The three weeks’ absence of Monsieur de Serval, was occupied in
fulfilling our engagement in Ajesha, which was performed twenty nights,
and obtained great popularity for itself and glorious fame for us. Upon
the return of my lover, my comet-like career was to terminate into
marriage and retirement into private life. Blanche still adhered to her
resolution of remaining unmarried, though many good offers had been made
her; and of the opinions of Inez in that particular, we had been duly
informed by a letter from herself, describing her happiness, and pleasant
home, and husband’s love.
The prophecy of old Acte lingered in my mind and constantly haunted me,
and Blanche also seemed painfully impressed by her words. I observed
for some days before M. de Serval’s return, that she would sit for
hours—often all day—in absent thought, noticing no one, answering no
one, if spoken to. Wondering at this neglect of my kindness in her,
who had always from childhood manifested so much attachment to me, I
felt a reproach to this coolness rise to my lips; but when I glanced at
that calm, sweet face, and saw the pre-occupation of sad thought, all
anger vanished, and quietly coinciding with her wish, I left her to her
meditations.
The night before the day on which my lover returned, I sought my pillow
early; but sleep fled my eager embrace. Restlessly I tossed: I could not
rest. Madame Bonni had a library of select works fitted up in a little
room on the ground floor; I remembered this, and wanting to amuse me
till repose should come, I arose, slipped on an opera-cloak of blue
satin, which happened to be lying near the bed, and thrusting my feet
in slippers, descended the stairs: all the household were retired. I
got my book from the library, and was about returning, when passing
the door which led into the garden, at that late hour I was surprised
to see it open. The resplendent moonlight streamed brightly through,
disclosing my favorite seat beneath the blooming Acacia and those beds
of roses so odorous, and that pretty garden looked so inviting, that I
stepped out in the moonlight and looked around. All nature was hushed to
repose,—that delightful calm which, unlike death, tells of prostrated
strength presently to be revived. As I stood upon the porch, gazing
vacantly around, voices struck my ear. Who could be there at that late
hour? I thought of robbers, and trembled with fear. A moment’s listening
re-assured me: it was a woman’s sweet tones I heard, and then those of a
man in reply.
Far down the gravel-walk, at the extreme end of the garden—by the margin
of a little fountain which had once played there, but whose source was
now neglected and obstructed by weeds and stones—I thought I perceived
two forms. Determined to ascertain who and what they were, I stole
noiselessly down the walk, to the shade of my favorite tree, which now
cast its deep shadow far down the way, and concealing myself behind the
broad trunk, peeped from around it, and beheld, to my astonishment, Lord
Glenfells and Blanche!
I saw her leaning on his full chest, her arms encircling his neck, her
little mouth united to his, her soft eyes fixed on his, and he was gazing
into hers with the same fondness—only more animal passion added to it.
Tears fell like pearly dew from her eyes, and I saw him pause, as he
spoke, and wipe them away with his small hand. I listened to hear their
voices speak again, unable to explain to myself this singular scene.
“Is not love the same? Can an empty ceremony—said over two lovers—render
more binding the greatest, best, and noblest sentiment of our nature.
Say, Blanche!—my beautiful one, my ocean pearl!—could the words of the
matrimonial service make me more constant,—make me love you more than I
now do? You, my heart’s worship, my idol! shall I not give you my whole
soul; and what more can I do? If an unhallowed, a conventional form into
which I was persuaded—forced; if that wretched link of earth binds me,
in earthly form, to another,—what matters it? Consider, love, it is the
same, so long as we are constant to our attachment: that constitutes the
perfidy. Oh! listen not to the world’s prudence—to the cold calculations
of a prudish moral. Let feeling usurp its place, and that I know will
triumph—will plead my cause. Come with me this night—now; beneath the
light of yonder bright silver. We will seek some other land, or a distant
part of this country, where your fault—if that can be called fault which
consumates my bliss—will be unknown, unheard of; and we will live in
blest harmony and love. Come, dearest; come?”
“No, no!” and her voice was choked by tears. “My love is all wrong: it is
unhallowed. You are a married man. If I fly with you, disgrace follows
me: you have a wife in England: you must forget me, and I, you. Even were
you free, would you marry me? Consider your rank, and _I_ an actress.”
“Blanche, you mean not what you say, when you tell me to forget you. Do
you really wish me to return to England to my dull wife—ten years my
senior—and the stupidity of home—a home like that? Do you really wish it?
If so,—farewell.”
He made a movement to turn away; but she clung still closer to his bosom,
and buried her head there.
“Cruel! oh, cruel! I do not want you to go.”
“Consent, then, to go with me. Come now, this moment? I will get a
carriage, and morning light shall find us far away. Decide, Blanche,
between my loss and my happiness. No answer? Blanche, are you dreaming,
love?”
“No; I was thinking of Genevra, my faithful friend. What will she think
of my conduct! How mysterious it will seem to her: how ungrateful! but I
love her,—oh, so dearly! She is the only woman who ever loved me, and I
return her feelings with usury, too. Let me at least run up to her room,
and, as she sleeps, kiss her farewell. I feel, for the last time, and
here,—while the moon shines so bright above—while I consent to forfeit,
for your sake, my good name, inviolate till this moment,—here let me
gaze upon those starry spheres, and call down upon her young head their
resplendent blessings. Oh, Heavenly Spirit! preserve her as she now
is—beautiful and pure as the lily of the valley. Preserve her from that
error of the heart which I now commit, which leads me to sin—knowing
that sin. Grant that, in some future state, our souls may meet—may hold
communion with each other, and be conscious of affinity. Holy influences
of heaven! spirit of night and air! grant my prayer.”
I saw her sink upon her knees, clasp her hands on her white neck, and
fix her eyes on the starry firmament. Thus she remained a moment, in a
breathless ecstacy of thought, when Lord Glenfells gently raised her, and
once more folded her to his bosom.
“Why this tumult of passion, dearest? What agitates you so?”
“Get a carriage: bring it round to the garden-gate: I shall soon be ready
for you. Meanwhile, let me go and kiss her good by?”
I saw her break away from his fond arms; and, quick as thought, I
retreated to my chamber, unobserved as I had come. I would not for worlds
that she should have known that I had overheard her. I got into bed
again, and closed my eyes. She passed my door, and ascended to her own
room. Her hasty steps sounded overhead for some time,—hurriedly packing
up, I suppose,—then she again descended, and paused at my door.
The lock turned, and her sylph-like form glided to my bed side. She
stooped over me—imagining I slept—and smoothed my hair beneath my cap
with her tiny hand; then she kissed my forehead, and murmured,—
“Genevra! dear Genevra! dear friend! when you awake in the morning you
will seek me, but find me not: perhaps you may miss me for a little
while,—may sometimes think of me with love and kindness: I hope so. I go
to a new life—the life of love! I go to accomplish my destiny.”
Once again she kissed me, then glided from the room. I heard her tell
Lord Glenfells to bring the carriage to the garden-gate. My room looked
on the street. I rose again from bed, and directed my steps to a little
back room, near my own, which overlooked this gate. I wanted to see her
go, though she knew not I was a witness of that departure. Her behaviour
was an enigma I could not solve, and the reasons for which ever remained
a mystery. If she was determined to become the associate of this man,
why not go to him in broad daylight: what prevented her? She was her own
mistress: no one did, or had the right to control her. She had long ago
emancipated herself from her teacher’s guardianship; what, then, was the
reason of this secret flight? I knew not then: I know not now.
I had stood watching at the window of the room for some time, when I
saw Lord Glenfells and Blanche emerge from the shadow of the porch, and
pass through the gate; he put her in the landau, saw the baggage placed
behind; seated himself by her, and, like lightning, they vanished from my
sight.
* * * * *
The amazement of our hostess can better be imagined than described, when,
on going to her room next day, she found it unoccupied—the stage and
personal wardrobe of its fair proprietress gone also: and whither had she
taken her flight? how strange the gifted child of song should yield to
a momentary infatuation; and, listening to impulse, forgetting reason,
abandon herself to such a life: what demon possessed her?
I had expected a violent storm on the part of M. Belmont; but, to my
astonishment, he received my recital of the night’s adventure with
perfect indifference: and remarked, with imperturbable phlegm, that “it
was her own affair; she ought to know best what she was about.” I had
expected some surprise, sorrow, or at least an emotion of some sort; but
I forgot that my teacher had been hardened in the ways of the world; and
births, deaths, marriages, seductions, and every other evil thing, was a
matter of course to him. He always maintained that every sensible person
should be the best judge of their own conduct: like a true Frenchman, he
did as he pleased, and allowed every one else to do the same, unmolested,
undisturbed by criticism or advice.
After breakfast, Madame Bonni and I sat together speculating and
mystifying about Blanche’s strange behaviour: the problem, however, could
not be solved by us. It was past elucidation, and the more we talked,
the farther we got from the point—the motive of action. While we were
discussing, I was called away; my lover had returned.
I found him standing on his feet, hat in hand, facing the door, where
I entered—his face calm and happy in expression—and it warmed and
brightened when I came towards him; catching my hands in his, he pressed
them fervently, and, kissing me, asked,
“Have you missed me, darling?”
“Oh! very much, dear Rinaldo.”
“And I have been dreaming of you during my whole journey; I scarcely
had sense enough left from reverie to attend to my business, and I have
hurried back, leaving it half incomplete, to be arranged by lawyers.”
“But where is it you have been to, dearest?”
“Genoa and the frontier of Austria: an estate left me I was in danger of
losing, through the perfidy of relations; but, thank heaven! their malice
is defeated, and I am safe: now, love, come sit here by me on this sofa,
and tell me all you have been doing. I left the night Somnambula was to
be performed: tell me about it; did it succeed?”
I described the opera, and singing: its success, and subsequently the
disappearance of Blanche with Lord Glenfells, the night before.
“Gone with Lord Glenfells! what an unwise action: but who is he?”
“A gay young Englishman, travelling on the continent for amusement;
dear Blanche, who would have dreamed, after all the temptations she has
evaded, who would have thought she would have acted thus?”
“No one in truth; it is very strange: your friend appeared so gentle,
so indifferent to men’s society, and fond of solitude; of all women, I
should have thought her the very last one to commit so rash an action.”
“Blanche is one of those strange, impulsive beings, who, if you can only
thoroughly warm and interest, will go all lengths to love and please
you. Lord Glenfells has acquired a great influence over her, and she has
consented to forego respectability, society, everything for him. Oh, how
I wish she had not done so; how I regret her loss.”
“She may repent this imprudence some day, and return to propriety;
and you, do not grieve about her; summon your stoical philosophy, and
practice your favorite aphorism. Never regret that which is past.”
“Yes, I know I ought to practice my precepts: philosophy triumphs over
past and future ills, but present troubles overmaster philosophy.”
“True, love: a wise remark.”
“We were engaged to sing five nights yet, to complete our engagement; now
she is flown, I shall have to finish alone,” I observed, absently; for,
notwithstanding my joy at seeing my lover again, my thoughts reverted to
the absent Blanche.
Monsieur de Serval drew me gently toward him, as he sat upon the sofa.
“Come hither dearest, come sit close by me, your presumptive and future
lawful protector; do not look so sad; cheer up, and let us talk of
happiness and love, and delightful scenes, and conversations, all in
store for us in times to come.”
But I could not feel my usual cheerfulness, even for _his_ sake, and
after a slight conversation he went away, and I retired to my own room
and my solitude; and then I wept for Blanche’s loss, and Blanche’s shame.
Nothing is sooner dried than a tear; and, as de Serval had said, my
regrets could not restore her, could not undo her behaviour; and the
deprivation of her sweet society, made me fonder still (if that could be)
of that of Monsieur de Serval; my whole heart now exclusively centered in
him. I performed my last engagement on the Neapolitan boards, and bade
adieu to the distinguished patronage of royalty, and the humble, yet
heartfelt admiration of the people. The journals doled forth newspaper
sentiment and lamentations at the dramatic loss; and private circles
wondered at my good fortune. For myself I did not think whether it was
good fortune or not. I only knew, I only thought I loved him, and was
willing to go any where, do anything, make any sacrifice for him. I
will not describe the few weeks of courtship that intervened before my
marriage; such scenes can only be felt, be experienced, they cannot be
told; they are sad, yet sweet episodes in my memory, and though painful
to recur to, yet mentally I treasure them, for that was my _first_ love.
Signor, I married him; my wedding was simple, and celebrated with but
little display; his noble friend, the Countess Bramonti honored it with
her distinguished presence; and my guardian, teacher, and benefactor,
Monsieur Belmont, gave me away. I was united to him in the pretty church
of Sacre Cœur, where, some weeks before I had attended mass with Madame
Bonni; it was filled with spectators, every one wishing to see the new
singer married; and my kind hostess kissed me at the conclusion of the
ceremony, and wished me happiness, with tears in her eyes, and smiles on
her lips.
“May many blissful days and years be thine, fair girl,” said the countess
in her deep tones, as she swept her majestic form toward me, and clasped
me in her arms; “may you love each other, and in that love be happy.”
Monsieur Belmont conducted me to the carriage, which was to bear me
away to my future home, in a valley, amid the cloud-capt Appenines.
Immediately on arrival there, I promised to write to him, and regularly
maintain a correspondence. My husband, (how strange the word sounded
to my ears,) joined me, and I was whirled away from the scene of my
short-lived, yet brilliant triumphs.
Our journey to his mountain home occupied two days; and during the time
my husband exhibited a frenzy of emotion, which terrified more than it
pleased me. But the ways and loves of men were then Isiac mysteries
to me, and you know their translation of the word love, is rendered
differently to ours.
On the evening of the second day of our travel, he told me we were
approaching the “Chateau of the Ravine,” for that was the traditionary
name of the castle. The scenery was sublime, and lost in contemplation
and thought, reposing my head on his shoulder, I silently admired it.
Stupendous rocks, rising perpendicularly in the air, to an immense
height, faced the smooth road on either side for some distance; as these
declined away, a broad vista of the dark blue mountains far in distance,
and a beautiful level plain, such as I had seen when first I came to
Naples, met my gaze. Like a panorama these swiftly disappeared, and we
entered on a broken chain of the Appenines themselves; the carriage
slowly wound round and round the upward ascent of the rocky pass, barely
wide enough to allow the vehicle room to roll along; then we descended
as rapidly as we had come up, and thus continued on for some miles, when
the ridge of mountains suddenly terminated, and I looked down from the
great height on which we stood, and beheld at my feet the ravine, and in
the midst of it, presenting an imposing appearance of grandeur and decay,
the chateau. It had been built, my husband said, in the ancient times of
feudal splendor, but its successive possessors, either for want of means
or inclination, had suffered it to moulder away, as time, year after
year, diminished its magnificence. He said he intended refitting it, and
renovating the antique style, and I was pleased to hear the promise that
so fine a structure should be rescued from decay.
A few minutes brought us to the gates, which were thrown wide open to
receive us, and the carriage rumbled into the great court-yard. M. de
Serval alighted, lifted me out, and leaning on his arm, I ascended a
marble staircase, and entered a pretty salon, tastefully furnished, where
I sat down, quite wearied by fatigue. He left the room for a moment, to
order lights and supper to be prepared, for twilight was stealing over
us, and leaning back on the couch, I languidly closed my eyes, and was
almost dropt asleep, when a heavy footstep startled me; looking up, I saw
standing before me, and fixedly looking at me, an old woman; there was
nothing strange in the simple fact of her being old, for old women are
plentiful as stars; but this one was peculiarly singular in appearance;
she wore a scarlet woollen petticoat, black stockings, and a little cap
of green; her long, thick, and coarse black hair, fell below her waist in
tangled braids; her eyes were piercing in expression, and they seemed to
sparkle and glance fire as she fixedly stared at me. She appeared to be
beating time to her own thoughts, for she repeatedly struck her breast
with her right hand. Perceiving that I saw her, she curtesied, and in a
lofty tone said,
“Welcome to your home, fair mistress; welcome to the ‘Chateau of the
Ravine.’
“Do you belong to the household of Monsieur de Serval?” I asked,
strangely impressed by her manner and appearance.
“Yes, madame: I came here a long time ago, in the service of the first
lady.”
“The first lady! who was she?”
“You know, madame, of course, the Lady Isodore, Monsieur’s—”
Abruptly she paused; and, turning, I saw my husband’s stern gaze fastened
on her: she cowered beneath that look; and well she might, for even I
could not have met it unabashed.
“Pasiphae, you can go; your young mistress is tired; she needs repose
after her long travel.”
Silently she retreated.
“Who is that old woman, dearest? her strange ways surprised me.”
“An old domestic I have retained in my service, though almost useless;
come Genevra, your chamber is prepared, and supper arranged in the
banqueting hall.”
Thither we went: the apartment was magnificent, and one of the tables set
with dainties that might have delighted an epicure; the lamps, shrined
in vases of alabaster, shed a sweet, soft light; the hush of stillness
and repose reigned within and without; and, more than all, my husband’s
accents of tenderness, and the tumult of love that had usurped the place
of gentler emotions in my breast, have impressed that scene in indelible
traits on my memory.
After supper we returned to the salon, and entertained ourselves, till
the clock struck the hour for retiring, with a conversation in which
_words_ had all to do, not thoughts: _they_ were differently employed.
Then, at ten o’clock, we retired to our bedchamber; the same old woman
stood at the door of the room as I entered: an ominous smile sat on her
lips; she opened her mouth, as if to speak; but, perceiving my husband
close behind me, she went away without expressing the thoughts which
seemed to tremble on the point of utterance.
Then, when the door closed behind us, suffocated with joy, we fell into
each other’s arms—let me draw a veil over that night, and pass to other
scenes.
* * * * *
I wish I could make you realize the ecstatic rhapsody in those first days
of wedded love: such emotions as I experienced one can only experience
once in a lifetime: for the novelty wears away; they also disappear.
I wish I could make you feel as I felt, as we roved together, like
children, hand in hand, through those flowery glades, and through the
blooming gardens of this old castle—sometimes reading, sometimes talking,
always loving, and picturing a continued increase of happiness, and
everlasting bliss.
Alas! poor frail human nature! Poor frail, inconstant mortals! What a
strange mockery does it not seem to our own hearts to look back after
years have changed these delusions of fancy, and stripped them of their
false lustre; what a mockery does it not seem to think over what we once
thought—and see the folly of dreaming of affections unaltered, and hearts
that never could grow cold?
Old Pasiphae was my attendant. I preferred her to another, a younger
girl, who had come to the castle to engage in my service. She was a
very odd woman, and strongly infected with the popular superstitions of
that section of the country. She was avoided by the other domestics as
a half lunatic: for low, ignorant, or vulgar minds, always attribute
eccentricity of mind or manner to mental perturbation; and, surely, the
wise have every inducement to become insane, if they pay attention or
depend for happiness on the stupid fools of which the greater portion of
mankind are composed.
The chateau was built with two wings each side of the main building: the
right wing was always closed, bolted and barred. I had been married two
months, when curiosity induced me, one day, to ask Monsieur de Serval
the reason why that part of the mansion was unopened, unoccupied, and
neglected. He answered carelessly, that the castle was so large, he had
not thought it necessary to refit that side of it;—it was more decayed
than the rest. This reply satisfied me for the moment, but woman’s
curiosity was on the alert, and I wished, I scarce know why, to see the
interior of that gloomy side of the chateau.
Six months had glided swiftly on since my marriage. Oh, days of hope! oh,
hours of happiness! with what mournful pleasure do I retrace your flight!
and with what lingering sadness detail the strange contrast which time
developed all too quickly to my wondering eyes!
I had heard several times from my worthy teacher. No tidings had reached
him of Blanche. He had heard nothing; knew not if she were dead or alive.
This distressed me, even amid my own joy. Madame Bonni was well, and
often sent her love; and the theatrical world, they said, still mourned
my irreparable loss;—the journals still dwelt upon my merits.
It was at this moment of time that Rinaldo left me for three days, for
a hunting party, to come off some fifty miles from the castle. He bade
me farewell with great tenderness, and departed. This was a favorable
opportunity, I thought, for the execution of my long-cherished project of
gaining admission to the closed and, I imagined, haunted rooms. The key
my husband always kept locked up in a small casket, and I knew where the
key of that was to be found.
Having unlocked the casket and obtained the key, I took a lamp from my
dressing table, and directed my steps to that quarter of the house. The
quivering flame was often nearly extinguished by gusts of wind, and the
shaking of the great oriel windows reminded me of the tread of ghosts.
My feet often faltered from fear; but I continued on, and reached the
great door in the centre of the long gallery, which gave admission to the
interdicted apartments.
When I inserted the key in the lock, and unlocked the door which gave
entrance to these deserted rooms, my heart quite failed me, and I
regretted my curiosity. What was there to see about old unfurnished,
desolate apartments? How foolish of me to pry into nothing! Yet an
impulse I could not overcome bade me go onward; and accordingly I pushed
open the door, which opened harshly. I went in; the first room was a
large anti-chamber, like that on the other side of the house, naked and
lonely. Crossing this, I opened another door, which led, as I supposed,
into a similar apartment, when, to my utter amazement, I beheld what
struck me dumb with astonishment.
The salon in which I stood was well furnished. A Grecian couch occupied
one corner; books, and toys, and instruments of music were scattered
round, and reclining on this couch lay a woman of handsome form, but
wild, haggard features, and insane expression; and on a low stool at her
feet sat Pasiphae, my attendant.
Hearing the door open, she glanced around, and seeing me, shrieked, and
covered her face with her hands:
“Gracious heavens! madame, how came you here? what brought you to these
fated rooms?”
“What does this mean? speak, I command you! Who is this woman?—what are
you doing here?”
“Ah, madame, why did you come here? Alas! alas! how unhappy; how
unfortunate,” was the only reply she made, as she rocked herself to and
fro.
“Tell me! tell me quickly,” I cried, seized with a horrible suspicion of
the truth. At this the strange woman raised herself to a sitting posture,
and regarding me with a countenance of melancholy wildness, said,
clasping her hands together as she spoke:
“Oh, ask him, won’t you, to take me out of this;—I will be good, indeed I
will: I never will come near him, if he don’t want to see me, if he will
only take me away. Oh, do ask him: pray do?”
I went toward her mechanically, so stunned and stupid was I with
astonishment. I sat down beside, and more closely observed the poor
lunatic. I could plainly see fine traits in that blurred face; traces
of mind, now scarred and erased, like a blotted crimpled page. Love,
jealousy, humanity, and disgust, all told me that in this unhappy one I
saw my husband’s victim. What could he mean by shutting her up there?
Old Pasiphae still sat with her head bowed between her hands, and she
momently exclaimed,—“What will master say? oh, how he will curse me!”
“No, no, Pasiphae; you shall not be blamed. Monsieur de Serval shall
never know of my visit here. Get up, and tell me what this strange scene
means.”
The maniac stared at me with her great black eyes, and then continued on
in her sad tones. “No, no ball to-night; I cannot dance: he is coming
for you to-morrow,—I cannot dance when I expect him; take away the
dress; send away the carriage; I am going to sleep to dream of him,”
and languidly closing her eyes, she sunk back on the couch, and lay
perfectly still. Thinking the poor creature had fainted, I uttered an
expression of fear, when Pasiphae, motioning me to silence, bent over her
watchfully. Presently the sound of her regular breathing assured the old
domestic that she slept. Smoothing back from her forehead the tangled
masses of her hair, and covering the thin form with a large shawl,
Pasiphae composed her delicate hands upon her breast, and then rising,
took my hand in hers, and said mournfully:
“Come, dear lady, this can be no pleasant sight for you;—if you will
return to your own room, I will tell you all. I have been on the point of
doing so several times, but fear of master’s anger prevented me; and I am
old and broken down, and were he to discharge me, might suffer and die
from want. Come, lady, ere she awakes. Poor thing; she will soon be dead
and far away. She has been very troublesome of late,—I could scarcely
manage her; but now she sleeps quietly—the first time in many days.”
I silently contemplated the fitful repose of the madwoman for a moment
before going, and in that instant I saw the whole fabric of delusive
happiness I had erected on unstable air, shattered to the earth. I
gazed on the neglected, cast-off victim of my lord’s caprice, in whose
emaciated form and desert mind I saw the records of long mental and
bodily suffering.
Pasiphae interrupted my reverie by twitching my robe; and, after she had
arranged the light on the antique mantel-piece, and adjusted her window
drapery, taking my lamp in her hand, we left the salon, locking the door
upon her insane ward.
The outer door of the anti-chamber she also locked; and, satisfied
that if awaking she could not follow us, I returned to my chamber,
and overwhelmed with sickness of the soul, threw myself despairingly
into a chair, and burying my face in my hands wept bitterly. I felt
disappointed—heartbroken;—disappointed that the man in whom I had
centred all my hopes, should so utterly have ruined them;—heartbroken at
the melancholy sight I had seen. Sobbing like a child I sat and wept,
forgetful of my own identity, or Pasiphae’s presence. At length my grief
in a slight degree abated, and wiping my eyes, I looked up and perceived
the poor old woman sorrowfully looking at me.
“I know, dear Lady Genevra, how sad you feel at this proof of your
husband’s infidelity; and sorry am I that you should have come to those
rooms and seen my poor charge,” said Pasiphae; and sympathy almost
rendered her voice sweet, and almost metamorphosed that weatherbeaten
face into one of youth and beauty.
“How long has she been insane?” I asked, my voice almost choked with sobs.
“This autumn coming will be two years.”
“Who was she? how came she here?”
“She was always called the Lady Isodore, that is the only name by which
I ever knew her. Four years ago master brought her here one night in a
fine carriage, and commanded us to treat her the same as if she were our
lawful lady: we always did so, and she ruled the household: master seemed
very fond of her; and, although he never took her travelling with him,
and no one visited her, yet her great love for him appeared to supply
the place of all other society. Two years after she came, he seemed to
grow tired of her, and they often had furious quarrels; one night, in a
difficulty of this sort, forgetting himself, he struck her violently with
the butt end of a pistol he held in his hand; she fell upon the floor,
and when revived, from that hour was mad. In vain did my unhappy master
use every endeavor to restore her: reason had fled—never to return. Since
then she has been sometimes wild and gay, sometimes sad—as this evening
you saw her. Master, at first, was nearly mad himself with remorse and
despair; but, after a while, he recovered from his grief; and, having
fixed those rooms up for her, consigned her to my care, and no longer
troubled himself about her. From habit I have acquired great influence
over her; and even in her wildest moods she will obey me. I think, dear
lady, that crime will always meet its just reward, even here on earth;
and when I look at master sometimes, I think within myself, ‘the hour of
retribution for thy sin will surely come some day.’”
“When he came down to the castle some months ago, and told me to have
it cleaned and fitted up for the reception of its future lady, I could
scarcely credit my ears; and wondered who would marry, and risk her
happiness, with a man like him: and when he brought you here, and I saw
how beautiful and innocent you were, I trembled for the future. I never
intended to tell you this; and master trusted to my fidelity to him,
that you should never discover the secret of the uninhabited wing of the
castle. You are not more grieved than I that chance or curiosity should
have directed you there; your trust in monsieur I know is broken; but,
dear lady, I feel it my duty to tell you, that you lean upon a broken
stick if you depend on him for faith.”
“Hush! Pasiphae; oh! be still; don’t say any thing against him: how
miserable I feel! I cannot believe that my Rinaldo can be so depraved;
that he, whom I trusted to reform, to render a better, wiser man, could
act with such brutality towards a woman.”
My soul sickened with horror at such an inhuman action; and I
soliloquized, “This was the man whose glowing description of the wrongs
and troubles of his childhood had so interested and beguiled me; this
was the man who had begged me to exert my influence to reform and purify
his heart; who had promised, were I his Mentor, to be as gentle as
Telemachus; who had entreated me to be his guardian angel, to warn him
from the evils he had committed, yet deprecated: this was the man.”
Truly, reason might have reproached me with over self-confidence, and
blind trust in the boy-god Cupid, who had so cheated me. And I had
dreamed of future years of tranquil happiness and companionship, after
the first flush of love had faded, and that profiting by past errors,
virtue hereafter should be his patroness; and this was the man on whom I
purposed working these miracles. He, who could wantonly inflict personal
violence on a woman, and then keep a senseless idiot housed like a dog in
an uninhabited part of the house. The veil which shrouded my eyes, was
being lifted off, like the mysterious veils of Isis, which conceal the
grotesque absurdity of the image adored.
Perceiving Pasiphae still standing before me, her eyes filled with
sympathetic tears, I said, “Pasiphae, my good woman, you can go; I would
rather be alone; I feel very sad; you had better return to the room; she
may awake and miss you.”
“You look very unhappy, dear lady, had I not better stay a little while
with you?”
“No, no, I prefer being alone; go.”
She departed; and then thought usurped her sway; I wished my husband
were there then, at that moment, to have told him what I thought of his
conduct; but when I reconsidered it, I saw it would do no good; for to
reproach a man with his vices, only alienates his affections, and gains
his dislike; it does not convince his understanding, for that will not
be convinced; nor better his heart, for he always thinks that could
not be bettered; and indeed, I think they are quite right, not often
being troubled with any. A roar of words is generally the only result,
and contempt and hatred the inevitable consequence. I was determined,
however, to speak of it to Monsieur de Serval on his return. Then,
distressed in mind, caring not if I died that night, I sought my pillow,
and wept till lost in the oblivion of slumber.