GENERAL RAMSAY’S LETTER.
Three days must now certainly pass before I could receive news of my
husband, sister, and children. I call the time three days, but I might
have to wait very much longer than that, for how could I tell that
General Ramsay still lived at Bath? And, supposing him to be living
there, could I be sure that he would promptly answer Mrs. Lee’s letter?
So that, if we did not hear from him presently, Mrs. Lee must apply to
some others of the friends I had named to her. This I was resolved not
to consent to. Expectation, uncertainty, the passionate yearning of the
mother and wife worked in my mind in a torment that delay would render
insupportable, and I made up my mind that if General Ramsay did not
answer Mrs. Lee’s letter within four days of the time of her writing to
him I would deafen my ears to every possible objection that Mrs. Lee
might make, and go myself to Bath.
I was too agitated, too expectant to leave the house. I wandered
from room to room. I could not sit for five minutes at a time. The
marvellous recovery of my memory, all in a moment as it might seem, did
undoubtedly make me light headed during that first day, and Mrs. Lee
would often eye me anxiously. I could think of nothing but my husband
and children and my sister. Were they well? Suppose one of my precious
ones had died during the long three years I had been missing! Suppose
my husband were dead! Suppose they had broken up their home at Bath and
had gone away, as Mrs. Lee had suggested, and there should be no one to
tell me where they had gone, so that it might end in my knowing myself
to be a wife and mother and not knowing where to find my husband and
children!
These and the like of these were maddening fancies, and they kept me
restlessly moving here and there, as though I had lost my reason and
Mrs. Lee’s house were a cell.
A certain physician, a person who was highly esteemed by the people of
Newcastle for his skill, called on the afternoon of this first day on
his way back to Newcastle after visiting a patient, to inquire after
Mrs. Lee’s health, her husband and this physician having been boys
together. He knew all about my case, and had frequently visited me
in a friendly way, but with a professional motive, owning himself at
last powerless to do me any good. I did not know that he had called
and that he was talking in the parlour to Mrs. Lee when I entered that
room, and I was hastily withdrawing when, calling to me, he took me
by the hand and in a few words, pronounced with the utmost cordiality,
congratulated me on the return of my memory. Mrs. Lee begged me to sit
and I did so, and then some discourse followed on the subject of my
memory. But the physician’s language was much too technical and learned
for me to recollect, even if I chose to repeat it. I remember, however,
he told us that these abrupt recoveries were more frequent than slow
returns. He cited instances of three persons whose memory, having
utterly failed them, had returned on a sudden. The only difference
between them and me was that I had been able to recollect from the
period of my recovery on board the French vessel, whereas _they_ had
been unable to recall events which had happened an hour before. The
physician talked much of brain cells and of the nervous system, and was
so deeply interested in my case and in his own views and arguments
that he kept his carriage at our door for above an hour. I was glad
when he went, for his observations upon brain cells and the nervous
system made me feel faint, and the condition of my mind rendered
listening and sitting for any length of time insupportable.
I pass by the remainder of that day, I pass by the sleepless night
that followed, and I pass by the next two days and their long wakeful
nights. On the morning of the fourth day I arose early and stationed
myself at the window, and for an hour and a half I stood with my eyes
fixed upon the garden-gate, waiting for the arrival of the postman. At
last I caught sight of him as he put his hand through the bars to lift
the latch, and I flew to the hall door and received a letter addressed
to Mrs. Lee, heavily sealed, and with the postmark of Bath upon it.
Mrs. Lee had not yet left her bedroom. The beating of my heart almost
deprived me of the power of speech. I knocked, and on her asking who
was that, I was unable to make my voice heard, whereupon she opened
the door. She took the letter from me, told me to come in and shut the
door, and going to the window broke the seal and withdrew the letter
from its envelope. Her back was upon me--purposely upon me, I was sure.
She read the letter, and I could have shrieked aloud with impatience
and vexation. She read the letter--I believed she would never cease to
read it; then the hand which grasped it fell slowly to her side, and
she turned to look at me with a face full of the deepest pity and grief.
I saw the look and, clasping my hands, cried, ‘Oh, tell me!’ There was
a hesitation which was a sort of horror in her manner. She did not seem
to know what to do, nor would she speak. I could bear the suspense no
longer, and, rushing to her side, I snatched the letter from her hand.
It ran thus:--
‘Raby Place, Bath, October --, 18--.
‘DEAR MADAM,
‘I am in receipt of your letter, the contents of which I read with
interest. It may be known to you that Mrs. John Campbell with her
family, composed of her husband, sister, and two children, took a
house about three years ago at the seaside. Mrs. Campbell, during
her husband’s absence on business at this city, went on a boating
excursion, her sole companion being the boatman. She did not
return. The weather grew boisterous, and although one or two boats
were sent out in search they returned after a few hours, the men
professing themselves unable to keep the sea. Ten days after Mrs.
Campbell had been missing, the body of a man was brought ashore and
recognised as that of the sailor who had accompanied Mrs. Campbell.
A little later the boat was fallen in with; she was drifting about
upside down. She was towed to the harbour to which she belonged.
‘These particulars I give you from memory. Mr. John Campbell
caused many inquiries to be made, but no news of his wife was ever
received. She was undoubtedly drowned. I have been absent from Bath
for some time, and since my return have been confined to my house
with the gout. I am able to state, however, that Mr. John Campbell,
his wife, and two children are in good health. About four months
ago he shut up his house and the family went to London. I believe
Mr. Campbell left Bath for no other purpose than to marry his
sister-in-law. The marriage was advertised in a Bath paper, but I
am unable to refer you to it. He returned with her as his wife, and
I hear from my daughter that they are living at their old address.
This, madam, is all that it is in my power to communicate.
‘Faithfully yours,
‘W. STIRLING RAMSAY,
‘_Major-General_.’
I read this letter through, and as I approached the end of it I felt my
heart turning into stone. There was something petrific in the horror,
the consternation, the despair which rushed into me out of that letter.
The hand with which I grasped it sank to my side even as Mrs. Lee’s
had, and I looked at my friend though I knew not that I saw her. I
felt as though some one had circled my breast with a rope which was
being tightened and yet tightened into one of agony of constriction. My
throat swelled, my breath came and went through it in a dull moaning,
my head seemed formed of fire, my hands and feet of ice. I may guess
now by the expression Mrs. Lee’s countenance reflected as she suddenly
hurried to me, believing that I was about to fall, perhaps expire, that
there was something shocking in my looks.
I raised the letter again, dashed it from me, flung myself upon Mrs.
Lee’s bed with a long cry, and lay moaning and moaning in the hands
with which I had covered my face. Then I started up.
‘I must have my children!’ I shrieked. ‘They are mine! They cannot
keep them from me! They are my own flesh and blood! They are mine!’ I
shrieked again.
‘You shall have them, my love!’ exclaimed Mrs. Lee in a broken,
tremulous voice. ‘They are yours--they cannot keep them from you. They
shall come here and live with us, and they shall have my love as well
as yours.’
‘Married!’ I muttered. ‘Married! Married!’ I muttered, mumbling my
words huskily--so dry were my lips, so tight was my throat--and looking
at the letter which lay upon the floor. ‘My husband married to Mary!
Oh, my God,’ I cried, flinging back my head and beating my brow with my
fist, ‘what is this new thing that has come to me?’
Mrs. Lee stood silent. What could she say? There were no words of
comfort to utter at such a moment. Misery must be suffered to have its
way with me, and she could do nothing but stand and gaze and wait.
What I have set down I very well remember saying, but afterwards a
sort of delirium fastened upon me, and I recollect but fragments of
my dazed, broken-hearted speech. I remember lifting up my hands and
calling upon God to slay me as I there stood. I remember cursing the
moment that gave me back my memory since it was to yield me _this_. I
remember exclaiming with passionate abhorrence against my husband’s
infidelity to my memory, against my sister Mary’s--my twin sister
Mary’s--cold, cruel, treacherous, disloyal appropriation of my place
in my husband’s heart. I wandered about the room with the steps of
madness, loud with lamentation, loud with abuse of my husband and
sister, vengefully, with infuriate gestures, crying that I must have
my children! They were mine! I must have my children. They were my own
flesh and blood! They dared not keep them from me! pausing sometimes to
say ‘they have driven me mad!’ and then raving afresh, but always with
dry eyes, whilst poor Mrs. Lee stood apart, gazing at me with silent
distress and dismay.
Then in one of my transports I stood and picked up the letter and read
it again, breathing fast, as though I had been racing, and when I
had come to the end of it for the second time the horrible tightness
in my throat was relaxed, as though a cord which had been choking me
had suddenly broken, and, once again flinging myself upon the bed, I
wept--crying as never had I cried before, often as my griefs had vented
themselves in passions of weeping!
Human sorrow may be compared to a river that, when it first springs,
flows over a shallow bed with froth and noise, but presently the
channel deepens, and then the river flows silently. As my grief flowed,
it deepened; it grew hushed. I arose from Mrs. Lee’s bed, and sat upon
the edge of it with my eyes fixed upon the floor. The dear little woman
finished dressing in silence. She then took me by the hand, and we
went downstairs into the parlour where breakfast awaited us.
‘Now, Agnes,’ she exclaimed, ‘before we decide upon what steps you are
to take we must first make sure that General Ramsay’s information is
correct.’
‘Oh, I feel within my heart it is correct,’ said I; ‘Mary is a
beautiful girl; my husband always admired her. Oh, yes, they are
married,’ and I wept silently.
‘I should wish to be quite satisfied as to that,’ said Mrs. Lee. ‘I
wish General Ramsay had given us the date of their marriage. However,
after breakfast I will write to the offices of the Bath newspapers--you
will be able to give me their names--and offer a reasonable price for a
copy of any paper which may contain an announcement of the marriage.’
‘I must have my children!’ I cried.
‘Yes, yes, all shall happen as you wish. But God has been good to you.
Continue to have faith in His goodness. Do not act hastily, do not let
your feelings govern you; for, unless we reflect, we are certain to act
rashly. Something we might do which would make you feel broken-hearted
for life for having done. Remember this: _you are still your husband’s
wife_. It is your sister who must be the sufferer--not you. She is
your twin sister. Be sure that your love for her is deep, though for
the moment the startling, dreadful news which we have received renders
you insensible of that love. And you must be just, Agnes. It is hard
for one who feels as you now do to be just, and still the truth must
be as a star that nothing is to cloud, that you may be able to direct
your steps unerringly by it. It is three years since your sister and
husband have heard of you. They believe you dead. Who would not believe
you dead on such evidence as General Ramsay’s letter contains? The
body of the boatman who was known to be your sole companion is found,
is brought to land, and identified. The boat in which you set sail is
discovered drifting about upside down. Surely your husband had all
imaginable right to consider himself a widower. He has waited two
years and seven or eight months. Do not imagine that I justify his
second marriage. It is not a right marriage. Indeed, it is not lawful.
A man may not marry his deceased wife’s sister. But these unions are
repeatedly happening for all that, and I for one do not oppose them
for the reasons which are advanced against them, but merely because I
object to second marriages altogether. But remember that you have two
little ones. They need a mother’s care. Your husband has a business
that takes him away from his home, and, failing your sister, the
little ones must be at the mercy of a nurse throughout the day and
night. Your sister took your place. She loved your children, as you
have told me, with a love which was scarcely less than your own, and
if this world had been any other world than it is, your sister, I have
no doubt, would have gone on filling your place as a mother, without
a thought ever occurring to her or to your husband of her taking your
place as a wife. Whilst you were at home it was perfectly reasonable
and correct that she should live with you. But when you were gone--that
is to say, when it was believed that you were dead--it would not be
considered proper by a society that drives people into a behaviour it
condemns, that your sister should continue living as a single woman
under the same roof with your husband, whom all Bath regarded as a
widower; and yet, if she did not live under his roof, she could not
look after your children! Oh, have mercy, my dear. Be just to those
who loved you, whom you still love, hard as it may seem to you to
render justice at such a time. And, above all, remember you are still
the wife!--it is your sister, your dear twin sister, who must prove the
sufferer.’
She looked upwards with tears in her eyes; her own daughters were in
her thoughts at that moment.
To this, and to much more--for we sat talking until the morning was far
advanced--I listened with tearful attention; but my passions were so
hot, my emotions so violent, that whilst my dear friend talked I was
not sensible of being influenced by her views. Knowing that my husband
was again married, I could not bring myself to feel that I was still
his wife. I had been replaced; he had given his love to my sister; for
all I knew I might be as dead to his remembrance and love as I was dead
in his belief.
Oh, it was an exquisite pang of mortification to feel that there had
been needed but a very little while--for what were three short years in
the life of married love? nor was it even three short years, for, if
General Ramsay spoke truly, my husband had been already married three
or four months--I say it was exquisitely mortifying to my pride and to
my love for my husband, to think how speedily and easily the memory
of me had been turned out of his heart, leaving room for another to
replace me, and that other my sister, whom I had loved so tenderly,
that I would have laid down my life for her, even as I was sure she
would have died for me.
But after a while, and when I was alone, other and higher and nobler
thoughts prevailed. The words of Mrs. Lee began to weigh with me. I
fell very silent, and for the rest of the day sat or moved here and
there engrossed in thought. Mrs. Lee contrived to leave me alone. She
could perceive in my face the conflict that was happening in my mind,
and, having given me her opinion and her counsel, she acted wisely in
letting me solve, as best I could, with the help of God, the awful and
tremendous problem which my returning memory had brought with it.
When the night came I was still undecided. Mrs. Lee had written to
the Bath papers during the afternoon, and nothing more had been done.
Indeed, we had seen so little of each other throughout the day that,
after our long discourse of the morning was ended, but a very little
more had been said on the subject. She had counselled me; she had been
perfectly conscious of the deep, and often the distracting, struggle in
my mind, and now, I saw, she was resolved that, let the issue be what
it might, it should be of my own contriving.
I bade her good-night at ten o’clock, our usual time of separating, and
entering my bedroom, closed the door, and putting Alice Lee’s cross
upon a chair, knelt before it and prayed for aid and enlightenment,
for support and for strength; and I prayed that I might be taught to
know what was best to be done. I arose with refreshed heart and calmed
feelings, and, replacing the cross, I paced about the room, not with
agitation, but because I was sleepless, and because the mere mechanical
effort of walking seemed to help me to think.
But I had made up my mind. I had said to myself: my husband and my
sister believe me dead, and I must remain dead to them, for if I
return to my home and proclaim that I am alive, what is to become of
my sister, who is now a wife, but who will not then be a wife? What is
to become of her? A dreadful sacrifice is involved, and I must be the
victim. Were Alice Lee to descend from heaven and speak to me, what
would be her bidding? That my sister must remain a wife, yea, though my
heart broke in securing her in that title.
I love my husband; I love my sister. The great sacrifice, I said to
myself, that I feel is demanded of me will prove my love. But my
children! I cannot possess them without discovering myself. I must
surrender them to my sister, who I know loves them with the love
of their mother ... but here I stopped dead in my pacing the room
and wept, but without agitation, without passion, for my prayer was
brooding dove-like over my spirit, and though I wept I was calm.
I could say no more to you, no, not if I were to write down every
thought that had visited me throughout the day and in the silent
watches of the night. They supposed me dead, they had wept for me--oh,
well did my heart know how they had mourned for me! and a mother being
wanted for my little ones, who, of all the countless women in this
land, could so fitly take my place as my sister?
But my children.... But my children? and I pressed my hand to my
heart....
In the morning when Mrs. Lee entered the parlour she found me standing
at the window. She kissed me and then looked me in the face. She would
know by my eyes that I had slept but little, she would also see that I
had wept much, and she would gather from my face that I had formed a
resolution. She listened in silence while I unfolded that resolution to
her.
‘You must not dream of banishing yourself from your home for ever,’
said she.
‘I must not dream of banishing my sister from the home which my
supposed death has made her mistress of,’ said I. ‘She could not now
live in the same house with me. She is friendless in the world, as I
should be were you not my friend. If I claim my own, what is to become
of _her_?’
‘But your children!’ exclaimed Mrs. Lee.
‘Oh, my children!’ I cried.
‘Your estrangement from them, your estrangement from your husband is
not to be thought of,’ said Mrs. Lee; ‘it is a terrible calamity to
befall your sister, but your children’s claims upon you are greater
than your sister’s.’
I shook my head.
‘And your husband has claims too,’ continued she. ‘He believes you
dead. If he knew you to be alive, would not his love eagerly claim you
and possess you, in spite of what has come between your hearts through
the silence of three years?’
I stared through the window, making no answer.
‘It is quite certain,’ said Mrs. Lee, ‘that you cannot be separated
from your children. You have a home, and it is your duty to occupy it.
Now what passed in my mind last night is this: you are very dear to me,
Agnes, but I must not keep you away from your husband and children.
Yet when you go I shall be companionless and I know I shall find it
very hard indeed to replace you. But your sister is certain to be like
you. You are twins, and from what you have told me of her I am sure you
differ but little in character. Let her take your place here. She will
be dear to me for your sake, and if she has even but a little of the
sweetness you have told me of we shall be happy together.’
‘Dear Mrs. Lee, my sister is now a wife. I must leave her so. I am the
stronger by my rights, and the stronger by my love, and the sacrifice
must be mine.’
‘You think nobly and God will bless you,’ said she; ‘but your sister is
not your children, and it is of your children that I am thinking.’
I made a motion of entreaty with my hand.
‘Could your sister live independently of--of--your husband?’
‘She has means of her own. She has the same amount that I possess, or
rather that I possessed.’
‘She can do what she likes with it?’
‘Yes, unless she has given it to John.’
‘As you did your portion?----Well, if your sister leaves your husband
he must return the money he has taken from her that she may be
independent to that extent. And she will take your place and live with
me.’
But I was not to be moved. I had made up my mind. The resolution I
had formed was the offspring of bitter tears and long hours of inward
torment. My sister, my sweet sister, must be first. Since the certain
result of the assertion of my existence must be to expel her from
her home, leaving her friendless, an orphan, and lonely to face the
world, then I must remain dumb and hidden, as much so as if I were at
the bottom of the sea. And there was another consideration, something
that _might_ render the news of my being alive a dreadful and horrible
affliction to her. She had been married four months.
Mrs. Lee saw that I was not to be moved.
‘I could sympathise with your resolution,’ said she, ‘if it were not
for your children. Can we not get possession of them? You would then be
happy, or at least happier than you are. But how is it to be done? They
cannot be stolen,’ she cried, stepping about the room. ‘They can only
be demanded in your name;’ then observing my distress and agitation,
she added, ‘Well, we will wait a little. Something may happen to give
a new turn to this strange, lamentable business. And you will not mind
my having a good long talk with Mr. ----?’ and she named the clergyman
of the church we attended. ‘He is a man of resources. Even my husband,
who was a thoroughly business man, often found Mr. ----’s advice very
useful. You may be able to exist without your husband, but with such a
mother’s heart as you possess you will not be able to go on living long
without your children.’
One point I overlooked at this time, nor indeed did it occur to me
until events had robbed it of the weight it must otherwise have had: I
mean that by determining not to make my existence known to my husband
and sister I should be continuing in a state of absolute dependence
upon Mrs. Lee. This I could not have felt whilst my memory was wanting;
but now it was known to Mrs. Lee that I was a wife and that my husband
was in a good position and capable of supporting me. As you will
perhaps remember, when my father died he left five thousand pounds to
my mother; this on her death was divided equally between Mary and me.
Mary invested her money and kept control of it; I gave my portion to my
husband, who invested it in his business or in some other way. There
was capital enough here to have yielded me about one hundred pounds
per annum, and this was the income, I believe, that Mary obtained from
her share; whilst I chose to remain as one that was dead, my little
fortune, of course, could be of no use to me, but as I have just said,
the matter did not pressingly occur to me at this time.
It was on the day following that conversation with Mrs. Lee which
I have just related that the dear little woman called upon her old
friend the Rev. ---- and was closeted with him for two hours. When
she returned she gave me the substance of what had passed between
them, and added that Mr. ---- was going to Edinburgh, whither he had
been suddenly summoned, but that on his return he would visit me and
earnestly enter with me into my trouble and advise me.
I asked Mrs. Lee what he had said, and she owned that though he had
talked much he had left no very definite impressions upon her mind.
‘Unhappily,’ said she, ‘there is no middle way in this sad business.
You want your children: you must have them: but in order to obtain them
your husband must be informed that you are alive. That is what you do
not want. I tell you frankly, Agnes, Mr. ----’s opinion is, that for
the sake of your children and for your own, and for your husband’s
sake, it is your bounden duty to make your existence known.’
‘And my sister?’ cried I; ‘he does not name my sister.’
‘Yes, to deeply pity her, for she is the true sufferer. Your trouble
is voluntary, and you can end it when you choose. However, let us
wait until Mr. ---- returns. By that time a change may come over your
mind, or Mr. ---- may be able to offer some suggestion of the utmost
usefulness to us. And pray, my dear, also remember that in the eyes
of my friend your sister is not a wife: nothing could make her your
husband’s wife short of an Act of Parliament, and even if she could
be legally married to him as his deceased wife’s sister, she still
cannot be his wife whilst you are living. This was one of Mr. ----’s
arguments, and he insisted that it was your duty to rescue your sister
from the false and really odious position in which her ignorance of
your being alive has placed her.’
But I was now firm. Every hour of thought had served to harden my
resolution. I did not choose to consider that my sister was in a false
position because I was alive, but I did choose to consider that she
would be in a false position if I announced my existence; and my fixed
determination, therefore, was to remain dead to her and her husband,
leaving it to the Almighty God who had watched over me in many terrible
perils and distresses, and who had raised up a friend for me when I was
absolutely friendless and blind in soul upon the great ocean, to find a
way of His own to bring me and my little ones together.
It was on the morning of the sixth day, dating from the receipt of
General Ramsay’s letter, that Mrs. Lee opened a newspaper which had
been addressed to her from Bath, and read aloud the announcement of my
husband’s marriage to my sister. The statement was brief; merely that
the marriage had taken place in London.
I had passed a long miserable night of bitter thought, with a desire
in me that had grown more and more impassioned as I lay dwelling upon
it; and yet I know not that I would have given expression to it or
have resolved upon gratifying it but for Mrs. Lee reading aloud this
announcement of my husband’s marriage. But when she had read it, and
sat gazing at me through her glasses in silence, I sprang up and cried:
‘I must see my children. I have struggled hard with the yearning, but
it will have its way.’
Something like a smile of satisfaction lighted up her face as she
answered:
‘I was sure you would come round to my views. There are, I know,
mothers, miserable creatures that they are! who could live without
seeing their children; but you are not of them, Agnes, you are not of
them.’
‘Do not misunderstand me,’ I exclaimed; ‘I wish to see my
children--merely to see them, but the darlings shall not know I have
beheld them--and John and my sister shall not know that I am alive.’
‘But you will have to call at the house to see them,’ said Mrs. Lee.
‘I will visit Bath and return to you,’ said I, caressing her hand.
‘Bear with me, dearest friend. Let me have my way.’
‘You shall have your way,’ she exclaimed. ‘I shall do nothing and say
nothing to hinder you. When do you wish to go?’
‘To-day.’
‘I will find out how much money you need. How long do you mean to stop?’
‘Until I have caught sight of my children,’ I answered. ‘One look at
them--to see if they are well--to see how much they have grown----’
‘Well,’ said she, ‘let us hope, my dear, for your sake that the
children are in Bath. You may have to wait some days before you obtain
a glimpse of them, and if you are constantly about the house will not
you be noticed, and excite suspicion? But I wish to say nothing to
hinder you. If it will comfort you to get a sight of your children,
then, my dear, go; and should you be kept waiting, write to me and I
will remit as much money as you may think needful. But suppose your
memory should fail you?’
‘I will take care of that,’ said I, ‘by putting down my name and your
name and address and other matters on a card. I can never be at a loss
if I have such a card to refer to.’
‘Take two cards,’ said Mrs. Lee, ‘one for your pocket, and one
which I will stitch inside your jacket. It is not probable that your
memory will play you false, but it would be a terrible thing to find
yourself at a distance from me without being able to give your name and
address.’