THE LOST YEAR
“Varnham had watched me for one year as a mother guards her wayward
child. But the sudden illness of a near relative forced him from his
guardianship. In my wildest moments I had always been gentle and
submissive, but I was told that he left me with much reluctance to the
care of my own maid, the housekeeper, and my medical attendant. They
loved me, and he knew that with them I should be safe. When I began to
question them of what had passed during my confinement, they appeared
surprised by the quietness and regularity of my speech, but were ready
to convince themselves that it was only one of the fitful appearances of
insanity which had often deceived them during my illness. They, however,
answered me frankly and with the respect which Varnham had ever enjoined
upon them, even when he supposed that I could neither understand nor
resent indignity.
“They told me that on the night of my arrival at Ashton they were all
summoned from their beds by a violent ringing of the library bell; when
they entered, my husband was forcibly holding me in his arms, though he
was deadly pale and trembling so violently that the effort seemed too
much for his strength. At first they dared not attempt to assist him;
there was something so terrible in my shrieks and wild efforts to free
myself that they were appalled. It was not till I had exhausted my
strength, and lay breathless and faintly struggling on his bosom that
they ventured to approach.
“I must have been a fearful sight, as they described me, with the white
foam swelling to my lips, my face flushed, my eyes vivid with fever, and
both hands clenched wildly in the long hair which fell over my husband’s
arms and bosom, matted with the jewels which I had worn at Murray’s
wedding. At every fresh effort I made to extricate myself, some of these
gems broke loose, flashed to the floor and were trampled beneath the
feet of my servants, for everything was unheeded in the panic which my
sudden frenzy had created.
“‘Oh! it was an awful scene!’ exclaimed the old housekeeper, breaking
off her description and removing the glasses from her tearful eyes as
she spoke. ‘I was frightened when I looked at you, but when my master
lifted his face, and the light lay full upon it, my heart swelled, and I
began to cry like a child. There was something in his look—I cannot tell
what it was—something that made me hold my breath with awe, yet sent the
tears to my eyes. I forgot you when I looked at him.
“‘We carried you away to this chamber and when we laid you on the bed
you laughed and sung in a wild, shrill voice that made the blood grow
cold in my veins. I have never heard a sound so painful and thrilling as
your cries were that night. For many hours you raved about some terrible
deed that was to be done, and wildly begged that there might be no
murder. Then you would start up and extend your arms in a pleading,
earnest way to my master, and would entreat him with wild and touching
eloquence to let you die—to imprison you in some cold, drear place where
you would never see him again, but not to wound you so cruelly with his
eyes.
“‘I knew that all this was but the effect of a brain fever—that there
could be no meaning in your words. Yet it seemed to me that my master
should have striven to tranquillize you more than he did. Had he
promised all you required, it might have had a soothing influence; for
you were strangely anxious that he should give a pledge not to hate or
even condemn some person who was not named. Yet, though you would at
moments plead for mercy and protection with a piteous helplessness that
might have won the heart of an enemy to compassion, he stood over you
unchanged in that look of stern sorrow which had struck me so forcibly
in the library. He scarcely seemed to comprehend the wild pathos of your
words, but his composure was stern and painful to look upon.
“‘At last you appeared to become more quiet, but still kept your eyes
fixed pleadingly on his face and a wild, sweet strain breathed from your
lips with a rise and fall so sad and plaintive that it seemed as if half
your voice must have dissolved to tears and a broken heart was flowing
away in its own low melody.
“‘While the music yet lingered about your lips you began to talk of your
mother, of a stone church where she had first taught you to pray—of a
coffin, and a large white rose-tree that grew beneath a window which you
had loved because her dear hand had planted it; then you besought him to
bring some of those roses—white and pure, you said—that they might be
laid upon your heart and take the fever away; then none need be ashamed
to weep when you died, and perhaps they might bury you beside your
mother.
“‘It was enough to break one’s heart to hear you plead in that sad,
earnest way, and I saw, through the tears which almost blinded me, that
my master was losing his self-command. The veins began to swell on his
forehead, and a tremulous motion became visible about his mouth, which
had till then remained as firm and almost as white as marble. He made a
movement as if about to go away; but just then you raised your arms and,
winding them about his neck, said: “Nay, Varnham, you will not leave me
to die _here_. Let us go to our own old home. I will be very quiet, and
will not try to live—only promise me this: bury me beneath the balcony,
and let that lone, white rose-tree blossom over me forever and ever. I
cannot exactly tell why, but they will not let me rest beside my mother,
so my spirit shall stay among those pure flowers in patient bondage till
all shall proclaim it purified and stainless enough to go and dwell with
her. Kiss me once more, and say that you will go.”
“‘My master could but feebly resist the effort with which his face was
drawn to yours; but when your lips met his he began to tremble again,
and strove to unwind your arms from his neck; but you laid your head on
his bosom, and that low, sad melody again broke from your lips, and your
arms still wound more clingingly about him at every effort to undo their
clasp.
“‘He looked down upon the face that would not be removed from its rest;
his bosom heaved, he wound his arms convulsively about your form for a
moment, then forced you back to the pillow, and fell upon his knees by
the bedside. His face was buried in the counterpane, but the sound of
his half-stifled sobs grew audible throughout the room, and the bed
shook beneath the violent trembling of his form. I beckoned the maid,
and we stole from his presence, for it seemed wrong to stand by and gaze
upon such grief.
“‘When we returned you were silent and apparently asleep. He was sitting
by the bed, and his eyes were fixed on your face with the same mournful,
forgiving look with which I have seen him regard you a thousand times
since. He spoke in his usual gentle way, and told us to tread lightly,
that we might not disturb you. It was many hours before you awoke. My
master was concealed by the drapery; you started up with a wild cry, and
asked if he had gone to do murder. He caught you in his arms as you were
about to spring from the bed, and with gentle violence forced you back
to the pillows again. Then he waved his hand for us to draw back, and
spoke to you in a solemn and impressive voice; but the last words only
reached me. They were:
“‘“I have promised, solemnly promised, Caroline—try to comprehend me and
be at rest.”
“‘Your fever raged many days after that, and you were constantly
delirious, but never violent, and that frightful dread of some impending
evil seemed to have left you entirely. Your disease at length abated,
and the bloom gradually returned to your cheek, but every new mark of
convalescence only seemed to deepen the melancholy which had settled on
my master.
“‘When the physicians decided that your mind would never regain its
former strength, but that it would ever remain wandering and gentle, and
full of beautiful images as the fever had left it, my master became
almost cheerful. He would allow no restraint to be placed upon you, and
gave orders that you should be attended with all the respect and
deference that had ever been rendered to your station. He never seemed
more happy than while wandering with you about the gardens, and in the
park; yet there were times when he would sit and gaze on your face as
you slept, with a sad, regretful look that betrayed how truly he must
have sorrowed over your misfortune. There was a yearning tenderness in
his eye at such times, more touching far than tears. I could see that he
struggled against these feelings, as if there existed something to be
ashamed of in them, but they would return again.’
“All this and much more my good housekeeper said in answer to the
questions which I put to her as my reason began to connect the present
with the past. She did not hesitate to inform me of anything that I
might wish to know, for she had no belief in my power to understand and
connect her narrative. I had often questioned her before, and invariably
forgot her answers as they fell from her lips; but every word of this
conversation was graven on my memory, and if I have not repeated her
exact language, the spirit and detail of her information is preserved.
“There was one subject that my housekeeper had not mentioned—my child.
At first my intellect was too feeble for continued thought, and I did
not notice this strange omission. Besides, some painful intuition kept
me silent; the very thought of my own child was painful.
“At last I questioned her.
“‘Where,’ I said, ‘is my daughter? Surely, in my illness he has not kept
her from me?’
“The old woman became deadly pale; she turned away, repulsing the
subject with a gesture of her withered hands, which terrified me.
“‘My child!’ I said; ‘why are you silent? What have you done with her?’
“Still the old woman was speechless; but I could see tears stealing down
her face.
“‘Bring her hither,’ I said, sick with apprehension; ‘I wish to see how
much my daughter has grown.’
“The old woman flung herself at my feet. Her hands gathered up mine and
held them fast.
“‘Do not ask—do not seek to remember. Oh! my lady, forget that you ever
had a child!’
“‘Forget—and why? Who has dared to harm the child of my bosom, the
heiress of my house?’
“She hid her face in my lap; she clung to my knees, moaning piteously.
“A vague remembrance seized upon me—that pale form shrouded in its
golden hair—my heart was like ice. I bent down and whispered in the old
woman’s ear:
“‘Who was it harmed my child?’
“She lifted her head with a wild outbreak of sorrow—my question almost
drove her mad.
“‘Oh! lady, my master _would_ let her come to your room—we were not to
blame; you had always been so sweet-tempered and loving with her that we
had no fear.’
“She stopped short, frightened by my looks. I whispered hoarsely:
“‘My child! my child!’
“That horrible pause was broken at last. She lifted her hands to heaven,
the tears streamed down her face like rain.
“‘Do not ask—oh! my lady, I beseech you, do not ask.’
“‘My child—my child’
“I could feel the whispers lose themselves in my throat; but she
understood them, and her own voice sunk so low that, had not my soul
listened, the terrible truth could not have reached it.
“‘With your own hands you destroyed her—with your own hands you dashed
her from the window!’
“Slowly from heart to limb the blood froze in my veins; for two days I
lay in rigid silence, praying only for death. No, not even insanity
would return. As yet I had only spent the holiday of my error. God would
permit my brain to slumber no longer.
“I had but one wish—to escape that house, to flee from everything and
everybody that had ever known me. It was no mad desire—no remnant of
insanity. I reasoned coldly and well. Why not? utter hopelessness is
wise.
“I dreaded but one thing on earth—the return of my husband. We never
could be united again. He would not find the helpless being he had left,
but a proud woman, whose heart if not her life had wronged him. He would
not find the mother of his child, but its innocent, wretched murderer. I
felt how bitter must be the news of my returning reason to the man who
had forgiven the errors of my real character, because they had been so
painfully lost in a visionary one, which disarmed resentment only from
its very helplessness. I understood all Varnham’s generosity, all his
extraordinary benevolence; but I knew also that he was a proud man, with
an organization so exquisitely refined that the sins of an alienated
affection would affect him more deeply than actual crime, with ordinary
men. I felt that it was impossible for me ever to see him again.
“My plan for the future was soon formed. I resolved to leave England
forever. My heart sickened when I thought of mingling in society, of
meeting with people who might talk to me of things which would rend my
heart continually with recollections of the past. The love which had
been the great error of my life still held possession of my heart with a
strength which would not be conquered. Could I go forth, then, into the
world? Could I live in my own house, where everything was associated
with recollections of that love—where every bush and flower would
breathe a reproach to the heart which still worshipped on, when worship
was double guilt and double shame? Could I look upon the spot where my
child had perished, and live? No, I resolved to leave all, to break
every tie which bound me to civilized man, and to fling myself into a
new state of existence. I thought, and still think, that it was the only
way by which I could secure any portion of tranquillity to my husband.
It would be terrible for him to believe that I had died by my own hands,
but much more terrible if he returned and, in place of the mindless
being who had become so utterly helpless, so completely the object of
his compassion, found the woman who had wronged him fully conscious of
her fault, yet without the humility and penitence which should have
followed his generous forgiveness. There was too much of the pride of my
old nature left. I could not have lived in the same house with the man I
had so injured.
“The Granby property was unentailed, with the exception of one small
estate which went with the title. Immediately on coming into possession
of the estates I had made a will, bequeathing the whole vast property to
my child, and making my husband her trustee; but, in case of her death,
all was to revert to him. He knew nothing of this; but the will was
consigned to the hands of honorable men, and I was certain that it would
be legally acted upon. In raising the sum which I devoted to Murray my
agent had sold stocks to more than quadruple the amount. This amount had
been paid to me, but in the excitement of my feelings I had neglected to
place it with my banker and had left it in an escritoire at our town
house, where was also deposited the most valuable portion of my jewels.
I had no arrangements to make which could in any way reveal the course I
had determined to pursue.
“There was one subject which I had not yet ventured to mention. My cheek
burned and my heart beat quick when I at last brought myself to inquire
about Murray. He was living a secluded life at a small cottage near
Richmond. It was all I cared to learn.
“The second night after the conversation with my housekeeper I stole
softly to the room of a sleeping housemaid and dressed myself in a suit
of cast-off clothing which was not likely to be missed; then, with a few
guineas which I found in my desk I went cautiously out, and left my
house forever.
“Along the edge of the park ran a stream of small magnitude, but
remarkable for its depth. On the brink of this stream I left a portion
of the garments I had worn; then departed on foot for the nearest
post-town, where I procured a passage to London. I found my house
closed, but entered it with a private key and took from my escritoire
the money and jewels which had been left there more than a year before.
“The third evening after leaving Ashton I stood in front of a beautiful
cottage, separated from the thickly settled portions of Richmond by
pleasure grounds, rather more spacious than is usual in that
neighborhood, and still farther secluded by groups of ornamental trees.
A light broke softly through the wreathing foliage which draped the
windows of a lower room and I could distinguish the shadow of a man
walking to and fro within.
“I knew that it was Murray, and that I should see him once more that
night, yet my heart beat slow and regularly, without a throb to warn me
of the deep feeling which still lived there in undying strength. I had
no hope, and entire hopelessness is rest. I inquired for the
housekeeper, and told her that I had been informed she wished to hire a
housemaid; that I was without a place, and had come all the way from the
city to secure one with her. I knew that she could not find it in her
heart to send me back to London late at night and alone, and, as I
anticipated, was invited to stay till morning.
“When the kind housekeeper was asleep I stole from her chamber and
sought the apartment where I had seen the light. It was a small room,
partly fitted up as a study, and partly as a parlor. Books and musical
instruments lay scattered about; a few cabinet pictures hung upon the
walls, and a portrait of Murray looked down upon me from over the
mantelpiece as I entered. A lamp was still burning, and an open work-box
seemed to have been pushed from its station on the table, directly
beneath it, to make room for a small book of closely filled manuscript
which lay open, as if it had just been written in. A pen lay by, and the
ink was yet damp on the unfinished page. Even across the room I knew the
handwriting; the impulse to read which seized upon me was unconquerable.
I held my breath, for the stillness around was like a hush of a tomb,
and the characters seemed to start up like living witnesses beneath my
eyes as I bent over the book. Thus the page ran:
“‘They tell me she is mad—that her fine mind is broken, and her warm
heart unstrung forever. They say this, and comment and speculate upon
causes in my presence, as if I could not feel. I sit with apparent
calmness, and listen to things which would break a common heart.
“‘The soft smile of my wife is ever upon me, the cheek of my boy dimples
beneath my glance if I but raise my eyes to his innocent face, and yet
there are times when I _cannot_ look upon them. The image of that noble
and ruined being is forever starting up between me and them. I did not
intend this when I took upon myself the right to regulate the destiny of
a fellow-being—madness—no, no, I never thought of that! I did not dream
that my own nature—but why should I write this? Yet I cannot keep these
feelings forever pent up in my heart.
“‘It was terrible news! Why did that officious physician come here to
tell me there was no hope, and this day above all others in the year?
Was it any reason that he should wound me with this news, because I was
known to be a friend of the family—a friend truly? How coldly the man
told me that she could never recover her reason! It was like the slow
stab of a poignard; my heart quivered under it. Just then my wife must
come with her innocent and loving voice to give me the good-night kiss
before she left me. Poor thing! she little dreamed of the melancholy
tidings which caused me to return her caress so coldly. I will try and
seek rest, but not with them; sometimes I wish that I might never see
them again. I must be alone to-night!’
“It was but the fulfillment of my own prophecy. I knew that he could not
be happy; that he never would be again; never even tranquil till he
believed me in my grave. My resolution was more firmly established, I
would not live a continual cause of torment to him. I had no desire that
he, too, should be miserable; in my most wretched moments the feeling
had never entered my heart.
“The rustle of silk caused me to start from my position as I was bending
over the book. It was only the night wind sweeping through an open
casement that sent the curtain, which had dropped over it, streaming out
like a banner into the room. I stood upright, silent and breathless;
for, on a low couch, which the window drapery had half-concealed till
now, lay Grenville Murray. The lamp shone full upon his face, and even
from the distance I could see the change which a year of mental
agitation had made in it.
“I went softly to the couch, knelt down, and gazed upon him with a
hushed and calm feeling, like that which a mother might know while
bending over the couch of a beloved, but wayward, child. Twice the clock
chimed the hour, and still I knelt by that couch and gazed on that pale,
sleeping face, with a cold, hopeless sorrow which had no voice for
lamentation.
“A third time the clock beat. I bent forward and pressed my lips to his
forehead for the first time in my life. Oh! how my heart swelled to my
lips with that one soft kiss. It seemed breaking with solemn
tenderness—such tenderness as we give to the dead before the beloved
clay is taken from us forever. My lips were cold and tremulous, but he
did not awake beneath the pressure, and I did not repeat it, nor look on
him again. I knew we were parting forever, but had no power to look
back.
“I passed from the house slowly, and with a solemn feeling of
desolation, as one might tread through a graveyard alone, and at
midnight.
“In the disguise which had served me so well I sailed for America. I had
no wish to mingle with my race, but took my way from New York to the
valley of the Mohawk and sought the presence of Sir William Johnson. To
him I revealed myself and as much of my history as was necessary to
ensure his co-operation in my plan for the future. Under a solemn
promise of secrecy, which has never been broken, I entrusted my wealth
to his agency and procured his promise of an escort to the tribe of
Indians then located in his neighborhood. Among these savages I hoped to
find perfect isolation from my race; to begin a new life and cast the
old one away forever; this was more like rising from the grave into
another life than anything human existence had to offer. I remained some
months in the Mohawk Valley, waiting for news from England. I was
anxious to hear that my efforts at concealment had been effectual and
that my friends really believed me dead. News came at last that shook my
soul to its centre once more. Varnham, my husband, was dead. He would
not believe in my destruction, and after strict search traced me to
London, and on shipboard, spite of my disguise.
“He put my property in trust, and taking the next ship that sailed
followed me to America, with what purpose I never knew. The ship was
lost, and every soul on board perished.”