MORPHINE.
When I awoke next morning, my mind was clear again, and even as I
unclosed my eyes and saw the sunlight shining gayly through the
curtains, a fixed purpose took possession of my soul. It was yet early
morning. There was no one save myself in the chamber. Perchance worn
out by watching, my mother had retired to rest. I quietly arose and
dressed myself--not in the splendid attire furnished by my mother, but
in the plain white dress, bonnet, and shawl which I had brought with me
from my cottage home.
"It is early. No one is stirring in the mansion. I can pass from the
hall door unobserved. Then it is only sixteen miles to-home,--only
sixteen miles, I can walk it."
And at the very thought of meeting "father" and Ernest again, my heart
leaped in my bosom. Determined to escape from the mansion at all
hazards, I drew my vail over my face, my shawl across my shoulders, and
hurried to the door. I opened it, my foot was on the threshold, when I
found myself confronted by the portly form of Mrs. Jenkins.
"Pardon me, Miss," she said, placing herself directly before me; "your
mother gave me directions to call her as soon as you awoke."
"But I wish to take a short walk and breathe a little of the morning
air," I answered, and attempted to pass her.
"The morning air is not good for young ladies," said another voice, and
my mother's face, appeared over the housekeeper's shoulder. "After a
while we shall take a ride, my dear. For the present, you will please
retire to your room."
Startled at the sound of my mother's voice, I involuntarily stepped
back--the door was closed, and I heard the key turn in the lock.
I was a prisoner in my own room. There I remained all day long; my
meals were served by the housekeeper and my maid Caroline. My mother
did not appear. How I passed that day, a prisoner in my luxurious
chamber, cannot be described. I sat for hours, with my head resting on
my hands, and my eyes to the floor. What plans of escape, mingled with
forebodings of the future, crossed my brain! At length I took pen and
paper, and wrote a brief note to Ernest, informing him of my danger,
and begging him, as he loved me, to hasten at once to town and to the
mansion. This note I folded, sealed, and directed properly. "Caroline,"
said I to my maid, who was a pleasant-faced young woman of about
twenty, with dark hair and eyes--"I would like this letter to be placed
in the post-office at once. Will you take charge of it for me?"
"I'll give it to Jones," she responded--"he's goin' down to the post
office right away."
"But Caroline," I regarded her with a meaning look, "I do not wish any
one to know, that I sent this letter to the post-office. Will you keep
it a secret?"
"Not a livin' mortal shall know it--not a livin' mortal;" and taking
the letter she left the room. After a few minutes she returned with a
smiling face, "Jones has got it and he's gone!"
I could scarce repress a wild ejaculation of joy. Ernest will receive
it to-night; he will be here to-morrow; I will be saved!
The day wore on and my mother did not appear. Toward evening Caroline
came into my room, bearing a new dress upon her arm--a dress of white
satin, richly embroidered and adorned with the costliest lace.
"O, Miss, ain't it beautiful!" cried Caroline, displaying the dress
before me, "and the bonnet and vail to match it, will be here to-night,
an' your new di'monds. It's really fit for a queen."
It was indeed a magnificent dress.
"Who is it for?" I asked.
"Now, come, ain't that good! 'Who is it for?' And you lookin' so
innocent as you ask it. As if you did not know all the while, that it's
your bridal dress, and that you are to be married airly in the mornin',
after which you will set off on your bridal _tower_."
"Caroline, where did you learn this?" I asked, my heart dying within me.
"Why, how can you keep such things secret from the servants? Ain't your
mother been gettin' ready for it all day, and ain't the servants been
a-flyin' here and there, like mad? And Mr. Wareham's been so busy all
day, and lookin' _so_ pleased! Laws, Miss, _how_ can you expect to keep
such things from the servants?"
I heard this intelligence, conveyed in the garrulous manner of my maid,
as a condemned prisoner might hear the reading of his death warrant. I
saw that nothing could shake my mother in her purpose. She was resolved
to accomplish the marriage at all hazards. In the morning I was to be
married, transferred body and soul to the possession of a man whom I
hated in my very heart.
But I resolved that he should not possess me living. He might marry me,
but he should only place the bridal ring upon the hand of a corpse.
The resolution came in a moment. How to accomplish it was next my
thought.
Approaching Caroline in a guarded manner, I spoke of my nervousness and
loss of sleep, and of a vial of _morphine_ which my mother kept by her
for a nervous affection.
"Could you not obtain it for me, Caroline? and without my mother
seeing you, for she does not like me to accustom myself to the use
of morphine. I am sadly in want of sleep, but I am so nervous that
I cannot close my eyes. Get it for me," I put my arms about her
neck--"that's a dear good girl."
"Laws, Miss, how kin one resist your purty eyes! It is in the casket on
the bureau, is it? Just wait a moment;" she left the room and presently
returned. She held the vial in her hand. I took it eagerly, pretended
to place it in the drawer of a cabinet which stood near the bed, but,
in reality, hid it in my bosom.
"Now mother, you may force on the marriage," I mentally ejaculated;
"but your daughter has the threads of her own destiny in her hand."
How had I accustomed myself to the idea of suicide? It came upon me not
slowly, but like a flash of lightning. It was in opposition to all the
lessons I had learned from the good clergyman. 'But,' the voice of the
tempter, seemed whispering in my ear--'while suicide is a crime, it
becomes a virtue when it is committed to avoid a greater crime.' It is
wrong to kill my body, but infinitely worse to kill both body and soul
in the prostitution of an unholy marriage.
As evening drew on I was left alone. I bathed myself, arranged my hair,
and then attired myself in my white night-robe. And then, as the last
glimpse of day came faintly through the window curtains, I sank on
my knees by the bed, and prayed. O how in one vivid picture the holy
memories of the past came upon me, in that awful moment!
"Ernest I will meet you in the better world!"
I drank the contents of the vial and rose to my feet. At the same
instant the door opened and my mother appeared, holding a lighted
candle in her hand. She saw me in my white dress, was struck,
perchance, by the wildness of my gaze, and then her eye rested upon the
extended hand which held the vial.
"Well, Frank, how do you like your marriage dress," she began, but
stopped, and changed color as she saw the vial.
"O, mother," I cried, "with my last breath I forgive you, and pray God
that you may be able to forgive yourself."
I saw her horror-stricken look and I fell insensible at her feet.