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CHICAGO AND NEW YORK:
BELFORD, CLARKE AND COMPANY,
PUBLISHERS
(1883?)
Proud and happy as I felt when seated side by side with Pauline in the railway carriage which was taking us to the north; fortunate as I told myself I was to have won such a fair bride; great as my love was for the sweet girl who had just vowed herself mine forever, Ceneri's extraordinary stipulation kept recurring to my mind —— the man who marries Pauline March must be content to take her as she is; to wish to know nothing of her past.
Not for one moment did I think such a contract could be enforced. As soon as I had succeeded in making Pauline love me, she would surely wish to tell me all her history —— there would be no need to ask for it —— the confidence would then be given as a matter of course. When she had learned the secret of love, all other secrets would cease between us.
My wife looked very beautiful as she sat with her head leaning against the dark cloth of the carriage. Her clear-cut; refined features showed in that position advantageously. Her face, as usual, was pale and calm; her eyes were cast down. A woman to be indeed proud of, to worship, to cherish, and —— how sweet it seemed to whisper the word to myself —— my wife!
Yet I suspect none would have taken us for a newly married couple. At any rate there were no nudgings and sly glances among our fellow-passengers. The ceremony had been so hurried on that no attempt had been made to invest Pauline with the usual bridal accessories. Her dress, although becoming and fashionable, was the one in which I had seen her several times. Neither of us had any brand new belongings to stamp us as being bound for a honeymoon; so the only notice we attracted was the notice which was due to my wife's great and uncommon beauty.
The carriage was nearly full when we started from London, and as the strangeness of our new relations prevented our conversing in an ordinary way, by mutual consent we were all but silent; a few soft words in Italian were all I could trust myself to speak until we were alone.
At the first important station, the first place at which the train stopped for any time worth mentioning, I exercised a little diplomatic bribery, and, changing our carriage, we were installed in a compartment the windows of which bore the magic word "engaged." Pauline and I were alone. I took her hand in mine.
"My wife!" I said, passionately, "mine, only mine, forever!"
Her hand lay listless and unresisting in my own. I pressed my lips to her cheek. She shrank not from my kiss, neither did she return it —— she simply suffered it.
"Pauline!" I whispered, "say once, 'Gilbert, my husband.'"
She repeated the words like a child learning a new lesson. My heart sank as her emotionless accents fell on my ears. I had a hard task before me!
I could not blame her. Why should she love me yet? Me, whose christian name, I think, she heard yesterday for the first time? Better, far better, indifference than simulated love. She had become my wife simply because her uncle wished it. I could at least comfort myself by thinking the marriage had not been forced upon her; also that, so far as I could see, she entertained no dislike to me. I did not for one moment despair. I must now woo her humbly and reverently, as every man should woo his love. Certainly, as her husband, I did not stand in a worse position than when I was her fellow-lodger and old Teresa was following my every movement with her black suspicious eyes.
I would win her, but until I could claim the rights which love would give, I resolved to take none of those with which the law had invested me. None save this, and this only once.
"Pauline," I said, "will you kiss me? Only once I ask it. It will make me happier; but if you would rather wait until we are better acquainted, I shall not complain."
She leaned forward and kissed my forehead. Her young lips were red and warm, but they chilled me —— in that kiss there was not a suspicion of the passion which was thrilling me.
I drew my hand from hers, and, still sitting beside her, began to do my best to make myself agreeable to the woman I loved. If I felt distressed and somewhat disappointed, I concealed it and strove to talk pleasantly and naturally —— tried to ascertain what manner of woman I had married —— to get at her likes and dislikes —— to study her disposition —— to determine her tastes —— learn her wishes —— read her thoughts, and eventually to make her regard me as one who would spend his life in rendering her happy.
When was it the idea first struck me —— the horrible idea that even the peculiarity and novelty of situation could not altogether account for Pauline's apathy and lack of animation —— that shyness alone could not be entirely responsible for the difficulty I experienced in making her talk to me, even in inducing her to answer my questions? I made every excuse for her. She was tired; she was upset; she could think of nothing else save the rash and sudden step taken to-day —— more rash for her than for me —— as I, at least, knew that I loved her. At last I, too, sank into silence, and miles and hours went by, whilst the bride and bridegroom sat side by side without exchanging a word, much less a caress. It was a strange situation —— a strange journey!
And on and on the train rushed northward —— on and on until the dusk began to creep over the flying country; and I sat and looked at the listless but beautiful girl at my side, and wondered what our future life would be; but I did not despair, although the rattle of the train as it whirred along seemed to resolve itself into a dreamy rhythm, and reiterated without ceasing old Teresa's sullen words, " She is not for love or marriage —— not for love or marriage."
Darker and darker it grew outside, and as the carriage light fell on the pure, white face of the girl beside me; as I watched its never changing expression; its beautiful but never varying pallor, a strange fear came over me —— a fear lest she was wrapped in an armor of ice which no love would ever thaw. Then tired, weary and almost dispirited I sank into a kind of sleep. The last thing I could remember before my eyes closed was that, in spite of my resolution, I took that white, well-shaped, unresisting hand in my own, and slept still holding it.
Sleep! Yes, it was sleep, if sleep means anything but rest and peace. Never, since the night I heard it, had that woman's stifled moaning come back to me so clearly never had my dreams so nearly approached the reality of the terror which the blind man had felt years ago. Right thankful I was when the haunting cry rose shriller and shriller, and, at last, culminated by resolving itself into the shrieking whistle, which told me we were near to Edinburgh. I loosed my wife's hand and recalled my senses. That dream must have been a vivid one, for it left me with the beads of perspiration clammy on my brow.
Never having been to Edinburgh, and wishing to see something of the city, I had proposed staying there for two or three days. During the journey I had suggested this to my wife. She had agreed to it as though place or time was a matter of little moment to her. Nothing, it seemed to me, awoke her interest!
We drove to the hotel and supped together. From our manner we might, at the most, have been friends. Our intercourse, for the time, being confined to the usual civilities shown by a gentleman toward a lady in whose society he is thrown. Pauline thanked me for any little attention to her comfort, and that was all. The journey had been a long and trying one —— she looked wearied out.
"You are tired, Pauline," I said; "would you like to go to your room?"
"I am very tired." She spoke almost plaintively.
"Good-night, then," I said; "to-morrow you will feel better, and we will look at the lions of the place."
She rose, we shook hands and said good-night. Pauline retired to her apartment while I went out for a ramble through the gas-lighted streets, and with a sad heart recalled the events of the day.
Husband and wife! The bitter mockery of the words! For in everything except the legal bond Pauline and I were as far apart as we were on that day when first I saw her at Turin. Yet this morning we had vowed to love and cherish each other until death did us part. Why had I been rash enough to take Ceneri at his word? Why not have waited until I had ascertained that the girl could love me, or at least ascertained that she had the power of loving at all? The apathy and utter indifference she displayed fell like a chill upon my heart. I had done a foolish thing —— a thing that could never be undone. I must bear the consequences. —— Still I would hope —— hope, particularly, for what to-morrow might bring forth.
I walked about for a long time, thinking over my strange position. Then I returned to the hotel and sought my own apartment. It was one of the suite of rooms I had engaged, and next to my wife's. I dismissed, as well as I could, all hopes and fears until the morning came, and, tired with the day's events, at last slept.
My bride and I did not visit the Lakes as I had planned. In two days' time I had learned the whole truth —— learned all I could know —— all that I might ever know about Pauline. The meaning of the old woman's repeated phrase, "she is not for love or marriage," was manifested to me. The reason why Dr. Ceneri had stipulated that Pauline's husband should be content to take her without inquiring into her early life was clear. Pauline —— my wife —— my love, had no past!
Or no knowledge of the past. Slowly at first, then with swift steps, the truth came home to me. Now I knew how to account for that puzzled, strange look in those beautiful eyes —— knew the reason for the indifference, the apathy, she displayed. The face of the woman I had married was fair as the morn; her figure was perfect as that of a Grecian statue; her voice low and sweet; but the one thing which animates every charm —— the mind —— was missing!
How shall I describer her? Madness means something quite different from her state. Imbecility still less convey my meaning. There is no word I can find which is fitting to use. There was simply something missing from her intellect —— as much missing as a limb may be from a body. Memory, except for comparatively recent events, she seemed to have none. The power or reasoning, weighing and drawing deductions seemed beyond her grasp. She appeared unable to recognize the importance or bearing of occurrences taking place around her. Sorrow and delight were emotions she was incapable of feeling. Nothing appeared to move her. Unless her attention was called to them she noticed neither persons nor places. She lived as by instinct —— rose, ate, drank, and lay down to rest as one not knowing why she did so. Such questions or remarks as came within the limited range of her capacity she replied to —— those outside it passed unheeded, or else the shy troubled eyes sought for a moment the questioner's face, and left him as mystified as I had been when first I noticed that curious inquiring look.
Yet she was not mad. A person might have met her out in company, and after spending hours in her society might have carried away no worse impression than that she was shy and reticent. Whenever she did speak her words were as those of a perfectly sane woman; but as a rule her voice was only heard when the ordinary necessities of life demanded, or in reply to some simple question. Perhaps, I should not be far wrong in comparing her mind to that of a child —— but, alas! it was a child's mind in a woman's body —— and that woman was my wife!
Life to her, so far as I could see, held neither mental pleasure nor pain. Considered physically, I found that she was more influenced by heat and cold than by any other agents. The sun would tempt her out of doors, or the cold wind would drive her in. She was by no means unhappy. She seemed quite content to sit by my side, or to walk and drive with me for hours without speaking. Her whole existence was a negative one.
And she was sweet and docile. She followed every suggestion of mine, fell in with every plan, was ready to go here, there, or everywhere, as I wished; but her compliance and obedience were as those of a slave to a new master. It seemed to me that all her life she must have been accustomed to obey some one. It ùvas this habit which had so misled me —— had almost made me think that Pauline loved me, or she would not have consented to that hasty marriage. Now, I knew that her ready obedience to her uncle's command was really due to the inability of her mind to offer resistance, and its powerlessness to comprehend the true meaning of the step she was taking.
Such was Pauline, my wife! A woman in her beauty and grace of person; a child in her clouded and unformed or stunted mind! And I, her husband, a strong man craving for love, might win from her, perchance, at last, what might be compared to the affection of a child to its parents, or a dog to its master.
As the truth, the whole truth, came home to me, I am not ashamed to say that I lay down and wept in bitter grief.
I loved her even now I knew all! I would not even have undone the marriage. She was my wife —— the only woman I had ever cared for. I would fulfill my vow —— would love her and cherish her. Her life, at least should be as happy as my care could make it. But all the same I vowed I would have a fitting reckoning with that glib Italian doctor.
Him, I felt it was necessary I should see at once. From him I would wring all particulars. I would learn if Pauline had always been the same —— if there was any hope that time and patient treatment would work an improvement. I would learn, moreover, the object of his concealment. I would, I swore, drag the truth from him, or it should cost me dear. Until I stood face to face with Ceneri I should find no peace.
I told Pauline it was necessary we should return to London immediately. She betrayed no surprise; raised no objections. She made her preparations at once, and was ready to accompany me when I willed it. This was another thing about her which puzzled me. So far as things mechanically went, she was as other people. In her toilet, even in her preparations for a journey, she needed no assistance. All her actions were those of a perfectly sane person; it was only when the mind was called upon to show itself that the deficiency became at all apparent.
It was gray morning when we reached Euston Station. We had travelled all night. I smiled bitterly as I stepped on to the platform; smiled at the contrast between my thoughts of to-day and those of a few mornings ago when I handed the wife I had so strangely won into the train, and told myself, as I followed her, that a life of perfect happiness was now about to begin.
And yet how fair the girl looked as she stood by my side on that wide platform ! How strangely that air of repose, that sweet refined calm face, that general appearance of indifference, contrasted with the busy scene around us, as the train disgorged its contents. Oh, that I could sweep the clouds from her mind and make her what I wished!
I had found some difficulty in settling what course to pursue. I decided, after ventilating various schemes, that I would take Pauline to my own rooms in Walpole Street. I knew the people of the house well, and felt certain she would be taken care of during my absence; for, after a few hours' repose, it was my intention to start in search of Ceneri. I had written from Edinburgh to Walpole Street, telling the good people there to be ready for me and whom to expect; moreover, I had again appealed to my faithful old servant, Priscilla, and begged her to be at the house awaiting my arrival. For my sake, I knew she would show every kindness to my poor girl. So to Walpole Street we went.
All was in readiness for us. Priscilla received us with eyes full of curious wonder. I saw that her sympathies were at once enlisted by Pauline's appearance. After a cup of tea and something to eat, I begged Priscilla to lead my wife to her room, that she might take the rest she needed. Pauline, in her childlike, docile way, rose and followed the old woman.
"When you have seen to Mrs. Vaughan's comforts, come back to me," I said, "I want to speak to you."
Priscilla, no doubt, was only too eager to return to me. I felt she was brimming over with questions about my unexpected marriage; but I checked her volubility. My face must have told her that I had nothing pleasant to communicate. She sat down, and, as I desired her to do, listened without comment to my tale.
I was compelled to confide in some one. The old woman, I knew, was trustworthy and would keep my affairs secret. So I told her all, or nearly all. I explained as well as I could Pauline's peculiar mental state. I suggested all that my short experience brought to my mind, and I prayed Priscilla, by the love she bore me, to guard and be kind in my absence to the wife I loved. The promise being given I threw myself upon the sofa and slept for several hours.
In the afternoon I saw Pauline again. I asked her if she knew where I could write to Ceneri. She shook her head.
"Try and think, my dear," I said.
She pressed her delicate finger tips against her brow. I had always noticed that trying to think always troubled her greatly.
"Teresa knew," I said to assist her.
"Yes, ask her."
"But she has left us, Pauline. Can you tell us where she is?"
Once more she shook her head hopelessly.
"He told me he lived in Geneva," I said. "Do you know the street?"
She turned her puzzled eyes to mine. I sighed, as I knew my questions were useless.
Still, find him I must. I would go to Geneva. If the man was a doctor, as he represented himself, he must be known there. If I could not find any trace of him at Geneva I would try Turin. I took my wife's hand.
"I am going away for a few days, Pauline. You will stay here until I return. Every one will be kind to you. Priscilla will get you all you want."
"Yes, Gilbert," she said softly. I had taught her to call me Gilbert.
Then, after some last instructions to Priscilla, I started on my journey. As my cab drove from the door I glanced up at the window of the room in which I had left Pauline. She was standing there looking at me, and a great wave of joy came over my heart, for I fancied that her eyes were looking sad, like the.eyes of one taking leave of a dear friend. It may have been only fancy, but, as I had never before even fancied the expression there, that look in Pauline's eyes was some comfort to carry away with me.
And now for Geneva and il dottore Ceneri!
(End of Chapter Five)
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