And now we shall pass over an interval of eight years in the history of
“Gunn's.” For it is only the “strange history” of Eben and Hetty that
was to be told in this story, and in these years' history was nothing
strange; unless, indeed, it might be said that they were strangely happy
years. The household remained unchanged, except that there were three
more babies in Mike's cottage, and Hetty had been obliged to build on
another room for him. Old Nan and Cæsar still reigned. Cæsar's head
was as white and tight-curled as the fleece of a pet lamb. He was now
a shining light in the Methodist meeting; but he had not yet broken
himself of his oaths. “Damn--bress de Lord” was still heard on occasion:
but everybody, even Nan, had grown so used to it that it did not pass
for an oath; and, no doubt, even the recording angel had long since
ceased to put it down. James Little and his wife were now as much a part
of the family as if they had had the old Squire's blood in their veins;
and nobody thought about the old time of their disgrace,--nobody but Jim
and Sally themselves. From their thoughts it was never absent, when they
looked on the beautiful, joyous face of Raby. He had grown beyond his
years, and looked like a boy of twelve. He was manly, frank, impulsive;
a child after Hetty's own heart, and much more like her than he was like
his father or his mother. It was a question, also, if he did not love
her more than he loved either of his parents: all his hours with her
were unclouded; over his intercourse with them, there always hung the
undefined cloud of an unexpressed sadness.
Hetty was changed. Her hair was gray; her fair skin weather-beaten; and
the fine wrinkles around the corners of her merry eyes radiated like the
spokes of a wheel. She had looked young at thirty-seven; she looked
old at forty-five. The phlegmatic and lazy sometimes seem to keep their
youth better than the sanguine and active. It is a cruel thing that
laughter should age a woman's face almost as much as weeping; but it
does. Sunny as Hetty's face was, it had come to have a look older than
it ought, simply because the kindly eyes had so often twinkled and half
closed in merry laughter.
Time had dealt more kindly with Doctor Eben. He was a handsomer man at
forty-one than he had been at thirty-three: the eight years had left no
other trace upon him. Face, figure, step, all were as full of youth
and vigor as upon the day when Hetty first met him walking down
the pine-shaded road. The precise moment when the first pang of
consciousness of the discrepancy between her husband's looks and her own
entered Hetty's mind would be hard to determine. It began probably in
some thoughtless jest of her own, or even of his; for, in his absolute
loyalty of love, his unquestioning and long-established acceptance of
their relation as a perfect one, it would never have crossed Doctor
Eben's mind that Hetty could possibly care whether she looked older
or younger than he. He never thought about her age at all: in fact, he
could not have told either her age or his own with exactness; he was
curiously forgetful of such matters. He did not see the wrinkles around
her eyes. He did not know that her skin was weather-beaten, her figure
less graceful, her hair fast turning gray. To him she was simply
“Hetty:” the word meant as it always had meant, fulness of love,
delight, life. Doctor Eben was a man of that fine fibre of organic
loyalty, to which there is not possible, even a temptation to forsake or
remove from its object. Men having this kind of uprightness and loyalty,
rarely are much given to words or demonstrations of affection. To them
love takes its place, side by side with the common air, the course of
the sun, the succession of days and nights, and all other unquestioned
and unalterable things in the world. To suggest to such a man the
possibility of lessening in his allegiance to a wife, is like proposing
to him to overthrow the whole course of nature. He simply cannot
conceive of such a thing; and he has no tolerance for it. He is by the
very virtue of his organic structure incapable of charity for men who
sin in that way. There are not many such men, but the type exists; and
well may any woman felicitate herself to whom it is given to rest
her life on such sure foundations. If there be some lack of the daily
manifestations of tenderness, the ready word, the ever-present caress,
she may recollect that these are often the first fruits of a passion
whose early way-side harvest will be scorched and shrivelled as soon as
the sun is high; while the seed which bringeth forth a hundred, nay
a thousand fold, of true grain, sleeps in long silence, and grows up
noiseless and slow.
Doctor Eben did not know that he was in many small ways an unloverlike
husband. He did not know that his absorption in his professional studies
made him often seem unaware of Hetty's presence for hours together,
when she was watching and waiting for a word. He did not know that he
sometimes did not hear when she spoke, and did not answer when he heard.
He did not know a hundred things which he would have known, if he
had been a less upright and loyal man, and if Hetty had been a less
unselfish woman. Neither did Hetty know any of these things, or note
them, until the poisoned consciousness awoke in her mind that she was
fast growing old, and her face was growing less lovely. This was the
first germ of Hetty's unhappiness. It had been very hard for her in the
beginning to believe herself loved: now all her old incredulity returned
with fourfold strength; and now it was not met as then by constant and
vehement evidence to conquer it. Here again, had Hetty been like other
women, she might have been spared her suffering. Had it been possible
for her to demand, to even invite, she would have won from her husband,
at any instant, all that her anxiety could have asked; but it was not
possible. She simply went on silently, day after day, watching her
husband more intently; keeping record, in her morbid feeling, of every
moment, every look, every word which she misapprehended. Beyond this
morbidness of misapprehension, there was no other morbidness in Hetty's
state. She did not pine or grieve; she only began slowly to wonder what
she could do for Eben now. Her sense of loss and disappointment, in that
she had borne him no children, began to weigh more heavily upon her. “If
I were mother of his children,” she said to herself, “it would not
make so much difference if I did grow old and ugly. He would have the
children to give him pleasure.” “I don't see what there is left for me
to do,” she said again and again. Sometimes she made pathetic attempts
to change the simplicity of her dress. “Perhaps if I wore better
clothes, I should look younger,” she thought. But the result was not
satisfactory. Her severe style had always been so essentially her own
that any departure from it only made her look still more altered. All
this undercurrent of annoyance and distress added continually to the
change in her face: gradually its expression grew more grave; she smiled
less frequently; had fits of abstraction and reverie, which she had
never been known to have before.
In a vague way, Doctor Eben observed these, and wondered what Hetty was
thinking about; but he never asked. Often they drove for a whole day
together, without a dozen words being spoken; but the doctor was buried
in meditations upon his patients, and did not dislike the silence. Hetty
did not realize that the change here was more in her than in him: in the
old days it had been she who talked, not the doctor; now that she was
silent, he went on with his trains of thought undisturbed, and was
as content as before, for she was by his side. He felt her presence
perpetually, even when he gave no sign of doing so.
Many months went by in this way, a summer, a winter, part of a spring,
and Hetty's forty-fifth birthday came, and found her a seriously unhappy
woman. Yet, strange to say, nobody dreamed of it. So unchanged was the
external current of her life: such magnificent self-control had she, and
such absolute disinterestedness. Little Raby was the only one who ever
had a consciousness that things were not right. He was Hetty's closest
comrade and companion now. All the hours that she did not spend driving
with the doctor (and she drove with him less now than had been her
custom) she spent with Raby. They took long rambles together, and long
rides, Raby being already an accomplished and fearless little rider. By
the subtle instinct of a loving child, Raby knew that “Aunt Hetty” was
changed. A certain something was gone out of the delight they used to
take together. Once, as they were riding, he exclaimed:
“Aunt Hetty, you haven't spoken for ever so long! What's the matter? you
don't talk half so much as you used to.”
And Hetty, conscience-stricken, thought to herself: “Dear me, how
selfish it makes one to be unhappy! Here I am, letting it fall on this
dear, innocent darling. I ought to be ashamed.” But she answered gayly:
“Oh, Raby! Aunty is growing old and stupid, isn't she? She must look
out, or you'll get tired of her.”
“I shan't either: you're the nicest aunty in the whole world,” cried
Raby. “You ain't a bit old; but I wish you'd talk.”
Then and there, Hetty resolved that never again should Raby have
occasion to think thus; and he never did. Before long he had forgotten
all about this conversation, and all was as before. This was in May. One
day, in the following June, as Hetty and the doctor were driving through
Springton, he said suddenly:
“Oh, Hetty! I want you to come in with me at one place this morning.
There is the most perfectly beautiful creature there I ever saw,--the
oldest daughter of a Methodist minister who has just come here to
preach. Poor child! she cannot sit up, or turn herself in bed; but she
is an angel, and has the face of one, if ever a human creature had. They
are very poor and we must help them all we can. I have great hopes
of curing the child, if she can be well fed. It is a serious spinal
disease, but I believe it can be cured.”
When Hetty first looked on the face of Rachel Barlow, she said in her
heart: “Eben was right. It is the face of an angel;” and when she heard
Rachel's voice, she added, “and the voice also.” Some types of spinal
disease seem to have a marvellously refining effect on the countenance;
producing an ethereal clearness of skin, and brightness of eye, and a
spiritual expression, which are seen on no other faces. Rachel Barlow
was a striking instance of this almost abnormal beauty. As her fair
face looked up at you from her pillow, your impulse was to fall on your
knees. Not till she smiled did you feel sure she was human; but when she
smiled, the smile was so winningly warm, you forgot you had thought her
an angel. For two years she had not moved from her bed, except as she
was lifted in the strong arms of her father. For two years she had not
been free from pain for a moment. Often the pain was so severe that she
fainted. And yet her brow was placid, unmarked by a line, and her face
in repose as serene as a happy child's.
Doctor Eben and Hetty sat together by the bed.
“Rachel,” said the doctor, “I have brought my wife to help cure you. She
is as good a doctor as I am.” And he turned proudly to Hetty.
Rachel gazed at her earnestly, but did not speak. Hetty felt herself
singularly embarrassed by the gaze.
“I wish I could help you,” she said; “but I think my husband will make
you well.”
Rachel colored.
“I never permit myself to hope for it,” she replied. “If I did, I should
be discontented at once.”
“Why! are you contented as it is?” exclaimed Hetty impetuously.
“Oh, yes!” said Rachel. “I enjoy every minute, except when the pain
is too hard: you don't know what a beautiful thing life seems to me.
I always have the sky you know” (glancing at the window), “and that
is enough for a lifetime. Every day birds fly by too; and every day my
father reads to me at least two hours. So I have great deal to think
about.”
“Miss Barlow, I envy you,” said Hetty in a tone which startled even
herself. Again Rachel bent on her the same clairvoyant gaze which had so
embarrassed her before. Hetty shrank from it still more than at first,
and left the room, saying to her husband: “I will wait for you outside.”
As they drove away, Hetty said:
“Eben, what is it in her look which makes me so uneasy? I don't like to
have her look at me.”
“Now that is strange,” replied the doctor. “After you had left the room,
the child said to me: 'What is the matter with your wife? She is not
well,' and I laughed at the idea, and told her I never knew any woman
half so well or strong. Rachel is a sort of clairvoyant, as persons in
her condition are so apt to be; but she made a wrong guess this time,
didn't she?”
Hetty did not answer; and the doctor turning towards her saw that her
eyes were fixed on the sky with a dreamy expression.
“Why, Hetty!” he exclaimed. “Why do you look so? You are perfectly well,
are you not, dear?”
“Oh, yes! oh, yes!” Hetty answered, quickly rousing herself. “I am
perfectly well; and always have been, ever since I can remember.”
After this, Hetty went no more with her husband to see Rachel. When he
asked her, she said: “No, Eben: I am going to see her alone. I will not
go with you again. She makes me uncomfortable. If she makes me feel
so, when I am alone with her, I shall not go at all. I don't like
clairvoyants.”
“Why, what a queer notion that is for you, wife!” laughed the doctor,
and thought no more of it.
Hetty's first interview with Rachel was a constrained one. Nothing in
Hetty's life had prepared her for intercourse with so finely organized
a creature: she felt afraid to speak, lest she should wound her; her
own habits of thought and subjects of interest seemed too earthy to be
mentioned in this presence; she was vaguely conscious that all Rachel's
being was set to finer issues than her own. She found in this an
unspeakable attraction; and yet it also withheld her at every point and
made her dumb. In spite of these conflicting emotions, she wanted to
love Rachel, to help her, to be near her; and she went again and again,
until the constraint wore off, and a very genuine affection grew up
between them. Never, after the first day, had she felt any peculiar
embarrassment under Rachel's gaze, and her memory of it had nearly died
away, when one day, late in the autumn, it was suddenly revived with
added intensity. It was a day on which Hetty had been feeling unusually
sad. Even by Rachel's bedside she could not quite throw off the sadness.
Unconsciously, she had been sitting for a long time silent. As she
looked up, she met Rachel's eyes fixed full on hers, with the same
penetrating gaze which had so disturbed her in their first interview.
Rachel did not withdraw her gaze, but continued to look into Hetty's
eyes, steadily, piercingly, with an expression which held Hetty
spell-bound. Presently she said:
“Dear Mrs. Williams, you are thinking something which is not true. Do
not let it stay with you.”
“What do you mean, Rachel?” asked Hetty, resentfully. “No one can read
another person's thoughts.”
“Not exactly,” replied Rachel, in a timid voice, “but very nearly. Since
I have been ill, I have had a strange power of telling what people were
thinking about: I can sometimes tell the exact words. I cannot tell how
it is. I seem to read them in the air, or to hear them spoken. And I
can always tell if a person is thinking either wicked thoughts or untrue
ones. A wicked person always looks to me like a person in a fog. There
have been some people in this room that my father thought very good; but
I knew they were very bad. I could hardly see their faces clear. When a
person is thinking mistaken or untrue thoughts, I see something like a
shimmer of light all around them: it comes and goes, like a flicker from
a candle. When you first came in to see me, you looked so.”
“Pshaw, Rachel,” said Hetty, resolutely. “That is all nonsense. It is
just the nervous fancy of a sick girl. You mustn't give way to it.”
“I should think so too,” replied Rachel, meekly. “If it did not so often
come exactly true. My father will tell you how often we have tried it.”
“Well, then, tell me what I was thinking just now,” laughed Hetty.
Rachel colored. “I would rather not,” she replied, in an earnest tone.
“Oh! you're afraid it won't prove true,” said Hetty. “I'll take the
risk, if you will.”
Rachel hesitated, but finally repeated her first answer. “I would rather
not.”
Hetty persisted, and Rachel, with great reluctance, answered her as
follows:
“You were thinking about yourself: you were dissatisfied about something
in yourself; you are not happy, and you ought to be; you are so good.”
Hetty listened with a wonder-struck face. She disliked this more than
she had ever in her life disliked any thing which had happened to her.
She did not speak.
“Do not be angry,” said Rachel. “You made me tell you.”
“Oh! I am not angry,” said Hetty. “I'm not so stupid as that; but it's
the most disagreeable thing, I ever knew. Can you help seeing these
things, if you try?”
“Yes, I suppose I might,” said Rachel. “I never try. It interests me to
see what people are thinking about.”
“Humph!” said Hetty, sarcastically. “I should think so. You might make
your fortune as a detective, if you were well enough to go about in the
world.”
“If I were that, I should lose the power,” replied Rachel. “The doctors
say it is part of the disease.”
“Rachel,” exclaimed Hetty, vehemently, “I'll never come near you again,
if you don't promise not to use this power of yours upon me. I should
never feel comfortable one minute where you are, if I thought you were
reading my thoughts. Not that I have any special secrets,” added Hetty,
with a guilty consciousness; “but I suppose everybody thinks thoughts he
would rather not have read.”
“I'll promise you, indeed I will, dear Mrs. Williams,” cried Rachel,
much distressed. “I never have read you, except that first day. It
seemed forced upon me then, and to-day too. But I promise you, I will
not do it again.”
“I suppose I shouldn't know if you were doing it, unless you told me,”
said Hetty, reflectively.
“I think you would,” answered Rachel. “Do I not look peculiarly? My
father tells me that I do.”
“Yes, you do,” replied Hetty, recollecting that, in each of these
instances, she had been much disturbed by Rachel's look. “I will trust
you, then, seeing that you probably can't deceive me.”
When Hetty told the doctor of this, expecting that he would dismiss
it as unworthy of attention, she was much surprised at the interest he
showed in the account. He questioned her closely as to the expression of
Rachel's face, her tones of voice, during the interval.
“And was it true, Hetty?” he asked; “was what she said true? Were you
thinking of something in yourself which troubled you?”
“Yes, I was,” said Hetty, in a low voice, fearing that her husband would
ask her what; but he was only studying the incident from professional
curiosity.
“You are sure of that, are you?” he asked.
“Yes, very sure,” replied Hetty.
“Extraordinary! 'pon my word extraordinary!” ejaculated the doctor. “I
have read of such cases, but I have never more than half believed them.
I'd give my right hand to cure that girl.”
“Your right hand is not yours to give,” said Hetty, playfully.
The doctor made no reply. He was deep in meditation on Rachel's
clairvoyance. Hetty looked at him for some moments, as earnestly as
Rachel had looked at her. “Oh if I could only have that power Rachel
has!” she thought.
“Eben,” she said, “is it impossible for a healthy person to be a
clairvoyant?”
“Quite,” answered the doctor, with a sudden instinct of what Hetty
meant. “No chance for you, dear. You'll never get at any of my secrets
that way. You might as well try to make yourself Rachel's age as to
acquire this mysterious power she has.”
Unlucky words! Hetty bore them about with her. “That showed that he
feels that I am old,” she said, as often as she recalled them.
A month later, as she was sitting with Rachel one morning, there was a
knock at the door. Hetty was sitting in such a position that she could
not be seen from the door, but could see, in the looking-glass at the
foot of Rachel's bed, any person entering the room. As the door opened,
she looked up, and, to her unspeakable surprise, saw her husband coming
in; saw, in the same swift second's glance, the look of gladness and
welcome on his face, and heard him say, in tones of great tenderness:
“How are you to-day, precious child?” In the next instant, he had seen
his wife, and was, in his turn, so much astonished, that the look
of glad welcome which he had bent upon Rachel, was instantaneously
succeeded by one of blank surprise, bent upon Hetty; surprise, and
nothing else, but so great surprise that it looked almost like dismay
and confusion. “Why, Hetty!” he said, “I did not expect to see you
here.”
“Nor I you,” said Hetty, lightly; but the lightness of tone had a
certain something of constraint in it. This incident was one of those
inexplicably perverse acts of Fate which make one almost believe
sometimes in the depravity of spirits, if not in that of men. When Dr.
Eben had left home that morning, Hetty had said to him:
“Are you going to Springton, to-day?”
“No, not to-day,” was the reply.
“I am very sorry,” answered Hetty. “I wanted to send some jelly to
Rachel.”
“Can't go to-day, possibly,” the doctor had said. “I have to go the
other way.”
But later in the morning he had met a messenger from Springton, riding
post-haste, with an imperative call which could not be deferred. And, as
he was in the village, he very naturally stopped to see Rachel. All of
this he explained with some confusion; feeling, for the first time in
his long married life, that it was awkward for a man to have to account
for his presence in any particular spot at any particular time. Hetty
betrayed no annoyance or incredulity: she felt none. She was too
sensible and reasonable a woman to have felt either, even if it had been
simply a change of purpose on the doctor's own part which had brought
him to Springton. The thing which had lent the shade of constraint to
Hetty's voice, and which lay like an icy mountain on Hetty's heart, was
the look which she had seen on his face, the tone which she had heard in
his voice, as he greeted Rachel. In that instant was planted the second
germ of unhappiness in Hetty's bosom. Of jealousy, in the ordinary
acceptation of the term; of its caprices, suspicions, subterfuges; and,
above all, of its resentments,--Hetty was totally incapable. If it
had been made evident to her in any one moment, that her husband loved
another woman, her first distinct thoughts would have been of sorrow for
him rather than for herself, and of perplexity as to what could be done
to make him happy again. At this moment, however, nothing took distinct
shape in Hetty's mind. It was merely the vague pain of a loving woman's
sensitive heart, surprised by the sight of tender looks and tones given
by her husband to another woman. It was wholly a vague pain, but it
was the germ of a great one; and, falling as it did on Hetty's
already morbid consciousness of her own loss of youth and beauty
and attractiveness, it fell into soil where such germs ripen as in a
hot-bed. In a less noble nature than Hetty's there would have grown
up side by side with this pain a hatred of Rachel, or, at least, an
antagonism towards her. In the fine equilibrium of Hetty's moral nature,
such a thing was impossible. She felt from that day a new interest in
Rachel. She looked at her, often scrutinizingly, and thought: “Ah, if
she were but well, what a sweet young wife she might make! I wish Eben
could have had such a wife! How much better it would have been for him
than having me!” She began now to go oftener with her husband to visit
Rachel. Closely, but with no sinister motive, no trace of ill-feeling,
she listened to all which they said. She observed the peculiar
gentleness with which the doctor spoke, and the docility with which
Rachel listened; and she said to herself: “That is quite unlike Eben's
manner to me, or mine to him. I wonder if that is not more nearly the
way it ought to be between husbands and wives. The wife ought to look
up to her husband as a little child does.” Now, much as Hetty loved Dr.
Eben, passionately as her whole life centred around him, there had never
been such a feeling as this: they were the heartiest of comrades, but
each life was on a plane of absolute independence. Hetty pondered much
on this.