THE SANCTITY OF MARRIAGE.
There was great excitement for the rest of the day in the Kearsarge
House, and when the evening coach brought Ella from the railroad
station, she was surprised at the coldness with which everybody greeted
her; but she was a rich heiress, and scandal handled her with gloves.
She explained to one or two, whose lead others would be likely to
follow, that her meeting with Dr. Delano in Dover was the purest
accident. “Why!” she exclaimed, “what else _could_ it have been?” and
this passed current, for Colonel Murdock had said nothing, except to
Clara, of his knowledge of Ella’s pretence that she was going to
Wolfboro’. Still, there were some who knew the secret of the letter, and
these avoided all further recognition of her, except a few fawners who
pretended that that part of the scandal was a pure fabrication. The next
day Albert returned, having waited over only for appearance’ sake, for
he might just as well have come with Ella. He went immediately up to his
rooms, and seeing no one, concluded his wife must be out riding or
walking; still it was strange, for he had written, informing her of his
intended return, and naturally she would have met him at the veranda.
Very soon he went to the office and asked the clerk where Mrs. Delano
was, but the answer being very indefinite, Colonel Murdock, who had just
bought a cigar, volunteered the following:
“Your wife, Dr. Delano? You have killed her, I think; but you’ll find
your sweetheart in the bowling-alley.”
Like lightning it flashed upon the doctor that Murdock had blabbed the
Dover affair. This explained the exceedingly cool air with which one or
two had returned his greeting on alighting from the coach.
“Insolent coxcomb!” growled Dr. Delano, ready to fly at the colonel’s
throat; but at the critical moment the clerk thrust a letter into his
face, and as he took it, the other left the office. The thought flashed
upon the doctor, at the sight of the superscription, that his wife had
left the hotel. He returned to his rooms, and shutting himself in,
opened Clara’s letter. At the sight of the enclosed one which he had
written to Ella, he bit his lip and turned pale. Clara had written him
the following:
“I enclose you a letter which was found, I suppose, by some one here. I
received it through the post-office yesterday. I enclose, also, the
hotel bill, which I have paid in full. As to the letter I do not blame
you, since it is the expression of a passion that controls you, and I
have not lost my faith in manhood because you have proved unworthy. I
believe there are men too honorable to call two women ‘_dearest_’ in the
same breath. If I did not, I should not be my father’s daughter.
“Surely, if there is crime in falseness, you stand accused before all
courts of Love; yet you well know that the greatest crime is robbing me
of the power to respect you. Love has conquered pride and even
self-respect, up to this time, and I have submitted to being made a
spectacle of pity and derision—I, the once adored, once honored Clara,
forced by you to play the rôle of the hoodwinked wife! When married
people desire to live together after they have outlived their illusions,
I think they ought to guard each other’s honor before the world.
“No matter now. I am going to one who never fails me; one who always
loves and caresses me, even when I commit the enormity of daring to
suffer. I shall never meet you again, if I can avoid it. Please have my
wardrobe, household linen, and whatever belongs specially to me, sent to
my father.
“You can get a divorce on the ground of desertion, if you wish to marry.
I am willing, and you need not fear that any one can persuade me into
opposing you. I sincerely wish you a long and happy life with one who
can always be happy, and not brood so much over imaginary troubles as to
prevent her being a mother—whose love will not be a ‘suffocating
warmth,’ but one to please you in every way.
“I thank you for sending the valerian powders. I think they were not
indicated in my case.
“I write with calmness, after many hours of self-examination and cool
reflection as to my best course. Rest assured that I shall not regret
the step that gives you cause for a formal divorce, for you have been
really divorced from me since the time when you took another to your
heart. The letter is very little to me—the spirit everything.
“With kindly feeling,
“CLARA FOREST.”
Every word of this letter cut like a two-edged sword, and at the moment,
Dr. Delano felt that he could give his life to recall his acts for the
last few months. He had never dreamed that there was that in Clara which
would impel her to such a step. Truly she must have suffered, before
bringing herself to give up even the pleasure of ever meeting him again.
He did not accept the letter, however, as a true expression of the Clara
he had known. Of course she would long for his presence as days passed,
and then would be the time for him to write her to return. A little
scandal in a small country place could not injure him materially, but a
scandal in Boston such as would be caused by a wife leaving her husband,
would affect him very seriously—at this time, too, when his father, who
was very fond of Clara, was very feeble. He might do something foolish.
Finally, though Albert was much troubled in mind, he comforted himself
with hope; and when the first impulse of pity for Clara’s trials had
passed, he began to blame her for taking such a rash step and
endangering his good name before the world. This mood remained,
fortifying itself, until he became convinced that he had been treated in
a very shocking, even insulting manner. She would come back to him of
course, but he would dictate the conditions. This settled, he went to
find Ella. It was early evening, and she was walking in the maple
avenue. She was almost icy in her manner, and reproached him for writing
her to come to Dover.
“Why did you come, unless you wished to?”
“It was very unkind of you,” she said, not heeding his remark, “and it
has caused such a horrid scandal. I don’t believe I shall ever live
through it. Where is Clara?” He was silent, being a little disgusted
that at such a time, Ella should think only of herself. “Oh, you need
not tell me, if you don’t choose to. Oh, I wish I had never come to this
horrid place! and now, to make everything worse, you are all changed to
me.”
The ruling passion was still strong in Albert. He denied the assertion.
It was against his principles to change; and as their conduct had shut
them out from sympathy with all their surroundings, they naturally
needed each other, and parted for the night on the best of terms, after
deciding on the wisest plan to pursue. This was, for Ella to pass a
month with some friends in Rhode Island, until matters were settled,
while Albert was to go at once to Boston, and, by properly representing
the case, forestall criticism. Here we will leave them, and go to
Oakdale, to see what is passing in Dr. Forest’s home at precisely the
same hour.
The doctor’s family were assembled in the sitting-room, where the wood
fire had just been lighted in the grate, for the evening promised to be
chilly. Mrs. Forest and Leila were busily engaged with some needle-work.
Linnie was deeply absorbed in _The Woman in White_, and the doctor sat
silently watching the fire, forgetting to light his pipe, which had been
filled for some time. Upon this quiet tableau the door opened, and
Clara, pale as death and travel-stained, entered, and with one great sob
threw herself into her father’s arms. Mrs. Forest sprang to her feet,
exclaiming, “_Clara Forest! You come home like this, and alone! Where is
your husband?_”
Clara raised her head from her father’s shoulder, and, turning to her
mother, said, just above a whisper, and with great effort, “I have no
husband. I have left Albert Delano forever!”
Mrs. Forest, forgetting everything in her horror of a woman who has the
audacity to leave her husband, and such a model husband too, could not
control her indignation, and burst forth in cruel reproaches. The doctor
said nothing for a minute or so, but kept on soothing Clara. His
patience, however, could not endure his wife’s injustice. “Stop,
Fannie!” he cried. “You offend me beyond endurance. Our poor girl comes
to us ill and faint and weary of the world, and you receive her like
this! Good God! Where is your common sense? You should think of the
shock this tearing-away must cause her, and reserve your reproaches
until you know the circumstances.” Clara, who had been clinging to her
father, sobbing convulsively, now raised her head and commenced to
explain as well as she could, for speaking was almost impossible.
“My daughter,” interrupted the doctor, “you need not justify yourself to
me. Do I not know that it is natural for a wife to stick to her husband
through thick and thin? You are a warm-hearted, honest girl, and the
fact that you have left him, is enough for me. I know he has acted like
a brute.”
“Goodness me!” whispered Leila to her sister. “It’s papa’s own girl, you
see, and of course she can’t do anything wrong.”
“Hush!” answered Linnie. “I think he’s right this time, any way. See
those awful black rings around her eyes!” and Linnie, obeying a kind,
sisterly instinct, went to her sister and kissed her, saying, “I’m right
glad to see you, sissy; but you do look so tired. Dinah shall make you a
cup of tea, while I go and get you a warm bath ready.”
“There’s a good heart, Linnie,” said the doctor, caressing Linnie’s
cheek. “The bath is just the thing. We’ll try to make your sister forget
her troubles, won’t we?” Mrs. Forest sank into a chair and began to cry;
then she got up and embraced Clara, saying, in a stricken voice, “It is
dreadful! but God knows best why afflictions are sent upon me.” Leila
came last, and pressed her hard little mouth to her sister’s cheek,
thinking all the time what a dreadful fool Clara was, to leave such a
splendid fellow as Dr. Delano, and so rich, too!
That night Clara was in a high fever, and seemed to want no one near her
but her father; so at least he interpreted it, and sent all the rest
away. He did not enjoin her to keep quiet, as so many people do under
any similar circumstances. He knew there could be no greater harm done
by talking of her griefs than by silently brooding over them; and as it
would be folly to ask her to cease thinking of them, he allowed her to
talk on until far into the night, when the quieting medicine he had
given her commenced to act, and she sank into a heavy slumber, somewhat
comforted by the ever-ready sympathy that she knew could never fail her.
She was always as sure of it as that the day will follow the night. From
her earliest years she had been in the habit of going to him, instead of
her mother, with all her childish troubles. When these resulted from her
own wrong-doing, his tenderness was even greater. He never scolded,
never blamed her in these cases, but he did what was far wiser: he
showed her his own grief that she had been guided by her lower, instead
of her higher motives, and this, more than anything else could have
done, inspired her to resist temptation. Another principle was
continually impressed upon his children by the doctor: that yielding to
base feelings made the face ugly, and that constantly being guided by
kindness, love and charity, moulded all the features into beauty. Mrs.
Forest always doubted the efficacy of such teaching, and did not wait
longer than the next morning before telling him that Clara had never
sufficiently cared for public opinion, and that this had been constantly
fostered and strengthened by her father’s principles.
“When you remember,” said the doctor, “that I am seldom at home, that
you have had ten hours to my one to instil _your_ principles, you ought
not to complain. Fannie, dear,” he said, after a pause, and suddenly
changing his defiant mood, “let us do the best we can with life. Heaven
knows it is anything but a blessing to most of us.” This is what he
actually said, but there had been quite a different train of thought in
his mind. It had just escaped utterance, through one of those mysteries
of brain-action that control our motives. He had been about to say that
it had been better for her, and him also, if they had separated twenty
years ago; that nothing cramps the growth of all that is best in manhood
and womanhood like the forced intimacy of the marriage tie, when no deep
sympathy or mutual trust exists; that it is like preserving year after
year a corpse in your drawing-room with spices and perfumes, pretending
that it is only sleeping. He was glad he had not said it, for no power
of his could make her enter, even for a moment, the world in which he
lived; and it was useless, and worse than useless, to attempt it. He
left soon after on his round of daily visits to his patients, taking
with him a note from Clara to Susie, and a little later Mrs. Forest went
to Clara’s room. This was an interview that Clara dreaded, for her
mother would neither comprehend nor excuse her motives for the step she
had taken. Clara commenced by saying she was sorry that she had been
compelled to do anything that grieved her mother. As she said this she
rose and begged her mother to take the arm-chair in which she had been
sitting by the fire, wrapped in her mother’s “double gown.” Mrs. Forest
refused kindly, and brought a shawl for Clara’s shoulders, as the
morning was cold. Clara was touched by this kindness, which she
expressed by kissing her mother’s hand. Mrs. Forest wanted the whole
story. Clara commenced, but broke down after a few sentences. Mrs.
Forest soothed her a little, and then sat down quietly and commenced to
sew. One of her soothing remarks was that no doubt Albert would forgive
her for leaving him, and write for her to return.
“That will only show how little he knows of my father’s girl.”
“Your father’s girl,” said Mrs. Forest, with some heat, “was always a
Quixotic enthusiast, always holding notions and whims that no
sober-minded person ever heard of.”
“I don’t know that my ambition is to be sober-minded. Heads are very
good in their way, but as for me, I believe in hearts.”
“And no doubt you worried Albert to death with your romantic nonsense.”
“Did I?” said Clara, as if her thoughts were far away. “I wished him to
love me, mother dear. If that is being romantic, I am certainly guilty.”
“Of course he did love you, but you should not expect him to go into
transports every five minutes. It is foolish to expect that, after
marriage, and I think very bad taste to desire it. If you had a child to
occupy your attention, you would think less of continual demonstration
on the part of your husband.” Clara shrank lower into the folds of her
shawl. She was tired of the mention of this impossible baby.
“I am sure I would rather have my husband’s love than a thousand
babies.”
“A thousand! Very likely.”
“Well, one then. I am glad that I found out his indifference before any
such event happened; but Albert says I shall never have any children
because I am too nervous.”
“Does he? Well, I am sure that is very unkind indeed, when you have been
married so short a time. He had no right to say such a cruel thing.”
Clara wondered that her mother should give this such prominence. _She_
had been wounded by it, because of Albert’s coldness; otherwise it would
not have affected her, for it could not sound like a reproach. Mrs.
Forest did not seem to comprehend the distinction. She urged Clara, by
all the eloquence and argument in her power, to make up the quarrel with
her husband. She urged her to consider the disgrace of her step, the
wealth and standing of the Delanos, and the social advantages of such an
alliance. This failed to move Clara, for she had not a particle of
social ambition. Wealth sufficient to secure a pleasant home, with books
and flowers and ordinary luxuries, was all she wanted for herself
personally; but had misfortune deprived her of these, she would have met
it without a murmur, and worked night and day to make the deprivations
less hard for Albert to bear. This she expressed to her mother.
“Of course, any good wife would do that; but how much better,” said Mrs.
Forest, “to have wealth and the position that insures your reception in
the highest society.”
“The highest society, mother dear, I hold to be that of people of
thought and solid culture, and these are always approachable without
being heralded by the _fanfari_ of wealth and social position.”
“I presume you even regret the wealth of your husband, and dream of love
in a cottage,” said Mrs. Forest, with ill humor.
“How you do misunderstand me, mother dear,” said Clara, wearily. “When I
express the thoughts and convictions dearest and most sacred to me, you
take no notice of them. It was always so with Albert; but I would not
have asked even that he should understand me, if he had not grown so
cold. And then his persistent solicitude about Ella, his delight in her
conversation, which was like the chattering of a monkey, compared to
that of any serious person—”
“You mean, compared to yours.”
“Why, yes: what is the use of sham modesty in the presence of the truth?
She was _not_ my equal in anything. If she had been, I should wonder
less at his infatuation.” Here Mrs. Forest questioned Clara, and
extracted the Dover affair.
“Why, Clara!” exclaimed Mrs. Forest. “Why did you not tell me this
before? Why, child, I have been too severe. Of course you could not
endure such dishonor. Why did you not tell me at first of this?”
“Oh, I did not think that so important. Of course he did not intend it
should disgrace me. He did not mean it to be known, of course.” Mrs.
Forest was shocked beyond measure, and ran on for some minutes giving
vent to her indignation against Miss Wills. Clara assured her that Miss
Wills was guilty of no further impropriety than meeting Albert, and
added, “though that makes little difference to me; when Albert’s love
was gone, all was gone.”
Mrs. Forest was glad to have the assurance that Albert had not been
guilty of “absolute infidelity,” and saw the way clearly to a speedy
reconciliation. “Oh, mother,” said Clara, “you do not understand what
separates us at all. We are talking to each other in Greek and Sanscrit.
Do you not see, I cannot care so much for the body, because I care so
much more for the soul? The fidelity that came from love, would be a
compliment to me; but ought I to be flattered by a chastity that was
merely forced by a promise? Forgive me; you are too material to
comprehend that. No infidelity but one, could send me from Albert, and
that he has committed a thousand times. What should I go back to? I have
no husband, as I told you last night. To live with him, when he longs
only for the presence of another woman, shocks my sense of morality.”
“But you are married to him. You have a legal right to his property. The
law does not hold you as free, nor excuse him for not taking care of
you.”
“Then the law is a fool. I don’t care a straw for it. What right have I
to his property? I did not bring any of it to him. If he were my husband
in soul, there would be no degradation to my sharing it all with him;
but now to go back to his cold heart because simply he is obliged to
take care of me, or to avoid scandal! I beg your pardon. I would die
first. If I am to be kept, simply—for mercy’s sake let there be the
justification of mutual love.”
“Mercy!” exclaimed Mrs. Forest. “I never heard such words from a lady’s
mouth. Why, one would think you had no conception of the sanctity of
marriage.”
“Oh, mother dear, just now I called your views material, and reproached
myself inwardly for the rudeness,” said Clara, speaking with great
difficulty, “but, honestly, you do take a view of marriage that
horrifies me. There is no marriage when love is dead. I could not live
through such a solemn farce;” and Clara sank back quite exhausted, and
Mrs. Forest, trusting she would listen to reason when she grew calmer,
left the room.