HER FACE WAS THE MIRROR OF HER PLEASANT DREAMS.
In Hampton Cemetery there stands, and will stand for the sympathetic
admiration of future ages, an imposing monument, which apprises him who
meditates among the tombs that it was "Erected to the Memory of Jeremiah
Morley, by his Sorrowing Widow." At the date of the construction of this
expensive evidence of grief, the cost whereof had been provided by
testamentary direction--for the late Jeremiah had not been the man to
stake a testimonial to his worth upon anything less binding--the
stone-cutter, as one versed in the prevailing fashion of monumental
inscriptions, had suggested the conventional reference to the usual
"Hope of a Joyful Resurrection"; but the widow, her conscience already
strained by the legend agreed upon, had objected. Yet the inscription
which strained her conscience had the merit of truth; for the man
beneath the stone had left her sorrowing, as she had sorrowed nearly
every day since she had been pronounced his wife; but, being strictly
Hamptonian in her views, her long intimacy with the deceased had
rendered her incredulous of his joyous resurrection.
Years before the erection of the monument, while Easthampton was still a
port known to mariners, the warehouses since pulled down by Mrs. Joe
having hardly commenced to rot, a certain Jerry Morley who, so far as he
or anybody else knew, had no legitimate right to name or existence, had
sailed from the harbor in the capacity of third mate of the barque
"Griselda," a trim vessel manned by a crew of blackguards, not one of
whom could approach the mate either in hardihood or in villainy. At that
time Mate Jerry had been scarcely more than a boy, ragged, unkempt and
fierce-eyed; when he returned, which he did by stage (for the barque had
disappeared from the ken of man), he was a smooth-shaven, portly
gentleman, hard and domineering; but strict in his walk (to all
appearance), and rich. The voice of detraction is never absolutely
silent, and though Mr. Morley possessed all the ingredients which go to
the making of a "Prominent Citizen," and played that role successfully
for many years; yet occasional whispers were heard as to mutiny, murder,
seizure of the "Griselda," and a subsequent career as a slaver;
whispers, confined mostly to the ancient mariners who smoked and basked
about the decaying docks of Easthampton, and which, in due time, were
heard no more. Mr. Morley purchased a fine residence in Hampton, was
munificent to the Seminary, married the fair daughter of a prominent
theologian, and, in short, appeared to the eyes of the world as a clean,
pompous, very wealthy and highly respected citizen and church member.
Few beside his wife knew that, in fact, he was a brute, given over to
secret vices. He had possessed a brain incapable of either excitation or
ache. Never sober, no man had ever seen him (to the observer's
knowledge) drunk. Few suspected his secret indulgence, but at the age of
sixty, liquor, aided by other sly excesses known only to himself, struck
him down, as a bullet might have done, relieving a once rarely beautiful
woman of a great load, and granting her a few years of comfort as a
set-off against many years of hidden misery.
From this grandfather Leonard had inherited more than one unsuspected
trait, but not the iron constitution which had succumbed only after
years of abuse. Berthe still had her adorable one, but her adoration was
gone; her man had become an object of compassionate disgust. The
brilliant theologian was a sot.
His fall had been from so great a height to so low a depth, that in his
own eyes his ruin was accomplished before his case was hopeless. He was
not hurried to his doom by late awakened appetites alone; he had hardly
abandoned his home before regret, if not repentance, became a burden too
heavy for endurance. The mournful echoes of his days of virtue, the
visions of his past of honor, were ever in his ears and before his eyes.
Remorse, the hell of sinners, was ever present; and from its constant
pangs was no relief except in plunging deeper into sin, inviting
greater horrors, and ever beckoned by them. To such miseries were added
the fear of that unending life beyond the grave; the life of torment,
which all his days he had been taught to contemplate as the doom of
souls abandoned by their Maker. The knowledge that he was one of those
"passed by" and left for the fires of hell--this knowledge hourly
increased the anguish of his spirit. Who among men shall too hardly
judge a ruined fellow-creature, abandoned by his God, who in debauchery
can find forgetfulness; or who, in the hazy mists of drunkenness alone,
can see some rays to cheer the gloom of ruin?
They had at first gone to Paris, and there he had plunged into
dissipation with an ardor that had startled and angered his companion,
whose good sense had been revolted. True, she had shown him the way,
recognizing his need of distraction; but she had not counted on reckless
excess, and had at first welcomed the change when he showed a
disposition to concentrate his attention upon liquor alone. She was to
learn that this slavery was the most debasing of all.
The woman had loved her victim in her own way, and for awhile she
honestly strove to raise him from the foul abyss in which he seemed
doomed to settle, but her efforts had been vain. She had long been
possessed of the common purse, and though her prudence had husbanded the
proceeds of Mrs. Joe's cheque, she saw the necessity of reasonable
economy; so she got her man to London, where he, by this time, exhausted
from dissipation, was content to live frugally, so long as his decanter
of gin was kept supplied. The woman often gazed furtively at him, and
was troubled. She commenced to consider the future. "Leonard," she said
one day, "you ought to marry me."
He was neither startled nor repelled. "It would be the first step in the
right direction," he answered. "Perhaps then I could overcome the
craving for drink." She was touched by the hope which for one moment
gleamed in his dull eyes. It aroused an answering hope in her bosom. Ah!
If it could be! If she could become his lawful wife, an honest woman;
and he the man he had been before she had led him to ruin! The passing
vision of purer days lured both.
A nobler desire than mere acquisitiveness was awakened in her. She knew
that probably no such marriage would be legal; it might even be
dangerous. But, it would bind him to her so that there could be no
escape. And so the matter came to be discussed between the two. Both
were aware of the possible criminality of the act, though both hoped
that Leonard's wife had procured a divorce; but, notwithstanding some
misgiving, the marriage was finally accomplished. Berthe had her own
reasons for not waiting until they could revisit America; and perhaps in
the loneliness of his wrecked life, Leonard's object was like the
woman's, to bind her to himself with hooks of steel. Perhaps it was but
the result of influence of a stronger will upon a fast decaying mind.
Thus it had come about that the two had returned to America, and, on
their arrival, had concocted the letter to Natalie, by whom it had been
submitted to Mr. Ellis Winter. That gentleman advised that Natalie take
up her residence in New York, and he engaged to notify Leonard that his
demand for divorce would be accorded, as soon as the needful legal
requisites could be complied with. Natalie was to make her application
on the ground of abandonment, and to refuse to ask for alimony.
And now, alone with Tabitha in a big hotel, without occupation, except
such as was afforded by recollections which could not be other than
bitter; in the gloom of the days and the miserable object of her present
existence, Natalie allowed herself to see the rays of hope illumining a
future upon which she looked, shyly, and with a sense of guilt. Yet who
would not contemplate the alluring tint of fruit as yet forbidden, but
ripening for us before our eyes?
During this period of isolation she saw Mark once, his visit having the
ostensible excuse of business. Leonard had, by the hand of his legal
adviser, written to Mrs. Joe, suggesting that she purchase the Morley
mansion, so that out of the proceeds of the sale he could repay his
debt. While the lady would have been as well content that the debt
remain unpaid, it was believed by all who still hoped that Leonard might
be won back to respectability, that the suggestion was a good one. To
carry it into effect the consent of Natalie was, of course, necessary,
and also that the transfer be effected before the institution of divorce
proceedings. The consent was immediately given.
"And, Mark," said Natalie, as she handed him the deed, "if you see
Leonard, say to him that I hope for his forgiveness."
"His forgiveness!"
"Ah, Mark! I wronged him; I ought never----"
He knew what was on her lips, but which she could not say to him--that
she ought never to have married Leonard. He took her hand and drew her,
unresisting, toward himself; her head drooped upon his shoulder. They
stood thus, for a moment, and then he left her. Words of love remained
unspoken, but the heart of each was full of that which was unsaid.
There was a long and dreary interval, but at length came the day when
Natalie was made free. She learned the fact in the afternoon, but
concealed it from Tabitha. That evening she was melancholy, and Tabitha
essayed in vain to cheer her; and so the next day passed. But the day
after that Tabitha noticed a change; a tremulous fluttering, some
tendency to tears, but more to smiles. And Tabitha discovered that she
was being petted. She must have a drive--and had it; special delicacies
at luncheon were ordered for her delectation, including a share of a
pint of champagne, which Tabitha averred was sinful, though she sinned
with satisfaction. A beautiful gold watch was given her to replace the
fat-faced silver bulb, precious in Miss Cone's eyes as once the property
of the long-drowned mariner, but which of late years had acquired the
eccentric characteristics of the famous time-piece of the elder Weller;
and at last when the time came to say "good-night," Tabitha must be
kissed and hugged. But the last proceeding was too much for the maiden's
discretion. "What is it?" she asked.
"Oh, Tabby, I'm so happy." And then, ashamed, and afraid of having said
too much, Natalie escaped to her own room.
And there read again the letter which she had received that morning, and
which she had furtively read many times during the day. She knew it by
heart, but she liked to read the words written by her lover's hand.
"Dear Natalie--The decree is granted. The words, 'I love you'
have been on my lips so long, that they must find utterance. I
repeat them, if not with lips, yet in my heart every moment of
the day. Write or telegraph me the date of your arrival at the
White House. I would rather have a letter; in a letter you can
say that you love me. Shall it be a letter?
"MARK."
To this she had answered by telegraph: "I write to-night." He was in
Philadelphia, and until the evening of the following day she would be
unable to leave for home. He would receive her letter in time to get to
Stormpoint soon after her arrival in Easthampton. He desired a letter;
he should have a letter.
Yet it was hard to write. It had been easy to whisper to herself such
phrases as "Mark, dear Mark, I love you, I love you"; but it was less
easy to set those words down on paper, though there was a joy in it,
too. The difficulty of writing them vanished when they were for her own
eye only, not to be mailed. And so she scribbled over sheet after sheet
of paper: "Mark, Dear Mark, My Love, My Own, My Lover"--such words and
many others she wrote, blushing, smiling; at times not seeing what she
wrote for the tears in her eyes. At last she roused herself from this
foolish play and wrote a proper letter.
"Dear Mark--How good you have always been! I shall arrive home
on Saturday morning. I long to see you. Dear Mark, I love you."
The last phrase was hurriedly written and had required resolution, but
she was happier for having written it. She sealed the letter that she
might not be tempted in the morning to substitute another. Then she went
to bed, and all the night through her face was the mirror of her
pleasant dreams. No shadow of the future was upon her as she slept
smiling.
And awoke with the smile upon her face, and in a low voice sang while
dressing. Her toilet concluded, she took her letter from the table,
kissed it shyly, and placed it in her bosom. She would mail it as she
went downstairs.
A knock at her door and the announcement of a visitor--a lady who had
business of importance. Natalie ordered that the lady be shown into her
sitting-room.
On entering the sitting-room she found Berthe.