CHAPTER XXVII.THE SANCTITY OF MARRIAGE.

CHAPTER XXVII.THE SANCTITY OF MARRIAGE.

There was great excitement for the rest of the day in the Kearsarge House, and when the evening coach brought Ella from the railroad station, she was surprised at the coldness with which everybody greeted her; but she was a rich heiress, and scandal handled her with gloves. She explained to one or two, whose lead others would be likely to follow, that her meeting with Dr. Delano in Dover was the purest accident. “Why!” she exclaimed, “what elsecouldit have been?” and this passed current, for Colonel Murdock had said nothing, except to Clara, of his knowledge of Ella’s pretence that she was going to Wolfboro’. Still, there were some who knew the secret of the letter, and these avoided all further recognition of her, except a few fawners who pretended that that part of the scandal was a pure fabrication. The next day Albert returned, having waited over only for appearance’ sake, for he might just as well have come with Ella. He went immediately up to his rooms, and seeing no one, concluded his wife must be out riding or walking; still it was strange, for he had written, informing her of his intended return, and naturally she would have met him at the veranda. Very soon he went to the office and asked the clerk where Mrs. Delano was,but the answer being very indefinite, Colonel Murdock, who had just bought a cigar, volunteered the following:

“Your wife, Dr. Delano? You have killed her, I think; but you’ll find your sweetheart in the bowling-alley.”

Like lightning it flashed upon the doctor that Murdock had blabbed the Dover affair. This explained the exceedingly cool air with which one or two had returned his greeting on alighting from the coach.

“Insolent coxcomb!” growled Dr. Delano, ready to fly at the colonel’s throat; but at the critical moment the clerk thrust a letter into his face, and as he took it, the other left the office. The thought flashed upon the doctor, at the sight of the superscription, that his wife had left the hotel. He returned to his rooms, and shutting himself in, opened Clara’s letter. At the sight of the enclosed one which he had written to Ella, he bit his lip and turned pale. Clara had written him the following:

“I enclose you a letter which was found, I suppose, by some one here. I received it through the post-office yesterday. I enclose, also, the hotel bill, which I have paid in full. As to the letter I do not blame you, since it is the expression of a passion that controls you, and I have not lost my faith in manhood because you have proved unworthy. I believe there are men too honorable to call two women ‘dearest’ in the same breath. If I did not, I should not be my father’s daughter.

“Surely, if there is crime in falseness, you stand accused before all courts of Love; yet you well know that the greatest crime is robbing me of the power to respect you. Love has conquered pride and even self-respect, up to this time, and I have submitted to being made a spectacleof pity and derision—I, the once adored, once honored Clara, forced by you to play the rôle of the hoodwinked wife! When married people desire to live together after they have outlived their illusions, I think they ought to guard each other’s honor before the world.

“No matter now. I am going to one who never fails me; one who always loves and caresses me, even when I commit the enormity of daring to suffer. I shall never meet you again, if I can avoid it. Please have my wardrobe, household linen, and whatever belongs specially to me, sent to my father.

“You can get a divorce on the ground of desertion, if you wish to marry. I am willing, and you need not fear that any one can persuade me into opposing you. I sincerely wish you a long and happy life with one who can always be happy, and not brood so much over imaginary troubles as to prevent her being a mother—whose love will not be a ‘suffocating warmth,’ but one to please you in every way.

“I thank you for sending the valerian powders. I think they were not indicated in my case.

“I write with calmness, after many hours of self-examination and cool reflection as to my best course. Rest assured that I shall not regret the step that gives you cause for a formal divorce, for you have been really divorced from me since the time when you took another to your heart. The letter is very little to me—the spirit everything.

“With kindly feeling,“Clara Forest.”

“With kindly feeling,“Clara Forest.”

“With kindly feeling,“Clara Forest.”

“With kindly feeling,

“Clara Forest.”

Every word of this letter cut like a two-edged sword, and at the moment, Dr. Delano felt that he could give hislife to recall his acts for the last few months. He had never dreamed that there was that in Clara which would impel her to such a step. Truly she must have suffered, before bringing herself to give up even the pleasure of ever meeting him again. He did not accept the letter, however, as a true expression of the Clara he had known. Of course she would long for his presence as days passed, and then would be the time for him to write her to return. A little scandal in a small country place could not injure him materially, but a scandal in Boston such as would be caused by a wife leaving her husband, would affect him very seriously—at this time, too, when his father, who was very fond of Clara, was very feeble. He might do something foolish.

Finally, though Albert was much troubled in mind, he comforted himself with hope; and when the first impulse of pity for Clara’s trials had passed, he began to blame her for taking such a rash step and endangering his good name before the world. This mood remained, fortifying itself, until he became convinced that he had been treated in a very shocking, even insulting manner. She would come back to him of course, but he would dictate the conditions. This settled, he went to find Ella. It was early evening, and she was walking in the maple avenue. She was almost icy in her manner, and reproached him for writing her to come to Dover.

“Why did you come, unless you wished to?”

“It was very unkind of you,” she said, not heeding his remark, “and it has caused such a horrid scandal. I don’t believe I shall ever live through it. Where is Clara?” He was silent, being a little disgusted that at such a time, Ella should think only of herself. “Oh, youneed not tell me, if you don’t choose to. Oh, I wish I had never come to this horrid place! and now, to make everything worse, you are all changed to me.”

The ruling passion was still strong in Albert. He denied the assertion. It was against his principles to change; and as their conduct had shut them out from sympathy with all their surroundings, they naturally needed each other, and parted for the night on the best of terms, after deciding on the wisest plan to pursue. This was, for Ella to pass a month with some friends in Rhode Island, until matters were settled, while Albert was to go at once to Boston, and, by properly representing the case, forestall criticism. Here we will leave them, and go to Oakdale, to see what is passing in Dr. Forest’s home at precisely the same hour.

The doctor’s family were assembled in the sitting-room, where the wood fire had just been lighted in the grate, for the evening promised to be chilly. Mrs. Forest and Leila were busily engaged with some needle-work. Linnie was deeply absorbed inThe Woman in White, and the doctor sat silently watching the fire, forgetting to light his pipe, which had been filled for some time. Upon this quiet tableau the door opened, and Clara, pale as death and travel-stained, entered, and with one great sob threw herself into her father’s arms. Mrs. Forest sprang to her feet, exclaiming, “Clara Forest! You come home like this, and alone! Where is your husband?”

Clara raised her head from her father’s shoulder, and, turning to her mother, said, just above a whisper, and with great effort, “I have no husband. I have left Albert Delano forever!”

Mrs. Forest, forgetting everything in her horror of a woman who has the audacity to leave her husband, and such a model husband too, could not control her indignation, and burst forth in cruel reproaches. The doctor said nothing for a minute or so, but kept on soothing Clara. His patience, however, could not endure his wife’s injustice. “Stop, Fannie!” he cried. “You offend me beyond endurance. Our poor girl comes to us ill and faint and weary of the world, and you receive her like this! Good God! Where is your common sense? You should think of the shock this tearing-away must cause her, and reserve your reproaches until you know the circumstances.” Clara, who had been clinging to her father, sobbing convulsively, now raised her head and commenced to explain as well as she could, for speaking was almost impossible.

“My daughter,” interrupted the doctor, “you need not justify yourself to me. Do I not know that it is natural for a wife to stick to her husband through thick and thin? You are a warm-hearted, honest girl, and the fact that you have left him, is enough for me. I know he has acted like a brute.”

“Goodness me!” whispered Leila to her sister. “It’s papa’s own girl, you see, and of course she can’t do anything wrong.”

“Hush!” answered Linnie. “I think he’s right this time, any way. See those awful black rings around her eyes!” and Linnie, obeying a kind, sisterly instinct, went to her sister and kissed her, saying, “I’m right glad to see you, sissy; but you do look so tired. Dinah shall make you a cup of tea, while I go and get you a warm bath ready.”

“There’s a good heart, Linnie,” said the doctor, caressing Linnie’s cheek. “The bath is just the thing. We’ll try to make your sister forget her troubles, won’t we?” Mrs. Forest sank into a chair and began to cry; then she got up and embraced Clara, saying, in a stricken voice, “It is dreadful! but God knows best why afflictions are sent upon me.” Leila came last, and pressed her hard little mouth to her sister’s cheek, thinking all the time what a dreadful fool Clara was, to leave such a splendid fellow as Dr. Delano, and so rich, too!

That night Clara was in a high fever, and seemed to want no one near her but her father; so at least he interpreted it, and sent all the rest away. He did not enjoin her to keep quiet, as so many people do under any similar circumstances. He knew there could be no greater harm done by talking of her griefs than by silently brooding over them; and as it would be folly to ask her to cease thinking of them, he allowed her to talk on until far into the night, when the quieting medicine he had given her commenced to act, and she sank into a heavy slumber, somewhat comforted by the ever-ready sympathy that she knew could never fail her. She was always as sure of it as that the day will follow the night. From her earliest years she had been in the habit of going to him, instead of her mother, with all her childish troubles. When these resulted from her own wrong-doing, his tenderness was even greater. He never scolded, never blamed her in these cases, but he did what was far wiser: he showed her his own grief that she had been guided by her lower, instead of her higher motives, and this, more than anything else could have done, inspired her to resist temptation. Another principle was continually impressedupon his children by the doctor: that yielding to base feelings made the face ugly, and that constantly being guided by kindness, love and charity, moulded all the features into beauty. Mrs. Forest always doubted the efficacy of such teaching, and did not wait longer than the next morning before telling him that Clara had never sufficiently cared for public opinion, and that this had been constantly fostered and strengthened by her father’s principles.

“When you remember,” said the doctor, “that I am seldom at home, that you have had ten hours to my one to instilyourprinciples, you ought not to complain. Fannie, dear,” he said, after a pause, and suddenly changing his defiant mood, “let us do the best we can with life. Heaven knows it is anything but a blessing to most of us.” This is what he actually said, but there had been quite a different train of thought in his mind. It had just escaped utterance, through one of those mysteries of brain-action that control our motives. He had been about to say that it had been better for her, and him also, if they had separated twenty years ago; that nothing cramps the growth of all that is best in manhood and womanhood like the forced intimacy of the marriage tie, when no deep sympathy or mutual trust exists; that it is like preserving year after year a corpse in your drawing-room with spices and perfumes, pretending that it is only sleeping. He was glad he had not said it, for no power of his could make her enter, even for a moment, the world in which he lived; and it was useless, and worse than useless, to attempt it. He left soon after on his round of daily visits to his patients, taking with him a note from Clara to Susie, and a little later Mrs. Forestwent to Clara’s room. This was an interview that Clara dreaded, for her mother would neither comprehend nor excuse her motives for the step she had taken. Clara commenced by saying she was sorry that she had been compelled to do anything that grieved her mother. As she said this she rose and begged her mother to take the arm-chair in which she had been sitting by the fire, wrapped in her mother’s “double gown.” Mrs. Forest refused kindly, and brought a shawl for Clara’s shoulders, as the morning was cold. Clara was touched by this kindness, which she expressed by kissing her mother’s hand. Mrs. Forest wanted the whole story. Clara commenced, but broke down after a few sentences. Mrs. Forest soothed her a little, and then sat down quietly and commenced to sew. One of her soothing remarks was that no doubt Albert would forgive her for leaving him, and write for her to return.

“That will only show how little he knows of my father’s girl.”

“Your father’s girl,” said Mrs. Forest, with some heat, “was always a Quixotic enthusiast, always holding notions and whims that no sober-minded person ever heard of.”

“I don’t know that my ambition is to be sober-minded. Heads are very good in their way, but as for me, I believe in hearts.”

“And no doubt you worried Albert to death with your romantic nonsense.”

“Did I?” said Clara, as if her thoughts were far away. “I wished him to love me, mother dear. If that is being romantic, I am certainly guilty.”

“Of course he did love you, but you should not expecthim to go into transports every five minutes. It is foolish to expect that, after marriage, and I think very bad taste to desire it. If you had a child to occupy your attention, you would think less of continual demonstration on the part of your husband.” Clara shrank lower into the folds of her shawl. She was tired of the mention of this impossible baby.

“I am sure I would rather have my husband’s love than a thousand babies.”

“A thousand! Very likely.”

“Well, one then. I am glad that I found out his indifference before any such event happened; but Albert says I shall never have any children because I am too nervous.”

“Does he? Well, I am sure that is very unkind indeed, when you have been married so short a time. He had no right to say such a cruel thing.” Clara wondered that her mother should give this such prominence.Shehad been wounded by it, because of Albert’s coldness; otherwise it would not have affected her, for it could not sound like a reproach. Mrs. Forest did not seem to comprehend the distinction. She urged Clara, by all the eloquence and argument in her power, to make up the quarrel with her husband. She urged her to consider the disgrace of her step, the wealth and standing of the Delanos, and the social advantages of such an alliance. This failed to move Clara, for she had not a particle of social ambition. Wealth sufficient to secure a pleasant home, with books and flowers and ordinary luxuries, was all she wanted for herself personally; but had misfortune deprived her of these, she would have met it without a murmur, and worked night and day to make the deprivations lesshard for Albert to bear. This she expressed to her mother.

“Of course, any good wife would do that; but how much better,” said Mrs. Forest, “to have wealth and the position that insures your reception in the highest society.”

“The highest society, mother dear, I hold to be that of people of thought and solid culture, and these are always approachable without being heralded by thefanfariof wealth and social position.”

“I presume you even regret the wealth of your husband, and dream of love in a cottage,” said Mrs. Forest, with ill humor.

“How you do misunderstand me, mother dear,” said Clara, wearily. “When I express the thoughts and convictions dearest and most sacred to me, you take no notice of them. It was always so with Albert; but I would not have asked even that he should understand me, if he had not grown so cold. And then his persistent solicitude about Ella, his delight in her conversation, which was like the chattering of a monkey, compared to that of any serious person—”

“You mean, compared to yours.”

“Why, yes: what is the use of sham modesty in the presence of the truth? She wasnotmy equal in anything. If she had been, I should wonder less at his infatuation.” Here Mrs. Forest questioned Clara, and extracted the Dover affair.

“Why, Clara!” exclaimed Mrs. Forest. “Why did you not tell me this before? Why, child, I have been too severe. Of course you could not endure such dishonor. Why did you not tell me at first of this?”

“Oh, I did not think that so important. Of course he did not intend it should disgrace me. He did not mean it to be known, of course.” Mrs. Forest was shocked beyond measure, and ran on for some minutes giving vent to her indignation against Miss Wills. Clara assured her that Miss Wills was guilty of no further impropriety than meeting Albert, and added, “though that makes little difference to me; when Albert’s love was gone, all was gone.”

Mrs. Forest was glad to have the assurance that Albert had not been guilty of “absolute infidelity,” and saw the way clearly to a speedy reconciliation. “Oh, mother,” said Clara, “you do not understand what separates us at all. We are talking to each other in Greek and Sanscrit. Do you not see, I cannot care so much for the body, because I care so much more for the soul? The fidelity that came from love, would be a compliment to me; but ought I to be flattered by a chastity that was merely forced by a promise? Forgive me; you are too material to comprehend that. No infidelity but one, could send me from Albert, and that he has committed a thousand times. What should I go back to? I have no husband, as I told you last night. To live with him, when he longs only for the presence of another woman, shocks my sense of morality.”

“But you are married to him. You have a legal right to his property. The law does not hold you as free, nor excuse him for not taking care of you.”

“Then the law is a fool. I don’t care a straw for it. What right have I to his property? I did not bring any of it to him. If he were my husband in soul, there would be no degradation to my sharing it all with him; but nowto go back to his cold heart because simply he is obliged to take care of me, or to avoid scandal! I beg your pardon. I would die first. If I am to be kept, simply—for mercy’s sake let there be the justification of mutual love.”

“Mercy!” exclaimed Mrs. Forest. “I never heard such words from a lady’s mouth. Why, one would think you had no conception of the sanctity of marriage.”

“Oh, mother dear, just now I called your views material, and reproached myself inwardly for the rudeness,” said Clara, speaking with great difficulty, “but, honestly, you do take a view of marriage that horrifies me. There is no marriage when love is dead. I could not live through such a solemn farce;” and Clara sank back quite exhausted, and Mrs. Forest, trusting she would listen to reason when she grew calmer, left the room.

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