BASIL KINDRED'S DIARY.
I make this record for various reasons, the strongest of which is the
conviction that I have not long to live. Although my mind is in a
state of sad confusion, what I write shall be no phantasy of the
brain. I pledge myself to this. And I pledge myself also to throw down
my pen when the suspicion comes upon me that, because of my fears and
my agony, I am writing what is not strictly the fact. If I do not thus
pledge myself, and death comes upon me unaware, this mute witness
might be the cause of bringing undeserved unhappiness to persons whose
conduct towards me has been wonderfully good and noble.
Let me read what I have written. Yes, it is clear, and it gives me the
assurance that, to-day at least, I shall be able to express myself
clearly. I pause over every word. I am careful of the construction of
every sentence. For I must be just. I could not rest in my grave if my
fear spoke instead of my reason.
What is it that immediately prompts me to commence this record? A
letter--signed by no name, delivered by I know not whom. The writing
is strange to me; I have never before seen its like. It lies before me
now, upon my desk.
It is night. I am alone, and Minnie is at Mrs. Marvel's house. Let me
carry back my thoughts to the time when I first made the acquaintance
of the good people with whom I have lived for years--for many happy
years--during which Minnie has grown from a child to a woman.
I had left her at home, poor child! hungry and unhappy. She had asked
me in the morning for food, and I had none to give her, nor any money
to buy it for her. The previous night we had eaten our last piece of
bread. I went out of our little room, telling her I was going to get
food for her. I toiled in the streets all the day, and was not
fortunate enough to receive a penny. My sufferings were great, almost
too great for human endurance, but I was compelled to bear them for
the sake of Minnie. Nothing but the consciousness that, if I went home
without food, my child might die from want, supported me. Late in the
afternoon I was in the streets declaiming, when some boys among the
crowd which surrounded me threw stones at me. One of the stones
wounded me in the forehead, and I think I must have fainted. Two
persons came to my assistance--a woman and a boy. The woman was Susan
Taylor, the boy was Joshua Marvel. They assisted me home, and the next
thing I remember was Susan bathing my wound and making tea for me. The
boy Joshua had brought in some food for us. My gratitude was great,
for his charity had saved my child. I blessed him that night before he
left us.
From that time he was a constant visitor to our wretched lodging, and
from that time I never knew want. I grew to love him. He was to be a
sailor, and it was a pleasure to me to listen to the enthusiastic
outpourings of his mind. He had a friend, Dan, whom I had not then
seen; and the loving manner in which he spoke of that friend, seemed
to me to be an assurance of the goodness of his own heart. He was the
principal subject of conversation between me and my daughter, and she,
dear child! grew to love him too. Before he went to sea, the woman
Susan Taylor--the sister of Joshua's friend Dan--came to live in the
house in which I lodged, and was very kind to us. Joshua went to sea,
and I felt a void in my heart as if I had lost a son. Minnie grieved
as much as I did--perhaps more--for she had never had a companion, and
Joshua's visits were looked upon as a kind of holiday. We consoled
ourselves for our loss by speaking of him often and by looking forward
to his return home. Minnie derived much pleasure from a childish
conceit in which she indulged. She had a shell, and she used to place
it to her ear and listen to the soft singing, to remind her of the sea
and of Joshua, she said. I thought it was a pretty fancy; but had I
feared then what I fear now, I would have crushed the shell to powder
beneath my heel.
Some time after Joshua left, circumstances occurred which caused me to
remove to the house of Joshua's friend Dan. I was loath to do so when
it was first proposed by Susan; but the argument used by Susan, who
was devoted to us, that Minnie would have a companion of a suitable
age in her sister Ellen, prevailed upon me. That was the sole cause of
my removal to the house in which I am now living. I had reason to be
grateful for the change. Minnie, who used to have many unhappy moods,
was happy and cheerful in the society of her new friends. And I was no
less so. I found that Joshua's parents were good simple people whom to
know was to love. A girl could have had no better companion than
Ellen, who is one of the pearls of womanhood. But before them all, I
learned to love Dan. I had never met with so pure a mind, with so
constant a nature. A cripple almost from his birth, it seemed as if
the good God had endued him with the purest thought and the sweetest
disposition to compensate for the misfortune he had met with. He might
truly say, with our great poet, "Sweet are the uses of adversity."
Some happy years passed, during the whole of which Joshua was at sea.
At rare intervals letters from him were received, and the perusal of
these letters gave us all--for we were like one family--the greatest
pleasure. At length he returned. It is not long since--but a few short
weeks--that he arrived home. He was expected, but not so soon. His
coming was eagerly looked for--he was the hero of the two houses. The
night of his return was memorable. It was Christmas-eve, and we were
all assembled in Mrs. Marvel's kitchen, celebrating the blessed time
with joyful, grateful hearts. Minnie persuaded me to read a play. I
chose the "Tempest," that loveliest creation of the poet's mind. She
is not present, but I can see her as she unloosed her hair and stood
before me, bright and bewitching as Ariel could have been. "Do you
love me, master?" she asked. I answered in the words of Prospero,
"Dearly, my delicate Ariel." . . . I resume my pen, which I had laid
aside, thinking that I was being betrayed by my feelings, and that I
was indulging in an exaggeration of sentiment. But no. I have read
over what I have written, and I am satisfied.
I was in the midst of the lovely story when a knock came at the
street-door. Minnie went out of the room to open the door. A silence
followed. Presently a scream struck fear to all our hearts. We ran up
stairs, and found that Joshua, having returned sooner than he was
expected, had been stabbed by a coward's hand when his foot was on the
threshold of his home. The house of joy was turned into a house of
mourning. I have no need to set down here the events of the next few
weeks, that bring me to the present day. Sufficient to say that Joshua
lingered for some time between life and death, and to the joy of all
of us, was declared out of danger three weeks ago. I have been
confined to my chamber with my old complaint nearly the whole of that
time. Susan has attended to me chiefly; for seeing Minnie's anxiety to
assist Mrs. Marvel in her trouble, I have allowed her to be much away
from me. Although Minnie has not spoken of it, I have learned that
she, according to the doctor's statement, saved Joshua's life by
pressing her lips to the wound in his neck and stopping in some
measure the effusion of blood, which might have been fatal to him. It
gave me pleasure to hear this; for no service, purposed or accidental,
could pay for the kindness we have received from the good people with
whom we have lived so happily.
So! I have temperately set down all that has occurred up to the
present, or rather up to four days ago, when I received the letter
which lies before me now. I will not attempt to describe the effect it
had upon me. It seemed to change the current of my blood. If there be
truth in it, is there, can there be, truth in man? Before pinning it
in the book, I copy it word for word:--
"A well-wisher warns Mr. Basil Kindred that Joshua Marvel is playing
false with his daughter. The writer has no purpose to serve in writing
this, and does not wish to be known. The information he gives is given
in kindness. Minnie Kindred loves Joshua Marvel, who takes every
secret opportunity that presents itself to prosecute his bad designs
upon a simple girl. It is right that Mr. Basil Kindred should be made
acquainted with the real character of the hypocrite, who is fair to a
man's face and false behind his back."
With some girls and with some people, the best way to do with such a
letter would be to show it to those concerned. But I dare not do this.
It would bring unhappiness and mistrust among these confiding good
people.
And I fear for Minnie. I fear that the writer, whoever he may be, is
right when he says that my darling child loves Joshua. And I, knowing
her nature, feel that if unhappily she has contracted a love for
Joshua, the discovery of it in this manner would bring misery upon her
for life. No; she must not see the letter--must not have a suspicion
of it.
All Joshua's previous life contradicts the accusation. It was the
simplicity and kindliness of his nature that attracted me to him. If
he is fair to a man's face and false behind his back, he is false to
his friend Dan; and I, knowing Dan's heart, know that there could be
no blacker treachery than that; for I have at times suspected that Dan
loves my Minnie. Yes; I may tell that secret to this mute friend,
although I have never otherwise whispered it. On one particular night
when we were all assembled together, reading a letter from Joshua, and
when Mr. Praiseworthy Meddler was tracing the course of Joshua's ship
upon the map, I detected in Dan's manner something more than a feeling
of friendship for Minnie. Since then, other small evidences have
forced themselves upon me, and I have not been unprepared for the
disclosure of Dan's love. Would it be a good thing for Minnie? Yes; if
she returned his love. Although he is a cripple, she could have no
better mate: he is all that is noble and good, and he would make her
happy, if she could learn to love him.
If she could learn to love him! These words have caused me to think if
Minnie could ever _learn_ to love--have caused me to ask myself if
love is not intuitive to her, as it was to her mother. My anxiety is
deepened by the thought. I am afraid to think further.
Every thing depends upon Joshua. If she loves him, and he encourages
her, he is false to his friend, false to honor. My duty is plain. I
must watch first, and discover if or there be any foundation for the
accusation, if it emanates from spite and vindictiveness.
I close the book and lock it in my desk, for fear other eyes than mine
should see what I have written.
Notwithstanding the bodily pain I have suffered, I have so far
controlled it as to visit Mrs. Marvel's house during the last three
days, and to sit with the young people as if nothing ailed me. I am
beset with doubt. I know not what to think. I have watched every look,
every movement; and I am afraid that my anxiety has caused me to be
uncivil and abrupt. I do not think that any one but Mrs. Marvel has
noticed my anxiety or any change in me; but I have observed her
sometimes look at me questioningly, as if wondering at my changed
manner.
That Minnie has an affection for Joshua is certain: she strives to
prevent it being observed, and I think no one suspects her. If there
is any secret understanding between her and Joshua, I have not
discovered it. He treats her kindly and affectionately, but he is
chiefly attentive to Ellen. But still the letter says that he avails
himself of "every secret opportunity" to see her. If that be true, it
is not likely that he would betray himself in the presence of his
friends. I must act upon the results of my observation. I must
endeavor to keep Minnie from visiting Mrs. Marvel's house so
frequently; it may prevent her feelings from ripening into love. In a
few weeks Joshua will be away, and then all danger will be over for a
time. I am, indeed, loath to believe any wrong of him; he seems to
have preserved the simplicity of character and the goodness of heart
for which I used to admire him.
I am glad I commenced this record; for my thoughts are often very
confused, and my memory is impaired.
Although my uneasiness increases with respect to Minnie, I have heard
good news: Joshua is engaged to be married to Ellen. Do I need any
other proof of Joshua's honesty? It would be monstrous if I did; and
yet I cannot regard him with the old feelings of affection, for Minnie
is unhappy, and he is the cause. One day I accuse myself of injustice
towards him; another day I almost hate him, and curse the circumstance
that made me and Minnie acquainted with him. Would to God that he were
gone! Every hour that he stops is an additional agony to me.
Minnie has been sullen and rebellious because I have sometimes
prevented her from going to Mrs. Marvel's house. She has not always
obeyed me. I must speak more firmly to her; "I must be cruel only to
be kind."
A day of agony. I have not been able to leave my room. Minnie was with
me all the morning: but before she came to me, I had received another
communication, in the same handwriting as the last. It contained but a
few words,--
"The friend who warned Mr. Basil Kindred before, warns him again.
Joshua Marvel is a smooth-tongued villain. In his character of a hero
he is playing false with two simple girls at on time."
Who can this friend be? I have no friends out of these two houses. But
whoever he is, he is right, I fear, as to Minnie, and may be right as
to Joshua--the mere writing of the name gives me pain. The receipt of
the few words I have just copied opened my wounds, and they bled
afresh. I detained Minnie with me all the morning; and when she wanted
to quit the room, I invented pretexts to induce her to remain. She was
not at her ease; I saw that plainly. Once or twice I am afraid that I
spoke harshly to her; but she was painfully submissive--almost humble.
At length she rose, with the intention of leaving the room. I asked
her where she was going. She answered, to see Mrs. Marvel. I grasped
her hand, and bade her resume her seat. She asked me why I did not
wish her to go to Mrs. Marvel's house; and when I said it was because
I thought she troubled the Marvels too much, all the hardness and
obstinacy in her nature came into play, and she answered in a voice
that might have come from lips of stone, that that was not my reason,
and that I was hiding something from her. For the first time I
betrayed myself. I asked her if she was not hiding a secret from me;
and she returned me an evasive reply. She left the room, and I was
about to follow her, when I was seized with a terrible dizziness. My
strength deserted me, and I was afraid I was about to die. The attack
passed away, and left me as weak as a child.
I pause in my recital of the day's events to make two declarations.
The first is, that I am certain, from my sensations this day, that a
sudden shock would be fatal to me; I am afraid that my heart is
diseased. The second is, that if I die suddenly, and Joshua has
betrayed my child, he is my murderer in the sight of God and man--as
much my murderer as if he were to come into the room this moment and
plunge a dagger in my heart!
How awful are these words! As I look at them, they seem to rise in
judgment against me. "Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy
neighbor." Am I bearing false witness against Joshua? Am I to be the
cause of bringing unhappiness to friends but for whom Minnie and I
might have perished from hunger? Still do I cling to the hope that
lives in uncertainty. Still do I strive to believe that my fears have
grown without reason, and that they are like the monstrous shadows
that mock us on the walls and ceiling of a room whose only light is a
flickering fire. Above every other consideration, I must be just. If
no eye but mine reads these lines, I shall have done no harm in
writing them. If it should happily result that Minnie's love is not
deeply rooted--if it should happily result that Joshua has not been
tampering with her affections, and that he goes away spotless, as I
would fain believe him to be--let me determine to destroy this record.
It must be done. Determining to do this--willing it with the whole
strength of my mind--I shall be able to do it even before I am
stricken down, if it be fated that I am to die suddenly. Should it be
otherwise--should he prove to be false--this record shall remain as an
evidence of his treacherous heart.
When Minnie left me, and I discovered that I was too feeble to follow
her, I thought, Oh, if I had some one I could trust--some one to help
me! And as I thought, Susan entered the room. In her I confided; to
her I told my fears; and after pledging her sacredly to secrecy, I
showed her the letter I have received. She has promised to watch
Joshua, and she will be faithful. Now I shall know whether I have
cause for fear; now I shall know whether Joshua Marvel is false or
true.
I do not think I shall ever be able to leave my room. It is more than
a week since I wrote in this book: True, I have had nothing to say
until now. Minnie has been tender and affectionate to me; she has been
absent at various times during the day; but when she is with me she is
all that a child should be. I have left her free to come and go,
knowing that Susan was watching that she should come to no harm. I
sometimes think that she is fighting with her soul; for a new-born
sadness has settled upon her face. Yesterday I saw her sitting by the
window, with her hands clasped in her lap, and a deep-seated sorrow in
her eyes. I have seen her mother sit so in the old days long, long
ago--in the old days that seem to belong to another life. I had been
asleep; and when I awoke, I saw Minnie wrestling with her sorrow. I
called to her twice before she heard me; and when she came to my side,
she had the air of one who has been suddenly aroused from a dream.
Darling child, I pray to God to give you strength to bear affliction,
if it comes to you! If any sacrifice that I could make would lessen
your pain, how gladly would I make it!
Last night Susan slept with her, and in her sleep heard her murmur
Joshua's name. It proves that he is in her thoughts; but it proves
nothing more. I hear a step upon the stairs. Goodnight, dumb witness
of my grief!
How shall I commence? All my pulses are throbbing with rage and
apprehension. Proof has come. Joshua Marvel is a damned false-hearted
villain!
I write with pain and difficulty. My heart is beating so violently,
that I am obliged to stop to calm myself, for fear of consequences.
Calm myself! Can I do it? I must. I will lay down my pen, and wait
until I have subdued the tumult of passion which rages within me.
So! I am calmer. It is well that I stopped, or what the doctor warned
me of might have occurred. And I want to live--Oh, how I want to live!
Susan is sitting in the room with me; for I am afraid a being alone,
to-night of all nights. I am glad that I have kept this record; I am
glad that, if I die suddenly, the guilt of an infamous recreant will
be brought to light by means of this evidence.
About noon to-day--I am writing this at night--Minnie brought a doctor
to my bedside. I had steadily refused to see one before; for I knew
what I was suffering from, and I knew that the doctor's art was
powerless to cure me. But I was not displeased that Minnie brought
him; it was her anxiety and love--for she does love me--that caused
her to disobey my wishes. I sent Minnie out of the room, so that I
might speak to the doctor in private. He told me nothing new; as well
as suffering from rheumatism and low fever, I have heart-disease. He
told me what I already knew--that I might die suddenly, without any
other forewarnings than those I have already received. He went away
after uttering the usual platitudes. Late in the afternoon I fell
asleep; and when it was dark, I heard a step in the room; asking who
was there, Joshua's voice answered me. I spoke to him bitterly out of
the bitterness of my heart, and he answered me quietly and feelingly.
He said he had noticed with sorrow that I was changed; that he was not
conscious of having done any wrong. He begged that I would be to him
as I was before he first went to sea, and when I had blessed him. I
could not see his face; but his voice was tremulous with emotion; and
when he appealed to my sense of justice, I softened to him, for I had
no evidence against him but the suspicion which had been created by
the warning letters I had received. I had it first in my mind to tell
him all; but my pride and my consideration for Minnie's feelings
restrained me. Instead of doing that, I resolved to probe him; and,
that my agitation might not betray me, I refused to have a light. We
spoke in the dark. I elicited from him that he was engaged to Ellen,
whom he declared he loved before all the world. Upon that, his hand in
mine, I wished him the happiness that faithful love deserves. When,
after that, Minnie became the subject of conversation, there was a
hesitancy in his manner that aroused my slumbering suspicions. Then I
spoke so plainly to him--though telling him nothing about the
letters--that he could not have misunderstood me. I told him that my
heart was diseased, and that I could not live much longer. I told him
that I was tortured by anxiety for Minnie's future; that she needed
guidance and control; that she knew only one duty--the duty of love;
and that she could scarcely understand that, under certain
circumstances, love may be sinful. I told him that she was changed,
that she was hiding something from me, and that I was afraid some such
love as I had spoken of had come to her. And when I asked him if he
knew or suspected to whom that love was given, he was silent, and did
not answer me. Was not that silence sufficiently damning? I asked him
if he were concealing any thing from me, and he equivocated. What
should he conceal from me? he asked. At that answer I almost gave up
hope; but my child's happiness was at stake, and I persevered. I
resolved to tell him the story of my life, that he might learn how
Minnie's mother sacrificed herself for love; that he might learn what
Minnie's nature, being like her mother's, really was; and to what
extent she would go where her heart was engaged. It was an appeal to
him for mercy. How has he treated that appeal?
I told him the story of my life; I laid bare my heart to him. I lived
over again the agony of my wife's death. I told him that Minnie was
like her mother, without her mother's teaching; that the impulse of
her mind was under the control of the impulse of her heart; that those
who knew it must guide her gently, tenderly; and that if any man
betrayed her, he would have to answer for it at the Judgment-seat.
Could tongue speak more plainly than mine did? Could any man who was
not totally devoid of honor and humanity have listened to my trembling
words unheedingly? I appreciate at its proper worth the code of
morality by which many heartless men are guided; but I never believed
it possible that man could be so base as Joshua has proved himself to
be. Here is a proof of his villainy. Within a few minutes after my
story was ended--within a few minutes after he left my room, crying in
sympathy with me--he was fondling Minnie in the passage below. Susan
can prove it. They were in the dark, and Susan came up from the
kitchen with a lighted candle, and discovered them. Their hands were
in each other's clasp; and when Joshua Marvel saw the light and Susan,
he turned away his head, so that she should not see his face. They
parted on the moment; and Susan, not appearing to notice them, passed
them by, and, faithful woman as she is, came straight to me, and told
me what she had seen.
"Fair to a man's face, and false behind his back"--ay, that he is! But
not for him, for whom my indignation can find no fitting name, do I
care. For Minnie are all my thoughts. How can I act towards her? How
can I warn her? Tell her that he is false! that he is lying to her!
that to listen to him is shame! She would smile at my words; and if
she dared not scorn, would pity the tongue that uttered the calumny. I
must think; must think. In the mean time, she must not be allowed to
go about without being closely watched. Susan will do that for me. It
will not be for long. He will be away soon, thank God; and when he is
gone, I can resolve what to do. Perhaps he may never come back. With
all my heart I pray--No, I dare not pen the words. The thought of
Ellen and Dan, and his gentle mother, stops me. I give them here my
heartfelt thanks, for all their noble kindness to me and Minnie. But
for him--the treacherous son, the false friend, the perjured lover--I
vow never willingly to look upon his face again.
My passion has exhausted me. I turn to the first page of this record,
and I see there the pledge that I would throw down my pen when the
suspicion came upon me that because of my fear and my agony I am
writing what is not strictly the fact. I read over what I have written
this night; and I solemnly declare that every word is true, as I hope
to meet my wife in heaven!
But a few words more. When I return this book to my desk, I shall tell
Susan to place it in Dan's hands, if I die before Minnie is safe. A
step upon the stairs! It is my darling child's!--
Another day of misery has passed, and I have received farther damning
proof that Joshua Marvel is tampering with Minnie's affections. In my
present state of mind, it will be best for me to write down Susan's
statement, word for word. I cannot trust myself. I call her to me, and
bid her relate, without passion, and without prejudice, what she saw
to-day. What follows is from her own lips.
SUSAN'S STATEMENT.
"I noticed this morning that Minnie was more restless than usual.
Whenever I looked at her, she looked at me back again; as much as to
say, what do you mean by staring at me in that way? I couldn't help
thinking that she knew I was watching her and I felt uncomfortable.
But I watched her for all that, as I promised you I would. When she
went out of the room, I made believe that I wanted to go out too. Now
I think of it, she must have gone out of the room on purpose to try
me; because the second time I followed her, she turned upon me in the
passage, and looked at me in such a manner that I was frightened.
Between eleven and twelve o'clock I was in the kitchen, helping to
cook the dinner; and when I came up stairs, Minnie was gone from the
house. I ran round to Mrs. Marvel's, and she wasn't there. Scarcely
knowing what to do, I slipped on my bonnet and shawl, and went into
the streets to look for her. All at once it came into my mind, that if
I should find her anywhere it would be at the docks, where Joshua's
ship was, and where Joshua was working. I ran there as hard as ever I
could, and just at the entrance of the docks I caught sight of Minnie.
I was regularly out of breath, and my only fear now was that she might
see me. So I kept out of the way as much as I could, and followed her
quietly. When she got near the ships she stopped short; and presently
Joshua, who was looking over the side of his ship, as if he was
expecting some one, came down to where she was standing, and began
talking to her. He seemed a little bit uneasy--perhaps, because there
were so many people about, and because, I thought, he didn't want
Minnie to be noticed, for all the workmen and sailors were staring at
her. They went up a plank on to Joshua's ship; and Joshua had his arm
round her waist. They stood by the side of the ship, looking towards
the river, talking together. I never took my eyes off them, and I am
certain--though, of course, I couldn't hear them--that they were
talking of something very particular. All at once I lost sight of
them; they had gone to a part of the ship where I couldn't see them. I
think they must have been out of my sight for nearly a quarter of an
hour; and when they returned, Joshua looked to the place where I was
standing by the side of some large cases, and came off the ship
towards me. I was frightened that he would catch me, and I ran away.
When I was safe, I turned, and saw Joshua and Minnie together coming
from the ship. Minnie walked out of the docks by herself; and I
followed her home, and waited in the street a little before I went
into the house after her. But I no sooner got inside the door, than
Minnie met me in the passage; she hadn't taken her bonnet off. I
didn't seem to notice her; but she came into the kitchen after me.
'Where have you been, Susan?' she asked me, so sudden-like that I was
almost taken off my guard. 'Out for a walk,' I said. 'Have you been to
the docks?' she asked me. 'No,' I said; but I felt my face turning red
as I told the story. I thought she was done with her questions; but
she soon commenced again. 'Are you going out again?' she asked. I
said, No, I wasn't. '_I_ am,' she said; 'I am going out for a walk.'
And she ran up stairs and out of the house. I didn't know what to do;
and I came to you, and you told me not to watch her any more to-day."
It is evident that Minnie is suspicious of Susan, and I know that
Susan is no match for her. Ill as I am, I can see but one thing to
do--I must wait and hope. That the innate goodness and purity of
Minnie's heart will keep her from harm, is my earnest prayer. I will
be, if possible, more tender and loving to her than I have hitherto
been. I dare not speak plainly to her; I believe, if I did, that she
would go away from us, and we should never see her again. If I were
well, it would be different. I should take her from here until Joshua
Marvel had sailed.
What can I say of him? It is clear that Minnie went to the docks by
appointment, and that he expected her. I have appealed to him vainly.
After what passed between us--after the knowledge he has gained that I
am aware of his treachery--he has shown himself, in this clandestine
meeting with Minnie, to be totally devoid of honor. I leave him to his
conscience and to the judgment of his friends. May occasion never come
for them to learn how they are deceived in him!
Two days more have passed. In a week Joshua Marvel's ship sails. I
believe from that moment I shall begin to grow better. Then I shall
make new plans for the future. The future! Alas, my future on earth
will soon come to an end! See how I contradict myself. One moment
saying that I shall begin to get better when Joshua is gone; the next,
that my end must soon come. But 'tis in the nature of such a state of
feeling as mine to be hopeful one minute, and despondent the next. The
best thing for Minnie would be, that she should be impressed and
touched by Dan's love for her--of the existence of which I am sure,
having thought much of Dan's manner towards her--and that she should
consent to marry him. It is not certain that she loves Joshua; after
all, nearly the whole--nay, the whole--of the evidence is
circumstantial. It is but natural that she should have an affection
for him; the nature of the intimacy, his kindness to her and me, the
very circumstances attendant upon his return home, make that a
necessity. Indeed, indeed, it would be most unnatural if an affection
did not exist between them. The mere writing of these words is
comforting to me. I know that they are at variance with much that I
have previously written; but at one time I am writing out of my
despair, at another time out of my hope. I write now out of my hope.
Joshua Marvel will soon be gone, and I am assured that no farther
meeting has taken place between him and Minnie. Minnie's behavior to
me has been most kind. She is growing more and more like her mother
every day. There appears to have arisen in her some consciousness that
my claims to her love are more binding upon her than those of any
other person. I have passed some very happy hours with her.
She said a strange thing to me this morning. "Father, do you think I
should make a good actress?" The question startled me, for it brought
back to me some memories of my past life. Minnie, when a little child,
was often in her mother's arms in the theatre where I happened to be
playing; her mother would be waiting for me perhaps, and would not
leave our little darling alone in the room. Minnie has no definite
remembrance of those times and circumstances, I think; but shadowy
impressions of the scenes she then almost unconsciously witnessed are
stamped upon her mind. Upon this theme I questioned her somewhat
curiously this morning, and found that these experiences had had their
effect upon her, and that she has vague remembrances of beautiful
creatures beautifully dressed, walking in gardens in the midst of
light. Ah, if she were aware of the reality! If she knew what poor
struggling men and women these beautiful creatures were, and what a
mockery were the beautiful dresses and the lovely gardens in which
they lived their artificial lives! But I did not disenchant her. Life
is bitter enough; if a gleam of brightness can be thrown upon it by
the indulgence of a harmless fancy, it is good. In the midst of our
conversation, Minnie suddenly left the room, and in about half an hour
returned completely metamorphosed. She went out of the room a fair
lovely girl, she returned a dark tawny woman, looking at least half a
dozen years older; but still beautiful, very beautiful. I gazed at her
in wonder. By what means had she effected such a marvellous change in
herself? She explained, first asking me if I knew her again. Knew her
again? Could she by any disguise hide herself from my knowledge? But
suppose I had only seen her once in my life, she asked, then did I
think I should have known her again? I did not exactly know how to
answer that, and although she pressed me to give her an answer, I
could not. I was delighted to see her in the new light in which she
presented herself to me; it was almost an assurance that some portion
of my fears was groundless. She explained to me that in the box
containing her clothes were some remnants of the wherewithals I once
used in my profession, such as colors and a few wigs. I had forgotten
them, not having had occasion for them for so long a time. And she
confessed that she had often amused herself with these things. Indeed,
in the middle of her explanation she stooped and hid herself from my
sight, and rose in the wig I used to wear when I played "Hamlet." She
had tucked up her beautiful hair with the skill of an actress, so that
it was completely hidden by the wig; and as she stood before me, I saw
in her some shadowy resemblance of myself as I was in days gone by. I
could not but be delighted with her light humor; it almost entirely
dispelled my fears. Then she took off the wig, and washed the color
out of her face, and sat by my bedside quietly. I am used to her
variable moods, and therefore, although I was sorry to see that her
sportiveness had fled, and that a more serious mood took its place, I
was not surprised. Never in all her life has she shown me such
tenderness as she exhibited towards me this day. "I shall always love
you, father," she said to me, more than once. Dear child! Darling
treasure of my heart! All good angels guard you.
The cup of happiness is dashed from my lips. Something so strange, so
unexpected, has happened, that, simple as it is, I scarcely know how
to set it down, or what to augur from it.
Minnie has gone!
Where--for how long for what purpose--I do not know. She has gone from
her home, from me.
Early this morning, while I was waiting to see her dear face, I was
thinking of something strange that occurred in the night, wondering
whether it formed part of my dreaming fancies or had actually
occurred. It was this:--
The house was very quiet. It was the most solemn part of the night,
when troubled life is most like peaceful death. The healthfulness of
dreamless sleep is denied me, as it is denied to all men whose minds
are harassed. For many weeks I have not enjoyed an hour's repose, and
so confused are the images that pass through my mind when I am alone,
that I am often in doubt whether the scenes in which I am taking part
are real or fanciful. I was in this condition last night at the time
of which I am writing. While I was thinking or dreaming of Minnie and
her mother, I heard a soft footfall in the room. The impression that
some one was in the room was strong upon me, and when I felt a kiss
upon my face, and my pillow being smoothed by a gentle hand, I was
almost convinced that it was Minnie. The presence remained with me for
I know not what length of time; I do not know when I lost it, or when
it departed, but when I called "Minnie!" no voice answered me. When
daylight came, I determined to ask Minnie if it was she who had
entered my room in the night. I waited impatiently for her appearance,
but she did not come. Susan came, and I asked her if Minnie was down
yet; Susan had not seen her. I bade her go and tell Minnie to come to
me; she returned and said that Minnie was not in bed, nor in any part
of the house. As Susan told me this, she came to my bedside, and,
stooping, picked up a paper which must have fallen from beneath my
pillow. There was writing on it--Minnie's writing. It was addressed to
me, and it told me that Minnie had left me, not from any want of love,
but because she was miserable and unhappy. She said said she knew that
she had been watched; that a feeling she could not control had
compelled her to leave for a time; that she would write again or see
me in a few days; and she begged me to believe that no one but herself
was to blame for what she had done. She asked me, too, not to be
anxious as to how she would live, for she had provided for that.
The first thing I did was to desire Susan to lock the door, and on no
account to allow a person to enter the room. For the thought flashed
upon me, that if it were known that Minnie had left her home
clandestinely, her good name would suffer. She had done a foolish
thing--ay, it was a cruel thing to leave me thus; but it was done in
all innocence, I am sure, and in ignorance of the world's judgment
upon such an act. I, her father, must protect her good name; no breath
of slander must be allowed to touch her. Therefore I judged it
imperative that the secret of her departure should be known only to
Susan and me. I gave Susan the letter to read, and when her tears were
dried, my plan was formed. It is well for me that I have such an
attached and faithful friend as Susan. Without her, I should be
helpless indeed. I explained my wishes to her, and she promised to
obey them implicitly--and she will. The Marvels and Dan and Ellen are
to be told that Minnie cannot leave me; that my illness has increased,
and I require her constant attendance. And on no pretence whatever is
any one of them to be allowed to come into the room. The door is to be
always locked, and when Susan goes out of the room, she is to lock the
door and take the key with her. I am afraid that Susan judges Joshua
even more harshly than I do; for she suggested that she should watch
his movements, in the expectation that some clew might be gained. Her
evidence of to-day is all in his favor. She ascertained that he went
this morning direct from home to his ship; that he worked there for
six hours, and that he came home direct to Ellen. No, I cannot
associate him with Minnie's disappearance. I have been thinking as
coherently as I could as to what is most likely the cause of her
leaving home, and the most hopeful conclusion I can arrive at is this:
That Minnie has an attachment for Joshua, which, in the face of his
engagement with Ellen, she feels it is her duty to subdue; that it is
painful to her to be a witness of Ellen's happiness; and that, fearful
lest she should betray her attachment, she has left the neighborhood
until Joshua has gone upon his voyage.
I am re-assured. This conclusion is reasonable as well as hopeful. I
must bear with the misery of her absence--ah, how I miss her beloved
face!--in the hope that my darling will return to me when he is gone,
and that she will regain her peace of mind, and be to me as she has
hitherto been; chastened perhaps, but not entirely unhappy.
Are you thinking of me, Minnie? Can you realize the depth of my love
for you, my dearest? If such a thing exists in the flesh as spiritual
communion with those we love, you will know, darling treasure of my
heart! that my thoughts, my blessings, my prayers are with you now.
In two days Joshua's ship will sail, and then my darling will come
home. The secret of her departure has been well kept. No one knows or
suspects. There is a rare faithfulness in Susan's nature. If she
possessed all the graces of womanhood, she could not be nobler than
she is.
I need all my strength to enable me to bear with Minnie's absence; so
constantly do my thoughts dwell upon her, that at certain times I lose
consciousness of what has taken place, and detect myself listening for
her footstep. At other times I am engrossed by the idea that many
years have passed since I last saw Minnie. When this impression is
upon me, Minnie appears to me not as a woman, but as a child.
Joshua Marvel has gone. Thank God! Now I may expect Minnie to return.
Any moment may bring her to my loving arms again. I am haunted by the
ghosts of footsteps on the stairs. I know afterwards that my fancy has
conjured them up; but if they were real, I could not hear them more
plainly. They are Minnie's footsteps always. I hear them first in the
passage leading from the street--I stop and listen. Softly yet swiftly
they come nearer and nearer to me, till they are outside my door. Then
I say to myself, "She is lingering for a while, thinking of the
happiness I shall feel when she opens the door and runs to my side."
But the long silence that follows tells me that the steps I heard were
created by my fancy, and that I have still to wait for the
accomplishment of my dearest hope.
Before Joshua left, he came to the door, and asked to see me and
Minnie to bid us good-by. His desire to see Minnie was assuring, for
it convinced me that the reasons I assigned for her leaving are
correct, But I would not see him--I could not; for if he came into the
room, he would discover Minnie's absence.
I am thankful to think that may forced seclusion will soon be at an
end. How the minutes lag! Come, Minnie! Come, my darling child!
How shall I be able to endure this agony? It is night; yesterday
morning Joshua Marvel left to go on his voyage, and there is no sign
of Minnie. What can I think? Has any calamity befallen her? Is she
lying sick, helpless anywhere, and must I remain here, gnawing my
heart away with the knowledge that I am powerless to help her? O God,
who only witnesseth my sufferings, send my darling home to me
to-night! If in my life I have erred, and deserve punishment--if the
injunction I laid upon the woman who loved me, and whom I loved with
all my strength, was a crime, and if I am to suffer for the misery of
her wedded life, being the cause of it--deal with me as thou wilt; but
let me look once more upon the face of my darling!
The third day. My life is being tortured away. I believe that I shall
die before seeing Minnie. The prescience of death is upon me. Every
few minutes Susan runs into the street to see if Minnie is coming; but
there is no sign of her. The slightest sound in the house causes my
heart to beat so violently that I am afraid. I try to think, but I
cannot; I can only fear. These few words have taken me long to write.
I cannot read what I have previously written. I have tried to do so,
but the words swim before my eyes. I can write no more to-day.
With a despairing mind I trace these words slowly and painfully. They
are powerless to express my feelings.
Death is near. I know it. Not by physical pain am I warned, but I know
it. I saw my wife last night. She stood by my side for full an hour.
It is a sign that my hour is come.
Susan is below, looking for Minnie, perhaps--looking for Minnie, who
will never, never come. . . .
I take up my pen again. What lies before me? A letter. Susan brought
it up a while ago, and gave it to me. But when I saw the writing on
the cover, I had not courage to open it, so I placed it in the desk.
It is addressed to me in Minnie's writing. And on the cover are these
words: "The 'Merry Andrew;' John Steele, pilot." The letter, then,
comes from the "Merry Andrew," and is in Minnie's writing. What
follows? That Minnie is on board the "Merry Andrew" with Joshua
Marvel! I must read it--I _must_, if it strike me dead!
That was all that was written. Dan read every word of the manuscript
aloud, but was compelled by emotion to pause many times. During the
silence that followed, one thought rose uppermost in their minds.
Ellen thought, "How will Dan bear this?" And Dan had the same thought
with respect to Ellen. Is such noble unselfishness rare? Let us hope
not. For the first and only time in the course of this narrative, the
writer pauses to speak of a personal experience of devotion and
unselfishness. It was before him during his boyhood in the person of
his mother; and it is to her, and to the patient, unmurmuring
gentleness with which she bore the trials of her life, that her
children owe whatever little of good there may be in their nature. It
is from his experience of his mother's life of goodness and
self-sacrifice that he knows that the noble unselfishness of Dan and
Ellen is not, thank God, a creation of his fancy. And as he writes
these words in the midst of a great city, with all the whirl of its
busy life around him, he is glad to think that in it--in great
mansions and mean houses, in sight of gardens where Nature makes
holiday, and of dirty streets and courts where bright leaf never
grows--flowers of human life which the world shall never see are
blossoming tenderly and holily, and living gentle lives for others'
good.
For a long time no word was spoken by Ellen and Dan. Then Dan turned
and looked in Ellen's face. She met his gaze pityingly, almost
appealingly. He answered her with a sad smile, in which there was much
sweetness.
"You were the first to guess my love for Minnie," he said; "and only
to Jo did I ever confess it. But do not fret for me, my dear; she can
never be to me what I was daring enough to hope she would be one day.
My love for her is not less strong, but my hope is buried now."
She could say nothing but "Oh, my poor Dan! Oh, my poor Dan!"
"Nay, why?" he answered in his gentle voice; "what could I have
offered her? What right had I, a cripple, to entertain the hope? I
dared to hope that she, bright, strong, and full of healthful life,
would tie herself to a weak, sickly thing like me. I dared to hope
that she would love me. I fed my heart upon delusions; I can see it
now, But I can love her still--can believe in her still--shall have
faith in her purity as long as my heart shall beat, and after
that--ay, who knows?" He paused for a little while before he resumed:
"What you and I have in our thoughts, my dear, we must speak of; in
that lies our only consolation. And we must not shrink from it; for
our duty, no less than our love, demands it."
And yet she did shrink, fearing what was coming.
"What wonder that she should love Joshua?" continued Dan,
unflinchingly determined to look the truth in the face, and not to
spare himself; although as he spoke his quivering lips and tremulous
voice betrayed his agitation. "We who know how good and brave he is
are able to understand that she could not help loving him. But he--no,
he played no false part by her." He placed his hand upon the Bible,
and the action gave a deeper solemnity to the declaration. "Some
suspicion he may have entertained that her feelings towards him were
warmer than they ought to have been; and I well know the grief such
suspicion brought to him. But he could not mention it--he dared not
speak of it for Minnie's sake--for mine. I can trace a meaning now in
the last words he said to me. 'You do not doubt me, Dan?' he asked. I
answered, 'No, nor never could.' And then he said he should not have
asked, but that certain things had distressed him lately. Poor Jo!
Yes, he must have guessed Minnie's secret, and, knowing my love for
her, trembled lest I should turn against him. Turn against him! my
best, my dearest friend! When I do, it will be time for me to die.
Believe that I never wavered in my love or my truth, and that to the
last I held you in my heart as I hold you now, gentlest, dearest, best
of friends!"
Unconsciously he had uttered the very words which Joshua addressed to
him, and he spoke them as if Joshua were standing before him.
"As for what we have read to-night, we, and we alone, can rightly
understand it. He who wrote it in his agony knows now that Joshua's
heart is as pure as Minnie's honor."
"Those strange letters poor Minnie's father received," whispered
Ellen; "who wrote them?"
"Who stabbed Jo when he came home?" asked Dan in reply. "Whoever did
that wrote the letters. Jo has an enemy." Then, with a sudden
remembrance of Joshua's warning against Solomon Fewster, he cried in a
louder tone than he had hitherto used, "Mr. Fewster!" With eager
impatience he turned over the pages of Basil Kindred's diary, and
lighted upon the original letters. They were pinned on blank pages at
the end of the diary, and were written on soiled sheets of blue
letter-paper. "No," said Dan, examining them; "the writing is strange
to me. We must wait until Jo comes back; all will be explained then."
The candle had burnt low in the socket by this time, and Dan had just
said, "I think we had better try to sleep for a little while, Ellen,"
when they heard sounds of some one walking softly about the house.
"There is no one here but Susan," said Ellen in a tone of quiet
surprise.
"No one but"--said Dan, and then paused, awestruck by the thought of
that only other one in the house, who lay stark and dead in the room
above.
They listened to Susan's footsteps, and a new fear entered their
hearts. There was a soft stealthiness in the footfall, as if Susan
were hunting for some one who was hiding from her.
"Shall I go and see?" asked Ellen.
"Hush!" whispered Dan.
Susan's footsteps, soft and stealthy as those of a cat, were in the
passage. Presently the door was opened cautiously, and Susan entered,
and softly closed the door behind her. She did not notice either Dan
or Ellen, but looked about the room inquiringly, then went to the
window and pulled up the blind. The moon was high in the heavens, and
the light streamed down upon her face, making it ghastly.
"Susan!" cried Dan.
But she did not heed him; she peered anxiously through the window into
the street, shading her eyes with her hand.
"Is she asleep?" whispered Ellen.
"I don't know," said Dan in a troubled voice; "it is dreadful to see
her with that expression on her face."
It was an expression of suppressed watchfulness; that her
firmly-compressed lips and wandering eyes were at variance might have
been due to the peculiar circumstances of her life; but in the cunning
and revengeful determination in her face there was no sign of
indecision. It was as though she had staked her life on the
accomplishment of a task.
As she turned from the window and approached Dan, he seized her hand.
"Susan," he said, gently, "speak to me, my dear. What is the meaning
of this?"
She laid her hand upon his head, and said, "Poor Dan! And you loved
her, and she is lost to you."
"Not lost, Susey," he said, detaining her hand and humoring her, for
he was afraid that her reason was gone; "not lost. She will come
back."
"She will never come back--never, never! When she hears that _he_ is
dead--he is lying dead up stairs, Dan--she will never come back; she
will drown herself first; for she loved him, and me too; and would
have loved you, Dan, but for that false-hearted friend.
"You must not say that, Susey," said Dan, pointing to Ellen, who had
turned aside weeping. "Look at Ellen. He is her husband, and he is not
false-hearted. For her sake you must have kinder, juster thoughts
towards Jo."
But Susan did not catch the sense of his words. All that she
understood was, that he was speaking in defence of Joshua.
"All in his favor," she muttered. "If any one is to blame, it is
Minnie--that's what all of you will say. But I know better; I know
better. Didn't I watch them? Didn't I see him making love to her on
the ship? Didn't I see the poor dear that's lying dead up stairs
tortured slowly to death? And don't I know who killed him?"
"Who, Susan, who?" asked Dan, holding his breath.
"Joshua Marvel," said Susan, between her set teeth, with no change
upon her face. "And as God's my judge, I will bring him to justice!
You are his friends--I know that: you'll try to hide him from me; but
I'll do what I've made up my mind to, if I drop down dead the minute
after."
She twisted her hand from Dan's grasp, and crept slowly into the
passage, and thence into the street. And there she stood for many
minutes, with the same expression of implacable animosity on her face,
waiting for the return of Basil Kindred's murderer.