I will pass over the misery of the days that followed; days stretched
by anxiety and suspense to double their ordinary length. The woman
succeeded only too well in proving the truth of her story; and knowing
how useless it would be, Mr Hammond did not attempt to deny that she
was his wife. Nor did he endeavour to justify his conduct, which was
truly inexcusable. Yet in after-years, when our indignation had cooled,
and we were able calmly to reflect upon the history thus revealed, we
could not help pitying the unfortunate young man. He had not been much
past twenty when, on a visit to Wiesbaden, he had made the acquaintance
of a woman several years older than himself, whose brilliant beauty
and fascinating address had fairly bewitched him. She was a gay
adventuress, who, living by the chances of the gaming-table, and tired
of such a precarious livelihood, had fostered the young man’s passion,
and then condescended to marry him.
Alas! Frederick Hammond had not been long married before he bitterly
regretted the step he had taken. His wife proved the bane of his
life. She had contracted the habit of drinking to excess, and her
intemperance destroyed all hope of happiness in domestic life. Her
husband’s love changed to hatred, and unable to control her vicious
propensities, he deserted her. In one place after another he took
refuge, hoping to elude her search; but again and again she succeeded
in tracking him to his place of concealment, though she was willing
to leave him to himself when he had satisfied her demand for money.
But at last for a long time he heard nothing of her; and as the months
passed into years, the hope sprang up within him that his wife was
either dead, or else had lost all clue to his whereabouts. Weary of
residing abroad, he returned to England, and finding it difficult
to obtain other employment, was glad to accept the post of village
schoolmaster, for he thought the little country village might prove a
secure hiding-place. And here becoming acquainted with Miss Sinclair,
he basely yielded to the temptation to act as though the hope he
cherished that his wife was dead were already a realised fact. He dared
not openly ask Rose’s hand of her guardian; but he sought by all the
means in his power to win her love, and did not rest till he had won
from her a response to his avowed affection, and gained her consent to
a secret engagement. It was a cruel selfish proceeding, for which his
past misfortunes offered no excuse; and thankful indeed were we that
his scheme of eloping with Rose had been frustrated.
But poor Rose! Bitter indeed was her distress when she found we had
no comfort to give her. The shock was too great for her physical
strength, and ere many hours had elapsed it was evident that a severe
illness would be the consequence. For days she lay tossing in feverish
delirium; whilst we kept anxious watch by her bedside, much fearing
what the issue might be. But our fears were mercifully disappointed;
the fever turned, and soon the much-loved patient was pronounced out of
danger. But the improvement was very gradual, and after a while almost
imperceptible. Extreme exhaustion was accompanied in Rose’s case by an
apathetic indifference to everything around her, which formed the chief
barrier to her recovery. She felt no desire to get strong again, now
that life had no longer any great attraction for her.
‘If we could only rouse her to take an interest in anything, she would
soon be well,’ the doctor said to me one day.
A possibility of doing so occurred to me at that moment, and I resolved
to try, though I could scarcely hope to succeed. In the evening, when I
was sitting by Rose’s couch, and knew that Mr Aslatt had gone out, and
would not be back for an hour or two, I said to her gently: ‘I think
you feel a little stronger to-day; do you not, darling?’
A heavy sigh was the only response to my question.
I knelt by her side, and gently drew her head upon my shoulder as I
whispered: ‘I wish you could unburden your heart to me, dear Rose.
Would it not be a relief to tell me the sad thoughts that occupy your
mind?’
No answer but by tears, which I was glad to see, for I knew they would
relieve her heavy heart. After a while, words followed. She told me how
little she cared to get well again; what a dreary blank life appeared
to her, now that he whom she had so loved and trusted had proved
unworthy; how it seemed to her she was of no use in the world, and the
sooner she were out of it the better for herself and every one else.
And a great deal more in the same strain.
I reminded her of her guardian’s love for her, and his great anxiety
for her recovery, and urged her to try to get well for his sake. But
she only shook her head despondingly. ‘I have never been anything but a
trouble to him,’ she said; ‘he would be happier without me. If I were
out of the way, I daresay he would marry. I used to make plans for his
future as well as for my own, you know; but now everything will be
different.’
‘I do not think Mr Aslatt would have married,’ I ventured to say.
‘Why not?’ asked Rose.