create a sensation; of course she

would have preferred that it should have been her daughter, but her

daughter's friend was next best. As we went away, I heard Madame

Rupprecht and Monsieur de la Tourelle reciprocating civil speeches with

might and main, from which I found out that the French gentleman was

coming to call on us the next day. I do not know whether I was more

glad or frightened, for I had been kept upon stilts of good manners all

the evening. But still I was flattered when Madame Rupprecht spoke as

if she had invited him, because he had shown pleasure in my society,

and even more gratified by Sophie's ungrudging delight at the evident

interest I had excited in so fine and agreeable a gentleman. Yet, with

all this, they had hard work to keep me from running out of the salon

the next day, when we heard his voice inquiring at the gate on the

stairs for Madame Rupprecht. They had made me put on my Sunday gown,

and they themselves were dressed as for a reception.

When he was gone away, Madame Rupprecht congratulated me on the

conquest I had made; for, indeed, he had scarcely spoken to anyone

else, beyond what mere civility required, and had almost invited

himself to come in the evening to bring some new song, which was all

the fashion in Paris, he said. Madame Rupprecht had been out all

morning, as she told me, to glean information about Monsieur de la

Tourelle. He was a propriétaire, had a small château on the Vosges

mountains; he owned land there, but had a large income from some

sources quite independent of this property. Altogether, he was a good

match, as she emphatically observed. She never seemed to think that I

could refuse him after this account of his wealth, nor do I believe she

would have allowed Sophie a choice, even had he been as old and ugly as

he was young and handsome. I do not quite know--so many events have

come to pass since then, and blurred the clearness of my

recollections--if I loved him or not. He was very much devoted to me;

he almost frightened me by the excess of his demonstrations of love.

And he was very charming to everybody around me, who all spoke of him

as the most fascinating of men, and of me as the most fortunate of

girls. And yet I never felt quite at my ease with him. I was always

relieved when his visits were over, although I missed his presence when

he did not come. He prolonged his visit to the friend with whom he was

staying at Carlsruhe, on purpose to woo me. He loaded me with presents,

which I was unwilling to take, only Madame Rupprecht seemed to consider

me an affected prude if I refused them. Many of these presents

consisted of articles of valuable old jewellery, evidently belonging to

his family; by accepting these I doubled the ties which were formed

around me by circumstances even more than by my own consent. In those

days we did not write letters to absent friends as frequently as is

done now, and I had been unwilling to name him in the few letters that

I wrote home. At length, however, I learned from Madame Rupprecht that

she had written to my father to announce the splendid conquest I had

made, and to request his presence at my betrothal. I started with

astonishment. I had not realized that affairs had gone so far as this.

But when she asked me, in a stern, offended manner, what I had meant by

my conduct if I did not intend to marry Monsieur de la Tourelle--I had

received his visits, his presents, all his various advances without

showing any unwillingness or repugnance--(and it was all true; I had

shown no repugnance, though I did not wish to be married to him,--at

least, not so soon)--what could I do but hang my head, and silently

consent to the rapid enunciation of the only course which now remained

for me if I would not be esteemed a heartless coquette all the rest of

my days?

There was some difficulty, which I afterwards learnt that my

sister-in-law had obviated, about my betrothal taking place from home.

My father, and Fritz especially, were for having me return to the mill,

and there be betrothed, and from thence be married. But the Rupprechts

and Monsieur de la Tourelle were equally urgent on the other side; and

Babette was unwilling to have the trouble of the commotion at the mill;

and also, I think, a little disliked the idea of the contrast of my

grander marriage with her own.

So my father and Fritz came over to the betrothal. They were to stay at

an inn in Carlsruhe for a fortnight, at the end of which time the

marriage was to take place. Monsieur de la Tourelle told me he had

business at home, which would oblige him to be absent during the

interval between the two events; and I was very glad of it, for I did

not think that he valued my father and my brother as I could have

wished him to do. He was very polite to them; put on all the soft,

grand manner, which he had rather dropped with me; and complimented us

all round, beginning with my father and Madame Rupprecht, and ending

with little Alwina. But he a little scoffed at the old-fashioned church

ceremonies which my father insisted on; and I fancy Fritz must have

taken some of his compliments as satire, for I saw certain signs of

manner by which I knew that my future husband, for all his civil words,

had irritated and annoyed my brother. But all the money arrangements

were liberal in the extreme, and more than satisfied, almost surprised,

my father. Even Fritz lifted up his eyebrows and whistled. I alone did

not care about anything. I was bewitched,--in a dream,--a kind of

despair. I had got into a net through my own timidity and weakness, and

I did not see how to get out of it. I clung to my own home-people that

fortnight as I had never done before. Their voices, their ways were all

so pleasant and familiar to me, after the constraint in which I had

been living. I might speak and do as I liked without being corrected by

Madame Rupprecht, or reproved in a delicate, complimentary way by

Monsieur de la Tourelle. One day I said to my father that I did not

want to be married, that I would rather go back to the dear old mill;

but he seemed to feel this speech of mine as a dereliction of duty as

great as if I had committed perjury; as if, after the ceremony of

betrothal, no one had any right over me but my future husband. And yet

he asked me some solemn questions; but my answers were not such as to

do me any good.

'Dost thou know any fault or crime in this man that should prevent

God's blessing from resting on thy marriage with him? Dost thou feel

aversion or repugnance to him in any way?'

And to all this what could I say? I could only stammer out that I did

not think I loved him enough; and my poor old father saw in this

reluctance only the fancy of a silly girl who did not know her own

mind, but who had now gone too far to recede.

So we were married, in the Court chapel, a privilege which Madame

Rupprecht had used no end of efforts to obtain for us, and which she

must have thought was to secure us all possible happiness, both at the

time and in recollection afterwards.

We were married; and after two days spent in festivity at Carlsruhe,

among all our new fashionable friends there, I bade good-by for ever to

my dear old father. I had begged my husband to take me by way of

Heidelberg to his old castle in the Vosges; but I found an amount of

determination, under that effeminate appearance and manner, for which I

was not prepared, and he refused my first request so decidedly that I

dared not urge it. 'Henceforth, Anna,' said he, 'you will move in a

different sphere of life; and though it is possible that you may have

the power of showing favour to your relations from time to time, yet

much or familiar intercourse will be undesirable, and is what I cannot

allow.' I felt almost afraid, after this formal speech, of asking my

father and Fritz to come and see me; but, when the agony of bidding

them farewell overcame all my prudence, I did beg them to pay me a

visit ere long. But they shook their heads, and spoke of business at

home, of different kinds of life, of my being a Frenchwoman now. Only

my father broke out at last with a blessing, and said, 'If my child is

unhappy--which God forbid--let her remember that her father's house is

ever open to her.' I was on the point of crying out, 'Oh! take me back

then now, my father! oh, my father!' when I felt, rather than saw, my

husband present near me. He looked on with a slightly contemptuous air;

and, taking my hand in his, he led me weeping away, saying that short

farewells were always the best when they were inevitable.

It took us two days to reach his château in the Vosges, for the roads

were bad and the way difficult to ascertain. Nothing could be more

devoted than he was all the time of the journey. It seemed as if he

were trying in every way to make up for the separation which every hour

made me feel the more complete between my present and my former life. I

seemed as if I were only now wakening up to a full sense of what

marriage was, and I dare say I was not a cheerful companion on the

tedious journey. At length, jealousy of my regret for my father and

brother got the better of M. de la Tourelle, and he became so much

displeased with me that I thought my heart would break with the sense

of desolation. So it was in no cheerful frame of mind that we

approached Les Rochers, and I thought that perhaps it was because I was

so unhappy that the place looked so dreary. On one side, the château

looked like a raw new building, hastily run up for some immediate

purpose, without any growth of trees or underwood near it, only the

remains of the stone used for building, not yet cleared away from the

immediate neighbourhood, although weeds and lichens had been suffered

to grow near and over the heaps of rubbish; on the other, were the

great rocks from which the place took its name, and rising close

against them, as if almost a natural formation, was the old castle,

whose building dated many centuries back.

It was not large nor grand, but it was strong and picturesque, and I

used to wish that we lived in it rather than in the smart,

half-furnished apartment in the new edifice, which had been hastily got

ready for my reception. Incongruous as the two parts were, they were

joined into a whole by means of intricate passages and unexpected

doors, the exact positions of which I never fully understood. M. de la

Tourelle led me to a suite of rooms set apart for me, and formally

installed me in them, as in a domain of which I was sovereign. He

apologised for the hasty preparation which was all he had been able to

make for me, but promised, before I asked, or even thought of

complaining, that they should be made as luxurious as heart could wish

before many weeks had elapsed. But when, in the gloom of an autumnal

evening, I caught my own face and figure reflected in all the mirrors,

which showed only a mysterious background in the dim light of the many

candles which failed to illuminate the great proportions of the

half-furnished salon, I clung to M. de la Tourelle, and begged to be

taken to the rooms he had occupied before his marriage, he seemed angry

with me, although he affected to laugh, and so decidedly put aside the

notion of my having any other rooms but these, that I trembled in

silence at the fantastic figures and shapes which my imagination called

up as peopling the background of those gloomy mirrors. There was my

boudoir, a little less dreary--my bedroom, with its grand and tarnished

furniture, which I commonly made into my sitting-room, locking up the

various doors which led into the boudoir, the salon, the passages--all

but one, through which M. de la Tourelle always entered from his own

apartments in the older part of the castle. But this preference of mine

for occupying my bedroom annoyed M. de la Tourelle, I am sure, though

he did not care to express his displeasure. He would always allure me

back into the salon, which I disliked more and more from its complete

separation from the rest of the building by the long passage into which

all the doors of my apartment opened. This passage was closed by heavy

doors and portières, through which I could not hear a sound from the

other parts of the house, and, of course, the servants could not hear

any movement or cry of mine unless expressly summoned. To a girl

brought up as I had been in a household where every individual lived

all day in the sight of every other member of the family, never wanted

either cheerful words or the sense of silent companionship, this grand

isolation of mine was very formidable; and the more so, because M. de

la Tourelle, as landed proprietor, sportsman, and what not, was

generally out of doors the greater part of every day, and sometimes for

two or three days at a time. I had no pride to keep me from associating

with the domestics; it would have been natural to me in many ways to

have sought them out for a word of sympathy in those dreary days when I

was left so entirely to myself, had they been like our kindly German

servants. But I disliked them, one and all; I could not tell why. Some

were civil, but there was a familiarity in their civility which

repelled me; others were rude, and treated me more as if I were an

intruder than their master's chosen wife; and yet of the two sets I

liked these last the best.

The principal male servant belonged to this latter class. I was very

much afraid of him, he had such an air of suspicious surliness about

him in all he did for me; and yet M. de la Tourelle spoke of him as

most valuable and faithful. Indeed, it sometimes struck me that

Lefebvre ruled his master in some things; and this I could not make

out. For, while M. de la Tourelle behaved towards me as if I were some

precious toy or idol, to be cherished, and fostered, and petted, and

indulged, I soon found out how little I, or, apparently, any one else,

could bend the terrible will of the man who had on first acquaintance

appeared to me too effeminate and languid to exert his will in the

slightest particular. I had learnt to know his face better now; and to

see that some vehement depth of feeling, the cause of which I could not

fathom, made his grey eye glitter with pale light, and his lips

contract, and his delicate cheek whiten on certain occasions. But all

had been so open and above board at home, that I had no experience to

help me to unravel any mysteries among those who lived under the same

roof. I understood that I had made what Madame Rupprecht and her set

would have called a great marriage, because I lived in château with

many servants, bound ostensibly to obey me as a mistress. I understood

that M. de la Tourelle was fond enough of me in his way--proud of my

beauty, I dare say (for he often enough spoke about it to me)--but he

was also jealous, and suspicious, and uninfluenced by my wishes, unless

they tallied with his own. I felt at this time as if I could have been

fond of him too, if he would have let me; but I was timid from my

childhood, and before long my dread of his displeasure (coming down

like thunder into the midst of his love, for such slight causes as a

hesitation in reply, a wrong word, or a sigh for my father), conquered

my humorous inclination to love one who was so handsome, so

accomplished, so indulgent and devoted. But if I could not please him

when indeed I loved him, you may imagine how often I did wrong when I

was so much afraid of him as to quietly avoid his company for fear of

his outbursts of passion. One thing I remember noticing, that the more

M. de la Tourelle was displeased with me, the more Lefebvre seemed to

chuckle; and when I was restored to favour, sometimes on as sudden an

impulse as that which occasioned my disgrace, Lefebvre would look

askance at me with his cold, malicious eyes, and once or twice at such

times he spoke most disrespectfully to M. de la Tourelle.

I have almost forgotten to say that, in the early days of my life at

Les Rochers, M. de la Tourelle, in contemptuous indulgent pity at my

weakness in disliking the dreary grandeur of the salon, wrote up to the

milliner in Paris from whom my corbeille de mariage had come, to desire

her to look out for me a maid of middle age, experienced in the

toilette, and with so much refinement that she might on occasion serve

as companion to me.

Portion 2

A Norman woman, Amante by name, was sent to Les Rochers by the Paris

milliner, to become my maid. She was tall and handsome, though upwards

of forty, and somewhat gaunt. But, on first seeing her, I liked her;

she was neither rude nor familiar in her manners, and had a pleasant

look of straightforwardness about her that I had missed in all the

inhabitants of the château, and had foolishly set down in my own mind

as a national want. Amante was directed by M. de la Tourelle to sit in

my boudoir, and to be always within call. He also gave her many

instructions as to her duties in matters which, perhaps, strictly

belonged to my department of management. But I was young and

inexperienced, and thankful to be spared any responsibility.

I daresay it was true what M. de la Tourelle said--before many weeks

had elapsed--that, for a great lady, a lady of a castle, I became sadly

too familiar with my Norman waiting-maid. But you know that by birth we

were not very far apart in rank: Amante was the daughter of a Norman

farmer, I of a German miller; and besides that, my life was so lonely!

It almost seemed as if I could not please my husband. He had written

for some one capable of being my companion at times, and now he was

jealous of my free regard for her--angry because I could sometimes

laugh at her original tunes and amusing proverbs, while when with him I

was too much frightened to smile.

From time to time families from a distance of some leagues drove

through the bad roads in their heavy carriages to pay us a visit, and

there was an occasional talk of our going to Paris when public affairs

should be a little more settled. These little events and plans were the

only variations in my life for the first twelve months, if I except the

alternations in M. de la Tourelle's temper, his unreasonable anger, and

his passionate fondness.

Perhaps one of the reasons that made me take pleasure and comfort in

Amante's society was, that whereas I was afraid of everybody (I do not

think I was half as much afraid of things as of persons), Amante feared

no one. She would quietly beard Lefebvre, and he respected her all the

more for it; she had a knack of putting questions to M. de la Tourelle,

which respectfully informed him that she had detected the weak point,

but forebore to press him too closely upon it out of deference to his

position as her master. And with all her shrewdness to others, she had

quite tender ways with me; all the more so at this time because she

knew, what I had not yet ventured to tell M. de la Tourelle, that

by-and-by I might become a mother--that wonderful object of mysterious

interest to single women, who no longer hope to enjoy such blessedness

themselves.

It was once more autumn; late in October. But I was reconciled to my

habitation; the walls of the new part of the building no longer looked

bare and desolate; the _débris_ had been so far cleared away by M. de

la Tourelle's desire as to make me a little flower-garden, in which I

tried to cultivate those plants that I remembered as growing at home.

Amante and I had moved the furniture in the rooms, and adjusted it to

our liking; my husband had ordered many an article from time to time

that he thought would give me pleasure, and I was becoming tame to my

apparent imprisonment in a certain part of the great building, the

whole of which I had never yet explored. It was October, as I say, once

more. The days were lovely, though short in duration, and M. de la

Tourelle had occasion, so he said, to go to that distant estate the

superintendence of which so frequently took him away from home. He took

Lefebvre with him, and possibly some more of the lacqueys; he often

did. And my spirits rose a little at the thought of his absence; and

then the new sensation that he was the father of my unborn babe came

over me, and I tried to invest him with this fresh character. I tried

to believe that it was his passionate love for me that made him so

jealous and tyrannical, imposing, as he did, restrictions on my very

intercourse with my dear father, from whom I was so entirely separated,

as far as personal intercourse was concerned.

I had, it is true, let myself go into a sorrowful review of all the

troubles which lay hidden beneath the seeming luxury of my life. I knew

that no one cared for me except my husband and Amante; for it was clear

enough to see that I, as his wife, and also as a _parvenue_, was not

popular among the few neighbours who surrounded us; and as for the

servants; the women were all hard and impudent-looking, treating me

with a semblance of respect that had more of mockery than reality in

it; while the men had a lurking kind of fierceness about them,

sometimes displayed even to M. de la Tourelle, who on his part, it must

be confessed, was often severe even to cruelty in his management of

them. My husband loved me, I said to myself, but I said it almost in

the form of a question. His love was shown fitfully, and more in ways

calculated to please himself than to please me. I felt that for no wish

of mine would he deviate one tittle from any predetermined course of

action. I had learnt the inflexibility of those thin delicate lips; I

knew how anger would turn his fair complexion to deadly white, and

bring the cruel light into his pale blue eyes. The love I bore to any

one seemed to be a reason for his hating them, and so I went on pitying

myself one long dreary afternoon during that absence of his of which I

have spoken, only sometimes remembering to check myself in my

murmurings by thinking of the new unseen link between us, and then

crying afresh to think how wicked I was. Oh, how well I remember that

long October evening! Amante came in from time to time, talking away to

cheer me--talking about dress and Paris, and I hardly know what, but

from time to time looking at me keenly with her friendly dark eyes, and

with serious interest, too, though all her words were about frivolity.

At length she heaped the fire with wood, drew the heavy silken curtains

close; for I had been anxious hitherto to keep them open, so that I

might see the pale moon mounting the skies, as I used to see her--the

same moon--rise from behind the Kaiser Stuhl at Heidelberg; but the

sight made me cry, so Amante shut it out. She dictated to me as a nurse

does to a child.

'Now, madame must have the little kitten to keep her company,' she

said, 'while I go and ask Marthon for a cup of coffee.' I remember that

speech, and the way it roused me, for I did not like Amante to think I

wanted amusing by a kitten. It might be my petulance, but this

speech--such as she might have made to a child--annoyed me, and I said

that I had reason for my lowness of spirits--meaning that they were not

of so imaginary a nature that I could be diverted from them by the

gambols of a kitten. So, though I did not choose to tell her all, I

told her a part; and as I spoke, I began to suspect that the good

creature knew much of what I withheld, and that the little speech about

the kitten was more thoughtfully kind than it had seemed at first. I

said that it was so long since I had heard from my father; that he was

an old man, and so many things might happen--I might never see him

again--and I so seldom heard from him or my brother. It was a more

complete and total separation than I had ever anticipated when I

married, and something of my home and of my life previous to my

marriage I told the good Amante; for I had not been brought up as a

great lady, and the sympathy of any human being was precious to me.

Amante listened with interest, and in return told me some of the events

and sorrows of her own life. Then, remembering her purpose, she set out

in search of the coffee, which ought to have been brought to me an hour

before; but, in my husband's absence, my wishes were but seldom

attended to, and I never dared to give orders.

Presently she returned, bringing the coffee and a great large cake.

'See!' said she, setting it down. 'Look at my plunder. Madame must eat.

Those who eat always laugh. And, besides, I have a little news that

will please madame.' Then she told me that, lying on a table in the

great kitchen, was a bundle of letters, come by the courier from

Strasburg that very afternoon: then, fresh from her conversation with

me, she had hastily untied the string that bound them, but had only

just traced out one that she thought was from Germany, when a

servant-man came in, and, with the start he gave her, she dropped the

letters, which he picked up, swearing at her for having untied and

disarranged them. She told him that she believed there was a letter

there for her mistress; but he only swore the more, saying, that if

there was it was no business of hers, or of his either, for that he had

the strictest orders always to take all letters that arrived during his

master's absence into the private sitting-room of the latter--a room

into which I had never entered, although it opened out of my husband's

dressing-room.

I asked Amante if she had not conquered and brought me this letter. No,

indeed, she replied, it was almost as much as her life was worth to

live among such a set of servants: it was only a month ago that Jacques

had stabbed Valentin for some jesting talk. Had I never missed

Valentin--that handsome young lad who carried up the wood into my

salon? Poor fellow! he lies dead and cold now, and they said in the

village he had put an end to himself, but those of the household knew

better. Oh! I need not be afraid; Jacques was gone, no one knew where;

but with such people it was not safe to upbraid or insist. Monsieur

would be at home the next day, and it would not be long to wait.

But I felt as if I could not exist till the next day, without the

letter. It might be to say that my father was ill, dying--he might cry

for his daughter from his death-bed! In short, there was no end to the

thoughts and fancies that haunted me. It was of no use for Amante to

say that, after all, she might be mistaken--that she did not read

writing well--that she had but a glimpse of the address; I let my

coffee cool, my food all became distasteful, and I wrung my hands with

impatience to get at the letter, and have some news of my dear ones at

home. All the time, Amante kept her imperturbable good temper, first

reasoning, then scolding. At last she said, as if wearied out, that if

I would consent to make a good supper, she would see what could be done

as to our going to monsieur's room in search of the letter, after the

servants were all gone to bed. We agreed to go together when all was

still, and look over the letters; there could be no harm in that; and

yet, somehow, we were such cowards we dared not do it openly and in the

face of the household.

Presently my supper came up--partridges, bread, fruits, and cream. How

well I remember that supper! We put the untouched cake away in a sort

of buffet, and poured the cold coffee out of the window, in order that

the servants might not take offence at the apparent fancifulness of

sending down for food I could not eat. I was so anxious for all to be

in bed, that I told the footman who served that he need not wait to

take away the plates and dishes, but might go to bed. Long after I

thought the house was quiet, Amante, in her caution, made me wait. It

was past eleven before we set out, with cat-like steps and veiled

light, along the passages, to go to my husband's room and steal my own

letter, if it was indeed there; a fact about which Amante had become

very uncertain in the progress of our discussion.

To make you understand my story, I must now try to explain to you the

plan of the château. It had been at one time a fortified place of some

strength, perched on the summit of a rock, which projected from the

side of the mountain. But additions had been made to the old building

(which must have borne a strong resemblance to the castles overhanging

the Rhine), and these new buildings were placed so as to command a

magnificent view, being on the steepest side of the rock, from which

the mountain fell away, as it were, leaving the great plain of France

in full survey. The ground-plan was something of the shape of three

sides of an oblong; my apartments in the modern edifice occupied the

narrow end, and had this grand prospect. The front of the castle was

old, and ran parallel to the road far below. In this were contained the

offices and public rooms of various descriptions, into which I never

penetrated. The back wing (considering the new building, in which my

apartments were, as the centre) consisted of many rooms, of a dark and

gloomy character, as the mountain-side shut out much of the sun, and

heavy pine woods came down within a few yards of the windows. Yet on

this side--on a projecting plateau of the rock--my husband had formed

the flower-garden of which I have spoken; for he was a great cultivator

of flowers in his leisure moments.

Now my bedroom was the corner room of the new buildings on the part

next to the mountains. Hence I could have let myself down into the

flower-garden by my hands on the window-sill on one side, without

danger of hurting myself; while the windows at right angles with these

looked sheer down a descent of a hundred feet at least. Going still

farther along this wing, you came to the old building; in fact, these

two fragments of the ancient castle had formerly been attached by some

such connecting apartments as my husband had rebuilt. These rooms

belonged to M. de la Tourelle. His bedroom opened into mine, his

dressing-room lay beyond; and that was pretty nearly all I knew, for

the servants, as well as he himself, had a knack of turning me back,

under some pretence, if ever they found me walking about alone, as I

was inclined to do, when first I came, from a sort of curiosity to see

the whole of the place of which I found myself mistress. M. de la

Tourelle never encouraged me to go out alone, either in a carriage or

for a walk, saying always that the roads were unsafe in those disturbed

times; indeed, I have sometimes fancied since that the flower-garden,

to which the only access from the castle was through his rooms, was

designed in order to give me exercise and employment under his own eye.

But to return to that night. I knew, as I have said, that M. de la

Tourelle's private room opened out of his dressing-room, and this out

of his bedroom, which again opened into mine, the corner-room. But

there were other doors into all these rooms, and these doors led into a

long gallery, lighted by windows, looking into the inner court. I do

not remember our consulting much about it; we went through my room into

my husband's apartment through the dressing-room, but the door of

communication into his study was locked, so there was nothing for it

but to turn back and go by the gallery to the other door. I recollect

noticing one or two things in these rooms, then seen by me for the

first time. I remember the sweet perfume that hung in the air, the

scent bottles of silver that decked his toilet-table, and the whole

apparatus for bathing and dressing, more luxurious even than those

which he had provided for me. But the room itself was less splendid in

its proportions than mine. In truth, the new buildings ended at the

entrance to my husband's dressing-room. There were deep window recesses

in walls eight or nine feet thick, and even the partitions between the

chambers were three feet deep; but over all these doors or windows

there fell thick, heavy draperies, so that I should think no one could

have heard in one room what passed in another. We went back into my

room, and out into the gallery. We had to shade our candle, from a fear

that possessed us, I don't know why, lest some of the servants in the

opposite wing might trace our progress towards the part of the castle

unused by any one except my husband. Somehow, I had always the feeling

that all the domestics, except Amante, were spies upon me, and that I

was trammelled in a web of observation and unspoken limitation

extending over all my actions.

There was a light in the upper room; we paused, and Amante would have

again retreated, but I was chafing under the delays. What was the harm

of my seeking my father's unopened letter to me in my husband's study?

I, generally the coward, now blamed Amante for her unusual timidity.

But the truth was, she had far more reason for suspicion as to the

proceedings of that terrible household than I had ever known of. I

urged her on, I pressed on myself; we came to the door, locked, but

with the key in it; we turned it, we entered; the letters lay on the

table, their white oblongs catching the light in an instant, and

revealing themselves to my eager eyes, hungering after the words of

love from my peaceful, distant home. But just as I pressed forward to

examine the letters, the candle which Amante held, caught in some

draught, went out, and we were in darkness. Amante proposed that we

should carry the letters back to my salon, collecting them as well as

we could in the dark, and returning all but the expected one for me;

but I begged her to return to my room, where I kept tinder and flint,

and to strike a fresh light; and I remained alone in the room, of which

I could only just distinguish the size, and the principal articles of

furniture: a large table, with a deep, overhanging cloth, in the

middle, escritoires and other heavy articles against the walls; all

this I could see as I stood there, my hand on the table close by the

letters, my face towards the window, which, both from the darkness of

the wood growing high up the mountain-side and the faint light of the

declining moon, seemed only like an oblong of paler purpler black than

the shadowy room. How much I remembered from my one instantaneous

glance before the candle went out, how much I saw as my eyes became

accustomed to the darkness, I do not know, but even now, in my dreams,

comes up that room of horror, distinct in its profound shadow. Amante

could hardly have been gone a minute before I felt an additional gloom

before the window, and heard soft movements outside--soft, but

resolute, and continued until the end was accomplished, and the window

raised.

In mortal terror of people forcing an entrance at such an hour, and in

such a manner as to leave no doubt of their purpose, I would have

turned to fly when first I heard the noise, only that I feared by any

quick motion to catch their attention, as I also ran the danger of

doing by opening the door, which was all but closed and to whose

handlings I was unaccustomed. Again, quick as lightning, I bethought me

of the hiding-place between the locked door to my husband's

dressing-room and the portière which covered it; but I gave that up, I

felt as if I could not reach it without screaming or fainting. So I

sank down softly, and crept under the table, hidden as I hoped, by the

great, deep table-cover, with its heavy fringe. I had not recovered my

swooning senses fully, and was trying to reassure myself as to my being

in a place of comparative safety, for, above all things, I dreaded the

betrayal of fainting, and struggled hard for such courage as I might

attain by deadening myself to the danger I was in by inflicting intense

pain on myself. You have often asked me the reason of that mark on my

hand; it was there, in my agony, I bit out a piece of flesh with my

relentless teeth, thankful for the pain, which helped to numb my

terror. I say, I was but just concealed within I heard the window

lifted, and one after another stepped over the sill, and stood by me so

close that I could have touched their feet. Then they laughed and

whispered; my brain swam so that I could not tell the meaning of their

words, but I heard my husband's laughter among the rest--low, hissing,

scornful--as he kicked something heavy that they had dragged in over

the floor, and which layed near me; so near, that my husband's kick, in

touching it, touched me too. I don't know why--I can't tell how--but

some feeling, and not curiosity, prompted me to put out my hand, ever

so softly, ever so little, and feel in the darkness for what lay

spurned beside me. I stole my groping palm upon the clenched and chilly

hand of a corpse!

Strange to say, this roused me to instant vividness of thought. Till

this moment I had almost forgotten Amante; now I planned with feverish

rapidity how I could give her a warning not to return; or rather, I

should say, I tried to plan, for all my projects were utterly futile,

as I might have seen from the first. I could only hope she would hear

the voices of those who were now busy in trying to kindle a light,

swearing awful oaths at the mislaid articles which would have enabled

them to strike fire. I heard her step outside coming nearer and nearer;

I saw from my hiding-place the line of light beneath the door more and

more distinctly; close to it her footstep paused; the men inside--at

the time I thought they had been only two, but I found out afterwards

there were three--paused in their endeavours, and were quite still, as

breathless as myself, I suppose. Then she slowly pushed the door open

with gentle motion, to save her flickering candle from being again

extinguished. For a moment all was still. Then I heard my husband say,

as he advanced towards her (he wore riding-boots, the shape of which I

knew well, as I could see them in the light):

'Amante, may I ask what brings you here into my private room?'

He stood between her and the dead body of a man, from which ghastly

heap I shrank away as it almost touched me, so close were we all

together. I could not tell whether she saw it or not; I could give her

no warning, nor make any dumb utterance of signs to bid her what to

say--if, indeed, I knew myself what would be best for her to say.

Her voice was quite changed when she spoke; quite hoarse, and very low;

yet it was steady enough as she said, what was the truth, that she had

come to look for a letter which she believed had arrived for me from

Germany. Good, brave Amante! Not a word about me. M. de la Tourelle

answered with a grim blasphemy and a fearful threat. He would have no

one prying into his premises; madame should have her letters, if there

were any, when he chose to give them to her, if, indeed, he thought it

well to give them to her at all. As for Amante, this was her first

warning, but it was also her last; and, taking the candle out of her

hand, he turned her out of the room, his companions discreetly making a

screen, so as to throw the corpse into deep shadow. I heard the key

turn in the door after her--if I had ever had any thought of escape it

was gone now. I only hoped that whatever was to befall me might soon be

over, for the tension of nerve was growing more than I could bear. The

instant she could be supposed to be out of hearing, two voices began

speaking in the most angry terms to my husband, upbraiding him for not

having detained her, gagged her--nay, one was for killing her, saying

he had seen her eye fall on the face of the dead man, whom he now

kicked in his passion. Though the form of their speech was as if they

were speaking to equals, yet in their tone there was something of fear.

I am sure my husband was their superior, or captain, or somewhat. He

replied to them almost as if he were scoffing at them, saying it was

such an expenditure of labour having to do with fools; that, ten to

one, the woman was only telling the simple truth, and that she was

frightened enough by discovering her master in his room to be thankful

to escape and return to her mistress, to whom he could easily explain

on the morrow how he happened to return in the dead of night. But his

companions fell to cursing me, and saying that since M. de la Tourelle

had been married he was fit for nothing but to dress himself fine and

scent himself with perfume; that, as for me, they could have got him

twenty girls prettier, and with far more spirit in them. He quietly

answered that I suited him, and that was enough. All this time they

were doing something--I could not see what--to the corpse; sometimes

they were too busy rifling the dead body, I believe, to talk; again

they let it fall with a heavy, resistless thud, and took to

quarrelling. They taunted my husband with angry vehemence, enraged at

his scoffing and scornful replies, his mocking laughter. Yes, holding

up his poor dead victim, the better to strip him of whatever he wore

that was valuable, I heard my husband laugh just as he had done when

exchanging repartees in the little salon of the Rupprechts at

Carlsruhe. I hated and dreaded him from that moment. At length, as if

to make an end of the subject, he said, with cool determination in his

voice:

'Now, my good friends, what is the use of all this talking, when you

know in your hearts that, if I suspected my wife of knowing more than I

chose of my affairs, she would not outlive the day? Remember Victorine.

Because she merely joked about my affairs in an imprudent manner, and

rejected my advice to keep a prudent tongue--to see what she liked, but

ask nothing and say nothing--she has gone a long journey--longer than

to Paris.'

'But this one is different to her; we knew all that Madame Victorine

knew, she was such a chatterbox; but this one may find out a vast deal,

and never breathe a word about it, she is so sly. Some fine day we may

have the country raised, and the gendarmes down upon us from Strasburg,

and all owing to your pretty doll, with her cunning ways of coming over

you.'

I think this roused M. de la Tourelle a little from his contemptuous

indifference, for he ground an oath through his teeth, and said, 'Feel!

this dagger is sharp, Henri. If my wife breathes a word, and I am such

a fool as not to have stopped her mouth effectually before she can

bring down gendarmes upon us, just let that good steel find its way to

my heart. Let her guess but one tittle, let her have but one slight

suspicion that I am not a "grand propriétaire," much less imagine that

I am a chief of chauffeurs, and she follows Victorine on the long

journey beyond Paris that very day.'

'She'll outwit you yet; or I never judged women well. Those still

silent ones are the devil. She'll be off during some of your absences,

having picked out some secret that will break us all on the wheel.'