After the one hopeful excitement of my prison-life, my spirit drooped
deplorably for a season, and all occupation became distasteful to me. My
diary even was abandoned, the writing of which had so well assisted to
fill my time, and, although destroyed daily, to impress upon my memory a
faithful and sequent record of the monotonous hours, else remembered
merely as a homogeneous whole. Had it not been for poor Ernie and his
requirements, I should have sunk under this fresh phase of suffering, I
am convinced. My health, too, was giving way. My strength, my energy
were falling. I kept my bed, as I had never been willing to do before if
able to arise from it, until noon sometimes, for want of nervous
impulse, and my food was tasteless and innutritious, even when I forced
myself to eat a portion of what was placed regularly before me. It
seemed to me that, long ere this, Wardour Wentworth must have
ascertained my fate, and the thought that he might be passive when my
very soul was at stake, thrilled me with agony unspeakable.
This mood endured so long that even Mrs. Clayton grew alarmed. She
insisted on Dr. Englehart again, and, when I shook my head drearily for
all reply, begged that I would permit her to state my case to Mrs.
Raymond, who might in turn see some able physician about me and procure
remedies.
To this, at last, I consented.
The consequence was what I had hoped it might be: Mrs. Raymond came in
person, and I had at last the opportunity I had long desired of seeing
her alone. If thoughtless, if unrefined according to my views of good
breeding, she was still young, and vivacious, and perhaps kind-hearted;
besides this, sufficiently well pleased with herself to be generous to
one who could no longer be her rival.
Her approach was heralded by a note from Mr. Bainrothe, full of his
characteristic, guileful sophistry and cool impertinence. It ran as
follows (I still possess this billet with others of his inditing--along
with a snake's rattle):
"Miriam: I am glad to hear through Mrs. Clayton that reaction
has occurred, and that you manifest repentance for your recent
violence toward one who always means you well. A little jesting
on the part of your guardian, my dear girl, should meet with a
very different reception, and handsome women must submit to
compliments with a good grace, or run the risk of being called
prudes or viragos. Not that I mean to apply either term to you
by any means. Your father's daughter could not be other than a
lady, even if she tried, but I must confess your manners have
deteriorated somewhat since you went into voluntary banishment
among those outlandish people. I have heard no very good account
of this old La Vigne who died in debt, it seems, and left his
children beggars. I have some curiosity to know whether he paid
your salary. 'Straws show,' you know, etc.
"It is now October; by the end of this month I hope you will
have made up that stubborn mind of yours (truly indomitable, as
I often say to Evelyn) to leave seclusion, and enter your family
once more in the only way you can do so respectably after what
has occurred--as a married woman.
"You remember the French song which I was always fond of
humming, 'Ou est on si bien qu'au sein de sa famille?' How
appropriate it seems to your condition!
"You will be surprised to hear that your step-mother's brother
has appeared on the tapis, and that he has had the audacity to
propose to adopt Mabel, whom he claims as his niece.
"He seems a gentlemanly person enough, but may be an impostor
for aught I know. The young lady he was engaged to, Gregory
tells me, perished in the Kosciusko, which proves a relief,
after all, as it is rumored he has a wife in Europe. But such
gossip can hardly interest you very vividly. The man has gone to
California, and will probably return no more.
"Did you, or did you not, meet this person at Colonel La
Vigne's? Favraud hinted something of the kind when he was here;
but I can get no satisfaction from Gregory.
"They all believe you were drowned in Georgia, and I thought it
best for the present not to undeceive Favraud, who laments your
fate.
"The surprise will be all the more pleasant; and, of course,
every thing will be explained to the satisfaction of friends
when you appear publicly as the wife of Luke Gregory--'long
secretly married!' You see, it will be necessary to go back a
little to save appearances, on account of Ernie!"
The miscreant! I understood him now--oh, my God, for strength to
tear his cowardly heart from his truculent body! But no; let
there be no further unavailing anger. In God's good time all
should recoil on his own head. For the present, I must bear, and
make myself insensible; if possible; and yet, I would not
willingly have had the living greenness of my spirit turned to
stone, as we are told branches are in some strange, foreign
rivers--crystal-cold!
Another extract, the closing one, and then forever away with
Basil Bainrothe and his flimsy letters:
"Again, I must congratulate you on the subdued and humbled
temper you manifest. Claude, and Evelyn, and I, had just been
discussing a plan for removing you to another asylum, where
stricter discipline and less luxurious externals are employed to
conquer the otherwise unmanageable inmates. Dr. Englehart, you
know, holds up the theory of indulgence to his patients, and I
am rejoiced to find his measures have at last prevailed over
your frenzy. Mabel, like your other friends, believes you dead,
and is at home with Evelyn and Claude, and is growing in beauty
and intelligence every day.
"She was quite shocked at her uncle's wild behavior, and
positively refused to go with him, is fond of Mr. Gregory, and
remembers you with affection.
"Owing to my knowledge of your condition for the last year, my
dear child, I don't blame you for any thing that is past, not
even for those delusions with regard to my own acts and
intentions which formed your mania, nor for the misfortune and
sense of shame which, no doubt, caused your hasty flight, and
whose evidences you brought with you from the raft, in the shape
of a nearly year-old child.
"I remain, faithfully yours,
"B.B."
The shameful accusations which brought the blood to my brow ought to
have been easier to bear than all the rest, because so easily confuted,
and because I knew not really believed; but they were not. The very idea
of shame humiliated me more than positive ill-treatment could have done;
and, spotless though I knew myself to be (as others knew me too--all I
loved and cared for), still my purity was shocked by such injustice.
I felt like one who had gone out to walk in fresh attire, and been
mud-pelted by rude urchins, so that the outward robes, at least, were
soiled, and a sense of degradation and uncleanness became the
consequence in spite of reason. But, after all, the dress could be
easily changed when opportunity should occur, and all be made clean
again, and the mud-pelting forgotten or overlooked, and the urchins
punished or dismissed in scorn.
Surely, God would not much longer permit this fiend to subjugate me. Had
I not suffered sufficiently? Alas! who but our Creator can judge of our
deserts, or measure our power to bear?
In my adversity and lonely trouble I had drawn near to Him and his
blessed Son--our Mediator, and example, and only strength. Dear as was
still the memory of that earthly love, the only real passion I had ever
known, could ever know, it came no longer to my spirit as a substitute
for religion. I had learned to separate my worship of God from my fealty
to man, yet was this last not weakened, but strengthened, by such
discrimination.
If only for the gift of grace it brought to we, let me bless my sad
captivity!