"Was I deceived or did a sable cloud
Turn forth her silver lining on the night?"
--_Milton_
"Three months! three months!" Guy said in a low, puzzled voice, as he
lay wide awake on his bed, turning and twisting all the circumstances of
his recent discoveries over and over in his head. "I can never stay here
all that time. Besides, I have a good deal to do." He thought over it a
little while longer, and then looking quite satisfied, he turned himself
comfortably on the other side and went deliberately off into a peaceful
sleep.
Three months never appear to us to contain half of their real length
when we have much to consider and much to do in a given time of that
duration. One month had already elapsed, during whose flight Guy had
made some important discoveries.
He had traced up the bogus parsonage, and had even found, by some lucky
accident, the residence of Philip Campbell, the rescuer of Fifine de
Maistre. The "Lower Farms" is, of all secluded spots, about the most
secluded, and people went there just as Guy did--through curiosity. It
tempted Guy in his search as being the most direct route from the house
where the extraordinary wedding had taken place. He had been sitting in
the small public room of the village inn a few hours after his arrival,
hiding his anxious face behind the folds of the country weekly
newspaper, when the conversation of a group of men at the counter in the
corner interested him.
"Take somethin', doctor," said one burly, good-natured fellow to an aged
person of apparent dignity and respectability, "you must feel all out o'
sorts after this day's work."
"Not a bit," said the man addressed, "we doctors grow quite accustomed
to such sights when we have reached my age in the profession."
"I dare say, indeed, doctor," said a credulous looking youth, who was
rubbing his unshaved chin and lips with the broad back of a sunburnt
hand, "ye must have interestin' sights now and then doctor, though wan
'ud think there wudd'nt be much fuss in a place like this, barrin' it
comes from folks' own contrariness, like Michael Doyle's daughter
to-day--the world knows if they'd stuck to the old style, like their
dacenter neighbors, and burnt their safe tallow candles, Maggie Doyle
wuddn't be shrivelled up to a crisp to-night from coal ile 'splosions.
We all told 'em so!"--wound up this matter-of-fact youth, after
reviewing in a few words the sad fate of one of the village girls, who
had, the night previous, met her death through a lamp explosion that had
set fire to her clothes.
"'Tis sad to see a young woman the victim of death," the doctor said
reflectively. "I get quite overcome myself when I see them suffer. I
have never forgotten the pitiful sight of the young woman we picked up
in the bush leading from the 'Grey House' one morning about three years
ago."
This familiar allusion of the old doctor's to his experience of that
eventful day was as well understood by every one there as it was by
himself, but somehow such persons of eminence as doctors or curates of
small villages always find the rustic inhabitants ready to appreciate
their tales, were it their hundredth repetition. Fortunately for Guy,
some rough sycophant expressed himself interested in the allusion, and
asked a question or two, which succeeded in bringing out for about the
sixtieth time from the doctor's lips the whole story of Josephine de
Maistre's rescue. Guy strained his ears as he leaned sideways to hear
the interesting details. He could scarcely conceal his agitation as each
precious item dropped from the aged doctor's lips. Finally, Guy laid
down his paper and approached the listening group.
"I have overheard your strange story," he said, addressing the venerable
man of medicine, "and being of your profession myself, I naturally
interest myself in your experience. Did your unfortunate patient die?"
he tried to ask in the most careless curiosity.
The village doctor looked condescendingly on the intruder, and the
others in dumb courtesy moved aside to let the new comer through.
"No, she did not die," the doctor answered, rubbing his hands, "but
though she recovered her bodily health, her mind was terribly deranged.
None of us could glean anything of importance from her wild answers, she
was foolishly inconsistent in everything, but when she spoke of her
'revenge' and of 'Bijou,' whoever that was."
Guy felt as if his heart had bounded into his mouth, and had to muster
all the moral courage he could to prevent his betraying himself, his
tone was a masterpiece of affected indifference when he asked,--
"Do you know what became of this poor victim after she left here?"
"Oh, we did not lose sight of her," said the doctor, in a tone which
insinuated that a suspicion of such neglect insulted the dignity of his
profession, "by no means. When she had recovered her physical health
under our treatment, we had her transferred to 'Beauport,' where she was
sure to be well treated--It was as sad a case on the whole, I think, as
was ever recorded," mused the would-be wise and experienced physician,
and as Guy agreed with him, he strolled lazily towards the door, and in
another moment had quitted the inn.
Guy felt himself now to be the direct depository of a great mission,
which his conscience bade him fulfil right away. Just as hurriedly and
as anxiously as if he were hastening to the death-bed of his nearest
relative, Guy took the very next train down to Quebec, resolving
silently to spend every exertion he was capable of in this precious
duty, or die.
In the fiercest battles of our daily lives, there are only two incitants
which can never fail to give our heart a hope, our hope a courage, our
courage a strength, and our strength whatever possible success can be
wrung from fate under such circumstances; these are, the two great
influences of hatred--and of love. There is no strength so fierce, so
terrible as the hater's, just as there is no strength so steady, so
hopeful, so ambitious, as that which guides the lover's hand. We would
do a great many hard and trying things for our love's sake, but those
things which the righteous could never do--even for their love--are the
better sweets of an active hatred. Love has its limits, but hatred--its
only sweetness is its infinity, its boundless freedom, and its endless
resources.
There was something of both these stimulants pressing Guy Elersley
onward to determined action. All the mighty strength of years of subdued
love and sincerest devotion spurred him hopefully on, and all the
crushing power of a few days' hatred goaded him on to merciless action.
He stowed away that other every-day life of his, and assumed this new
phase of his existence dutifully and well. The reward stood in the
distance, smiling and beckoning, though 'tis true that his eyes could
only discover the familiar outlines of his heart's idol through the
doubtful mists of the "possible", but it were as well to spend his
pent-up emotions in this way as have them crushed from his heart by a
merciless blow of fate, in bitter disappointment.
It would scarcely interest the reader to follow Guy Elersley in his
rambles, from the time he passed out of the dingy doorway of the village
public-house until he drew up, after a long drive, before the imposing
entrance of "Beauport Asylum." The bracing air of the country road that
leads to this establishment had had a most beneficial effect on Guy's
temperament, and therefore as he alighted from his _calèche_, his step
had resumed something of its old lightness, and his face had lost some
of its serious expression.
Guy cogitated sadly as he sauntered quietly up the gravel walks that
lead to the main entrance of the edifice. With its air of quiet and
peaceful dignity, its beautiful paths, and _parterres_ of blooming
flowers, its fountains and grottoes, none could suspect that its
melancholy mission was to shelter the noblest work of an Infinite hand
in a wrecked and shattered state. There are collected the precious,
priceless ruins of the masterpieces of the Artist of Life; an assemblage
of ruins over which the most hardened cannot refrain from weeping, were
it their very last tear.
Before making any inquiries, Guy passed silently as any ordinary visitor
through the different apartments of the "women's ward," carefully
studying and scrutinizing any young or beautiful faces that might answer
the purpose, he was there to serve: but a pained expression of growing
disappointment like despair was settling on his face, as he scanned the
last group of quiet, staring countenances that remained to be seen.
There was nothing in all that mass of wrecked humanity which satisfied
him.
Quiet, reserved women, looked up into his face with a meaningless gaze
as he passed from one to another in his eager search, turning their
heads stupidly in his direction, as they knitted their well-shaped
stockings diligently; other dishevelled, drivelling imbeciles, gathered
up in the corners of benches or on the floors, raised their empty eyes
to look carelessly out through masses of tumbled hair at him, and then
with some half articulate chuckle to clasp their hands tightly around
their knees again, and drop their heads into their laps.
From these harmless, foolish victims, Guy passed eagerly on to the more
thrilling presence of the maniacs, but even here, though wild shrieks
and dark threatening looks greeted him on all sides, he could not find a
clue to assist in unravelling his secret plot. There were loud toned
viragos who screached and roared in fearful imprecations and appealed to
unknown people, victims of the demon alcohol--there were the dark,
sullen, silent ones, brooding over their imaginary or real wrongs, and
weeping and moaning piteously--there were the dangerous, careless and
happy victims, who filled the dismal cells with their heart-rending
peals of wild laughter, that fall upon the heart like the loneliest
knell--there were the apparently quiet, religious ones who addressed
their Creator in ceaseless, meaningless prayer, crying for forgiveness
and mercy, but there was no bright, pretty French child, who called for
"Bijou" or her "revenge," and this discouraged Guy very much. Presently
addressing the guide, who escorted him through these apartments of
living death, Guy said:
"Have you no cases of love mania, one younger than these?" waving his
hand, as he spoke, in the direction of the rooms he had just visited.
The middle-aged guide shook her head sadly and said:
"Not at present, Sir, the last one of that sort, died a few months after
admission.
Guy's heart sank as heavily as a lump of lead within his breast.
"Died?" he reiterated in a tone which bespoke a faint hope that the
other had made some mistake.
"Yes, Sir, poor thing," said the pensive-looking woman addressed, "she
was a beautiful sight to look upon too, such a pretty face, and such
slender little hands, she was very melancholy for three or four months,
and then died."
"Do you know the circumstances that brought about her derangement?"
asked Guy, almost in despair of ever solving the tangled problem now.
"I think, if I don't mistake," quietly answered his informant, twirling
her thumbs, "that her husband had deserted her, and then committed
suicide, although they had been married but a year."
Guy grasped this as the straw to which he might yet cling, and looking
hurriedly up at the demure woman who stood watching him silently, he
interrupted:
"Pardon my inquisitiveness, madam, but I am in search of a friend, who,
I was told, was sent here nearly three years ago, being at that time the
unfortunate victim of a love episode."
Guy fancied the reserved matron was casting covert glances at himself,
and he fairly staggered as she said in a long breath--
"The pity is, you young gentleman don't repent in time. Where's the use
o' looking for the girl, now, she's mad; why didn't ye leave her her
senses when she had 'em?"
"My dear woman," Guy gasped, with dilated eyes, "_I_ am not the party to
blame, _I_ am only a friend of the young lady's, I am sorry you should
consider me guilty of such a serious crime!"
"Oh, beg your pardon, sir," the woman interrupted coolly, "but its not
such a great mistake of mine, I'll be bound the young gentleman as has
had his finger in the pie, is just as sleek and fine to look at outside
as yourself," then meditatively "there's no trusting young men by their
looks now-a-days."
Guy could not shirk the truth of this, for Vivian Standish's "outside"
was far more polished than his own, and he therefore accepted the
woman's tame apology and calmed down.
"I would give anything I own, that would assist me in recovering her,"
he said, so earnestly, that his matter-of-fact guide rested her lean
chin in her hollow palm, and agreed to "think" for his benefit.
After a second or two fraught with extreme anxiety for Guy, the woman
asked:
"Do you know of anything particular to trace her by?"
Guy recalled the village doctor's account and quickly told her, that,
the circumstances connected with her mania had so impressed her, that
she continually talked of revenge, frequently using the name "Bijou,"
"she had also," he continued, a little less hopefully, and more
reluctantly, "a large Newfoundland dog with her, when she left the
doctor's house on the 'Lower Farms'"
"Ah, now I know!" the quiet matron exclaimed in subdued surprise, "the
young lady with the dog, sure enough--sure enough, but we don't count
her somehow," said the woman, interrupting her exclamation of surprise.
"I am so glad that you remember at last," said Guy, whose heart was
throbbing with anxiety while she spoke, "do tell me all you remember of
her, like a good woman."
"Well, you see," the provokingly slow woman began, "I was just serving
my first year, and I was full of pity and sympathy for the poor souls I
saw in trouble--though I become quite used to 'em now--and this young
creature in particular went straight to my heart. I was good to her, and
she took to me, and we became fast friends; she never would give up the
great big dog, and he clung to her in return for all he was worth, but
one day this sweet creature called me, and says she, 'don't be uneasy
about me Mrs. Hammond, there is nothing very wrong with my brain,' says
she, 'I've had a very bad attack of brain fever,' says she, 'and I feel
its effects sometimes yet, but that will soon pass away,' says she, 'and
I'll be as right as ever again,' I did not mind this," continued the
narrator addressing Guy confidentially, "for the worst of them sometimes
talk as sensible as you or me, but, for all that, I hoped in my heart
'twas the truth, and I kept on coming to see her, and talking common
sense to her, like I would to you or any other sensible folk, and by and
bye, I found out that her own predictions was true, and that she had
quite recovered her senses. We reported this, and the attending
physician agreed with us, and we were all mighty glad, sir," the woman
said kindly "for the sweet girl's own sake."
"And what became of her then?" asked Guy, impatiently, unable to await
the woman's pleasure to hear the happy sequel.
"Well sir," continued she, "the young lady said she had neither money
nor friends, and expressed a wish to retire to some place, where she
could practice acts of gratitude to the Almighty, for having saved her
from the threatened fate of madness. She did not tell us quite as plain
as that what her intentions were, but we soon found out, so unless
anything unusual happened, you will find her yet, cloistered voluntarily
in the home of some pious ladies who dwell on the outskirts of the city.
Anyone will drive you there; you are on the road now; it is far enough
on the outskirts of the town, but a pleasant drive for all that, and
sure, sir, I, for one, wish you the best of success in your
undertaking."
"Thank you, my good woman, a thousand times I thank you. You have
lightened a great burden from my heart, and I will not forget it
either," and as he showered his protestations of gratitude on the head
of the gratified matron, he bowed himself out, and beat a hasty retreat
back to his carriage.