BEATRICE’S JOURNAL.
October 30, 1848.--My recovery has been slow, and I am still far from
well. I stay in my room almost altogether. Why should I do otherwise?
Day succeeds day, and each day is a blank.
My window looks on the sea, and I can sit there and feed my heart on the
memories which that sea calls up. It is company for me in my solitude.
It is music, though I can not hear its voice. Oh, how I should rejoice
if I could get down by its margin and touch its waters! Oh how I should
rejoice if those waters would flow over me forever!
November 15.--Why I should write any thing now I do not know. This
uneventful life offers nothing to record. Mrs. Compton is as timid, as
gentle, and as affectionate as ever. Philips, poor, timorous, kindly
soul, sends me flowers by her. Poor wretch, how did he ever get here?
How did Mrs. Compton?
December 28.--In spite of my quiet habits and constant seclusion I
feel that I am under some surveillance, not from Mrs. Compton, but from
others. I have been out twice during the last fortnight and perceived
this plainly. Men in the walks who were at work quietly followed me
with their eyes. I see that I am watched. I did not know that I was of
sufficient importance.
Yesterday a strange incident occurred. Mrs. Compton was with me, and by
some means or other my thoughts turned to one about whom I have often
tried to form conjectures--my mother. How could she ever have married a
man like my father? What could she have been like? Suddenly I turned to
Mrs. Compton, and said:
“Did you ever see my mother?”
What there could have been in my question I can not tell, but she
trembled and looked at me with greater fear in her face than I had ever
seen there before. This time she seemed to be afraid of me. I myself
felt a cold chill run through my frame. That awful thought which I had
once before known flashed across my mind.
“Oh!” cried Mrs. Compton, suddenly, “oh, don’t look at me so; don’t look
at me so!”
“I don’t understand you,” said I, slowly.
She hid her face in her hands and began to weep. I tried to soothe her,
and with some success, for after a time she regained her composure.
Nothing more was said. But since then one thought, with a long series of
attendant thoughts, has weighed down my mind. _Who am I? What am I? What
am I doing here? What do these people want with me? Why do they guard
me?_
I can write no more.
January 14, 1849.--The days drag on. Nothing new has happened. I am
tormented by strange thoughts. I see this plainly that there are times
when I inspire fear in this house. Why is this?
Since that day, many, many months ago, when they all looked at me in
horror, I have seen none of them. Now Mrs. Compton has exhibited the
same fear. There is a restraint over her. Yes, she too fears me. Yet she
is kind; and poor Philips never forgets to send me flowers.
I could smile at the idea of any one fearing me, if it were not for the
terrible thoughts that arise within my mind.
February 12.--Of late all my thoughts have changed, and I have been
inspired with an uncontrollable desire to escape. I live here in luxury,
but the meanest house outside would be far preferable. Every hour here
is a sorrow, every day a misery. Oh, me! if I could but escape!
Once in that outer world I care not what might happen. I would be
willing to do menial labor to earn my bread. Yet it need not come to
that. The lessons which Paolo taught me have been useful in more ways
than one. I know that I at least need not be dependent.
He used to say to me that if I chose to go on the stage and sing, I
could do something better than gain a living or make a fortune. He said
I could interpret the ideas of the Great Masters, and make myself a
blessing to the world.
Why need I stay here when I have a voice which he used to deign to
praise? He did not praise it because he loved me; but I think he loved
me because he loved my voice. He loves my voice better than me. And
that other one! Ah me--will he ever hear my voice again? Did he know how
sweet his voice was to me? Oh me! its tones ring in my ears and in my
heart night and day.
March 5.--My resolution is formed. This may be my last entry. I pray to
God that it may be. I will trust in him and fly. At night they can not
be watching me. There is a door at the north end, the key of which is
always in it. I can steal out by that direction and gain my liberty.
Oh Thou who hearest prayer, grant deliverance to the captive!
Farewell now, my journal; I hope never to see you again! Yet I will
secrete you in this chamber, for if I am compelled to return I may be
glad to seek you again.
March 6.--Not yet! Not yet!
Alas! and since yesterday what things have happened! Last night I was to
make my attempt. They dined at eight, and I waited for them to retire. I
waited long. They were longer than usual.
[Illustration: “OH!” CRIED MRS. COMPTON SUDDENLY, “OH, DON’T LOOK AT ME
SO; DON’T LOOK AT ME SO!”]
At about ten o’clock Mrs. Compton came into my room, with as frightened
a face as usual. “They want you,” said she.
I knew whom she meant. “Must I go?” said I.
“Alas, dear child, what can you do? Trust in God. He can save you.”
“He alone can save me,” said I, “if He will. It has come to this that I
have none but Him in whom I can trust.”
She began to weep. I said no more, but obeyed the command and went down.
Since I was last there months had passed--months of suffering and
anguish in body and mind. The remembrance of my last visit there came
over me as I entered. Yet I did not tremble or falter. I crossed the
threshold and entered the room, and stood before them in silence.
I saw the three men who had been there before. _He_ and his son, and the
man Clark, They had all been drinking. Their voices were loud and their
laughter boisterous as I approached. When I entered they became quiet,
and all three stared at me. At last _he_ said to his son,
“She don’t look any fatter, does she, Johnnie?”
“She gets enough to eat, any how,” answered John.
“She’s one of them kind,” said the man Clark, “that don’t fatten up. But
then, Johnnie, you needn’t talk--you haven’t much fat yourself, lad.”
“Hard work,” said John, whereupon the others, thinking it an excellent
joke, burst into hoarse laughter. This put them into great good-humor
with themselves, and they began to turn their attention to me again. Not
a word was said for some time.
“Can you dance?” said he, at last, speaking to me abruptly.
“Yes,” I answered.
“Ah! I thought so. I paid enough for your education, any how. It would
be hard if you hadn’t learned any thing else except squalling and
banging on the piano.”
I said nothing.
“Why do you stare so, d--n you?” he cried, looking savagely at me.
I looked at the floor.
“Come now,” said he. “I sent for you to see if you can dance. Dance!”
I stood still. “Dance!” he repeated with an oath. “Do you hear?”
“I can not,” said I.
“Perhaps you want a partner,” continued he, with a sneer. “Here,
Johnnie, go and help her.”
“I’d rather not,” said John.
“Clark, you try it--you were always gay,” and he gave a hoarse laugh.
“Yes, Clark,” cried John. “Now’s your chance.”
Clark hesitated for a moment, and then came toward me. I stood with my
arms folded, and looked at him fixedly. I was not afraid. For I thought
in that hour of who these men were, and what they were. My life was in
their hands, but I held life cheap. I rose above the fear of the moment,
and felt myself their superior.
Clark came up to me and stopped. I did not move.
“Curse her!” said he. “I’d as soon dance with a ghost. She looks like
one, any how.”
_He_ laughed boisterously.
“He’s afraid. He’s getting superstitious!” he cried. “What do you think
of that, Johnnie?”
“Well,” drawled John, “it’s the first time I ever heard of Clark being
afraid of any thing.”
These words seemed to sting Clark to the quick.
“Will you dance?” said he, in a hoarse voice.
I made no answer.
“Curse her! make her dance!” _he_ shouted, starting up from his chair.
“Don’t let her bully you, you fool!”
Clark stepped toward me and laid one heavy hand on mine, while he
attempted to pass the other round my waist. At the horror of his
polluting touch all my nature seemed transformed. I started back. There
came something like a frenzy over me. I neither knew nor cared what I
said.
Yet I spoke slowly, and it was not like passion. All that I had read in
that manuscript was in my heart, the very spirit of the murdered Despard
seemed to inspire me.
“Touch me not,” I said. “Trouble me not. I am near enough to Death
already. And you,” I cried, stretching out my hand to him, “THUG! never
again will I obey one command of yours. Kill me if you choose, and send
me after Colonel Despard.”
These words seemed to blast and wither them. Clark shrank back. _He_
gave a groan, and clutched the arm of his chair. John looked in fear
from one to the other, and stammered with an oath:
“She knows all! Mrs. Compton told her.”
“Mrs. Compton never knew it, about the Thug,” said he, and then looked
up fearfully at me. They all looked once more. Again that fear which I
had seen in them before was shown upon their faces.
I looked upon these wretches as though I had surveyed them from some
lofty height. That one of them was my father was forgotten. I seemed to
utter words which were inspired within me.
“Colonel Despard has spoken to me from the dead, and told me all,” said
I. “I am appointed to avenge him.”
I turned and went out of the room. As I left I heard John’s voice:
“If she’s the devil himself, as I believe she is,” he cried, “_she’s got
to be took down!_”
I reached my room. I lay awake all night long. A fever seemed raging
in all my veins. Now with a throbbing head and trembling hands I write
this. Will these be my last words? God grant it, and give me safe
deliverance. Amen! amen!