One day, as they sat by Rachel's bed, the doctor had been counting her
pulse. Her little white hand looked like a baby's hand in his. Holding
it up, he said to Hetty:
“Look at that hand. It couldn't do much work, could it!”
Involuntarily Hetty stretched out her large, well-knit brown hand,
and put it by the side of Rachel's. There are many men who would have
admired Hetty's hand the more of the two. It was a much more significant
hand. To one who could read palmistry, it meant all that Hetty was; and
it was symmetrical and firm. But, at that moment, to Dr. Eben it looked
large and masculine.
“Oh, take it away, Hetty!” he said, thoughtlessly. “It looks like a
man's hand by the side of this child's.”
Hetty laughed. She thought so too. But the words remained in her mind,
and allied themselves to words that had gone before, and to things that
had happened, and to thoughts which were restlessly growing, growing in
Hetty's bosom.
If Rachel had remained an invalid, probably Hetty's thoughts of her,
as connected with her husband, would never have gone beyond this vague
stage which we have tried to describe. She would have been to Hetty only
the suggestion of a possible ideal wife, who, had she lived, and had
she entered into Dr. Eben's life, might have made him happier than
Hetty could. But Rachel grew better and stronger every day. Early in the
spring she began to walk,--creeping about, at first, like a little child
just learning to walk, by pushing a chair before her. Then she walked
with a cane and her father's arm; then with the cane alone; and at
last, one day in May,--oddly enough it was the anniversary of Hetty's
wedding-day,--Dr. Eben burst into her room, exclaiming: “Hetty! Hetty!
Rachel has walked several rods alone. She is cured! She is going to be
as well as anybody.”
The doctor's face was flushed with excitement. Never had he had what
seemed to him so great a professional triumph. It was the physician
and not the man that felt so intensely. But Hetty could not wholly know
this. She had shared his deep anxiety about the case; and she had shared
much of his strong interest in Rachel, and it was with an unaffected
pleasure that she exclaimed: “Oh, I'm so thankful!” but her next
sentence was one which arrested her husband's attention, and seemed to
him a strange one.
“Then there is nothing to hinder her being married, is there?”
“Why, no,” laughed the doctor, “nothing, except the lack of a man fit
to marry her! What put such a thought as that into your head, Hetty? I
don't believe Rachel Barlow will ever be married. I'm sure I don't know
the man that's worthy to so much as kiss the child's feet!” and the
unconscious Dr. Eben hastened away, little dreaming what a shaft he had
sped.
Hetty stood at the open window, watching him, as far as she could see
him, among the pines. The apple orchard, near the house, was in full
bloom, and the fragrance came in at every window. A vase of the blossoms
stood on Hetty's bureau: it was one of her few, tender reminiscences,
the love which she had had for apple blossoms ever since the night of
her marriage. She held a little cluster of them now in her hand, as she
leaned on the window-sill; they had been gathered for some days, and, as
a light wind stirred the air, all the petals fell, and slowly fluttered
down to the ground. Hetty looked wistfully at the bare stems. A distinct
purpose at that moment was forming in her mind; a purpose distinct
in its aim, but, as yet, very vague in its shape. She was saying to
herself: “If I were out of the way, Eben might marry Rachel. He needn't
say, he doesn't know a man fit to do it. He is fit to marry any woman
God ever made, and I believe he would be happier with such a wife as
that, and with children, than he can ever be with me.”
Even now there was in Hetty no morbid jealousy, no resentment, no
suspicion that her husband had been disloyal to her even in thought.
There had simply been forced upon her, by the slow accumulations of
little things, the conviction that her husband would be happier with
another woman for his wife than with her. It is probably impossible to
portray in words all the processes of this remarkable woman's mind and
heart during these extraordinary passages of her life. They will seem,
judged by average standards, morbid and unhealthy: yet there was no
morbidness in them; unless we are to call morbid all the great and
glorious army of men and women who have laid down their own lives for
the sake of others. That same fine and rare quality of self-abnegation
which has inspired missionaries' lives and martyrs' deaths, inspired
Hetty now. The morbidness, if there were any, was in the first entering
into her mind of the belief that her husband's happiness could be
secured in any way so well as by her. But here let us be just to Hetty.
The view she took was the common-sense view, which probably would have
been taken by nine out of ten of all Dr. Eben's friends. Who could say
that it did not stand to reason, that a man would be happier with a
wife, young, beautiful, of angelic sweetness of nature, and the mother
of sons and daughters, than with an old, childless, and less attractive
woman. The strange thing was that any wife could take this common-sense
view of such a situation. It was not strange in Hetty, however. It
was simply the carrying out of the impulses and motives which had
characterized her whole life.
About this time, Hetty began with Raby to practise rowing on Welbury
Lake. This lake was a beautiful sheet of water, lying between Welbury
and Springton. It was some two miles long, and one wide; and held two or
three little wooded islands, which were much resorted to in the summer.
On two sides of the lake, rose high, rocky precipices; no landing was
possible there: the other two sides were thick wooded forests of pines
and hemlocks. Nothing could exceed in loveliness the situation of this
lake. Two roads led to it: one from the Springton, the other from the
Welbury side; both running through the hemlock forests. In the winter
these were used for carrying out ice, which was cut in great quantities
on the lake. In the summer, no one crossed these roads, except parties
of pleasure-seekers who went to sail or row on the lake. In a shanty on
the Welbury side, lived an old man, who made a little money every summer
by renting a few rather leaky boats, and taking charge of such boats as
were kept moored at his beach by their owners.
Hetty had promised Raby that when he was ten years old he should have a
fine boat, and learn to row. The time had come now for her to keep this
promise. Every Saturday afternoon during the summer following Rachel's
recovery, Hetty and Raby spent on the lake. Hetty was a strong and
skilful oars-woman. Little Raby soon learned to manage the boat as well
as she did. The lake was considered unsafe for sail-boats, on account of
flaws of wind which often, without any warning, beat down from the hills
on the west side; but rowing there was one of the chief pleasures of the
young people of Welbury and Springton. In Hetty's present frame of mind,
this lonely lake had a strange fascination for her. In her youth she had
never loved it: she had always been eager to land on one of the islands,
and spend hours in the depths of the fragrant woods, rather than on the
dark and silent water. But now she never wearied of rowing round and
round its water margin, and looking down into its unsounded depths.
It was believed that Welbury Lake was unfathomable; but this notion
probably had its foundation in the limited facilities in that region for
sounding deep waters.
One day Hetty rowed across the lake to the point where the Springton
road came down to the shore. Pushing the boat up on the beach, she
sprang out; and, telling Raby to wait there till she returned, she
walked rapidly up the road. A guide-post said, “Six miles to Springton.”
Hetty stood some time looking reflectingly at this sign: then she walked
on for half a mile, till she came to another road running north; here
a guide-post said, “Fairfield, five miles.” This was what Hetty was in
search of. As she read the sign, she said in a low tone: “Five miles;
that is easily walked.” Then she turned and hastened back to the
shore, stopping on the way to gather for Raby a big bunch of the snowy
Indian-pipes, which grew in shining clumps in the moist dark hemlock
woods. A strange and terrible idea was slowly taking possession of
Hetty. Day and night it haunted her. Once having been entertained as
possible, it could never be banished from her mind. How such an impulse
could have become deep-seated in a nature like Hetty's will for ever
remain a mystery. One would have said that she was the last woman in
the world to commit a morbid or ill-regulated act. But the act she was
meditating now was one which seemed like the act of insanity. Yet had
Hetty never in her life seemed farther removed from any such tendency.
She was calm, cheerful, self-contained. If any one saw any change in
her, it seemed like nothing more than the natural increase of quiet and
decorum coming with her increased age. Even her husband, when he looked
back on these months, trying in anguish to remember every day, every
hour, could recall no word or deed or look of hers which had seemed to
him unnatural. And yet there was not a day, hardly an hour, in which her
mind was not occupied with the details of a plan for going away secretly
from her house, under such circumstances as to make it appear that she
had been drowned in the lake. That she must leave her husband free to
marry Rachel Barlow had become a fixed idea in Hetty's mind. She was too
conscientious to kill herself for this purpose: moreover, she did not in
the least wish to die. She was very unhappy in this keen conviction that
she no longer sufficed for her husband's happiness; that she was, as she
would have phrased it, “in the way.” But she was not heart-broken over
it, as a sentimental and feeble woman would have been. “There is plenty
to do in the world,” she said to herself. “I've got a good many years'
work left in me yet: the thing is how to get at it.” For many weeks she
had revolved the matter hopelessly, till one day, as she was rowing with
Raby on the lake, she heard a whistle of a steam-engine on the Springton
side of the lake. In that second, her whole plan flashed upon her brain.
She remembered that a railroad, leading to Canada, ran between Springton
and the lake. She remembered that there was a station not many miles
from Springton. She remembered that far up in Canada was a little French
village, St. Mary's, where she had once spent part of a summer with her
father. St. Mary's was known far and near for its medicinal springs, and
the squire had been sent there to try them. She remembered that there
was a Roman Catholic priest there of whom her father had been very fond.
She remembered that there were Sisters of Charity there, who used to go
about nursing the sick. She remembered the physician under whose
care her father was. She remembered all these things with a startling
vividness in the twinkling of an eye, before the echoes of the
steam-engine's whistle had died away on the air. She was almost
paralyzed by the suddenness and the clearness with which she was
impressed that she must go to St. Mary's. She dropped the oars, leaned
forward, and looked eagerly at the opening in the woods where the
Springton road touched the shore.
“What is it, aunty? What do you see!” asked Raby. The child's voice
recalled her to herself.
“Nothing! nothing! Raby. I was only listening to the car-whistle. Didn't
you hear it?” answered Hetty.
“No,” said Raby. “Where are they going? Can't you take me some day.”
The innocent words smote on Hetty's heart. How should she leave Raby?
What would her life be without him? his without her? But thinking about
herself had never been Hetty's habit. That a thing would be hard for
her had never been to Hetty any reason for not doing it, since she was
twelve years old. From all the pain and loss which were involved to
her in this terrible step she turned resolutely away, and never thought
about them except with a guilty sense of selfishness. She believed with
all the intensity of a religious conviction that it would be better for
her husband, now, to have Rachel Barlow for his wife. She believed, with
the same intensity, that she alone stood in the way of this good for
him. Call it morbid, call it unnatural, call it wicked if you will, in
Hetty Williams to have this belief: you must judge her conduct from its
standpoint, and from no other. The belief had gained possession of
her. She could no more gainsay it, resist it, than if it had been
communicated to her by supernatural beings of visible presence and
actual speech. Given this belief, then her whole conduct is lifted to a
plane of heroism, takes rank with the grand martyrdoms; and is not to be
lightly condemned by any who remember the words,--“Greater love hath no
man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friend.”
The more Hetty thought over her plan, the simpler and more feasible
it appeared. More and more she concentrated all her energies on the
perfecting of every detail: she left nothing unthought of, either in her
arrangements for her own future, or in her arrangements for those she
left behind. Her will had been made for many years, leaving unreservedly
to her husband the whole estate of “Gunn's,” and also all her other
property, except a legacy to Jim and Sally, and a few thousand dollars
to old Cæsar and Nan. Hetty was singularly alone in the world. She
had no kindred to whom she felt that she owed a legacy. As she looked
forward to her own departure, she thought with great satisfaction of
the wealth which would now be her husband's. “He will sell the farm, no
doubt,--it isn't likely that he will care to live on here; and when
he has it all in money he can go to Europe, as he has so often said he
would,” she said to herself, still, as ever, planning for her husband's
enjoyment.
As the autumn drew near, she went oftener with Raby to row on the Lake.
A spell seemed to draw her to the spot. She continually lived over,
in her mind, all the steps she must take when the time came. She rowed
slowly back and forth past the opening of the Springton road, and
fancied her own figure walking alone up that bank for the last time.
Several times she left Raby in the boat, and walked as far as the
Fairfield guide-post, and returned. At last she had rehearsed the
terrible drama so many times that it almost seemed to her as if it had
already happened, and she found it strange to be in her own house with
her husband and Jim and Sally and her servants. Already she began to
feel herself dissevered from them. When every thing was ready, she
shrank from taking the final step. Three times she went with Raby to the
Lake, having determined within herself not to return; but her courage
failed her, and she found a ready excuse for deferring all until the
next day. She had forgotten some little thing, or the weather looked
threatening; and the last time she went back, it was simply to kiss her
husband again. “One day more or less cannot make any difference,” she
said to herself. “I will kiss Eben once more.” Oh, what a terrible thing
is this barrier of flesh, which separates soul from soul, even in the
closest relation! Our nearest and dearest friend, sitting so near that
we can hear his every breath, can see if his blood runs by a single
pulse-beat faster to his cheek, may yet be thinking thoughts which, if
we could read them, would break our hearts. When the time came in which
Eben Williams tried to recall the last moments in which he had seen his
wife, all he could recollect was that she kissed him several times with
more than usual affection. At the time he had hardly noted it: he was
just setting off to see a patient, and Raby was urging Hetty to make
haste; and their good-byes had been hurried.
It was on a warm hazy day in October. The woods through which Hetty and
Raby walked to the lake were full of low dogwood bushes, whose leaves
were brilliant; red, pink, yellow, and in places almost white. Raby
gathered boughs of these, and carried them to the boat. It was his
delight to scatter such bright leaves from the stern of the boat,
and watch them following in its wake. They landed on the small island
nearest the Springton shore, and looked for wild grapes, which were now
beginning to be ripe. After an hour or two here, Hetty told Raby that
they must set out: she had errands to do in the town before going home.
She rowed very quickly to the beach, and, just as they were leaving the
boat, she exclaimed:
“Oh, Raby, I have left my shawl on the island; way around on the other
side it is too. I must row back and get it.”
Raby was about to jump into the boat, but she exclaimed:
“No, you stay here, and wait. I can row a great deal quicker with
only one in the boat. Here, dear,” she said, taking off her watch, and
hanging it round his neck, “you can have this to keep you from being
lonely, and you can tell by this how long it will be before I get back.
Watch the hands, and that will make the time seem shorter, they go
so fast. It will take me about half an hour; that will be--let me
see--yes--just five o'clock. There is a good long daylight after that;”
and, kissing him, she jumped into the boat and pushed off. What a moment
it was. Her arms seemed to be paralyzed; but, summoning all her will,
she drove the boat resolutely forward, and looked no more back at Raby.
As soon as she had gained the other side of the island, where she was
concealed from Raby's sight by the trees, she pulled out vigorously
for the Springton shore. When she reached it, she drew the boat up
cautiously on the beach, fastened it, and hid herself among the trees.
Her plan was to wait there until dusk, then push the boat adrift in the
lake, and go out herself adrift into the world. She dared not set out
on her walk to Fairfield until it was dark; she knew, moreover, that
the northern train did not pass until nearly midnight. These hours that
Hetty spent crouched under the hemlock-trees on the shore of the lake
were harder than any which she lived through afterward. She kept her
eyes fixed on the opposite shore, on the spot where she knew the patient
child was waiting for her. She pictured him walking back and forth,
trying by childish devices to while away the time. As the sun sank
low she imagined his first anxious look,--his alarm,--till it seemed
impossible for her to bear the thoughts her imagination called up. He
would wait, she thought, about one hour past the time that she had set
for her return: possibly, for he was a brave child, he might wait until
it began to grow dark; he would think that she was searching for the
shawl. She hoped that any other explanation of her absence would not
occur to him until the very last. As the twilight deepened into dusk,
the mysterious night sounds began to come up from the woods; strange
bird notes, stealthy steps of tiny creatures. Hetty's nerves thrilled
with the awful loneliness: she could bear it no longer; she began to
walk up and down the beach; the sound of her footsteps drowned many
of the mysterious noises, and made her feel less alone. At last it was
dark. With all her strength she turned her boat bottom side up, shoved
it out into the lake, and threw the oars after it. Then she wrapped
herself in a dark cloak, and walked at a rapid pace up the Springton
road. When she reached the road which led to Fairfield, she stopped,
leaned against the guide-post, and looked back and hesitated. It seemed
as if the turning northward were the turning point of every thing. Her
heart was very heavy: almost her purpose failed her. “It is too late to
go back now,” she said, and hurried on.