One afternoon, several days after Thorne's departure, Norma donned her
warmest wraps and set out for a walk over to Lanarth. It was a dull
afternoon following on a morning of uncertain brightness; dark clouds,
heavy with snow, hung sullenly along the horizon; and above, the sky
was of a somber, leaden hue. The air felt chill and clinging, like
that of a vault; and heaven above, and earth beneath betrayed a
severity of mood infinitely depressing. Norma shivered in spite of her
heavy furs, and hurried on, burying her hands in her muff.
Pocahontas, duly notified of Norma's approach by the vigilant Sawney,
met her guest at the door, and drew her in with words of welcome, and
praises of her bravery in venturing abroad in such gloomy weather. The
girls did not kiss each other--as is too much the custom with their
sex. Pocahontas did not like effusive embraces; a kiss with _her_
meant a good deal.
In the sitting-room Mrs. Mason and Berkeley added their welcome, and
established Norma in the coziest corner of the hearth, where the fire
would comfort without scorching her. Pocahontas stooped to remove her
furs and wraps, but Norma staid her hand; it would not be worth while,
she said; she had only come to call.
"Do stay to tea!" entreated Pocahontas. "Berke will take you home
afterward. We haven't looked on a white face except our own for two
whole days. We are pining for change and distraction, and beginning to
hate each other from very _ennui_. Take pity on us and stay."
"Yes, my dear, you must consent," added Mrs. Mason. "You haven't taken
tea with us for a long time. Berkeley, help Norma with her wrappings.
And, Princess, suppose you run and tell Rachel to make waffles for tea.
Norma is so fond of them."
Norma yielded to their persuasions, feeling a little curiously, but
hardening her heart. What she had come to say, she intended to say;
but it would be best to wait an opportunity. She let Berkeley take her
wraps, and established herself comfortably, bent on making the time
pass pleasantly, and herself thoroughly agreeable.
The meal was a merry one, for Norma exerted herself unusually, and was
ably seconded by Pocahontas, who, for some reason, appeared in
brilliant spirits. After tea they discovered that it was snowing
heavily. The threatened storm had come--evenly, slowly, in a thick,
impenetrable cloud, the white flakes fell, without haste, excitement or
the flurry of wind. Already the ground was covered and the trees were
bending with the weight of the white garment the sky was throwing over
them. It was unfit weather for a lady to encounter, or indeed for
anything feminine to be abroad in, save a witch on a broomstick. Norma
was fain to accept Mrs. Mason's invitation and remain for the night at
Lanarth.
When the two girls, in dressing gowns and slippers, sat over the fire
in Pocahontas's room, brushing out their long hair, Norma found the
opportunity for which she had lain in wait the entire evening. It was
the hour for confidences, the house was quiet, the inmates all
dispersed to their several couches. Norma, brush in hand and hair
flowing in a heavy, black veil around her, had quitted her own room
across the passage, and established herself in a low rocking-chair
beside Pocahontas's bright fire. She was far too clever a diplomatist
to introduce her subject hastily; she approached it gradually from long
range--stalked it delicately with skillful avoidance of surprise or
bungling. The game must be brought down; on that she was determined;
but there should be no bludgeon blows, no awkward carnage. The
death-stab should be given clean, with scientific skill and swiftness,
and the blow once given, she would retire to her own room and let her
victim find what solace she could in solitude. Norma was not wantonly
cruel; she could impale a foe, but she had no desire to witness his
contortions. After a death-scene she shrank from the grewsomeness of
burial; she preferred a decent drop-curtain and the grateful darkness.
After some idle conversation, she deftly turned the talk upon New York,
and the life there, and rallied all her powers to be picturesque and
entertaining. She held her listener entranced with rapid, clever
sketches of society and the men and women who composed it, drawing
vivid pictures of its usages, beliefs, and modes of thought and
expression. Gradually she glided into personalities, giving some of
her individual experiences, and sketching in an acquaintance or two,
with brilliant, caustic touches. Soon Thorne's name appeared, and she
noticed that the listener's interest deepened. She spoke of him in
warm terms of admiration--dwelt on his intellect, his talents and the
bright promise of his manhood; and then, observing that the brush had
ceased its regular passes over the bright brown hair, and that the gray
eyes were on the fire, without pause or warning she spoke of his
hurried courtship and sudden marriage. She winced involuntarily as she
saw the cold, gray pallor creep slowly over the girl's face, and noted
the sudden tremor that passed through her limbs; but she steeled
herself against compassion, and proceeded with her brushing and her
narrative like one devoid of sight and understanding.
"I can not expect you, who know Nesbit so slightly, to be much
interested in all this," she said, watching Pocahontas through her
lashes; "I fear I only bore you with my story, but my mind has been so
exercised over the poor fellow's troubles again lately, that I must
unburden it to some one. You have no personal interest in the matter,
therefore you will forgive my trespassing on your courtesy--especially
when I tell you that I've no one at home to talk to. Nesbit wishes
particularly that his story shouldn't get abroad here, and if I should
revive it in Blanche's mind, she might mention it to others. Mamma
would not; but unfortunately mamma and I rarely look at a thing from
the same standpoint. It's been a relief to speak to you--far greater
than speaking to Blanche. Blanche is so excitable."
Yes; Blanche was excitable, Pocahontas assented absently; she was
bracing her will, and steeling her nerves to endure without flinching.
Not for worlds would she--even by the quivering of an eyelash--let
Norma see the torture she was inflicting. She felt that Norma had an
object in this disclosure, and was dimly sure that the object was
hostile. She would think it all out later; at present Norma must not
see her anguish. A woman would sooner go to the stake and burn slowly,
than allow another woman, who is trying to hurt her, to know that she
suffers.
Norma continued, speaking gently, without haste or emotion, telling of
the feverish brightness of those early days of marriage, and of the
clouds that soon obscured the sunshine--telling of the _ennui_ and
unhappiness, gradually sprouting and ripening in the ill-assorted
union--shielding the man, as women will, and casting the blame on the
woman. Finally she told of the separation, lasting now two years, and
of the letter from his wife which had caused Thorne's precipitate
departure the day after the Shirley ball.
But of the divorce now pending she said never a word.
"Have they any children?" questioned Pocahontas steadily.
And was told that there was one--a little son, to whom the father was
attached, and the mother indifferent. It was a strange case.
Again Pocahontas assented. Her voice was cold and even; its tones low
and slightly wearied. To herself it appeared as though she spoke from
a great distance, and was compelled to use exertion to make herself
heard. She was conscious of two distinct personalities--one prostrate
in the dust, humiliated, rent and bleeding, and another which held a
screen pitifully before the broken thing, and shielded it from
observation. When Norma bid her good-night she responded quietly, and
rising accompanied her guest to her room to see that every arrangement
was perfect for her comfort.
Far into the night she sat beside her dying fire trying to collect her
faculties, and realize the extent of the calamity which had befallen
her. The first, and, for the time, dominant emotion was a stinging
sense of shame, an agony of rage and humiliation which tingled hotly
through her, and caused her cheek to flame, and her body to writhe as
from the lash of a whip. She had been degraded; an insult had been put
upon her. Her eyes blazed, and her hands clinched. Oh, for strength
to hurl the insult back--for a man's arm and a man's power to avenge
the foul affront! He--a married man--to come, concealing his bonds,
and playing the part of a lover free to woo--free to approach a woman
and to win her heart! The proud head bent to meet the hands upraised
to cover the pale, drawn face. She loved him and he was unworthy. He
had deceived and lied to her, if not in words, then in actions; knowing
himself bound to another woman, he had deliberately sought her out and
made her love him. It was cruel, cruel! All along she had played
virgin gold against base metal, and now she was bankrupt.
When the burning, maddening sense of outrage had passed, and pride
stood with lowered crest and listless hands, love lifted its head and
tried to speak. He was not without excuse, love pleaded; his life had
been miserable; his lot hard and unendurable; he had been given a stone
for bread, and for wine, the waters of Marah. Until the night of the
ball he had retained mastery over himself--had held his love in check.
Then memory roused herself and entered testimony--words, looks, tender,
graceful attentions thronged back upon her, and pride caught love by
the throat and cried out that there was no excuse.
Perhaps, she pondered heavily, he, too, writhed beneath this avalanche
of pain; perhaps remorse and the consciousness of the anguish he had
entailed upon them both tore and lacerated him. He had gone away at
last, out of her life, back to the home and the ties that were hateful
to him. He had gone away to take up his share of their joint burden,
and he would be merciful, and never cross her path again.
But would he? The girl quivered, her hand sought the pocket of her
dress, and her eyes glanced forlornly around the room like the eyes of
a hunted creature. She recalled something that the morning's post had
brought her--something that had seemed sweet and fair, something that
had caused her pulses to thrill, all day, with exultant happiness.
Only a New Year card; a graceful white-fringed thing, showing a handful
of blue forget-me-nots, thrown carelessly beside an old anchor on a bit
of golden sand. Pocahontas laid it on her lap and gazed at it with
strained, tearless eyes, and read anew its sweet message of remembrance
and hope. She had been startled by Thorne's sudden departure, but had
quietly accepted the message of explanation and farewell sent her by
Blanche; she trusted him too implicitly to doubt that what he did was
best and wisest, and was happy in the knowledge that he would return.
How long ago it appeared to her already, since this pretty card had
come; she looked at it strangely, with eyes in which there was longing,
renunciation, and a wild hopelessness of love. She must not keep it;
it was not hers; it belonged of right to that other--the woman who was
his wife. No, she must not keep it--the beautiful, tender thing. With
steady hand, but blanched, quivering lips, she reached over and made a
little grave among the dying embers, in which a sullen spark glowed
like baleful eye. Quietly, with the feeling that she was burying all
of youth and hope and joy her life would ever know, she kissed the card
with dumb, clinging, passionate kisses, and then with a low, dry sob,
covered it from sight.
As she raised herself up, her eyes fell on the little box lying on her
desk in which she had placed the fragments of the cup they had broken
between them--the cup that her old play-fellow had used on that last
evening. With the impulse of habit and association, her mind turned
wearily to Jim. He was so true; he had never failed her. Had _he_
suffered as she was suffering? Poor Jim! Was this ceaseless, gnawing
agony that had usurped _her_ life no stranger to _his_? If so--God
pity him!--and her!