THE CRISIS.
During all this summer, so fraught with wretchedness for Clara, Susie
was working with untiring energy, extending her arrangements for the
future. As an experiment, she set out, in an unused part of Mrs.
Buzzell’s kitchen-garden, a hundred young shade-trees of new and rare
varieties, among them the broad-leaved, rapidly-growing _Paulonia
imperialis_. She wisely foresaw that the taste for ornamental trees
would increase with the growth of Oakdale and surrounding towns; and
then in her thoughts she often saw Clara, her bright hopes wrecked, and
weary of life, returning to be helped and blessed by the very one who
owed her so much. Then Susie would lose herself in dreams of a vast,
successful business, built up all by their own hands, out of which there
would come health, and work, and interest in life, independent of the
cheating intoxication of love. It was in the midst of reveries like
this, that she received the following letter from Clara, dated at North
Conway, New Hampshire:
“MY DEAR FRIEND: Do you remember what you once told me about the fable
of the lion and the mouse? Oh, child! you are no longer the mouse as
compared to me, for you are strong while I am weak. Your wounds are
healed, but mine will never heal, for in my madness I am always tearing
them open afresh.
“I write you, dear Susie, because there is no one else on earth before
whom I can cast off all pride, except my father, and I would spare him a
little longer at least, because from my last letters he thinks matters
are improving. Judge for yourself. We are still here, though many of the
visitors are gone, because Albert and his friend are perfectly happy,
and I cannot possibly care whether I go or stay. I keep in my room much
of the day, while they ride, or walk, or dance, or play games, all the
day and evening, their bliss only marred by the sight of my thin, pale
face. Do you know the very hardest thing I have to bear is Albert’s
telling me that he has not changed, but loves me just as fondly as ever?
There is something like murder in my heart when he does this, essaying
by argument to show that it cannot be otherwise. Oh, Susie! how well a
woman knows that love needs no logic to prove its existence. Long ago he
reproached me for saying ‘where there is doubt of love, there must be
cause for doubt.’ When love is perfect, we can no more doubt its
existence than we can the presence of the sun at noonday.
“My old friend and teacher, Miss Marston, passed through here with some
friends, and stopped several days. I begged Albert to let me play while
she was here, the rôle of the happy wife. I think he regrets the change
in him, though he cannot resist the power that is leading him from me.
He seemed impressed by my stony, tearless face. In answer to Miss
Marston’s anxiety about my changed looks, I said I had been quite ill,
which, heaven knows, is true enough. I manœuvred in every way to prevent
her seeing the state of things. We actually rode and walked several
times without Ella. This made her pout and flirt with Colonel Murdock,
one of her admirers, which so alarmed Albert that he completely unmasked
all my beautiful acting. Miss Marston soon penetrated beneath the
surface. ‘Who is this Miss Wills?’ she asked. I told her the ward of Mr.
Delano, and an old and dear friend of my husband. ‘Is it possible’ she
asked, ‘that you do not see the nature of the attachment between your
husband and her?’ Still I played my part. I was the proud, happy wife,
confident of my husband’s affection. I know I made a pitiful figure.
Miss Marston divined the truth, and I expected every moment she would
burst out upon me, as she used to do upon her pupils, when guilty of
deceiving—an unpardonable offence in her eyes; but I think something in
my face alarmed her, and kept her silent. She was very tender to me, and
it was good to have her here. She was struck with the beauty of Albert.
He impresses every one the same way. His lithe, fine form, his handsome,
regular face, and long, dark moustaches, make him greatly admired by
women.”
Under a later date, Clara wrote in the same letter: “This morning Albert
received a telegram from Boston, demanding his presence immediately, for
his father is again very ill. I wished to go with him. There was not
time for Ella to get her half dozen ‘Saratogas’ ready. That was the
secret cause of his objection. She would not like him to take his wife
and not her! I cannot tell you how keenly I felt his willingness to
leave me behind—me, his once adored Clara, whose absence he could not
endure.
“Sometimes I think I am selfish, to burden you with my sufferings, but I
know you would have me do so, and you are right in saying it lightens
them to have them shared by sympathetic hearts. I have so much to bear!
Long since I have given up the idea of making Albert understand that my
trials are greater than I can bear. I gave it up when he came to me and
told me of Ella’s _unhappiness_ because of my coldness to her. Think of
it! I, with my breaking heart, must comfort the rosy, happy Ella, when
her little finger aches! I must do this or Albert is afflicted. I did
not do it. I treat her kindly, but I cannot love her, and never should,
under any circumstances. She is little, and soulless, and selfish. How
can such a woman touch my heart, when I have seen and appreciated the
noble generosity, the soulful delicacy of Susie? Of course Albert thinks
I am jealous without knowing it. Can you understand how he wrongs me? I
like him to flatter and caress women. It is his nature to be very
gallant, only I would know that I hold my old place in his heart, and
knowing I have lost it, I would not have him place another before me in
the eyes of the world. This he does constantly. For weeks I have
suffered a dull pain in the centre of my brain, and at times I fear I
shall go mad. I am relieved, actually, by Albert’s absence; for a time,
at least, I shall be spared the sight of his blissful expression when
Ella comes into his presence. Oh, Susie! grief like mine dries up the
fountains of my gladness at the happiness of others, and I long for
death as I have sometimes longed for Albert’s loving words and kisses,
as I knew them in our happy days. How often I think of poor La
Vallière’s words, referring to the king and Montespan—‘When I wish to do
penance at the convent of the Carmelites, I will think of what these
people have made me suffer.’
“Write me often, dear Susie. Your letters are my one comfort. The
thought haunts me that some crisis is approaching. It may be that there
is; that I have seen Albert for the last time; but I am so weary, so
anxious for rest, that I would pay for it with this or any sacrifice. Do
not afflict yourself too much on my account. Remember I still appear
regularly at table. I walk every day, and I am young, and can endure to
the end. With love to Mrs. B. and kisses to Min,
“Lovingly yours,
“CLARA DELANO.”
Dr. Delano found his father very ill, and his few days of absence
lengthened into two weeks. He wrote occasionally to his wife, but every
day brought a letter, or a book or magazine, to Ella, which she never
read, being engaged in a flirtation that demanded too much dressing and
general attention to leave any time for reading. Clara sometimes thought
her husband must be crazy. He knew how fond she was of reading. As a
school-girl, he had constantly sent her magazines and periodicals, with
passages or articles marked which he wished her to notice particularly,
and he had told her afterward that he had loved her even then, and
thought of her as his future wife.
She often watched Ella in her display of feminine wiles, but could not
discover what there was to fascinate men. The subtle mystery escaped all
analysis in that case, as it ever does; but Clara, in her generosity,
believed there must be something beneath the surface-some hidden wealth
of sensibility, perhaps—which women could not discover. If Albert had
only trusted her as a perfect friend, and had not tried in any way to
deceive her when he became absorbed in his passion for Ella, she would
have met him nobly and suffered far less; but her pain had been tenfold
increased by his want of confidence in her sympathy. He did not and
could not understand her, and this discovery of his weakness was a blow
to her self-pride hardly less endurable than his submitting her to the
mortifying position of the neglected wife.
One evening, when he had been gone two weeks, Clara sat in her room
watching the rosy sunset haze on the old mountains, and thinking over
the events of her life. She had just re-read Albert’s last letter. The
words were there, but the soul was lacking. Later in the evening she
recognized Ella’s voice proceeding from a balcony beneath. A gentleman
was with her, and there could be no doubt that Ella was drawing him on
to make the greatest possible fool of himself. Clara heard her own name
mentioned by Ella in no flattering terms. Her companion opposed her
criticism quite generously, considering his position with regard to
Ella. Clara could not sit there without hearing everything, and there
was a temptation to do so, as any one can believe who has ever been
placed in a similar position. She, however, closed her window with a
little noise, and when she opened it again, all was silent. What she had
heard Ella say, was, that Dr. Delano’s marriage was a “veritable
_mésalliance_”—that there could “never be any real sympathy between
them.” Once Clara would have written all her thoughts freely to Albert;
now a seal was on her lips. Whatever she might say of Ella would be
attributed at once to her inability to comprehend Ella’s “childlike”
nature. Oh, it was hard to be forced to brood in silence over thoughts
and feelings that he, of all the world, should share with her.
That day Clara had received one of Susie’s long, nicely-written letters,
detailing little village events, the mild flirtations of the twin
sisters, the doctor’s sayings and doings, the ways and speeches of
“little Min,” and her own schemes and hopes for the future. “Dear
Susie!” thought Clara; “she knows I am unhappy, and so writes me every
day, hoping to bring some little sunshine into my life. Why, even Susie
shows more love for me than Albert. What is there in his letter? Only
the cool assurance that he has not changed—the stupid persistence that
the sun is shining, when all the world is wrapped in Cimmerian gloom. My
father would never consider me weak enough to be deceived by such
shallow pretence.”
Clara had gone to her room to answer Albert’s letter. For this purpose
she had given up joining a moonlight excursion to _Diana’s Baths_, a
wonderful freak of Nature where, in the solid granite, the trickling
water-drops of ages have smoothly carved out vessels of all imaginable
shapes, not a few greatly resembling the common bathing-tub. All these
vessels were overflowing with the crystal water of a mountain-spring.
Clara sat until far into the night, trying to write to Albert, and
knowing all the while that it would be just as well to be silent. And
yet she did write a long letter—a cry from an overladen soul that ought
to have moved a heart of stone. “I know not why I write,” she said,
toward the last of the letter. “My reason rebels against these frantic
attempts to patch together the fragments of the golden bowl. Love wants
its perfect illusions—wants and will have nothing else, these failing.
No wonder you try to deceive me when you see how my health and strength,
and all the little beauty I ever had, are failing under the griefs I
have borne so long. Believe me, dearest, I _do_ know I am wrong to write
you when I must burden you with sorrow you are powerless to alleviate. I
cannot blame you in my heart. It is not your fault that Clara’s love has
ceased to be the most precious thing in the world to you.”
To this there soon came the following reply:
“MY DEAR CLARA:—I wish you would give up studying the death of love, and
study its life. You brood over imaginary troubles too much. I wish you
could have children, but that will never happen, because you are too
unquiet in your temperament. You have no real cause for unhappiness. My
regard for Ella in no way interferes with that for my wife. You ought to
know that all real love ennobles. Albert never takes back any love that
he once freely gives, and my love for you has never suffered the
slightest change. Love is not a suffocating warmth, or at least, it
should not be.
“I send you some valerian powders. Take one every night at bed-time. I
am obliged to go out of town for a day or two on pressing business, and
then, dearest, I shall be with you in the flesh, as I am ever in spirit.
“Always and ever yours,
“ALBERT.”
“Never suffered the slightest change!” repeated Clara, bitterly. “What
must he think of my common sense?” His words about children cut her to
the heart. She did not believe him, and she despised the whole heartless
tone of the letter.
The next morning Ella rapped at her door. She was in a very jaunty
traveling dress. She was in very high spirits, and made Clara think she
was going away “for good,” but finally stated that she was only going
down to Wolfboro’, on Lake Winnepiseogee, for a day’s visit. She would
return the next evening. The next morning a letter came. Clara did not
notice the postmark, and her heart leaped as she read, in Albert’s own
hand, “My precious one,”—the old words he had always applied to her. It
went on for three pages, in the lover’s most impassioned strain. The
first few lines revealed the fact that it had been written to Ella, but
Clara’s eyes were fascinated, and she read every word. He dwelt
continually upon Ella’s beauty, upon her lips, her “glorious eyes,”
everything, showing clearly and most unmistakably, that he was wholly,
desperately enamored. It was dated the same day and hour as her last
letter from Albert, which added, if possible, to the heartlessness of
his deception. It had perhaps been purloined from Miss Wills’ room, or
possibly Ella had dropped it, and one of the boarders, from some
justifiable motive, had sent it through the Conway post-office to Mrs.
Delano.
Clara sat for a long time with this letter before her, her hands and
feet icy cold. Shouts of gay laughter came up from the veranda. Were
they discussing the effects this letter would have upon the forlorn
wife? Clara did not believe human nature capable of heartlessness like
that. Doubtless the person who had found that letter and sent it to her,
had been disgusted at her blind faith, her submission to gross neglect
that would have roused any woman of spirit to open rebellion. Some woman
had sent this letter. The superscription revealed that fact. Poor
Clara’s thoughts were bitter indeed. She was not lacking in spirit, but
it was not her way to bluster and remind her husband of her rights as a
wife. He had failed to respect her position before the world, and for
this she could not forgive him. She knew well that we cannot command the
inward devotion of the heart; that this must be won by charm; and here
Clara felt that she was powerless. Still this could not excuse him for
deceiving or trying to deceive her. It was so like a common, coarse
man’s treatment of his peer. Though Clara felt like sinking utterly
beneath this blow, her native dignity supported her. After a while she
dressed carefully, and joined the groups below. Towards evening, gossip
was busy with the story that Dr. Delano and Miss Wills were stopping at
a hotel together at Dover. Clara traced the report to Colonel Murdock,
who had been absent for a few days, and had returned by the afternoon
stage. Clara found an opportunity to speak to him alone.
“I am told,” she said, “that this story about my husband is stated as a
fact in your possession.” Colonel Murdock bowed.
“Will you be kind enough to repeat it to me, if it is true? I charge
you, by everything you hold sacred, to tell me only what you know to be
_positive fact_.”
Clara was very calm, but there was something in her tone and manner that
would have exacted the truth even from the most untruthful. Colonel
Murdock had no disposition to deceive, and moreover, he was a very
honest man.
“Madam,” he said, “I am sorry to afflict you, but it is perfectly true.”
“_What_ is perfectly true? Do not mind afflicting me.”
“That I saw Dr. Delano and Miss Wills in Dover yesterday, at four
o’clock in the afternoon, riding together in an open carriage.”
“Might you not possibly have been deceived?”
“No, madam, it was your husband; and as for Miss Wills, she recognized
me. I may add that she told me distinctly, a few days ago, that she was
going to Wolfboro’ yesterday, which was a falsehood.”
“I thank you, Colonel Murdock, and beg you to excuse me for troubling
you,” and with a smile upon her lips, and a manner perfectly calm, she
left him, and soon after went to her room. It is folly to try to
describe the long horrors of that night. They had to be lived through,
and Clara counted the hours one by one, for she never touched her bed
nor dreamed of sleeping. Early in the evening she had packed her trunk,
carefully putting away in Albert’s, everything that belonged to him.
Some time during the night, she wrote a note to him. The stage was to
leave early in the morning. A little while before it started, she
ordered a cup of coffee and sent for the landlord. He came in bland and
smiling, and asked what he could do to serve her.
“Mr. Hammond,” she said, with the air of one confident of carrying all
points. “I must leave this morning, and I wish you to loan me fifty
dollars.”
“Well, madam, doubtless your husband——”
“No, no,” she said, cutting him short. “I must have it on my own
responsibility. Take my watch as security, and understand that my
husband is not to pay this under any circumstances. I shall return you
the money without delay.”
The polite landlord refused the security, and furnished the money. This,
with what Clara had in her purse, enabled her to just meet her traveling
expenses, and to pay the hotel bill of herself and her guest, Miss
Wills, which had been running since Albert left. A few minutes later,
after running the gauntlet of a few curious boarders lounging on the
veranda, the smiling landlord handed Clara into the coach with great
deference.