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CHICAGO AND NEW YORK:
BELFORD, CLARKE AND COMPANY,
PUBLISHERS
(1883?)
Yes, she was glad to see me back! In her uncertain, clouded way she welcomed me. My great fear, that in the short time she would have entirely forgotten me, was groundless She knew me and welcomed me. My poor Pauline! If I could but find the way to bring those truant senses back once more!
For months and months nothing of importance occurred. If my love's mind was, as Ceneri predicted, to be gradually restored, the process was a tedious one. At times I thought her better —— at times worse. The fact is there was little or no change in her condition. Hour after hour she sits in her apathy and listlessness; speaking only when spoken to; but willing to come with me any where; do anything I suggest, whenever, alas! I express my wish In words she can comprehend. Poor Pauline!
The greatest doctors in England have seen her. Each says the same thing. She may recover; but each tells me the recovery would be made more possible if the exact circumstances which brought about the calamity were known. These, I doubt if we shall ever learn.
For Ceneri has made no sign, nor has Macari sent his promised information. The latter after his last malicious words, I dread more than I wish for. Teresa, who might have thrown some light on the subject, has disappeared. I blame myself for not having asked the doctor where she was to be found; but doubtless he would have declined to tell me. So the days go on. All I can do is, with Priscilla's assistance, to insure that my poor girl is made as happy as can be, and hope that time and care may at length restore her.
We are still at Walpole Street. My intention had been to buy a house and furnish it. But why? Pauline could not look after it —— would not be interested in it —— it would not be home. So we stay on at my old lodgings and I live almost the life of a hermit.
I care to see no friends. I am, indeed, blamed for forsaking all my old acquaintances. Some who have seen Pauline attribute my lack of hospitality to jealousy; some to other causes; but, as yet, I believe no one knows the truth.
There are times when I feel I cannot bear my grief —— times when I wish that Kenyon had never led me inside that church at Turin: but there are other times when I feel that in spite of all, my love for my wife, hopeless as it is, has made me a better and even a happier man. I can sit for hours looking at her lovely face, even as I could looking at a picture or a statue. I try to imagine that face lit up with bright intelligence, as once it must have been. I long to know what can have drawn that dark curtain over her mind, and I pray that one day it may fall aside and I may see her eyes responsive to my own. If I felt sure this would ever be I would wait without a murmur, if needs be, till our hair has grown gray.
I have this poor consolation —— whatever the effect of our marriage may hare been upon my life, it has, at least, not made my wife's lot a sadder one. Her days I am sure must be brighter than those when she was under the supervision of that terrible old Italian woman. Priscilla loves her and pets her like a child, whilst I —— well, I do every thing I can which I fancy may give her such pleasure as she is capable of feeling. Sometimes, not always, she seems to appreciate my efforts, and once or twice she has taken my hand and raised it to her lips as if in gratitude. She is beginning to love me as a child may love its father, as some weak helpless creature may love its protector. This is a poor recompense, but I am thankful even for this.
So, in our quiet household, the days pass by and the months glide away until the winter is over and the laburnums and lilacs in the little plots in front of houses in the suburbs are in bud.
It is fortunate that I am fond of books. Without that taste life would indeed be colorless. I have not the heart to leave Pauline alone and seek society on my own account. I spend my hours every day reading and studying, whilst my wife sits in the same room silent unless I address a remark to her.
It is a matter of great grief to me that I am almost entirely debarred from hearing the sound of music. I soon discovered that its effect upon Pauline was prejudicial. The notes which soothed me, in some way seemed to irritate her and make her uneasy. So, unless she is out somewhere with old Priscilla and I am left alone, the piano is unopened; the music books lie unused. Only those who love music as I love it can understand how great a deprivation this is to me.
One morning as I sat alone I was told that a gentleman wished to see me. He gave the servant no name, but instructed her to say that he was from Geneva. I knew it must be Macari. My first impulse was to send back word that I would not see him. Again and again, since our last meeting, his words had come back to me —— those words which hinted at something in Pauline's past which her uncle had an object in concealing. But each time I thought of them I discovered they were only the malicious insinuation of a disappointed man, who having failed to win the woman he loved, wished to make his favored rival suspicious and unhappy. I feared nothing he could say against my wife, but disliking the man, I hesitated before giving instructions for his admittance.
Yet Macari was the only link between Pauline and her past; Ceneri I felt sure I should never see again; this man was the only one remaining from whom it was possible to learn anything respecting my wife. The one person whose appearance could, by any chance, stimulate that torpid memory, and, perhaps, influence the state of her mind by suggesting, no matter how dimly, scenes and events in which he must have played a part. So thinking, I decided that the man should be admitted, and, moreover that he should be brought face to face with Pauline. If he wished to do so he might speak to her of old days, even old passion —— anything that might aid her to pick up and retrace those dropped threads of memory.
He entered my room and greeted me with what I knew to be assumed cordiality. I felt, in spite of the hearty grasp he gave my hand, that he meant his visit to bode no good to me. What did I care why he came? I wanted him for a purpose. With the end in view, what mattered the tool, if I could keep it from turning in my hand and wounding me —— and this was to be seen.
I met him with a greeting almost as cordial as his own; I begged him to be seated, then rang for wine and cigars.
"You see I have kept my promise, Mr. Vaughan," he said, with a smile.
"Yes. I trusted you would do so. Have you been long in England?"
"Only a couple of days."
"How long do you stay?"
"Until I am called abroad again. Things have gone wrong with us there. I must wait until the atmosphere has quieted down."
I looked at him inquiringly.
"I fancied you knew my trade," he said. "I supposed you are a conspirator —— I don't use the word offensively; it is the only one I can think of."
"Yes. Conspirator —— regenerator —— apostle of freedom, whatever you like."
"But your country has been free for some years."
"Other countries are not free. I work for them. Our poor friend Ceneri did the same, but his last day's work is done."
"Is he dead?" I asked, startled
"Dead to all of us. I cannot give you particulars; but a few weeks after you left Geneva he was arrested in St. Petersburg. He lay in prison for months awaiting his trial. It has come off, I hear."
"Well, what has happened to him?"
"What always happens —— our poor friend is at this moment on his way to Siberia, condemned to twenty years hard labor in the mines."
Although I bore no particular love toward Ceneri, I shuddered as I heard his fate.
"And you escaped?" I said.
"Naturally, or I should not be here smoking your very good cigars and sipping your capital claret."
I was disgusted at the indifference with which he spoke of his friend's misfortune. If it seemed horrible to me to think of the man working in the Siberian mines, what should it have seemed to his fellow conspirator?"
"Now, Mr. Vaughan," said the latter, "with your permission I will enter on business matters with you. I am afraid I shall surprise you."
"Let me hear what you have to say."
"First of all I must ask you what Ceneri told you about myself?"
"He told me your name."
"Nothing of my family? He did not tell you my true name any more than he told you his own? He did not tell you it was March, and that Pauline and I are brother and sister?"
I was astonished at this announcement. In the face of the doctor's assertions that this man had been in love with Pauline, I did not for a moment believe it: but thinking it better to hear his tale out, I simply replied,
"He did not."
"Very well —— then I will tell you my history as briefly as I can. I am known by many names abroad, but my right name is Anthony March. My father and Pauline's married Dr. Ceneri's sister. He died young and left the whole of his large property to his wife absolutely. She died some time afterward, and in turn left every thing in my uncle's hands as sole trustee for my sister and myself. You know what became of the money, Mr. Vaughan?"
"Dr. Ceneri told me," I said, impressed in spite of myself by the correct way in which he marshalled his facts.
"Yes, it was spent for Italy. It paid for the keep of many a red shirt, armed many a true Italian. All our fortune was spent by the trustee. I have never blamed him. When I knew where it had gone I freely forgave him."
"Let us say no more about it, then."
"I don't quite look upon it in that light. Victor Emmanuel's government is now firmly established. Italy is free and will grow richer every year. Now, Mr. Vaughan, my idea is this: I believe, if the facts of the case were laid before the king, something might be done. I believe, if I, and you on behalf of your wife, were to make it known that Ceneri's appropriation of our fortunes for patriotic purposes had left us penniless, a large portion of the money, if not all, would be freely returned to us. You must have friends in England who would assist you in gaining the ear of King Victor. I have friends in Italy. Garibaldi for in. stance, would vouch for the amount paid into his hands by Dr. Ceneri."
His tale was plausible, and, after all, his scheme was not altogether visionary.
I was beginning to think he might really be my wife's brother, and that Ceneri had, for some purpose of his own, concealed the relationship.
"But I have plenty of money," I said.
"But I have not," he replied, with a frank laugh. "I think you ought for the sake of your wife to join me in the matter."
"I must take time to consider it."
"Certainly —— I am in no hurry. I will in the meantime get my papers and petition in order. And now may I see my sister?"
"She will be in very shortly if you will wait."
"Is she better, Mr.Vaughan?" I shook my head sadly.
"Poor girl! then I fear she will not recognize me. We have spent very few days together since we were children. I am, of course, much her senior; and from the age of eighteen have been plotting and fighting. Domestic ties are forgotten under such circumstances."
I was still far from putting any faith in the man; besides, there were his words on a former occasion to be accounted for.
"Mr. Macari," I said.
"Excuse me —— March is my name."
"Then, Mr. March, I must ask you now to tell me the particulars of the shock which deprived my wife of her full reason."
His face grew grave. "I cannot now. Some day I will do so."
"You will then, at least, explain your words when we parted at Geneva?"
"I will ask pardon for them and apologize, as I know I spoke hastily and thoughtlessly, but having forgotten, I am, of course, unable to explain them."
I said nothing, feeling uncertain whether he was playing a deep game with me or not.
"I know," he continued, "that I was furious at hearing of Pauline's marriage. In her state of health Ceneri should never have allowed it —— and then, Mr. Vaughan, I had set my heart upon her marrying an Italian. Had she recovered, my dream was that her beauty would win her a husband of the highest rank."
Any reply I should have made was prevented by the entrance of Pauline. I was intensely anxious to see what effect the appearance of her so-called brother would have upon her.
Macari rose and stepped toward her. "Pauline," he said. "do you remember me?"
She looked at him with eyes full of curious wonder, but shook her head as one in doubt. He took her hand. I noticed that she seemed to shrink from him instinctively.
"Poor girl, poor girl!" he said. "This is worse than I expected, Mr. Vaughan. Pauline, it is long since we have met, but you cannot have forgotten me!"
Her large troubled eyes were riveted on his face; but she made no sign of recognition.
"Try and think who it is, Pauline," I said.
She passed her hand across her forehead, then once more shook her head. "Non me ricordo," she murmured; then, as if the mental effort had exhausted her, sank, with a weary sigh, upon a chair.
I was delighted to hear her speak in Italian. It was a tongue she seldom used unless compelled to do so. That she employed it now showed me she must, in some dim way, connect the visitor with Italy. It was to me a new gleam of hope.
There was another thing I noticed. I have said how seldom it was that Pauline raised her eyes to any one's face; but to-day, during the whole time Macari was in the room, she never looked away from him. He sat near her, and after a few more words to her, he addressed his remarks exclusively to me. All the while I could see my wife watching him with an eager, troubled look; several times, indeed, I almost persuaded myself that there was an expression of fear in her eyes. Let them express fear, hate, trouble, even love, so long as I could see the dawn of returning reason in them! I began to think that if Pauline was to be restored, it would be through my visitor.
So when he took his leave I pressed him, with no assumed manner, to call again very soon —— to-morrow, if possible. He readily promised to do so, and we parted for the day.
I can only hope he was as satisfied with the result of our interview as I was.
After his departure Pauline fell into a restless state. Several times I saw her pressing her hand to her forehead. She seemed unable to sit still. Now and again she went to the window and looked up and down the street. I paid no attention to her actions, although once or twice I saw her turn her eyes toward me with a piteous, imploring glance. I believed that something —— some old memory in connection with Macari —— was striving to force itself to her clouded brain, and I looked forward with impatience to to-morrow, when he would pay us another visit The man had something to get out of me, so I felt certain I should see him again.
He came the next day, and the next, and many other days. It was clear he was determined to ingratiate me, if possible. He did all he could to make himself agreeable, and I must say he was, under the present circumstances, very good company. He knew, or professed to know, all the ins and outs of every plot or political event of the last ten years, and was full of original anecdotes and stirring experiences. He had fought under Garibaldi through the whole of the Italian campaign. He had known the interior of prisons, and some of his escapes from death had been marvellous. I had no reason to doubt the truth of his tales, although I mistrusted the man himself. Let his smile be as pleasant as he could make it —— let his laugh ring out naturally —— I could not forget the expression I had seen on that face, or his manner and words on former occasions.
I took care that Pauline should always be with us It was the only wish of mine the poor child had ever shown even a mute disinclination to comply with. She never spoke in Macari's presence, but her eyes were scarcely ever turned from him. He seemed to have a kind of fascination for her. When he entered the room I could hear her sigh, and when he left it she breathed a breath of relief; and every day she grew more restless, uneasy, and, I knew, unhappy. My heart smote me as I guessed I was causing her pain; but, at all cost, I determined to persevere. I felt that the crisis of her life was fast drawing near.
One evening, after dinner, as Macari and I sat over our claret, and Pauline, with her troubled eyes fixed, as usual, on my guest, was reclining on the sofa a little way off, he began to relate some of his military adventures. How once, when in imminent peril —— his right arm broken and useless at his side, his left arm not strong enough to wield the rifle with the bayonet fixed —— he had taken the bayonet off, and holding it in his left hand, had driven it through the heart of an antagonist. As he described the deed, he suited the gesture to the word, and seizing a knife which lay on the table, dealt a downward blow through the air at an imaginary white-coated Austrian.
I heard a deep sigh behind me, and, turning, I saw Pauline lying with her eyes closed, and apparently in a dead faint. I ran to her, raised her up, and carrying her to her room, laid her on her bed. It was now about nine o'clock. Priscilla happened to be out, so I ran back to the dining-room and bade Macari a hasty good-night.
"I hope there is not much the matter," he said.
"No; only a fainting fit. Your fierce gesture must have frightened her."
Then I returned to my wife's bedside, and began the usual course of restoratives. Yet without success. White as a statue she lay there, her soft breathing and the faint throb of her pulse only telling that she was alive. She lay there without sense or motion, while I chafed her hands, bathed her brow, and endeavored to recall her to life. Even while doing so my heart was beating wildly. I felt that the moment had come; that something had brought back the past to her, and that the fierce rush with which it came had overpowered her. I could scarcely dare to put my wild belief into words, but it was that when Pauline again opened her eyes they would shine with light which I had never known in them —— the light of perfectly restored intelligence. A wild, mad idea, but one I had the fullest faith in.
So it was that I did not send for a doctor; that after a while I gave up my own attempts to awaken consciousness; that I resolved to let her lie in that calm, senseless state until she awoke of her own accord. I took her wrist between my fingers, that I might feel every beat of her pulse. I laid my cheek against hers, that I might catch the sound of every breath —— and thus I waited until Pauline should awake, and, as I fondly believed, awake in her right mind.
She remained in this state for at least an hour. So long that at last I began to get frightened, and think I must, after all, send for medical aid. Just as I was forming the resolution to do so, I noticed the beats of her pulse grow stronger and more rapid; I felt her breath drawn deeper; I saw a look of returning life steal over her face; and, in breathless impatience, I waited.
And then Pauline —— my wife came back to life —— she rose in the bed and turned her face to mine; and in her eves I saw what, by the mercy of God, I shall never again see there!
(End of chapter seven)
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