ADA'S SOLITARY BREAKFAST.
My tortured soul is sick, and every nerve
Answers its promptings with an aching strain,
Yet from my task I may not pause or swerve--
Rest is a curse, and every thought a pain.
For the first time since her husband's death, Ada slept soundly, till
deep in the morning. But her slumber was haunted by dreams that sent
shadows painful and death-like over her beautiful face. More than once
her maid stole from the dressing-room into the rosy twilight of the
bed-chamber, and stooped anxiously over her mistress as she slept, for
the faint moans that broke from her lips, pallid even in that rich
light, and parted with a sort of painful smile--startled the servant as
she prepared her mistress's toilet.
It was almost mid-day when this unearthly slumber passed off, but the
brightest sun could only fill those richly draped chambers with a
twilight atmosphere, that allowed the sleeper to glide dreamily from her
couch to the pursuits of life. When the mechanics throughout the city
were at their noonday meal, Ada crept into her dressing-room, pale and
languid as if she had just risen from a sick-bed. Upon a little ebony
table near the fire, a breakfast service of frosted silver, and the most
delicate Sèvres china stood ready. Ada sunk into the great easy-chair,
which stood near it, cushioned with blossom-colored damask, which
gleamed through an over drapery of heavy point lace. The maid came in
with chocolate, snowy little rolls, just from the hands of her French
cook, and two crystal dishes, the one stained through with the ruby tint
of some rich foreign jelly, the other amber-hued with the golden
honeycomb that lay within it. Delicate butter, moulded like a handful of
strawberries, lay in a crystal grape-leaf in one corner of the salver,
and a soft steam floated from the small chocolate urn, veiling the whole
with a gossamer cloud.
Altogether, that luxurious room, the repast so delicate, but evidently
her ordinary breakfast; the lady herself in all the beautiful disarray
of a muslin wrapper, half hidden, half exposed by the loosely knotted
silk cord that confined a dressing-gown, quilted and lined with soft
white silk--all this composed a picture of the most sumptuous enjoyment.
But look in that woman's face! See the dark circles beneath those heavy
violet eyes. Mark how languidly that mouth uncloses, when she turns to
speak. See the nervous start which she makes when the crystal and silver
jar against each other, as the maid places them upon the table. Is there
not something in all this that would make the rudest mechanic pause,
before he consented to exchange the comforts won by his honest toil, for
the splendor that seemed so tempting at the first glance?
Ada broke a roll in two, allowed one of the golden strawberries to melt
away in its fragments, then laid it down untasted. Her heart was sick,
her appetite gone, and after drinking one cup of the chocolate, she
turned half loathing from that exquisite repast.
"Move the things away!" she said, to the waiting-woman.
"Will madam chose nothing else?" said the servant, hesitating and
looking back as she carried off the tray.
"Nothing," replied her mistress.
The tone was one that forbade further inquiry; so the maid left the
apartment; and Ada was alone, restless, feverish, unhappy.
She rose, and walking to the window, looked out; but a few minutes spent
thus appeared to tire her; and throwing herself again into her chair,
she took up a book and attempted to read. But she still found no
occupation for her thoughts. At last she flung down the volume, and
rising, paced the chamber.
The reflection grew and grew upon her, that if the old man should be
convicted of the murder, she would be free from the guilt of Leicester's
death. Her mind had been in a morbid condition ever since that event, or
she would not now have thought this, nor have before regarded herself as
criminal. That the old man should be proved guilty, became an insane
wish on her part. She clutched at it with despairing hope. The more she
thought of this means of escape from her remorse, the wilder became her
desire to see the prisoner convicted. Soon the belief in his criminality
became as fixed in her mind as the persuasion of her own existence.
A stern, passionate desire for revenge now took possession of her. The
very idea that the accused might yet escape, through some technicality,
drove her almost to madness; and as she conjured up this picture, her
eyes flashed like those of an angry tigress, and the workings of her
countenance betrayed the tumult of her soul.
At last, catching the reflection of her person in a mirror, she started
at her wild appearance; a bitter smile passed over her face, and she
said--
"Why do I seek this old man's blood? Am I crazed, or a woman no longer?
But heaven knows," she added, clasping her forehead with her hands,
"that I have endured enough to transform me out of humanity."
With a heavy movement she rang the bell, ordered her maid to dress her,
and directed the carriage to be in waiting.
When Ada Leicester descended to her carriage, radiant in majestic
beauty, the last thought that would have presented itself to a spectator
must have been that this queenly woman was unhappy. But the color in her
cheek; the blaze of her brilliant eyes; and the proud, almost disdainful
step with which she crossed the sidewalk, were deceptive as the fever
of disease. The excitement which so increased her lofty beauty, was
purchased with inexpressible pangs, as the hues of the dying dolphin are
procured by intolerable anguish.
The day was bright; the breeze was fresh; everything around was
beautiful and exhilarating. But the pleasant face of nature failed to
allay the fever of Ada Leicester's soul. One thought only possessed her;
"What if the old man should be acquitted?" This idea grew upon her, and
still grew. She tried to shake it off. She endeavored to become
interested in the equipages driving past on the Bloomingdale road, and
failing there, turned her heavy eyes on the green fields along the North
River, or the sailing vessels ploughing up and down its water. But it
was all in vain; Ada had no interest in anything so quiet as those
scenes.
That dark thought clung to her. Now it rose into a terror, and a new
idea crossed her mind. If the murderer should escape, and her husband be
unavenged, would not her guilt be then almost as great as if she had
driven Leicester to suicide?
Everything became a blank around her; she was only conscious of this one
thought. She saw nothing, heard nothing; for her entire soul was
absorbed in one morbid idea. It became a monomania. Finally she pulled
the check string, and, in a sharp tone, directed the coachman to drive
back to the city.
The man looked around, startled by her voice; he was alarmed at the
aspect of her countenance, which was almost livid. She did not notice
it, but closed the curtain, and threw herself back on the cushions.
This terror was visible in his look. As they entered the city, the
coachman asked if he should drive home.
This roused her from her stupor. A distance of five miles had been
traversed since she had last spoken, yet the interval appeared to her
scarcely a minute. She looked out with surprise. Recognizing the place,
she pulled the check-string and directed the servant to drive to the
office of an advocate, renowned, especially in criminal cases, for his
acute cross-examinations, not less than for his eloquence.
The lawyer was at home when the carriage drew up at his door. He knew
Ada Leicester as a leading star in society, and was surprised to see her
enter his office so abruptly. He rose, bowed profoundly, and handed her
a chair.
His visitor hesitated a moment, and then said,
"There is a man now in prison, charged with the murder of one William
Leicester--you know the case, perhaps--and I have called on you to make
it impossible for the prisoner to escape unless he is really innocent."
She uttered these last words slowly, with her eye fixed on the advocate
as she spoke.
"There is such a thing, I believe, as the friends of a guilty man
securing legal assistance when the commonwealth proves lax or
indifferent."
"Oh! yes, madam," said the lawyer. "The thing is of common occurrence."
"Very well," said Ada, slowly, taking a note of large value from her
_porte-monnaie_. "I wish you to see the district-attorney, and assist
him in this trial."
"You would retain me--I understand your wish," said the lawyer, too
polite to touch the note which she laid before him, yet unable to
prevent a glance at its denomination; and bowing again profoundly, as
his visitor rose to go, he continued, "the guilty man shall not escape,
madam."
Ada Leicester drove home with a lighter heart, feeling as if a great
duty had been discharged.