AT BATH
The train I caught did not reach Bath till half-past eight in the
evening. It was a tedious, melancholy journey, so sad to me that I
never recall it without emotion. The moment I had kissed and said
good-bye to Mrs. Lee, and entered the train and started, I felt utterly
lonely and miserable, as though, indeed, I were friendless, without
memory, childless and widowed, and a blind wanderer. My luggage
consisted of a travelling bag. I was dressed in black and wore a thick
veil, but even without that veil I should not have feared recognition.
I had looked into the glass before I started, and _now_, being able
to remember my face as it was when my husband and sister last beheld
me at Piertown, I was very sure that both of them might stare me in
the eyes for an hour at a time, and find nothing in my white hair and
in my changed lineaments, and in the expression which grief and time
had stamped upon my countenance, and in my white eyebrows and the
appearance of the flesh of my face that wore no longer the bloom of my
happy days to give life to any sort of imagination which might visit
them from the tone of my voice or from some subtle quality in my looks.
As I have said, I arrived at Bath at half-past eight, wearied to the
heart by the long journey, and drove to an old-fashioned hotel not very
far from Milsom Street. I was too exhausted to walk, or even at that
hour, after I had refreshed myself with a cup of tea, I would have
crept forth and traversed the width of the city to view the home in
which my little ones were resting. I went to the window and gazed into
the street; there were brightly lighted shops opposite; the roadway
shone with the light of gas lamps; many people were afoot and private
carriages and vehicles of all sorts passed in plenty.
I stood gazing, and my eyes may well have worn the expression of one
who dreams. To think that for three years the old familiar city in
which I now was, my pretty home past the avenue of chestnuts, the dear
ones who dwelt within it, should have been as utterly extinguished from
my brain as though I had died! I thought of the day when I had started
from Piertown on an excursion, as I had imagined, of an hour or two; I
thought of the French vessel, of my awaking in her from a swoon, and
finding my face strapped, mutilated, unrecognisable, and I recalled
the dumb, importunate cry of my heart, _Who am I?_ I thought of all
that had happened afterwards, of the gipsy’s predictions which had been
so fearfully verified, that I wondered if her darker predictions were
still awaiting realisation; and then I pictured my home: the interior
of the house: I beheld my children sleeping in their beds, and my
husband and my sister sitting in the parlour, one reading to the other
or conversing.... I sighed deeply and turned away from the window.
I was in no hurry to rise next morning. It was the second day of
November and a cold morning, though the sun shone bright with a
frost-like whiteness in his brilliance, and I knew that my children
would not be taken for a walk until the morning had somewhat advanced.
I did not suppose that Johnny went to school. I knew that my husband
had always been of opinion that no child should be sent to school under
the age of ten; Johnny was but five.
I descended to the coffee room, keeping my face carefully covered by
a thick black veil: but when I found that I was the only occupant of
the room I lifted the veil to the height of my eyes, the better to
see through the wire blinds in the windows and to observe the people
passing. The waiter who attended at my solitary meal looked very hard
at me, but his gaze was one of curiosity merely. Well might it puzzle
the man to reconcile my youthful figure and youthful complexion, pale
as I was, with my hair and eyebrows, whose snowy whiteness was rendered
remarkable by my dark eyes.
I asked him how long he had lived in Bath, and he answered all his
life; and that he had never been further than Swindon. I asked him a
number of idle questions, and named one or two persons who lived in
Bath, and I then spoke of Mr. John Campbell, solicitor, and inquired if
he had left the city.
‘No,’ he answered, ‘Mr. Campbell is my governor’s legal adviser. He was
here yesterday; very like he’ll be here to-day. The governor’s got a
lawsuit on. Are you acquainted with the gentleman, mum?’
I asked him to tell me the time, and then saying it was uncertain at
what hour I should return, I dropped my veil and walked into the street.
It was about half-past ten o’clock. By this hour I knew that my husband
would have arrived at his office; or, if he was not yet at his office,
he would be on his way to business, and by going a little out of my
road when I was in New Bond Street I might have passed the windows of
his place of business; but I dreaded to see him. Veiled as I was I
felt that if we met and his gaze rested upon me, though I should be no
more known to him than the veriest stranger then in Bath, yet the mere
sight of him would break me down. I should cry out or swoon, suffer
from some convulsion of passion and feeling whose violence might result
in betraying me by attracting a crowd, by bringing him to my side to
inquire, by causing my pocket to be searched for my address; and,
therefore, when I passed the street in which his office stood, I shrank
within myself, and for ever as I walked I stared through my veil at
the passing faces, never knowing but that I might meet my husband, and
trembling and shuddering from head to foot at the mere contemplation of
the encounter.
But though I had had many acquaintances in Bath, I met no one that I
knew; no, not a single familiar face did I see. As I walked I could not
realise that three years had passed since I was last in these streets.
The extinction of my memory had fallen upon me as a deep sleep might
fall upon a person on a sudden, arresting her in her discourse or in
whatever she might be doing, and the sleep might last for many hours;
though when she awakens she proceeds in her speech or resumes what she
was about with no idea of having been interrupted beyond a minute or
two. Thus it was with me. I walked through the streets of Bath and I
could not persuade myself that I had not trodden the same pavements
yesterday. I passed down that wide, cold, windy thoroughfare called
Pulteney Street and reached Sydney Place, where I came to a pause with
my heart in my throat; for here are situated the public grounds called
Sydney Gardens, where many a time had I walked with my children and the
nurse, and as I looked at the trees, which were brown and burning with
their late autumn tints and fast growing leafless, and thought of how I
had romped with my little Johnny in the shade of them on summer days,
and how I had sat with my baby in my arms upon the cool seats along
the shadowed walks, and how happy I then was, I wept.
The house which I intended to watch until I saw my children stood not
far from the part at which I had arrived, and after I had walked a few
hundred yards I came to a bend of the road which brought me to the
foot of the hill. And now I walked very slowly, gazing in advance of
me with impassioned eagerness, and with so great a craziness for clear
vision that I could have torn the veil from my face. Very few people
were about, and they took no notice of me. At times a cart from some
neighbouring farm came spinning down the hill. It was a fine bright
morning, no longer cold, as it had been, now that the sun was asserting
his power, and I was sure that my children would be sent by Mary for a
walk with the nurse. I entered the avenue of chestnuts and crept along
up the hill very slowly until I had sight of the house, and then I
stopped with a dreadful aching under my left breast as though my heart
had broken.
I stood partly sheltered by the trees, staring at the house. It was
situated on the left-hand side of the road, and as I stood gazing on
this same side I thought to myself, supposing my husband having been
detained at home should _now_ come out. The thought affrighted me,
and I hastily crossed the road and in a manner hid myself among the
trees on that side. A gentleman and two ladies came from the direction
of Bathampton; they stared very hard and turned their heads to view
me after they had passed; their scrutiny vexed and agitated me, and
stepping out I walked up the hill, passing my home.
I dared not look too hard lest I should attract attention. The bedroom
windows were open, but I could not see anybody stirring within. I
looked at the window of the room that had been the day-nursery
and that, very well knowing the accommodation the house offered, I
might suppose was still occupied by my children by day; and whilst I
instinctively paused in my walk to gaze at that window the hall-door
was opened, and the nurse, the person I had taken to Piertown with me,
she who had been in my service for a short while when I was lost to my
husband and children--this nurse, I say, whose name was Eliza Barclay,
came out and advanced as far as the gate and looked up and down the
road as though waiting for somebody.
I walked on with my eyes straight in front, but my heart beat so
violently that I felt myself sway from side to side, and coming to a
bench that was at the top of the hill and at some distance from the
house, I sank upon it, breathing with great distress.
Here on this eminence I commanded a view of our garden and of the
river flowing through the valley, of the hills opposite with their
clustered houses and spaces of garden-land and groups of trees, whose
summits in parts feathered a line of roofs. Dogs were barking down by
the river side; notes of life came floating from the fair city of Bath
upon the November wind; the violet shadows of clouds sailed stately
over the green slopes. I went to the hedge that divided the adjoining
meadows from the side path and looked over, thinking I might catch a
sight of my children in the garden. A man was at work there. I raised
my veil to observe if he was the gardener whom we had employed when
I was at home, but I could not distinguish his features, and if I
approached the house the angle of the building must shut him out.
The time passed. Twelve o’clock was struck by the clock of a church
down in the valley, then one, and then two. Some tradesmen’s
assistants had called at the house during this time, and a housemaid
had come to the side-gate and stared with a servant’s idle curiosity
up and down the road. Nothing more had happened. But I must see my
children if I lingered all day; I must see my children, though to
obtain but one glimpse of them I should be obliged to remain in Bath
a month. Do you wonder if I wished to see my husband and my sister?
Oh, do not ask me! If ever I thought of them the desire to behold them
rapidly merged into a passionate yearning to see my children, and I
could think of nothing else but my two little ones.
The time passed. And now the next hour the Batheaston clock struck
would be half-past three. All this while I had been wandering furtively
about the chestnut avenue, and up and down the hill, never losing sight
of the house, but taking care after the first hour of this grievous day
of sad expectant watching to remain unseen by anyone who might come to
its gate or look from its windows. There were times when I would walk
on as far as Bathwick Street and there loiter, for if my children came
down the hill I might be sure they would pass by the end of that street
and I should see them.
The road in which the chestnut avenue stood is but little frequented.
Carts and private carriages drive along it, but few people use it
merely for walking. It is traversed by those who live at Batheaston and
Bathford and beyond, and such persons when they pass, whether coming
into or going from Bath, are long in returning. There are also very
few houses; the few there are for the most part stand back. All these
points I had reckoned upon, knowing the neighbourhood thoroughly; and
I state them that you may understand how it was that so conspicuous a
figure as I made in my black dress and thick black veil should have
haunted that road of the chestnut avenue for nearly a whole day without
apparently receiving any further attention than now and again a stare
from a passer-by.
I had eaten nothing since my breakfast, and that meal had been slender
enough; but I felt no hunger; though I had sat but little I was not
conscious of any feeling of exhaustion. The craving for a sight of my
children dominated all physical sensations.
It was drawing on to the hour of four; I was slowly making my way up
the hill in the direction of my house, and I was within a hundred yards
of it when a little boy ran through the gateway on to the path, and was
immediately followed by a lady.
The little boy was my child. I should instantly have known him had I
beheld him amongst a thousand children. His face was the same sweet
face that I had left behind me three long years before; grown, indeed,
but the eyes, the expression, were the same, the beautiful golden hair
but a little darker in hue. He was tall for his years, and looked a
noble, manly little fellow. He was dressed in the costume of a sailor,
and when he ran from out the gateway he sprang with graceful agility
across the side-walk into the road, pointing to a hedge that was
opposite, and looking back as he cried: ‘Mother, mother, I saw a wabbit
jump out of that ditch.’
The lady was my sister. She was dressed in black, but was without a
veil; her hat of black velvet with a black feather suited her beauty.
She looked younger, sweeter than I remembered her; her complexion
was of an exquisite delicacy faintly touched with bloom, and her
golden-brown hair sparkled in the sunlight under the black velvet of
her hat.
My boy came running towards me, leaving my sister at some distance;
then when he was close he stopped, child-like, to stare up at the
strange veiled figure. I looked down into his upward-gazing face: I
could have cried aloud out of the passion of the impulse that possessed
me to lift him, to clasp him to my heart, to devour him with kisses.
Then, all on a sudden, his own little figure, and the figure of my
sister who was now nearing us, swept round, and I fell, with a roaring
in my ears that was followed by blackness and insensibility.
* * * * *
I opened my eyes and slowly turned them about. It was strange that the
first idea which came to my awakening senses was that I was on board
the French vessel, that in a few moments Alphonse would appear, that
he would hold a mirror to me into which I would look and behold a
face which I had never before seen. I closed my eyes and heard myself
sighing deeply; then opening my eyes again I slightly raised my head
and surveyed the place in which I was lying.
It was a room, and as my eyes roamed over the various objects which
formed the furniture of that room, I found everything I beheld familiar
to my recollection, and still I could not tell myself where I was. I
rested upon a sofa; there was a lamp with a deep green shade upon it in
the centre of the dining-table: a small fire was burning in the grate,
and I perceived the figure of a woman seated in an arm-chair beside the
fire. She turned her head and directed her eyes at me; then, observing
that I had returned to consciousness, she arose and came across to the
sofa.
When she was close to me I saw that she was the nurse whom we had taken
with us to Piertown, and by this time having my senses fully, and every
sense being rendered keen by dread of detection, I raised my hand to
my head, meaning to pull down my veil, but found that my hat and veil,
as well as my jacket, had been removed. The nurse’s name, as I have
said, was Barclay; she looked at me earnestly, but without the least
expression of recognition in her face, and said:
‘I am glad you have got your senses, ma’am. You have been a long time
in a faint. I will go and tell Mrs. Campbell you are awake: she is
sitting with the doctor in the dining-room. The doctor asked me to let
him know when you came to.’ She was about to leave me.
‘I do not wish to see the doctor,’ I exclaimed feebly. ‘Where am I?’
‘You are in Mr. John Campbell’s house, ma’am.’
‘Why am I in his house?’
‘You fainted away just outside his door and was carried in by me and
the gardener.’
‘I do not wish to see the doctor,’ said I. ‘Where is my hat and veil?’
and I endeavoured to sit up, but fell back again, feeling as weak as
though I had been confined to my bed for a month by a severe illness.
At this moment I heard footsteps, and my sister entered the room,
followed by a gentleman who instantly stepped to my side. He asked me
how I felt, but I made no answer, and on his taking my wrist to feel my
pulse I drew my hand away. I knew him very well; he was Doctor B----,
he had attended me with each of my children; but now he looked at me
with a subdued air of astonishment at my appearance--with nothing but
_that_ expression in his face; he recognised me no more than my nurse
did.
‘I have asked for my hat and veil,’ said I, ‘I wish to return to the
hotel at which I am stopping. I am quite well now,’ and again I essayed
to rise, and again fell back.
‘She appears to have overtaxed herself,’ said the doctor, speaking
to my sister as though I were not present. ‘One would suppose she had
walked from London and eaten nothing the whole way.’
I drew my handkerchief from my pocket and held it to my mouth to hide
my face as much as possible, and I also turned my head away from the
light, which, indeed, was sufficiently subdued owing to the green shade
that covered the lamp, and to the smallness of the fire.
‘Do you live in Bath?’ said the doctor.
‘No,’ I answered.
‘Where are you stopping?’
I named the hotel and said, ‘I wish to return to it.’
‘My carriage is at the door,’ said he, ‘I shall be happy to drive you
to your hotel.’
My sister, who had been standing at a little distance with the shadow
of the shaded lamp upon her face, said: ‘I cannot suffer the lady to
leave until she is stronger and better.’
‘Are you alone at the hotel?’ said the doctor.
‘Yes,’ said I, answering him in a weak voice; ‘but that does not
matter. I will thankfully accept your offer to drive me to my hotel,’
and again I tried to sit up, but my having been on my feet from ten
o’clock in the morning to four o’clock that afternoon, my having taken
nothing to eat or drink--no, not so much as a glass of water--and,
above all, the terrible agitation, the dreadful continuous expectancy,
and the hundred feelings which had burnt like fires in my breast as
I passed my home again and again, all this had done its work; a few
hours’ rest might help to restore me, but as I now was I was incapable
of any exertion.
The doctor saw how it was. He drew my sister to the other side of the
room and conversed with her. I tried to hear what was said, but caught
only a few sentences. He seemed to advise her to keep me for an hour
or two, then send me in a cab to the hotel. I heard him whisper: ‘A
perfect stranger, you see, Mrs. Campbell’--‘a genuine case I don’t
doubt’--‘I would not, if I were you, keep her through the whole
night’--these, and one or two more sentences of counsel, were all I
heard. He then bade my sister good-night; meanwhile I kept my face from
the light and my handkerchief to my mouth.
‘You will sleep here to-night,’ said the sweet voice of my sister, and
looking up I perceived her bending over me. Her face was tranquil, her
gaze perfectly calm with an expression of gentle sadness that had been
there ever since I could remember. Pity was the only look in her face
that was in any way marked. She glanced at my white hair, and her eyes
rested for a little while upon my face, but her regard was without
recognition. Her presence was a torture to me. My old love for her
was strong and deep. There she stood, my sweet, my gentle, my beloved
sister, and I dared not own myself--I dared scarcely look at her; for
her occupation of my place was based on deep conviction of my death. I
would have killed myself sooner than by confession of my existence have
forced her from the position she had purely entered upon with a spirit
which she would take to her grave clothed in mourning for the sister
whom she believed dead.
But her presence was an agony. I felt that it would be impossible to
support even for a short time the ordeal of her ministrations; to
listen to her low, sweet voice; to meet her clear, sad gaze; to suffer
in silence the intolerable sense of loneliness born of her presence, of
my being homeless in my own home, of the thought of my little ones, in
a room above, taught to pray for a mother they could not remember and
to give that holy name to another, even though she were my own sister.
‘You will sleep here to-night,’ said my sister, bending over me.
‘What is the time?’ I inquired, resolved to speak as little as possible.
‘It is nearly eight o’clock. You have been a long time unconscious.
Barclay, cut a few light sandwiches and bring some port wine. Be quick.
I am sure this poor lady wants nourishment first of all. Tell Sarah to
light a fire in the spare room and prepare the bed.’
My sister then brought a chair to the table and seated herself.
‘This light, I fear, taxes your eyes,’ said she, and stretching forth
her hand she dimmed the lamp.
Then followed a long silence; my sister did not appear to regard me.
Her eyes seemed to steal to my face rather than look at it; but for the
most part she kept her gaze bent downwards. Her behaviour suggested
that she was struck, as all others whom I had met had been struck,
with the contrast between my snow-white hair and white eyebrows and
my youthful figure. Only at long intervals did I dare glance at her.
I held my face averted and my handkerchief to my mouth, and twice I
endeavoured to rise, fully meaning to leave the house if I found that I
had strength to walk; but I was without strength as yet even to sit up.
The housemaid brought in some port wine and sandwiches, and I drank the
wine which my sister put to my lips. I then ate the sandwiches merely
with the hope that they would diminish the feeling of faintness and
give me strength enough to leave the house.
I had eaten as much as my constricted throat would enable me to
swallow, when suddenly I heard the noise of a key turned in a lock,
then the hall door was shut and my sister went out. I caught the sound
of my husband’s voice; but I should have known him by his tread alone
as he stepped across the square hall, and thankful, indeed, was I that
Mary had gone out to speak to him and detain him whilst she prepared
him for seeing me--that is to say, for seeing a strange lady who had
dropped in a fit near the house and been brought in; I was truly
thankful, I say, for this delay, since it gave me time to fortify my
mind for beholding my husband and being looked at by him, and perhaps
spoken to by him; for had he come in upon me on a sudden, my white
hair and changed face would have availed nothing: I must have betrayed
myself, he would have detected me by signs I should have been unable to
conceal.
He and Mary conversed for some time in the hall. The door was ajar and
I heard their voices, but not what they said. He ejaculated, as though
expressing surprise and sometimes remonstrance; her sweet, low voice
had a pleading note. Presently the door was pushed open and the two of
them entered.
I held my handkerchief to my mouth, but forced my eyes to look in the
direction of my husband, never doubting that any emotion that my face
might express would be attributed by him to my illness and condition.
There was no more alteration in him than in Mary. He wore a little
more whisker than formerly, and his hair was cut short in the military
style, otherwise there was no change. He was dressed in dark grey
clothes and, instead of a gold watch-chain, wore one of jet, to which
was attached a locket which had formerly held, as it might still hold,
a likeness of me and a piece of my hair.
He slightly bowed as to a perfect stranger, and leaned upon the table
to look across at me. I closed my eyes and averted my face; I could not
bear the dreadful trial of looking at him and of seeing him look at me.
Oh, he was my husband--he was the father of my children--he had been my
first and only love--but though he was my husband still, my love for my
sister stood between him and me in as iron-like a barrier as ever the
divorce law of the land could erect between two hearts.
Mary had gone to the end of the table where it faced the windows which
overlooked the grounds; she stood with one hand upon it and the other
resting upon her hip. When I opened my eyes she seemed to be gazing at
me steadily, but the light was dim and I could not see her clearly.
‘I am sorry to hear of your illness,’ exclaimed my husband, addressing
me across the table, ‘I trust you are feeling better?’
‘I believe I am well enough to return to my hotel,’ I answered in a
tremulous voice, ‘will you kindly send for a cab?’
‘No,’ said my sister, ‘you must sleep here to-night. You are alone in
Bath. Should you return to the hotel and feel ill in the night you will
not be able to obtain the attention you might require.’
‘By what name shall I address you?’ said my husband.
‘Do not trouble her with questions, dear,’ said Mary. ‘She is very
poorly.’
I had made up my mind to give the name of my old friend at Jesmond
should it ever come to my having to give a name at all. This I had
settled with myself before I left Newcastle. When Mary ceased I
answered, ‘My name is Miss Lee.’
‘Have you no friend in Bath?’ said my husband.
‘None. I am returning to-morrow to the north.’
‘My wife is anxious that you should stay the night,’ said my husband;
‘you will be very welcome; but if it would make you more comfortable
to return to your hotel, I will call a cab and personally attend you
there; provide--for I am very well acquainted with the landlord of the
house--that you be carefully looked after; and, if you should desire to
communicate with your friends in the North by telegraph or by letter, I
shall be very pleased to do your bidding.’
‘Yes, I shall feel easier--my strength is returning,’ I exclaimed, and
I forced myself to sit upright.
‘John,’ said my sister, ‘it is settled that Miss Lee sleeps in this
house to-night. It is not as though she had friends to go to. She is
ill,’ she added, and for a moment her voice trembled. ‘The spare room
is ready. I can take no denial.’
She crossed the room and rang the bell.
‘Be it as you wish, my dear,’ said my husband, and casting another look
upon me of curiosity he left the room.
The housemaid answered the bell; my sister told her to send the
nurse, then poured out another glass of port and begged me to drink
it. I drank it, for I needed strength. Already had I settled what to
do, but I required more strength than I now possessed to carry out
my resolution. The nurse arrived and my sister requested her help
to convey me upstairs. I said not a word. I kept my eyes fastened
upon the floor. I feared that I should betray myself by speech, by
look, by tears, or by some subtle sign that would be interpretable by
the penetrating, wonderful sympathy that exists between twins--the
sympathy that had certainly existed between my sister and me. So far I
had victoriously passed through one of the most terrible ordeals that
a woman could be confronted with, and the sight and presence of my
sister, her sweet voice, her sweet face, the memories which arose in me
as I looked at her and listened to her, had still further heightened
and hardened what I might have already deemed my unconquerable
determination to remain dead to her and her husband that her happiness
should not be disturbed, leaving it, as I have already said, to my
Heavenly Father to bring my children to me in any way that should not
bruise my sister’s heart, or cloud the clear serenity of her life as a
wife.