THE WIFE.
The lot is on thee—silent tears to weep,
And patient smiles to wear thro’ suffering’s hour.
And sumless riches from affection’s deep.
To pour on broken reeds—a wasted shower!
And to make idols and to find them clay,
And to bewail that worship—therefore pray!—_Felecia Hemans._
How many hearts break, yet “brokenly live on” from youth to age, only
the Omniscient knows.
The loss of both her children, and the discovery of her husband’s
unworthiness, had broken the heart of Adelaide Deville, past all earthly
possibility of cure. Religion might do much; even religion could not
restore the joyous elasticity of other days. Only the grace of God,
given “without measure” as it is given to few, could have done that.
Love could do nothing—alas! for _her_ it was a poisoned fountain.
It was a part of Orville Deville’s retribution that year by year he was
destined to dote upon his beautiful wife with an ever-increasing
passion, and to feel that his devotion was all powerless to bring back
to her—lost faith and hope and joy in him. Ah! it is hard to crush a
human heart, but _once_ crushed, no power on earth can cure it. It is
almost impossible to estrange a _woman’s_ heart; but _once_ estranged,
it is _forever_ impossible to recover it. Think of this all you who
value, yet madly trifle with affection.
Adelaide’s heart was not indeed estranged from her husband; but it was
_changed_. Once she loved in pride and joy. She still loved, but in
humiliation and sorrow. His demonstrations of affection, once greeted in
confidence and delight, were now received in doubt and compunction.
Another, she feared, had a holier claim to that very love!
_Lionne, the wronged, was not dead!_
LIONNE, THE DESTROYER, HAD BURST THE STRONG BONDS OF THE GRAVE AND
LIVED!
How she had escaped the tomb, or where she lived, was unknown. In what
impenetrable regions of darkness, solitude and silence she made her
fearful lair, was still a mystery. When she might again sally forth with
her pestilential breath, breathing malediction and destruction upon
their fairest hopes, could not be foreseen. But—she lived—the dark
shadow, the impending peril, the inevitable fate of their lives. A
living grief, and gloom, and terror never for a day to be forgotten.
One member of the household only seemed happy—the little Perdita. She
grew in health and strength and beauty every year—the overflowing
joyousness of her nature making “sunshine in that shady place.”
But, oh, as every successive year exhibited more plainly her growing
likeness to that beautiful, fearless woman who was the bane and terror
of their lives, Lady Adelaide gazed with awe and dread, mingled with her
love for that enchanting child, who ever repaid the lady’s affection
with a perfect passion of devotion. But if Perdita loved her adopted
mother with the utmost intensity of human love, even that was as nothing
compared to the wild worship she lavished upon her father. It was more
like the extravagant idolatry offered by the pythoness to the god of her
inspiration, than the affection of mortal child for mortal parent. Lady
Adelaide watched the development of this torrid temperament, and dreaded
her future and prayed for her good. Alas! in these fiery, fierce,
volcanic passions and affections the child also too closely resembled
her fearful prototype. All that a Christian mother’s watchful care could
do, all that prayer, counsel and example could do, was constantly
essayed to train this dangerous temperament. It was when Perdita was
about eight years of age that Mr. Deville received a communication from
a legal firm of high standing in London, announcing the fact that he had
been appointed sole guardian of the person and property of his near
relative, young Donald Lorne, the orphan heir of the junior branch of
the Lornes of Glen Lennark.
In consideration of the importance of this trust, Mr. Deville lost no
time in hastening to London, and thence to Edinburg, where he found
young Lorne, a fine, tall, dark-haired and dark-eyed youth of fifteen,
living with an old retired clergyman, under whose instruction he was
making rapid progress in his classical and mathematical studies. Much to
the regret of the master, who hated to part with his pupil, the
newly-appointed guardian determined to take his ward home to America.
And the youth himself, though somewhat sorrowful at the thought of
parting with the old man, desired nothing more than travel and change of
scene.
Finally, as the old clergyman was a widower, without children or other
family ties, Mr. Deville, after some hesitation, satisfied all parties
by proposing to the old man to accompany them to America as the private
tutor of his ward. This proposal was gladly accepted. The doctor went
with them to America, and thenceforward made a part of the family, in
the capacity of private tutor to Master Donald and Miss Perdita.
No other children blest the wedded lives of Mr and Lady Adelaide
Deville. Lady Adelaide devoted herself to her Christian duties—to her
husband, her household, her friends and neighbors, and found her comfort
in prayer, reading, meditation, work, and in active deeds of usefulness
and benevolence. And if less brightly beautiful, and less admired than
formerly, she was more lovely and more beloved than ever.
Mr. Deville divided his time between agricultural pursuits, the politics
of the day, the social pleasures of the neighborhood, etc. Yet all these
things were powerless to banish the thoughts that troubled his
soul—remorse for the sin of his youth; grief for the loss of his
children; mortification for the forfeited esteem of his wife; a
tantalizing temptation to grasp the title and the estates which he
_might_, yet dared not claim; a vague dread of continued
retribution—these were the sorrows that stole all zest from enjoyment.
If any friend or neighbor chanced to express in his hearing any wonder
that Mr. Deville should not possess the title and estates of his
deceased uncle, he merely answered that there was a nearer claimant, and
there let the matter rest.
And thus, without marked incident, the years flowed on, until, by time
and circumstances, all these feelings became modified, his heart grew
hardened, his late remorse for the sin of his youth had not, alas,
melted to that “repentance which is not to be repented of;” grief for
the loss of his children fell back into a dim and distant regret; the
forfeiture of his wife’s respect, so long as she showed him outward
observance, no longer troubled him; and regret for his lost inheritance
had given place to the desire of achieving a personal “greatness.”
Politics was the chosen path of his ambition. And to a man of his high
rank, ample fortune, splendid talents, and not too scrupulous honor,
that path was sure to lead to preferment. He was elected to the House of
Assembly. His maiden speech was said to be perfect. His judicious
efforts were said to have carried a measure that had, for several
successive sessions, been lying like an incubus upon the House.
To be made President of the Assembly was now his great object. That seat
obtained might serve as a stepping-stone to a still higher dignity—he
might be appointed governor of the province of Maryland.
While Mr. Deville was forming his political schemes in Annapolis, Lady
Adelaide, who loved retirement, had remained at her country-home at
River-view, governing her household, entertaining her rustic neighbors,
and dispensing her charities. But at the next meeting of the Assembly,
when the question of electing their president was expected to arise, Mr.
Deville sent for his wife. For he well knew how great would be the
silent, unrecognized, unconscious influence of this beautiful and gifted
woman, even in political circles, and upon his own political success.
Ever obedient to his slightest wish, she left her loved retirement and
came up to the city, though “innocent of the cause” of her summons.
Mr. Deville hired the most elegantly furnished house that could be had
at any price, and, with the assistance of Lady Adelaide, commenced a
series of entertainments that had never been equalled in that provincial
metropolis. The result answered his expectations. Lady Adelaide, meek,
refined and retiring, but also indubitably talented, accomplished and
beautiful, became the reigning queen of that circumscribed court. Her
house was the resort of all the most distinguished men and most lovely
women assembled at Annapolis—herself ever the most lovely. Her _petit
soupers_ were faultless; her _soirées_ perfect. Her beauty, her grace,
her amiability, won her universal favor. And her charms became an
element in her husband’s popularity and power.
The day upon which the votes of the House were to be polled for the
election of their president arrived.
The members of the Assembly were all in their seats, and the galleries
were filled. Prayer opened the session. Some formal, tedious
preliminaries were passed through; and then the candidates for the
president’s chair were nominated. The poll was taken. Mr. Orville
Deville was elected by a majority of two-thirds. The result was
announced and received with acclamation. Then a member arose and moved
that the new president be inducted into his office, which motion was
carried unanimously.
Orville Deville, attended by his chief friends, advanced to the upper
end of the hall, and, amidst the breathless interest of the spectators,
ascended the stairs and seated himself in the president’s chair, where
the oath of office was administered to him. He spoke the required words,
kissed the sacred book, and returned it to its place. And then, in the
midst of the eager attention of all present, he arose to deliver his
opening address. But among all the company of distinguished men and
beautiful women present, there was one person of whom he thought
pre-eminently—his lovely wife! There she sat, the most beautiful where
all were beautiful, the most gifted where all were gifted, the most
interested where all were intent. She sympathized in his elevation—would
she approve the principles by which he intended to secure his
position?—He could not hope it! He had bowed to his audience, and laid
his hand upon the notes for his address, and was just about to open his
mouth to commence, when——
A young man, closely wrapped in a long Spanish cloak, and having his cap
drawn down over his eyes, hurried towards the president’s seat. The
sergeant-at-arms essayed to stop him! but with the single phrase—“_A
matter of life and death!_” the young man pushed on and ascended the
stairs, thrust a sealed paper in the hands of the president, and with
the single word—LIONNE—that tolled like a death-bell through the room,
he turned, retreated, and was lost in the crowd.
The president tore open the paper, and cast his eyes over the contents,
grew deadly pale, and with a few incoherent words of apology descended
from the platform and abruptly left the assembly.
Lady Adelaide, ignorant of the contents of that note, but in equal
agitation, arose from her seat, and hurried out into the lobby and down
the stairs to the outer door, when, true to her anticipations, she found
her husband just about to enter their carriage.
“Come, then,” he said. And taking her arm with almost rude haste, he
hurried her into the back seat, threw himself beside her, and gave the
driver the single order—
“Home.”
“What is it, Mr. Deville? Oh, what is it?” she anxiously inquired.
“Do not ask me yet. Soon you shall know all,” he said, hurriedly.
They drove on in silence until they reached their house.
Then he alighted, and whispering:
“Come with me into my study, Adelaide,” ascended the stairs.
“Sit down,” he said, breathing hard, and wiping great drops of icy sweat
from his pallid brow—“sit down, and I will tell you—all—all!”
She took the indicated seat beside him on the sofa, and bending towards
him, gave her whole heart to the hearing.
“Listen!” he said, fixing his eyes in almost wild horror upon her face;
“listen! to-day, in the moment of my triumph, I stood again, face to
face, with—Lionne!”
“No, great heaven, no!” exclaimed Lady Adelaide, growing paler than
before.
“I did! When the cup of success was at my lips, again she raised her
ruthless hand and dashed it to the dust!”
“No! no! oh, dear sir, let us trust you were mistaken!”
“Mistaken! Could _I_ mistake those resolute, ruthless lips, those fierce
and cruel eyes, whose glances still burn—burn into my very brain?”
“Dear Mr. Deville, it was a _youth_ who spoke to you!”
“A youth?—ha—ha—ha!” he exclaimed, laughing in a frenzied manner—“a
youth! Could the cavalier’s cloak and cap, the short, curled hair and
black moustache disguise _her_ from _me_?—No, I tell you that to-day
again, at the culmination of my fortunes, I have stood face to face with
my FATE! To-day, as before, she has said to me, ‘Come down from your
seat! Nor honor, nor dignity, nor success in this world shall be yours!
Your only safety shall be in seclusion.’”
“And you?” inquired the lady, with tears.
“And I must obey her! Look, look at this paper which she thrust into my
hand! Look at the sword which she holds suspended by a single hair above
my head! Yes, look!” he exclaimed, withdrawing the mysterious packet
from his bosom, and giving it to Lady Adelaide.
She opened it, and as she read it he saw that every vestige of color
fled from her face. And well it might. That document was headed:
“‘Look on this picture and on this,’ and judge if a _law-breaker_ shall
sit in the seat of a _law-maker_; or a felon preside over the councils
of legislators?” And under this caption was written and contrasted in
parallel columns, first, on the right hand, copies of the two marriage
certificates that constituted Deville a bigamist; and next against them
on the left, a copy of the statute-law that constituted the crime of
bigamy a felony, punishable with imprisonment or slavery.
“There!” he exclaimed, regardless of the white lips and fading eyes that
betrayed the lady’s dangerous agitation, and should have warned him to
desist. “There! with the instruments of which these are only copies, she
can hurl me from my seat of power whereon my friends may place me; or,
if I refuse to be thus thrown down, she can do more. She can cast me
into a state’s prison, or else into slavery.”
“Alas, my God, for the bondage of sin!” murmured Lady Adelaide, in a
fainting voice as she clasped her hands and bowed her head.
“You—_you_ reproach me!” cried Deville, in bitterness.
“Oh, no! no, no! It is not for me to do that.”
“But yet you will perhaps desert me?”
“No, Mr. Deville, no.”
“Then, in this extremity, what is your counsel?”
Lady Adelaide did not at once reply. Her eyes were cast down until the
golden lashes lay pencillings upon the white cheeks, her lips were
mutely closed, and her fair hands folded as in prayer or self-communion.
“You know,” continued Deville, “that I must at that demon’s order resign
my place on the president’s platform, nay, I must even resign my seat in
the Assembly; or else, with that instrument of her power, that fiend
will expose and ruin me! Come—in this strait, what is your counsel?”
Seldom, if ever before, had Orville Deville condescended to take counsel
with his meek consort; but this was an affair concerning which he could
admit no other into his confidence. Therefore again, for the third time,
and more impatiently, he spoke—
“Can you not reply to me, Adelaide? I ask you what shall we do?”
“I have been thinking deeply,” she answered, in a submissive voice. “The
subject requires thought.”
“Well—and what is your conclusion?”
“Mr. Deville, I am unaccustomed to advising you.”
“Then, madam, you will not help me! Neither counsel nor sympathy am I to
expect from you!”
“Mr. Deville, I only doubt my own capacity. If I really could venture——”
“Well?”
“I should say—let us retire from the world and repent.”
“Let ‘us’ retire from the world and repent! As far as that speech
concerns yourself, it is hypocrisy; _you_ know that you have nothing to
repent of! And as far as it concerns _me_ it is insolence! Am I a sinner
above all sinners, madam?” he exclaimed, breaking into the fury with
which a hardened sinner hears the word repent.
“Alas,” thought Lady Adelaide, “I feared that this would be the result.”
Then, speaking very gently, she said—
“I am sorry—very sorry—if my words gave offence. Let us go back to our
country home for the present, and there, with quiet, will come
opportunity for calm reflection.”
“No! I shall not go to the country! I shall go far away from the pursuit
of this malignant demon! I shall go to the Northern Provinces—probably
to New York,” said Mr. Deville.
“As you please,” replied his wife.
The next day Mr. Deville, to the astonishment and consternation of his
friends, and without the least explanation of his reason, sent in his
resignation to the Assembly.
And the next week he left Annapolis for the North.