STRUGGLES AND PENALTIES
“Varnham was absent when our confession was first looked, then breathed,
and at last desperately uttered. He had been gone more than a week,
making preparations for our return to Ashton. Had every action of our
lives been counted during that time, the most austere moralist could
have detected no wrong. The sin with us was too subtle and deep for
human eyes, even for our own. We could not believe that feelings which
had no evil wish might be in themselves evil. But when my husband
returned, the pang of shame and regret that fell upon us should have
been proof enough of wrong. When had we ever blushed and trembled in his
presence before?
“We were alone, Murray and myself, in the little boudoir which I have
mentioned so often. He was sitting on the sofa, to which my husband had
so tenderly lifted me on the night before my mother’s funeral, reading
one of my favorite Italian poets. I sat a little way off, listening to
the deep melody of his voice, watching the alternate fire and shadow
that played within the depths of his large eyes, the clear, bold
expression of his forehead, and the smile upon his lips, which seemed
imbued with the soft poetry that dropped in melody from them.
“I had forgotten everything for the time, and was lost in the first
bewildering dream which follows, with its delicious quietude, the entire
outpouring of the soul; when thought itself arises but as sweet
exhalation from the one grand passion which pervades the whole being;
when even a sense of wrong but haunts the heart as the bee slumbers
within the urn of a flower, rendered inert and stingless by the wealth
of honey which surrounds it.
“Murray had been bred in society, and could not so readily fling off the
consciousness of our position. A shadow, darker than the words of his
author warranted, settled on his brow as he read, and more than once he
raised his eyes from the page in the middle of a sentence, and fixed
them with a serious and almost melancholy earnestness on my face. Then I
would interrupt his thoughts with some of the pleasant words which love
sends up from the full heart, naturally as song gushes from the bosom of
a nightingale. He would muse a moment after this and resume his book,
allowing his voice to revel in the melody of the language, then hurry on
with a stern and abrupt emphasis, as one who strives by rapidity of
utterance to conquer painful thoughts.
“The sudden recoil of my heart was suffocating, then its deep, heavy
throbbing grew almost audible. I felt the blood ebbing away from my face
and a faintness was upon me. Murray started and grasped my hand with a
violence that pained me.
“‘Lady Granby, be yourself; why do you tremble? Have we in wish or act
wronged this man?’
“‘No—no; the angels of Heaven must bear us witness—but I have a secret
here; and oh, God! forgive me; I am not glad to see him.’
“‘And I,’ he said, turning pale, ‘am I the cause of this terror?—indeed,
lady, it is better that we part now—this weakness——’
“The very thought of his departure drove me wild. ‘I am not weak—nor
wicked either,’ I said, with a proud smile; ‘see if I prove so?’
“Then wringing my hand from his grasp I deliberately opened the
sash-door and went out to meet my husband. He was already upon the
balcony, and sprang forward to greet me with more eager affection than I
had ever witnessed in him before. During one moment I was drawn to his
bosom unresistingly. I was faint with agitation. He must have felt me
tremble, but evidently imputed the emotion to joy at his sudden return;
with his arms about my waist he drew me into the room. Oh! how
thoroughly I loathed the hypocrisy which one forbidden feeling had
imposed on the future! Murray nerved himself for the interview, and
stood up, pale and collected, to receive his late friend. When he saw my
position, a faint flush shot over his forehead, but his forced composure
was in nothing else disturbed.
“I put away my husband’s arm and sunk to a seat, overwhelmed with a
painful consciousness of the moral degradation I had heaped upon myself.
“Murray went up to London on the next day; a few brief words of farewell
were all that could be granted me. I went away by myself and wept
bitterly.
“The society of my husband grew wearisome, and yet I said again and
again to myself: ‘We have done him no wrong; this love which fills my
heart never was his—never existed before; it is pure and honorable.’ As
I said this, my cheek burned with the falsehood. Was not deception
itself a sin? Oh! how many painful apprehensions haunted my imagination.
For two days I was tormented by shadowy evils. My mornings were full of
inquietude, and my sleep was not rest. Then came his first letter, so
considerate and gentle, so full of manly solicitude for my peace of
mind. I flung aside all doubt and self-distrust. Happiness sprung back
to my heart like a glad infant to its mother’s bosom. The earth seemed
bursting into blossom around me. Again I surrendered my spirit to its
first sweet dream of contentment, and strove to convince myself that
feelings were harmless till they sprang into evil actions. When my
intellect refused this sophistry I resolutely cast all thought aside.
“Murray joined us at Ashton. Among the guests who spent Christmas with
us was a young lady of refined and pleasant manners, the orphan of a
noble family, whose entailed property had fallen to a distant heir on
the death of her father. Thus she was left almost penniless, dependent
on a wealthy aunt, who seemed anxious to get rid of her trust with as
little expense as possible.
“My sympathy was excited in the young lady’s behalf, for her coarse
relative supplied her but sparingly with the means of supporting her
station in society, and in her vulgar eagerness to have the poor girl
settled and off her hands was continually compromising her delicacy and
wounding her pride.
“Louisa was reserved, and somewhat cold in her disposition, but my
feelings had been enlisted in her behalf, and I contrived every little
stratagem in my power to supply her want of wealth and to shield her
from the match-making schemes of her aunt.
“Being much in my society, she was thrown into constant companionship
with Murray. He did not at first seem interested in her, for she was
retiring and not really beautiful, but by degrees the gentle sweetness
of her character won its way to his heart, and he seemed pleased with
her society, but there was nothing in the intimacy to alarm me. I was
rather gratified than otherwise that he should be interested in my
protégée.
“When we again took up our residence in town I occasionally acted as
chaperon to Miss Jameson, but as my hope centered more trustfully around
one object, my taste for general society diminished, and I surrounded
myself with a small circle of distinguished individuals, and mingled but
little in the dissipations of the world, where her aunt was continually
forcing her to exhibit herself. I was still interested in her, but the
repulsive coarseness of her relative prevented a thorough renewal of the
intimacy which had existed while she was yet my guest.
“A year passed by, in which had been crowded a whole life of mingled
happiness and misery, a dreamy tumultuous year that had been one long
struggle to preserve the love which had become a portion of my soul, and
to maintain that integrity of thought and deed, without which life would
be valueless.
“The blow fell at length; Murray was about to be married. He did not
allow me to be tortured by public rumor, but came and told me with his
own lips.
“I had been very sad all the morning, and when I heard his familiar
knock at the street-door, and the footsteps to which my heart had never
yet failed to thrill approaching my boudoir, a dark presentiment fell
upon me, and I trembled as if a death-watch was sounding in my ears. But
I had learned to conceal my feelings, and sat quietly in my cushioned
chair, occupied with a piece of fine needlework when he entered.
“He was deeply agitated, and his hand shook violently when I arose to
receive him. Mine was steady. I was not about to heap misery on the
heart that had clung to me. He spoke of those days at the parsonage; of
the dreams, those impossible dreams, out of which we were to win
happiness, innocent happiness to ourselves—a happiness that should wrong
no one, and yet fill our whole lives. He spoke of it all as a dream—a
sad, mocking delusion, which was like feeding the soul on husks. It was
in vain, he said, to deceive ourselves longer; the love which had
existed—he did not say still existed—between us must inevitably perish
under the restraints which honor and conscience imposed. We were sure of
nothing, not even of those brief moments of social intercourse which
society allows to those who have no secret feelings to conceal.
“I neither expostulated nor reasoned, but with a calmness which startled
myself I inquired the name of my rival.
“It was Louisa Jameson, the creature whom I had cherished even as a
sister. No matter; I had nerved myself to bear all. If my heart
trembled, no emotions stirred my face. He had not yet proposed, but he
knew that she loved him, and her position was one to excite his
compassion. Still he would not propose unless I consented. He had come
to throw himself on my generosity.
“I did consent. Measuredly and coldly the words were spoken, but they
did not satisfy him. He would have me feel willing—his happiness should
not be secured at the expense of mine, if from my whole heart I could
not resign him. No advantage should be taken of a freedom rendered only
from the lips.
“For three whole hours I remained numb and still. At last my maid came
to remind me of a ball and supper to which I was engaged.
“I arose and bade her array me in my gayest apparel. Never do I remember
myself so beautiful as on that night. There was fever in my cheek, the
fire of a tortured spirit—a wild, sparkling wit flashed from my lips,
and among the gay and the lovely I was most gay and most recklessly
brilliant.
“Murray called in the morning, for we were to be friends still. I had
suffered much during the night, but I put rouge on my pallid cheeks, and
with forced cheerfulness went down to receive him. He appeared ill at
ease. Perhaps he feared reproaches after I recovered from the first
effect of his desertion, but the anguish it had wrought was too deep for
tears or weak complaints; when the death-blow comes, we cease to
struggle.
“I ascertained that Miss Jameson’s aunt had refused to bestow a fortune
with her niece, and I knew that Murray was far, far from wealthy enough
to meet the expenses of an establishment befitting his rank. I could not
bear that his fine mind should be cramped by the petty annoyances of a
limited income, nor his wife forever crushed beneath the humiliating
consciousness of poverty. Varnham never allowed himself to exceed his
own little income, and the revenues of the Granby estates far exceeded
our general expenditure. It was, therefore, easy for me to raise a sum
sufficient to endow my rival, and thus indirectly secure a competence to
him.
“I gave orders to my agent that twenty thousand pounds should be
immediately raised for me. When the sum was secured I went privately to
the house of my rival, and, with little persuasion, induced her
parsimonious relative to present it to Miss Jameson as the gift of her
own generosity. I knew that my secret was safe, for she was a worldly
woman and was not likely to deprive herself of the éclat of a generous
deed by exposing my share in it.
“Then I thought of Varnham for the first time in many days, not as the
husband I had been estranged from, but as the kind, good friend who had
watched beside me, and loved me amid all my sorrows. I was not wholly in
my right mind, and reflected imperfectly on the step that I was about to
take. Mr. Varnham was at Ashton, and I resolved to go to him, but with
no definite aim, for I was incapable of any fixed plan. But he was my
only friend, and my poor heart turned back to him in its emergency of
sorrow with the trust of former years. I forgot that it had locked up
the only well-spring of sympathy left to it by the very course of its
anguish.
“I flung a large cloak over my splendid attire, and while my carriage
was yet at the door entered it and ordered them to proceed to Ashton. We
travelled all day; I did not once leave my seat, but remained muffled in
my cloak, with the hood drawn over my head, lost in the misty
half-consciousness of partial insanity. I believe that the carriage
stopped more than once, that food and rest were urged on me by my
servants, but I took no heed, only ordering them to drive forward, for
the rapid motion relieved me.
“It was deep in the night when we reached Ashton. Everything was dark
and gloomy; but one steady lamp glimmered from the library window, and I
knew that Varnham was up, and there. The library was in the back part of
the house, and the sound of the carriage had not reached it.
“I made my way through the darkened hall and entered my husband’s
presence. For one moment the feverish beating of my heart was hushed by
the holy tranquillity of that solitary student. There was something
appalling in the sombre, gloomy magnificence of the room in which he
sat. The noble, painted window seemed thick and impervious in the dim
light. The rich bookcases were in shadow, and cold marble statues looked
down from their pedestals with a pale, grave-like beauty as I entered.
“Varnham was reading. One small lamp alone shed its lustre on the rare
Mosaic table over which he bent, and threw a broad light across the
pale, calm forehead which had something heavenly in its tranquil
smoothness. I was by his side, and yet he did not see me. The solemn
stillness of the room had cleared away my brain, and for a moment I felt
the madness of my intended confidence. I staggered, and should have
fallen but for the edge of the table, which I grasped with a force that
made the lamp tremble.
“Varnham started up astonished at my sudden presence; but when he saw me
standing before him, with the fire of excitement burning in my eyes and
crimsoning my cheeks, with jewels twinkling in my hair and blazing on my
girdle, where it flashed out from the cloak which my trembling hand had
become powerless to hold, he seemed intuitively to feel the evil destiny
that I had wrought for myself. His face became pale, and it was a minute
before he could speak. Then he came forward, drew me kindly to his bosom
and kissed my forehead with a tenderness that went to my heart like the
hushing of my mother’s voice. I flung myself upon his bosom and wept
with a burst of passionate grief. He seated himself, drew me closer to
his heart, and besought me to tell him the cause of my sorrow.
“I did tell him—and then he put me from his bosom as if I had been a
leper, with a cry of rage, bitter rage on the lips that had never till
then known aught but blessings; not against me—no, he could never have
denounced me—but on Murray. Then I bethought me of the evil that might
follow. I arose from the floor and fell before him, where he stood, and
tried to plead and to call back all I had said. He lifted me again in
his arms, though I felt a tremor run through his whole frame as he did
so; he told me to be comforted, said many soothing words, and promised
never to reproach me again, but he said nothing of _him_, and when I
again strove to plead in his defence he put me sternly away. Then I went
wholly mad.
“I can never describe the cold, hopeless struggle of my heart to retain
the delusions which haunted my insane moments when my intellect began to
resume its functions. It seemed as if some cruel spirit were gradually
tightening the bonds of earth about me, and ruthlessly dragging me back
to reason, while my spirit clung with intense longing to its own wild
ideal.
“It was a sad, sad night to me when that star arose in the sky and sent
its pure beams down to the bosom of my acacia, and I knew that the clear
orb would henceforth be to me only a star—that the realms which I had
located in its distant bosom were but the dream of a diseased fancy that
would return no more with its beautiful and vivid faith which had no
power to reason or doubt.
“But we can force the fantasies of a mind no more than the affections of
the heart. My disease left me; then the passions and aspirations of my
old nature started up, one after another, like marble statues over which
a midnight blackness had fallen. And there in the midst, more firmly
established than ever, _his_ image remained—his name, his being, and the
sad history of my own sufferings had, for one whole year, been to me but
as an indefinite and painful dream. But sorrow and insanity itself had
failed to uproot the love which had led to such misery. Can I be blamed
that I prayed for insensibility again?”